#fat burning furnace

[netherworldpost]

I Think You Should Wear the Brace, Actually

I think you should wear the brace, take the nap, ask for help, accept help joyfully, I think you should use the cane, the chair, you should sit down

I think you should put a cool or warm or one then the other cloth wet and clean against your face and focus on the temperature and if things align to allow it the aroma, and if not, then the cloth, I think you should focus on the weight, the texture,

again

the tempreture

to help

you relax.

I think you should take the ibuprofen. The asprin. The thing that works, for you, when you have this pain, that is available, handy, in your purse, in my purse, in someone's bag, in your bag, in my bag, we hand it to you, fetch you water. You thank me, them, yourself, for the water and manners are lovely and your appreciation is felt even if you do not thank them because

right now

talking is

the

last

thing.

I think you should buy the pre-cut pre-cooked just reheat just warm up just eat as is just sorted and I think you should remove the word "just" from these sentences you say to yourself as this is vitamins and minerals and carbohydrates and proteins and fats and the mechanics of being feeding your body and I think if you can adjust it to make it tastier than you should

salt butter cheese chocolate little snips to help

I think you should understand that most things in this world are neutral. Embracing neutral aids are good, so, neutral positive.

I think you should accept the weight of your feelings and scribble and draw and yell and sing and cry and howl and then sit and rest and watch a movie or listen to a song or read a book or read a blog or read a story and allow the cold comfort of the anger and angst

and think the weight of the unfair and cruel burning in you powering the furnace should be allowed a winter's night's chill

and then allowed to quiet as the sun rises again

funny, that, the sun, it rises on days of horror and days of sublime

i think you should wear the brace, actually, because your wrist hurts, and it is a brace, it is metal and fabric and velcro so some kind of plastic

it is not a crime, that you got away with, that haunts your steps, will they catch you, wearing the brace, you've lived twenty years since needing a brace, you're sure to be caught now, sheriff on your heels, the law just around the corner, everything bound to be ruined, soon as they find out

i think you should wear the brace because it is a brace and it will lessen the pain and you are in pain

and

justification is not needed

this is reason

alone

i think i should say that again

justification

is not needed

this is reason

and it alone

is more than enough

i think you should wear the comfortable clothes and you should wrap tight the comfortable blanket and open the windows to let in the comfortable air and i think that you should take a measuring cup and figure out if a few hours of sleep or gaming or reading or art or just being alive quietly would help you and if it does then dip the cup into the pool of time and i think you should drink it, allow it to settle, and experience it

i think you should experience softness

as often

as possible

i think if the pre-sliced single orange costs as much as the bag of oranges but the pre-sliced single orange allows you to dig your teeth into this freshness, this preserved sunshine

then the monetary cost is the cheapest price on this earth

i think you should wear the brace

and embrace the neutrality of things

i think you should be comfortable

i hope you are comfortable

i hope as i pass i can run a single finger along the length of your arm to remind you i hope you are comfortable

and

that

i am here,

for you,

on purpose

[transform4u]

I’ve been wanting to get in shape so I’ve subscribed to this fitness podcast service called “Straight 2 Fit” to listen to while I’m at the gym - I’d never heard of it before but it’s got pretty great reviews so I’m hoping I’ll see a change fairly soon!

You hit play on the “Straight 2 Fit” podcast, the host’s booming voice instantly assaulting your ears. The intro jingle is a grating, over-the-top anthem of protein shakes and gym grunts, but you can’t deny the thrill of it. As you start your usual workout, you look down at your body, your pale twig arms straining under the ten-pound weights. You glance around, feeling like a flailing fish in a sea of bulging muscles and tight tank tops. The hunky men around you, in their fit tanks and booty shorts, seem like they're in a different league.

After a particularly grueling rep, you're about to give up when you hear the podcast host’s voice blare through your headphones: “Let’s get those gains, bro! No excuses, just results! Time to lift like a beast and roar like a lion!” His obnoxious enthusiasm cuts through your fatigue like a hot knife through butter. Suddenly, a surge of energy floods your body.

You glance at your bicep as it begins to pump with muscle, veins snaking their way under your skin. With each lift, that ten-pound weight morphs into an 80-pound behemoth, which you now lift with ease. You grunt and exhale heavily, your breath coming in ragged bursts. Your Adam's apple bobs prominently, your voice deepening into a gravelly roar.

“Crush it, bro! Feel the burn, embrace the pain, it’s the only way to real alpha gains!” the podcast hollers. His boozy voice reverberates through your mind like a relentless drumbeat.

You find yourself at the barbell rack, loading weight after weight, the clanking metal almost a symphony of strength. As you set yourself under the bar, your pecs begin to expand, each muscle fiber stretching and growing. The heat and pain are intense, but exhilarating. Sweat pours down your skin, soaking through your tank top and leaving dark stains.

You enter full beast mode, grabbing a protein shake from the bench that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. The label reads “Giga Bro Gains Shake - Now with Extra Testosterone!” You take a big gulp, the taste of artificial chocolate and raw masculinity hitting your taste buds. The podcast’s obnoxious ad blares, “Get that Giga Bro Gains protein powder, the only stuff that’ll make you smell like a real man—sweaty, strong, and unapologetically alpha!”

As you finish the shake, an obnoxious, wet protein fart erupts from you, PFFFFFFFfffffTTTT filling the gym with a pungent stench. Heads turn, and eyes widen, but you stare back with a brutish, unflinching gaze. Your face shifts, becoming more animalistic, more primal.

Your ass plumps up, growing more defined with each step. As you swagger over to the treadmills, your abs begin to chisel out, the baby fat melting away in the furnace of your newfound energy. You stride with confidence, each step echoing with the rhythm of your power. The gym has transformed into your domain, and you, a roaring titan, own every inch of it.

The energy coursing through your veins feels like a torrent of pure, fiery adrenaline, pushing your body beyond its limits. Your muscles swell with every heartbeat, growing larger and denser, each fiber straining and expanding under the pressure. The pain is a sharp, searing heat, radiating from deep within your core, spreading through your limbs and turning every movement into a test of endurance. Sweat pours off you in rivulets, your skin darkening to a deep, sun-soaked bronze under the relentless gym lights.

Your face begins to change, a slight chinstrap beard sprouting along your jawline, adding a rugged edge to your transformation. You start to holler and yell, the roar of your exertion echoing through the gym as you hit beast mode on the treadmill. Each pounding step feels like a declaration of dominance, your energy almost palpable, electrifying the air around you.

From behind, you hear a buff dude shout over the cacophony, “Bro, can’t wait for our training next week!” You glance over, appreciating his sculpted physique and confident demeanor. He’s undeniably hot. “Hell yeah, bro!” you shout back, extending your fist for a pump. As you make the gesture, a sharp throb pulses through your head.

The podcast host’s voice blares through your headphones, “Remember, bros, being a bro means embracing your inner dumbass! Brains are for nerds; we’re here to lift, chug, and crush it!” His voice is loud and obnoxious, a perfect anthem for your newfound mindset.

The energy flooding through you overwhelms any remnants of your old life. Math? Who needs it. Reading? That’s for losers. All you care about now is how to stack on more weights and count how many beers you can down. You let out a deep, dumb chuckle, the sound reverberating through the gym, filling the space with your brash, unfiltered confidence. In this moment, you’re not just a bro; you’re the hottest, thickest, and most unapologetically dumb bro in the gym, reveling in every ounce of your newfound identity.

As you look up at your bro----Brad how you forget your bro's name dummy, your eyes wander over his toned abs and bulging biceps. The way his muscles ripple underneath his skin is enough to make any straight guy jealous. You can't help but notice the way he moves - so confident and powerful. It's clear that he takes pride in his appearance and dedication to fitness. But quickly, you hear the podcast once more but it's not really a podcast anymore it's the voice in your head, the voice that guides you, makes every decision to ensure that you're the most brash and obnoxious bro in the gym. "Listen up, bros. It's time we set the record straight - pun intended. Men are superior in every way possible. We're stronger, faster, smarter... And let's not forget about our impressive physiques! Gays? They're weaklings who can't handle being real men. As for women? Well, they should know their place - in the kitchen or on their knees serving us like the goddesses they truly are."

You shake your head, trying to push away those gay thoughts that keep creeping into your mind. You're here for a reason - to train Brad into becoming the ultimate bro, just like you. As you start lifting weights together, it becomes increasingly difficult not to admire Brad's strength and determination as he grunts through each set with ease. His biceps bulge as he curls the weights, making it hard for you not to stare at them longingly from time-to-time…

But then something snaps inside of you - no more of this weakness! You need more testosterone coursing through your veins if there's any hope of turning these sissy boys into real men like yourself! With renewed vigor, you push yourself harder than ever before during their workout session together: bench presses until both arms feel like they might fall off; squats until every muscle in your legs screams out in agony; deadlifts that leave both of them breathless on the floor afterwards. And all throughout this intense training session all thoughts about hooking up with jocks or engaging in any sort of faggot activity vanish completely from both your mind– replaced instead by raw power & masculinity!

Memories flood into your mind like a relentless tide, each one more vivid and intoxicating than the last. You recall the countless nights kicking back with your bros, frat parties blur together in a haze of neon lights and thumping bass. The strobe effects and pulsating music create an atmosphere where you and your bros are the kings of the night. Beer pong tables, spilled drinks, and reckless abandon mark each gathering, a testament to your commitment to living large and living loud.

Bars after bars, you find yourself endlessly flashing your biceps to anyone who’ll look. You flex and pose, making your pecs dance under your tight shirts, the definition of your physique a constant display of your dedication to the gym. You’ve honed the art of being the most entitled, obnoxious bro, strutting through crowds with an air of arrogance that makes you impossible to ignore.

Flirting becomes a game, and you play it with zeal. Whatever chick you could find, you’d charm and tease, your confidence unshakeable. You’ve mastered the pickup lines, the winks, the smirks, and every move designed to catch a girl’s attention. Your charm is as effortless as it is obnoxious, your ego growing with each successful conquest.

Bar fights are a natural part of the landscape. The thrill of a brawl, the adrenaline rush of throwing punches and standing your ground, becomes an adrenaline-fueled sport. You thrive on the chaos, relishing the raw, primal energy that comes with it. Each fight is a testament to your toughness, a validation of your unyielding masculinity.

As you continue your workout, you notice Sabrina walking past the gym. She's dressed in a tight sports bra and shorts that hug her curves perfectly. You can't help but remember how much fun it was to tease her during their training sessions together.

You go up to her, smirking as she looks at you nervously. "Hey there, my little hellcat," you say with a wink. "Looking good today." She blushes deeply at your comment but doesn't say anything in response - she knows better than to argue with someone like yourself! You start to remember all those training sessions you had with her, getting her ass nice and fit. Showing her which sports bra in the gymshop would make her tits look great for you. Because that's what training with you was all about. Making sure women were the perfect fucktoys for you.

As you continue flirting with Sabrina, your hand finds its way to her perfect little ass. She giggles nervously but doesn't stop you from groping her. You lean in close and whisper into her ear, "Meet me in the staff lockers after closing hours tonight. I want to treat you like the fucktoy that you are."

Her eyes widen at your words, but she nods hesitantly before walking away. You watch as she disappears around a corner, feeling a mix of satisfaction and anticipation coursing through your veins.

Later that evening, after everyone has left the gym for the night, you log onto TikTok, "Yo, fam! It's your boy Trent here - the hottest fitness guru on the block. And let me tell you something... My muscles? They're so freaking awesome that people can't help but stare when I walk into a room. If you want guns like these, maybe they should tune into Straight 2 Fit podcast next week… Because guess who'll be on as their special guest host? Yep – none other than yours truly!" You turn towards the mirror and flex your muscles, admiring their definition in the reflection. A surge of testosterone courses through your veins as you think about what's about to happen with Sabrina later tonight, think about making her feel like the bitch she is, your dick hardens as you swagger off to the lockers.

As you walk towards the staff locker room, your mind is filled with thoughts of Sabrina - her moans echoing in your ears from last week's session. Your dick begins to swell inside your shorts, growing harder and thicker by the second as you imagine how tight she'll feel wrapped around it.

You lick your thick lips, tasting the salty sweat that has gathered there from all the training sessions today. "Fuck yeah," you mutter under your breath, "I'm a fucking beast." As soon as she sees you approaching with that cocky smirk on your face - well let's just say things are about to get real dirty real quick.

[philistiniphagottini]

cw. smut, oral sex, blow job, female reader, x chubby reader, aged up characters, minors DO NOT interact

A sharp hiss of air whistled through Kinich’s teeth, jaw tense as you sucked the drooling head of his cock into the hot, cavern of your mouth. A filthy moan bubbled up your throat as your tongue flickered along his swollen length, earning you a throaty groan of approval as you wrapped your plump lips around him and sucked. Another sultry moan stirred in the back of Kinich’s throat as his hand tangled in your locks of hair, silky wisps curling around the tips of his fingers as he held you with a firm grip. His knees trembled as he pressed himself harder into the wall behind him, sweat coating the palm of his hand and almost making him slip. His long lashes fluttered over his cheeks as he watched your head bob with lidded eyes, lips parted around the shape of your name yet no coherent sounds came out; just a hiccup of pleasure as your tongue traced random patterns into the crown of his throbbing cock. 

You lazily curled a hand around hardened warmth, pulling off the tip of him with a loud pop that made the tips of your ears burn red hot. A thin strand of saliva still connected your lips to the tip of his dick, your saliva webbing on his skin as your tongue peeked out between the seam of your bruised lips and indulged in another taste. A pleasant tingle wracked Kinich’s spine, sun kissed skin burning as hot as the open flames of a furnace. He swallowed the budding saliva on his tongue, the tips of his fingers tingling when he pulled your hair tighter, tufts slotting between his splayed fingers as you trailed featherlight kisses along his twitching cock.

"Shit" Kinich swore under his breath. 

He could barely form a coherent sentence, struggling to think past the thick haze swirling in his head as his tongue wet his dry lips. His eyelids fluttered when he felt your grip around his cock tighten, pumping him a little faster as your free hand decided to sneak between his thighs and fondle the round globes of his balls. His lungs pinched in his chest as the tips of your fingers tickled the underside of the sensitive skin, a soft purr falling from your lips as you kissed the weeping tip of his dick. 

"Does it feel good, Kinich?" you asked.

He started to nod, his eyes just as dazed as his mind as he watched the way your sumptuous body swayed beneath him, the swell of your fat tits pressed into the meat of his thigh as his cock hovered just above your plush lips. 

"Yes" he replied, voice tight in his chest. 

He swore something foul under his breath as you sucked him back between your luscious lips, a moan of delight bubbling up your throat as you took more of him into your mouth. His eyes threatened to roll into the back of his head, the tips of his hair damp with sweat as the fraying ends clung to the clammy skin at the nape of his neck. Your toes curled into the soles of your feet as more of his arousal dribbled along your tongue, your taste buds tingling as you tasted the desire lingering in the back of your throat. You swallowed around him, the tight hug of your throat closing around the head of his cock and sending his head in a spiralling tizzy. You cupped his balls in the palm of your hand, gently massaging and fondling as your other hand pumped him faster. Kinich couldn’t control the cant of his hips any longer as he bucked into your mouth, your name spilling from his lips in a hushed whisper as the hot coil in his stomach suddenly shattered. 

The seat of your panties was drenched by your slick juices, the seam of your fat cunt drooling and clenching around nothing when Kinich’s hot seed shot down your throat. You pressed your thick thighs together, trying to rub a spark of friction into the swollen nub of your clit as you swallowed his sticky load with an audible gulp. His body trembled like a wet leaf as pearls of his cum dotted the seam of your bruised lips, your tongue gently twirling around his cock as your hand squeezed his balls to empty him of every last drop. He was still achingly hard when you pulled back and released him from the tantalisingly warmth of your mouth, soft pants falling from your parted lips as you held his lidded stare. 

"Again?" you asked, a hint of eagerness in your voice. 

His cock eagerly jumped in anticipation as he rigorously nodded his head.

[frogchiro]

What kind of hybrid would our Russian pilot Nikolai be? I’m not sure if you’ve written him already (sorry if you did!!)

Not to be cliche but he has bear energy 😏

Nah, a bear fits him so well :((

Big, burly russian man who is very hairy, very musky and runs hot like a furnace with the help of that nice layer of fat over his body, makes all the cold days and nights deep in the Russian forests seem like nothing when he nests with you in his den <3

Warm furs piled up in one of the chambers of the den, a small fire burning brightly in the hearth and you're laying in the burly arms of your mate, warm and sated with a big lazy grin on your face as Nik croons to you, his huge hairy chest almost vibrating with his purrs as he nuzzles his stubble against your cheek :((

[angronsjewelbeetle]

Okay see before you had my interest but now you have my attention /half-joking (this means I turned notifications on for you)

How about the Primarchs when you cuddle with them? I'm so sorry I've sent so many asks but you write so well 😭😭😭🥺👉👈

~⭐️

NO APOLOGIES NEEDED PLEASE SEND MORE!! You are a fucking delight and my first "named" anon I'm so exciteddd!!

..also FUCK YES CUDDLES!! This is also combined with sharing a bed and sleeping together btw.

Primarchs and cuddling ~♡

Includes: everyone.

Lion: plonks himself by you, face down on the pillows. Will grunt at you if you cuddle into him. But don't let him fool you; the moment you fall asleep he curls around you like a big ol cat. You will wake up being spooned.

Fulgrim: lays on his back with you on top of him. He wraps both arms around your waist and kisses your forehead, he likes it if you kiss his collarbone. He plays with your hair and if your head is shaved, he likes to run his hand over it. Sometimes you wake up under him with his head on your chest, head bowed and peacefully asleep.

Perturabo: not the most cuddly man, but his beloved cracks that shit like porcelain. He lays on his side and curls around you, he says nothing, only holds you, arms around your waist, chin pressed to your shoulder.

Khan: he fully encourages you to use his tit pillows. He cups one hand around the back of your head and kisses your forehead, his other hand rests on your waist. Soft furs cover what his body doesn't and his heartbeats are steady against your ear.

Leman: another tit pillow man. He's fat and he's soft and comfortable and you need no blankets while you are with him. You'll cook. He lays on his side and tucks you in as tightly as he can against him.

Rogal: at first it's like trying to cuddle a statue. But if you wriggle in and tuck your head against his neck, he absolutely melts. His legs curl up and he wraps around you, a big wall of warmth. If you hear his breath stutter in your ear, let him be.

Sanguinius: two words. Wing cocoon. He curls up in a ball of feathers and arms and legs and with you at the centre, he becomes a shield to the outside world. Peppers kisses across your shoulder and face.

Ferrus: his arms are cold, but the rest of him burns like a furnace, press your ear to his chest and deal with the icy brush of his hands upon your back, and he will murmurs praises of you accomplishments into the crown of your head.

Angron: holds himself as still as he can on his side, his bicep twitches occasionally. He doesn't sleep, and if he does, it's brief and his eyes are open for it. The Nails are uncomfortable against his scalp, and he doesn't sleep well on the bed - he doesn't think he deserves to be on it, let alone with you. He's warm to the touch, and his eyes beg you, so please, throw a leg over his hip if it's comfortable for you, use his arm as a pillow, tuck your head against his neck. Or simply spoon him, it's a moment he'll treasure for as long as he lasts.

Guilliman: big spoons you, kisses your cheek, makes a downright ridiculous pun in your ear and sends you both into uncontrollable laugher, it's nice to hear and his chest is warm where his heartbeats and laughter thumps against your back.

Mortarion: lays on his back, you pressed to his side, an arm around your back, mumbles stories of his until you fall asleep to the rumble of his voice in his chest, and only then does he tilt his head and falls asleep with his nose in your hair.

Magnus: you may fall asleep with him at his usual size, but when you wake up, he'll be definitively smaller, more human sized, and he's almost laying on top of you, lightly snoring where his nose is smushed into the pillows.

Konrad: his arms are tight around your waist, mouth pressed to your shoulder, he sometimes talks, stilted half-sentences and on one memorable occasion he has sat up, jolting you awake, yelled something about...actually, you're not really sure what, and then proceeded to curl up around you protectively and squeeze your breath out.

Horus: hands on your hips, peppers kisses across your face and tickles you a little to make you squirm, tells you about his day, might make up an insane story just to have you sit up and demand to know if he's kidding. He just smirks and tells you if you kiss him he'll tell you.

Lorgar: lays on his side and stares at you, he won't touch unless you give him permission, but once you do, he squirms down the bed to cup your cheek and press kisses to any distinctive marks of yours - freckles, moles, scars, anything - he's reverent and devoted and you fall asleep with your noses touching.

Vulkan: a living furnace. Seriously, like Leman, you will not need a blanket while you are with him, barely even a sheet, he sleeps bare chested, and he tells you how much he loves you every time you do this, makes a joke with his hand resting toastily against your back, kisses your nose and falls asleep smiling.

Corvus: starfished across the bed on his back, blankets only half covering him, more wrapped around you - he's a cold sleeper. He looks peaceful, mouth wide open, completely gone to the world, but every time you move, he wakes up, looking at you, he mumbles occasionally, sometimes he'll give a giddy little giggle and slur an "I love you".

Alpharius: absolute bed and YOU hog. You're going to have to fight him to get away, because he isn't gonna let you out of his arms until he's ready to get up. Which, by the way, is never. He's laying partially on top of you, heartbeats pressed against your back or chest. He drools, by the way. Omegon doesn't.

[johannestevans]

Repentance & Forgiveness

Our Flag Means Death. Rated E, Frenchie/Izzy Hands, WIP, 76k+.

Held hostage by Blackbeard on the Queen Anne, Frenchie can't sleep.

Desperate to just get whatever he can away from crew of the Queen Anne's Revenge, he knocks on Izzy's door and invites himself in.

Slowly unfolding relationship between Frenchie and Izzy Hands, as well as an exploration of their relationships with Edward Teach and the rest of their crews, delving for Frenchie into what it means to really experience one's feelings, to get into touch with and truly grapple with the depths of one's worst experiences; and for Izzy and Ed, into what it means to transgress, to repent, and ultimately to be forgiven.

---

“Why do you ask so many fucking questions?” asks Izzy softly as he sinks further down on the bed, and Frenchie stays close, puts his cheek against Izzy’s chest instead of against his side, feels the warm, fat swell of his pecs, a more comfortable pillow than lower down.

“I want to know who you are,” says Frenchie. “I want to talk to you. You’re not exactly good at small talk, Izzy – when I ask questions, you answer sometimes.”

“Do you want me to ask you questions?” asks Izzy.

“Yeah,” says Frenchie, stupidly, before he can stop himself. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know why he says it, because it’s such a ridiculous thing to say, it’s obviously Izzy asking it rhetorically or to take the piss, he’s not actually asking, and now Frenchie’s embarrassed himself and shown himself off as, as needy, or pathetic, or something, but it’s too late now, it’s out. “I mean— that’d be nice.”

“Nice,” repeats Izzy. “You like it? Being— being fucking… asked?”

“I like it when people show an interest in me, yeah,” says Frenchie.

“Oh,” says Izzy. Frenchie takes hold of Izzy’s wrist and he pulls his hand up, pulls it up to his head, and Izzy goes, “The fuck are you doing?” and then makes a noise when Frenchie works his fingers into his hair. He’s frozen for a second, but then he moves his hand, presses right against Frenchie’s scalp and touches through his hair. “Am I hurting you?”

“How could you be hurting me? By stroking my hair, you literally think you might be hurting me?”

“I didn’t know I was stroking your hair,” murmurs Izzy, but he puts both of his hands in Frenchie’s hair now, presses his fingers in against the scalp like Frenchie had tugged him to, and Frenchie exhales at the sensation of it, Izzy’s blunt nails (he trims and cleans them as obsessively as he does everything else) scratching over the skin. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” says Frenchie, curling in closer, sliding his knee against Izzy’s leg, touching his fingers against Izzy’s other side, gripping at him. His eyes are burning again even though he won���t be able to cry, and he closes his eyes, goes limp as Izzy keeps working to massage the scalp. “You scared you’re going to pull my hair?” he asks, and Izzy’s hands freeze.

“Am I pulling your hair?” he asks.

Frenchie laughs, and his chest fucking hurts, pangs right down inside it, and he uses his grip on Izzy’s hip to pull himself up, and he puts his mouth against Izzy’s, feels the warmth of his lips.

“The fuck?” asks Izzy, but he kisses Frenchie back, slides his hands down to cup his cheeks as Frenchie half-falls between his legs, coming to straddle his thigh, his knee between Izzy’s. “That what you want? For me to pull your hair?”

“Can we just do this?”

Izzy’s hands come back up, and another works its way right against his scalp again, scratches gently at the skin, and he feels the shift of the weight of his hair, feels how fucking warm Izzy’s fingers are, why does such a cold little man give off heat like a furnace?

He strokes on the other side, pulls and tugs at the curls, and then his hand comes down a bit, his fingers playing over the back shell of Frenchie’s ear. It tickles, makes his skin tingle and feel warm, and Frenchie shivers, leaning into the pressure of Izzy’s touch.

“You should pierce this,” murmurs Izzy, squeezing the lobe between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’ll do mine if you do yours,” says Frenchie.

Izzy laughs, which Frenchie thinks is a no. “I can’t have an earring.”

“Why?”

“It’s a hazard.”

“Lots of pirates have earrings.”

“I’m not lots of pirates.”

“What, you face some kind of unique fucking danger that means you can’t wear an earring?”

Izzy doesn’t say anything.

Frenchie’s stomach does a sudden, painful wrench. “Wait,” he says, “wait, do you mean—”

“Go to sleep, Frenchie,” says Izzy.

Read on Ao3

[tteokdoroki]

aawi:( imma kiss u, got me thinkin about eiji fucking the stuffie you got him from the fair, fantasizing about having you arched nice n pretty for him while he fucks you. big rough hand holding the back of your neck so you stay nice n steady. he’s close to cumming when he visualizes the way your pussy creams on his dick, the way it sucks him in and makes the nastiest squelching noises he’s ever heard:(

just imagine him calling you up, breathless from the load he just came, begging for y’all to link up for the night 😞♥︎

hehe i kiss u back !!

smut, mdni 18+. afab!reader, no pronouns +mentions of pussy/cunt. kirishima humps a stuffed animal!!

“do you like it, eiji?”

it’s innocent, everything about the situation was completely innocent at the time. you’d asked him the question so sweetly— as if sugar coats the inside of your mouth, laced into your words like hidden traces of drugs that make kirishima high off of your attention. your eyes bright and tone soft. kirishima had gotten used to you looking at him like that, more and more excited each time you saw him.

three to four dates in and he’s already sure you’re the one. he knows the feeling’s mutual— he just wishes that he’d chosen something a little more private for this date instead of the fairground you’re roaming. ‘cause when you look at him like he’s the world it shoots right down to the third leg tucked between strong thighs. when you talk to him pretty, like you wanna take care of him— please him, eijirou’s cock aches, blood pulsing through it, seedy precum coating his inner thigh. even when you’d won the soft and stuffed brown bear for him, his body had begun burning like furnace, the air in his lungs teaming with tiny particles of carbon dioxide and lust.

“do you like it, eiji?” he thinks he hears you say— though it’s probably his doped up and sex crazed brain playing tricks on him.

“y-yeah i like it,” eijirou whimpers to himself hunched over your soft toy later. “god, i wanna cum s’bad. baby please…” the ghost of your name wets his lips, the taste of your chapstick still glossed against them. you’re such a sweetheart— he should feel bad for wrapping the soft toy around his pulsating shaft, smearing it up with everything that it leaks. he should feel even worse for imagining you underneath him. would you even be able to take kirishima? would you cry about how big he is? shake your head with a whine and a pout while your legs shake around his slutty waist and your cute little cunt just stretches around his fat, milky tip?

or would eijirou have to bully his way into you? make you take him all the way to the hilt, until your back arches from the spiked sheets and your nipples brush against his. “fuck,” he curses as he pounds the fluffy material into the sheets, wondering how you would feel when he’s deep inside your guts. the perfect picture of your pretty pussy comes to mind— glistening with spit and slick, clenching around nothing in particular. “you’re gonna make cum, gonna put it in you… all of it. s’yours, baby.”

he’s starting to slur, the room spinning along with it. the bear between his thighs, coated in his arousal— it smells like you. your floral perfume and your strawberry shampoo and oh god what eijirou wouldn’t give to taste you, to fuck you. the redhead doesn’t know what he would prefer, to have you sit on his face or for him to force your pissy down on his cock— have is way with you after you ride him senseless. he knows that you’d coo down at him until he hits just right, grinding constantly against your g-spot, making you choke his dick for all its worth.

“you want it? you want my cum? d-deep inside, yeah?” kirishima rasps, though the pitch of his voice rises in octave and his watery red eyes roll back in his skull. “‘course you do, you do, baby. i-i know, e-eiji’s gotcha,” he goes from thursting through the plushy’s soft arms, a makeshift virgin of your cunt he hasn’t found the time to stretch out yet ( or the words to ask ), to grinding his hips against it in slow, salacious circles. his syrupy precum causing strands of his fur to stick together.

he’s close, so fucking close— cheeks blistering hot and a rosey shade spreading from them right up to the tip of his ears and across the back of his neck. the head of the bed thumps against the wall, sticky, lewd sounds echoing throughout his bedroom and all eijirou can think about is how your pussy would cream on him just like this. a ring of white froth wrapped around the base of him like a little bow to seal the deal. you’d have him a wreck just by lying there, cumming for him and looking pretty.

the thought is enough for kirishima to trip over the edge, soiling the teddy bear from the fair with ropes of thick white seed.

when he comes too, he finds that you’re calling, asking. “hey eiji! just wanted to check that you got home safe, and if you ‘n the little bear have settled in,”

and you don’t realise how flushed he is, how out of breath he is until eijirou pans the camera down to his messy, creamy cock and says brokenly. “i think you should come over and check, baby, we’ve been a lil’ bad without you here.”

[blondeaxolotl]

Hi , I wanted to ask if you had any redcliff headcanons you wanted to share if that is okay with you of course!!!

I cooked some up for you anon, I'm gonna mention some that involve like the tail headcanons that grim and I have, so if you dont know what im talking about it's this post

ANYWAYS ONTO THE HEADCANONS - Grell and Angelina are the "Buff tall girl x chubby/fat short girl" duo, my favourite bisexual x lesbian -While cuddling in bed sleeping, you'd be surprise to hear that Angelina is actually the big spoon because Grell moves so much in her sleeps that Ann has to literally CLING onto the woman so she doesn't roll off the bed again - Since Ann already knew Grell is a reaper, Grell had no reason to hide her reaper features around her, which meant that whenever Angelina close enough to her. Her tail would wrap around her subconsciously and Grell wouldn't realise she's doing it until Ann is like hey I love you but please Im going to trip </3 - They can both cook pretty well but usually Ann is the one who prefers to cook for the both of them (it's totally not because Grell accidentally burned a few things before, nuh uh) - Cuddling in the winter is perfect since I based Grell's tail off on the "monstrous nightmare" from HTTYD (which is a dragon that literally catches on fire, and I gave Grell that ability which also means shes constantly warm during the cold winter), Angelina is like always clinging to her or holding her arm or hand because her immunity to the winter is absolute ass and Grell being a living furnace is her savior - When Grell doesn't feel like socializing with humans (but still wants to go out with Angelina), she just shapeshifts into her bat form (post for reference btw ) and hangs onto her shoulder or inside her jacket, or purse even. Most of the time no one even notices her being there because she blends in perfectly with Angelina's red clothes.

Okay that's all I have for now hope you enjoy them :3

[sleepy-yn]

Palace Intrigue

Chapter 1

pairing: Lee Sohee (riize) x reader

summary: the reader is married to Sohee's brother, the king. But what happens when Sohee comes to visit and he can't keep his eyes off the regal woman in front of him?

wc: 1,156

cw: mentions of sexual assault, mild cheating, very very very light sexual innuendos

authors note: this is very very not proof read, I just needed to get this idea out there. Enjoy!

I had never given much thought to married life. I was never one for romance, even as a little girl. Maybe it was because I knew there was no point in looking for love when I would be pawned off as soon as I was of age. Romance didn't exist in my family, maybe for my brothers because they got to choose, but me? I was just a cash prize to be won after being married off to whatever eligible bachelor there was. That's how I ended up here. Gold accents in every corner of the wall, highlighting the elaborate crystal chandelier that was the only source of illumination in the hall I was sitting in. My "husband" sat across from me.

"My brother Sohee will be coming to live with us for the time being." I didn't respond. What was I to say? He wasn't asking me he was simply telling me. At least he was gracious enough to give me a heads-up. "Did you not hear me woman?" "Forgive me, your Majesty. How long do you expect that he will be here?" "Until he finds a wife." "He hasn't been arranged to one yet?" "You think my brother unworthy of being matched to any member of your sex? The boy has high standards, you're lucky I even settled for you." My eyes were growing blurry with tears and snot was rushing down my nose before I could find something to stop it. "You're so pathetic!" His chair drags as he gets up and hurried footsteps make their way to my chair across the table. "I'll give you something to cry about!" His burly hands grab hold of my hair in a tight grip, I wouldn't be surprised if he pulled any strands from the root. He shoves me to the floor and attempts to lift the many layers off of me.

"Your Majesty!" My "husband" huffs, spit landing on my neck. "What is it that permits you to interrupt me?" The squirmy courtier manages to let out, "Y-your brother, the prince of Veridian Isle, has arrived." The King throws the fabrics down and straightens himself up. "Get up you stupid woman," he squishes the fat of my face as soon as I manage to get on my feet, "and don't you embarrass me or I will make sure you regret the very day that you were born."

It takes me about a minute to stand up straight, my legs too busy shaking to be tamed. I smoothen out my dress and try to tame my hair as much as possible. I can hear the loud chatter of brothers reuniting, or more like my "husband" trying to make conversation with his brother. The prince doesn't speak much, but I can make out his softer much smaller voice.

And then he walks in. With his brown hair, I imagine if I ran my fingers through would be soft to the touch. His doe eyes are big and wonderous, still not truly seeing the world.

"This is my queen. Not much about her but she does her duties just fine." He looks at me expecting me to introduce myself. I can't even muster the sounds of my name like they are unwilling to come out. "Speak, woman!" "Wel-welcome your highness. It's a pleasure to have you here in our home." I bow as far as my legs would let me. "Please just call me Sohee," he places my cold hands in his full of warmth. I'm sure there is a furnace burning inside of him, one that brings a refugee comfort in a storm, "It's a pleasure to meet you..?" "Oh! My name is…" again I can't muster a single vowel but his trimmed brows raise hoping for an answer, guiding me, "Y/N". "How beautiful".

I look to my "husband" whose grimace doesn't go unnoticed by his brother who retrieves his hand from mine. "It is quite late, do let me show you to your chambers to be settled in, your Highness." "Oh no, I couldn't possibly ask that of you. I can get one of the service ladies to help me." "Nonsense! Please let me be of assistance." He nods but before he can follow me out to the corridor, my "husband" pulls him back. He whispers something in the boy's ear with a smirk but his brother is not smiling. He doesn't look remotely amused. He pulls away and shakes his head. Coming back to me he smiles. "I'll follow your lead, your majesty".

The upstairs was grueling on my legs which still have not recovered but I managed without huffing and puffing the whole way. The corridor leading to the prince's room is dimly lit with my favorite paintings lining the wall. He's staying in my wing of the castle, one that separates my "husband" and I. Thankfully. We reach his door and I stop on the right of it.

"This is it, your highness. I hope it is to your liking, we can always spruce it up for you as you continue your stay here." He raises a tight smile, his doe eyes no longer wonderous. "Your majesty, may I ask you something?" "Please, call me Y/N. But of course, you can talk my ear off if you chose." He pauses for a moment, almost long enough to let awkward silence choke us. "Why do you let my brother treat you like this?" "What ever do you mean?" I feign ignorance. "I heard the commotion before I was let in and… he said something strange to me before we came up here." "Wha-what did he say?" "He said that I could have my way with you if I pleased. That you wouldn't mind since you're used to it," I can't stop my mouth from hanging open. That bastard, that rat bastard. My feet unconsciously move away from the prince, connecting to that hidden part in my brain that thinks up the situations that could arise from this interaction. Noticing my shift, he raises his hands and leans back. "No no! No please, Y/N. I would never do anything of the sort. I simply wanted you to know what he said. It's not fair that he treats you this way. I never meant to offend you." I feel a bit of comfort from his reassurance. "Well thank you for telling me this, you- Sohee. I have nothing else for me without him, so if this is the life I must endure then so be it. Do not worry about me." "Please don't be so coy. If you ever need an escape, you know where to find me." And with that, he walked into his room with a smile and a hopeful glint.

As offended as I was, I am not opposed to the idea of being used by No, I cannot think of the prince like this. I need to keep my head straight.

Taglist:

@riizesohee2003

@impos-ssiblewon

@taroddori

@seunghancore

[grimgummies]

Since you are THE Moloch expert... You have any Moloch food headcanons? (Sorry if someone asked this before!) Probably doesn't eat as he's not a mortal, probably just for the taste?

I imagine he'd stuff that would serve as fuel for an actual furnace, like charcoal!

Ykw I never really thought much about Moloch food headcanons but the one thing I decided about him was that his favourite food is pizza,, purely because of that one artwork Pelo did of him with the other antags

Also I feel like this one's a lil cliche but I think he'd really enjoy spicy food too!! But it takes a lot for him to feel an actual burn in his mouth. What a human would find extremely spicy he'd probably find mild. He definitely likes (preferably raw) red meat, especially if it's got a lot of fat on it.

Cold foods are a hard pass for him though. Makes him feel nauseous (or at least, what's considered nausea to a demon). And yeah that has to do with his body heat. It cools him down which doesn't feel too good. He can experience outside cold fine but the moment he ingests it it takes a minor but noticeable toll on his body. Any food he eats goes to fuel his furnace btw. He's technically got no stomach so anything he eats just goes there.

[dirty-bosmer]

WIP Wedensday

tagged by: @atypicalacademic @mareenavee @lucien-lachance @rainpebble3 @thequeenofthewinter thank you 🥰

tagging: @atypicalacademic (for the new week ❤️) @elavoria @wispstalk @skyrim-forever @gilgamish @throughtrialbyfire @justafoxhound @paraparadigm @miraakulous-cloud-district @nuwanders @kookaburra1701 @ladytanithia @sylvienerevarine @orfeoarte @snowberry-crostata @flymmcargo

Surprisingly, I had something written this time (could hardly believe it :o) From my Skyrim fic, Slither and Writhe:

Morning greeted Sylawen the same way the evening had bid it’s cruel farewell— penniless, clammy, and shivering from fever. She tested her throat with a stiff swallow. It burned. For a long while, she lay still, staring at the brown stain on the ceiling above, attempting to divine her fate in its sprawling limbs. How did I get here? Where did I go so wrong? How do I get out? Please give me a sign. Just one? A fat drop of rainwater landed in the center of her forehead, the roof now thoroughly soaked through. Peeling herself out of the sheets, she found herself still sick, still angry, still very much broke, and promptly rued the day the Nibenese settled Bravil.  Breakfast did little to lift her spirits, a bowl of rice porridge that smelled of sea grass and the bay water’s brine. But food was food, and as she hadn’t the appetite for much until today, she choked down what she could. It was no pan-seared trout, but it had a nutritious taste about it. Bold. A little bitter, the pungent scent of salted fish so strong it bored through even the thick walls of her congestion. Belly full, she paced the room, and once that returned no particularly fruitful ideas, she dug through her pack for her charcoal and sketchbook, ripped out a page, and wrote to Nana. …and so, after such cruel and unusual punishment, I had no choice but to flee. I’m sure you see it as I do, with crystal clarity— if even among family my most important research is reviled, what can a scholarly woman (such as we are) do but find somewhere else to practice?  Alas, I’m afraid it can’t be Bravil, indisposed and indigent as it has left me. If you would be so kind as to enclose a modest sum of say, several hundred septims, I might be able to seek refuge somewhere more conducive to my studies. Or I might even be able to travel to you? Wherever you are… Sylawen addressed it to Anvil, hoping Nana was indeed home, already knowing with a sinking certainty that she’d never return a reply, because of course Nana wasn’t in Anvil. When was she ever? Sylawen should have ran there like she had the last time. At least Anvil was dry. The rest of the day passed in a blur, much of the following day too, and by the fifth morning of her not-vacation in Bravil, there was enough grime under Sylawen’s nails, in her hair, enough mildew choking her lungs to admit she’d made a grievous mistake in fleeing here.  Yet Sylawen would not regret running. To regret was to admit fault, to surrender the righteous anger flaring furnace-red in her belly, and if she had nothing else in her possession, at least she had that. Still, with no wherewithal to run elsewhere and plenty of spite to keep from writing home, she did the only thing she could think of and set out to find help. And preferably a bar of sweet-smelling soap.

[silvernyxchariot]

Formaggio is currently my emotional support hitman. So, have a rant.

The synopsis is that no one appreciates this character and it makes me sad. Formaggio, come pick me up; I hate it here./j

Out of La Squadra, Formaggio's generally not my favorite, but as a La Squadra whore, I'll make an effort to appreciate my boys.

My initial impression of Formaggio and the majority of La Squadra was... non-existent. I paid attention to Giorno, Bucciarati's group, and subsequently Narancia during this fight. But if I had to come up with something for Formaggio, the only thing that stood out to me was Little Feet. After part 3 and 4, finally, someone had to have the ability to shrink. It's such a simple and convenient ability to have, both on the battlefield and on the daily.

Lock yourself out of your house? Shrink and crawl under the door. Have a lot to carry or something incredibly heavy to carry up a flight of stairs, like a car or a 5 ft x 6 ft paining (don't ask)? Shrink it down to size and put it in your pocket. Or maybe carry a couple of grenades and automatic rifles and wear them like a braclet until you're ready to use them... No one's gonna know. They're gonna know. No one's going to know./ref

The more I made La Squadra a part of my personality, the more I realized, "Fuck yeah, I would appreciate a homie like Formaggio." He may look like an annoying punk (like 99% of my classmates) but he's adaptable and clever. During his first conversation with Narancia, it sounded like Formaggio was just rambling and making jokes, but every sentence was a transition to get information or a reaction from Narancia.

Vol. 2 VA, chp 31:

(To Narancia) "Word is, Polpo died last night. Then, all of a sudden, Bucciarati, Fugo, Abbacchio, and Mista all went into hiding They're not anywhere. I finally found you, though, Narancia. Do you know where they are and why they disappeared?"

"Did you hear about Polpo's body? . . . They can't figure figure out how to cram his fat ass into the furnace. Ha ha ha! They're going to have to cut him into tiny pieces to get him in!"

"Why didn't your crew show up at the capo's funeral?! Answer me, Narancia! If I can't tail you then I'll make you tell me everything!

Baby boy, if you'd stayed quiet and patient, you might have been able to follow Narancia to the vineyard without interruption.

He also has an unnecessary amount of knowledge on mosquitoes and arachnids.

Vol 3 VA, chp 34

"Mosquitoes can sense the carbon dioxide animals exhale. . . That's what's happening here. Aerosmith is seeking out my carbon dioxide!"

The only thing I needed to know was that mosquitoes are little menaces that help transfer diseases and need to be smacked out of existence. I didn't want to know this extra CO² info, but thanks, I guess./s Did I want to read about spiders' digestive fluids killing their prey from the inside out on a random Tuesday night? No, not at all. But here we are. u.u

When the brainrot got worse, the anime and manga yielded superficial results. So, I'm glad the JoJo World Event gave us a bit more. In a Twitter translation of the La Squadra info, Formaggio was described as an insightful opportunist and aware of his comrades' deficits (condensed from image below). Good, because I'm going to need my emotional support hitman now. 🫴/lh

Not gonna lie, Formaggio gave me "annoying jock" vibes initially when I took everything that I've mentioned into consideration. But seeing that he does pay more attention to others than they believe is somewhat... hmmm, comforting. In all earnesty, I would trust Formaggio to be a good judge of character or a human lie detector.

This part's not important, but I don't like the majority of his design. In the manga, he's given orange hair, and while I understand his name means "cheese," the grey in the anime helps bring contrast from the rest of his outfit that focuses on a red top and brown pants.

Like his Stand, he's very unassuming, but there's this slow burn effect that endeared this character to me. Formaggio still isn't my favorite among La Squadra, but I think about him a lot sometimes. u.u

⭐️ My work is for entertainment and personal purposes. Do not take, translate, repost, or use it for profit. Don't take it seriously.

[extorsiian]

Daily Affirmations -07/27

1. i trust my body to release all excess weight and toxins, revealing a lean and toned physique.

2. my metabolism is a fat-burning furnace, incinerating calories and fueling my weight loss journey.

3. i am immune to weight gain, and my body naturally maintains a healthy, lean physique.

4. my back is a masterpiece of muscle and bone, strong, toned, and slender.

5. my prominent collarbone shines like a beacon of confidence, illuminating my inner strength.

6. i am impervious to back fat, and my upper back is smooth and sleek.

7. my face is a work of art, lean and defined, with high cheekbones and a slender jawline.

8. my arms are toned and slender, with no excess fat or sagging skin.

9. my waist is a tiny 23 inches, with a defined curve that accentuates my figure.

10. my tummy is flat and firm, with a subtle definition that makes me feel confident and sexy.

11. i trust my body to respond to my positive affirmations, releasing all excess fat and toxins.

12. my upper body is petite and proportionate, with a delicate neck and shoulders.

13. my lower body is strong and curvy, with a toned booty and legs that make me feel powerful.

14. i am worthy of feeling confident and beautiful in my own skin, and i celebrate my unique beauty every day.

15. my body is a temple, and i treat it with love, kindness, and respect, honoring its incredible abilities.

16. i am confident and comfortable in my own skin, regardless of my weight or body shape.

17. i love and accept myself exactly as i am, and i celebrate my unique beauty.

18. i trust my body to respond to my positive affirmations and manifest my desired physique.

19. my metabolism is fast and efficient, burning calories quickly and easily.

20. i am a fat-burning machine, releasing excess weight and toxins with ease.

21. i am immune to weight gain, and my body naturally maintains a healthy, lean physique.

22. my back is strong, toned, and slender, with a prominent collarbone that shines.

23. i am immune to back fat, and my upper back is smooth and sleek.

24. my face is lean and defined, with high cheekbones and a slender jawline.

25. my arms are toned and slender, with no excess fat or sagging skin.

26. my waist is a tiny 23 inches, with a defined curve that accentuates my figure.

27. my tummy is flat and firm, with a subtle definition that makes me feel confident and sexy.

28. my upper body is petite and proportionate, with a delicate neck and shoulders.

29.my lower body is strong and curvy, with a toned booty and legs that make me feel powerful

30. i am a master of my body, and i trust my intuition to guide me towards a healthy, balanced lifestyle.

31. i am worthy of feeling confident and beautiful in my own skin, and i celebrate my unique beauty every day.

32. my body is a temple, and i treat it with love, kindness, and respect.

33. i am grateful for my body and all its abilities, and i celebrate its strengths and beauty.

34. i am a magnet for my desires, and they manifest in my life with ease and precision.

35. my thoughts are powerful, and i trust them to attract my deepest desires into reality.

36. i am worthy of receiving everything i want, and i welcome it into my life with open arms.

37. manifestation is my birthright, and i claim it with confidence and authority.

38. i trust the universe to deliver my desires to me, and i let go of all resistance and doubt.

39. my subconscious mind is a powerful ally, and it works tirelessly to manifest my desires.

40. i am a master of my reality, and i shape it with my thoughts, emotions, and intentions.

41. my desires are mine to claim, and i take possession of them with confidence and certainty.

42. i am a creator, and i bring my desires into being with ease and precision.

43. my manifestations are strong, permanent, and irreversible, and i rejoice in their arrival.

44. i trust myself to make it happen, and i take bold action towards my desires.

45. my thoughts are manifesting my reality, and i choose to think positively and abundantly.

46. i am a powerhouse of manifestation, and my desires are drawn to me like a magnet.

47. i release all limitations and doubts, and i step into my true power as a creator.

48. my manifestations are a reflection of my inner strength, confidence, and self-worth.

53. i am the captain of my ship, and i steer it towards my desires with confidence and precision.

49. i trust that everything i want is already mine, and i claim it with confidence and gratitude.

50. my reality is a reflection of my thoughts, and i choose to think positively and abundantly.

51. i am a magnet for abundance, prosperity, and success, and they flow into my life effortlessly.

52. my desires are manifesting quickly and easily, and i rejoice in their arrival.

54. i am unstoppable, and my manifestations are a testament to my inner power and strength.

[period-dramallama]

Review: Katherine by Anya Seton

I know I know I said I would have time at the end of last year, but then I got bitten by a plot bunny and after that I had my annual New Year holiday at my mum’s, AND THEN I got bitten by another plot bunny…

TLDR: an enjoyable read, but my high expectations were disappointed.

The plot

At times the novel was very slow, but it felt slice-of-life looking at different aspects of the 14th century: the plague, jousts, pilgrimage, murder, the Peasant’s Revolt. The title ‘Katherine’ is rather misleading because the world around her is much more interesting than she is, frankly. And while the pace is slow, the murder of [SPOILER] is a good source of dramatic irony: waiting for the characters to find out the terrible secret.

You can see the seeds of the dynastic dispute that will become the Wars of the Roses: Mortimer thinking that his descendants by Philippa will get the throne sooner than John’s descendants. Cob’s subplot with Katherine was good.

Also good on Anya for not lazily confusing her history and remembering that the young Hotspur of Shakespeare is not the same as the historical dude, who was much older than Harry of Monmouth. It was good to see Hotspur, although I think his fame from Shakespeare is probably the reason he’s in the book. At times the book is like a who’s who of 14th century England: Katherine meets Julian of Norwich. It’s also fun to see Chaucer and the references to his work and historical people influencing his writing. I liked his perspective on the Peasants’ Revolt: he’s hidden in his rooms, passing the time with his stories, so he comes out to see the destruction like that gif of the man who enters the burning living room with pizza.

Gaunt confronts the archbishop at St Paul’s and it’s a great set piece.

More Wycliffe and John of Gaunt, please! I loved seeing John of Gaunt use Wycliffe for his own political ends. “John was truly devout in a hearty male way… he believed as his father and mother had believed, so Wyclif had ended by horrifying him.”

Whoever wrote that placard calling Gaunt a Flemish changeling…truly the winner of the Darwin Award. My guy, at least disguise your handwriting.

I did get a sense of the importance of religion to medieval people, which was good:

“What then was certain? What was there that would not shift and veer at the mercy of the winds of feeling?”

“Sanctity, the clergy said. Prayer. The practice of religion. The benevolence of the holy saints. The Grace of God.”

“He had not pointed out that the devil’s hand with the five fingers of lechery gripped a man by the lions, to throw him into the furnace of Hell.”

The action scenes, for want of a better phrase, are also well-written: “But on the second course he shattered the boy’s spear and, though his own lance point was broken off by the shock, he swerved Morel and, coolly slanting the butt of his lance into the boy’s armpit- beneath the breastplate, lifted him from his saddle and deposited him on the ground.”

The writing

“During the time of terror and hideous death there had been no dignity of mourning, and now in the honours done the Duchess they could weep quietly for their own dead, too.”

The plague sequence was well written: atmospheric, full of doom and dread.

Sometimes the writing was….IMHO, bordering on the silly. “Lay bathed in a moony light” “the blue Percy lions on their surcoats jigged in and out with their fierce breathings.” Anya, baby, don’t write under the influence. It’s not a good idea.

The medieval songs were a welcome inclusion that made the world feel more real.

There are some good turns of phrase in this book: “He’s swollen with pride and no doubt March has been puffing it with the hot air of promises.”

“Bloodshed-“ the friar smiled faintly. “Blood is all you knights understand.”

“There’s still the bishops! May the devil’s pitchforks prick their fat rumps until they’ve bled out all the gold!”

“like released bowstrings, the two hundred diners jumped to their feet and waited.”

Anya writes crowds and the mood of crowds well, she is good at depicting mass hysteria and mob mentality. “Already a dozen heads had rolled into the central gutter, which ran crimson. Vultures and kites perched high above on the house gables, watching as intently as the crowd did.”

There are some lovely expressions of emotion. “Humility struck Katherine, even shame that she had dared to expect love from such a man as this.” “Am I then nothing of myself? She thought with anguish. Can I not live apart from memories of him”

There’s humorous moments too. “The excited fishmonger had just caught sight of Katherine standing like a church statue beyond his angry wife.” “She held out a fat dimpled hand so loaded with diamonds that Katherine, as she curtsied, could scarce find space to kiss.” “There he may cool his ardours by taming the Scots, who are rampaging as usual. God bless them.” “They were recounting with relish the horrors of the revolt in London two months ago, while a Norfolk man insisted that they had had a worse time of it up here than any Londoner could know.” “Five children stood by a thatched stable which enclosed crudely painted homemade figures of the nativity, and loudly disputed whether the Baby were smiling or not.”

The characters

Take a shot every time Katherine’s beauty is mentioned or described. You will pass out.  There are fewer references to her beauty as the book goes on.

“She had beauty still, the thinness of her flesh but exposed the grace of her bones and sinews.”

…mostly fewer references.

“He reached out his finger to touch the white streaks at her temples. “Age on you has but added swan’s wings to your fairness,” he said wryly, “while I’m grizzled and hacked like an old badger.”

I said FEWER references, not none.

“They stared at each other in a struggle that racked them both, and she clung to the sudden enmity between them as a shield.” “They stood looking at each other, breathing as though they raced with time.”

The chemistry between John and Katherine has promise, but the development of the attraction is pretty thin. There is attraction between them but at almost halfway through the book, I still didn’t get what Katherine’s appeal was to him, apart from her beauty. She’s the main character, yet I didn’t get a sense of a personality. Philippa ‘Pica’ Chaucer might be brash and grating to the people around her, but at least I could describe her to you. What’s Katherine’s personality? Um…she’s beautiful? She’s a controlling parent to Blanchette? She’s a loyal friend to Blanche? And….um…yeah.

John goes from desiring Katherine to suddenly saying he loves her: it’s a very abrupt change in his feelings.

“Inclination and good taste” prevent Katherine from interfering in politics. It’s “men’s business” and she’s framed as better than that meddling realm-ruiner Alice Perrers (boo!hiss!)

It might seem hypocritical of me to criticise Katherine being apolitical- didn’t I just say I wanted Katherine to have more personality and now she has a definable personality trait I’m criticising it for not being the personality I wanted?

But I do think it’s a missed opportunity. Yes, I’m biased, I like scheming women, but I really do think it would be a more interesting book if Katherine paid attention to John of Gaunt’s activities, maybe even advised him. It would serve as a window into John of Gaunt, who he is, what drives him. There’s nothing wrong with wanting the quiet life but it does make Katherine rather passive. Dozens and dozens of pages go by without Katherine and the duke interacting. Their reunion at the end is lovely, but it would be even better if their relationship was well-developed. “This castle was his, the bread she ate, the clothes she wore came from his bounty. Like the hundreds in his retinue, like his children, like this young squire who stood waiting respectfully before her, she had no course but submission.” I like the realism of this passage, but again, it does feel like a missed opportunity to get closer to John of Gaunt’s inner workings. There is a scene where John confides in Katherine by her coaxing, and it’s a pleasant scene, but it’s all the more frustrating because it’s the only time. “His need for her deepened, he talked to her more freely about all his concerns, and he kept her with him constantly, showing her many public as well as private signs of his love.”

That’s the good stuff! I don’t want that information in passing, I want to see it happen! That’s what I want to read! Not Reminder no. 312 that Katherine Is Beautiful!

(Maybe this is a sign that I should be reading a novel about Alice Perrers instead. Or writing one? Eyes emoji.)

“But by night, sometimes she was with him in dreams. In these dreams there was love between them, tenderness greater than there had really been. She awoke from these with her body throbbing and a sense of agonising loss.” I was struck by the nuance and the pessimism of this passage. It was a different kind of love story than I had expected from a ‘classic romance’.

“She was no longer simply ‘Katherine’ she must adjust again to the various labels that the world would give her, and the demands fair and unfair that it would make.”

That’s great but I still don’t know who Katherine IS beneath all these labels!!

I did like this moment with Katherine during the Peasants’ Revolt. Anya astutely summarised some historical truths: she gets it right where Margaret Mitchell got it wrong:

“A good manor lord cares for his serfs,” she continued. “He gives them ale feasts and alms. In time of trouble he protects them, feeds them, and he administers justice for them that they have not the understanding to do for themselves. They’re like his children.”

The friar gave his rare chuckle. “You voice the arguments for slavery that are old as Babylon and have satisfied many. There are however others who prefer freedom to any benefits – I don’t know,” he added half to himself, “what is God’s law.”  

I was not expecting Katherine to imprison her daughter for disobedience, especially as the real Blanchette seems to have died younger.

(However, espousing the views of the time is still not a personality.)

“Katherine, who was always just, stroked the dark curls.” Always just??? Anya?? My sister in Christ, she bullied Blanchette into marriage, that’s not just!!

Anya definitely has Opinions about gender roles. Katherine’s femininity is Good and Modest and Natural, Richard’s femininity is Sinister and Unnatural.

“Ay, there was perversion of all sorts dwelling behind those tinted beardless cheeks, the gold-powdered curls, the tall slender body that bore itself so haughtily in violet brocade which gave forth a wave of scent as he passed.”

“Next came a giggling, mincing group of young men in skintight hose that showed their thighs, and more, and who wore velvet shoes with points half a yard long – Richard’s contemporaries and cronies.”

Why is literally everyone in this novel more interesting than Katherine? This novel is like a bagel: a hearty ring, but the centre is a hole, a void.

[corellianhounds]

The Sabersmith’s Son

Media: An excerpt from The Princess Bride book, retold in the world of Star Wars

Word Count: 1.6k

Rating: Gen.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

Art Credit: Jama Jurabaev on ArtStation

Summary: A renowned sabersmith accepts a commission from a wealthy count.

There once was a sabersmith of great renown, known across the entire country for his trade. He was a skilled craftsman, poor but happy, living in a small home with his only child, a son he loved very much and who loved him in return. Every day the sabersmith toiled at the millennium-long craft, building lightsabers from the finest metals and alloys available. He worked in precious metals, ore from meteorites, jewels fit for kings. His sabers were known not only for their beauty but for their precision, well-balanced handles and hilts customized to serve their master’s purpose. It was an honorable trade that brought them much notoriety, and though the smith was an accomplished master he asked payment only for what the blade was worth in materials and labor.

No more, never less.

It was an honest living, enough for him and his son to live comfortably, and to indulge in the occasional wineskin when longtime family friends came to call. One particular friend was a smith himself, or used to be until he got too fat to work the bellows. After that he began to charge more and more in the hopes that people would give up, but still they commissioned him.

Occasionally, the fat friend would find he could not complete a saber to a customer’s specifications and he would beg and plead his friend the poor smith to finish the commission for him. The poor smith would refuse, saying he had his own work to attend to, but his fat friend would cry and plead some more, begging for his help, claiming he would die if forced to turn over something that was of lesser quality than what the customer deserved. The poor sabersith would refuse every time, until eventually his fat friend would claim he would kill himself out of honor for not being able to complete the commission.

At that point his good friend would give in, saying “Only this once, Yeste, no more.” Yeste would weep with joy, thanking him handsomely and giving him the payment. The poor bladesmith had no desire to deal with the rich and courtly types, much happier plying his trade with those who recognized true artistry in the lightsabers’ construction.

When the smith’s boy was ten years old, Yeste was approached by a count in search of a particular hilt to serve his new saber. None had ever been built to his specifications, and upon perusal of Yeste’s portfolio he insisted that Yeste give him the name of the true master sabersmith behind the most stunning of “Yeste’s” work.

After much hemming and hawing the fat man gave the name of his friend and directions to his cottage. The count arrived with his retinue atop gleaming black steeds, cloaked in rich fabrics of deep charcoal and grey. The boy had never seen such a striking figure before and leapt to go find his father, still working tirelessly in the forge.

The count introduced himself and said he wanted to commission a blade to his specifications. When he revealed his obvious need for a modified hilt— one with a handle adjusted to accommodate his particular abnormality— the bladesmith’s eyes lit up at the challenge. Immediately he began to talk of the length and balance of the handle, the measurements and adjustments he would have to make to the inner mechanisms. Pleased that the sabersmith would accept the job, the count promised an absurd amount of money for the lightsaber— more money than either the smith or his son had seen in their entire lifetimes— and said he would be back in a year’s time.

Feverishly the smith set to work planning. Various metals were tested and discarded, alloys adjusted and tempered, cast and smelted. The forge burned endlessly, the ten year old boy shoveling coal for the furnace day and night to keep up with his father’s tireless experimentations. Prototype after prototype were made, measured, and found wanting, discarded yet again in the smith’s frenzied pursuit of perfection. Some days he would sit at the simple kitchen table, weeping into his hands as he despaired over the count’s saber, cursing the day he decided to become a smith, and day after day his son cared for him, reassuring him of his skill and preparing him food as his father pushed himself to his limits.

One night late into the year the boy woke to find his father missing from their room. He got up, rubbing his eyes and pulling on an overcoat to go out to the forge.

In the glowing light of the inner forge the boy found his father seated at his work table, a masterful lightsaber in front of him. The silvery-gold metal seemed to swirl before his eyes under the flickering light of the work torches. The clean, colorless blade hummed, muted and toneless like a hummingbird’s wingbeat. A magnificent saber, perfectly crafted and calibrated with a heart of pure kyber at its center. It was perhaps the finest weapon in all of history.

“Papa?” the boy spoke into the hushed quiet of the forge, almost worried by his father’s stillness. His father extended his arm, wrapping the boy into his side, and the boy could see tears streaming quietly down his face.

“We did it,” his father said hoarsely, squeezing him tight. “It is finished.”

—

The count returned a year to the day he had left the cottage. The sabersmith and his son were fresh-faced and clean, restless with excitement. The count dismounted and approached, taking the hilt of the offered lightsaber in hand, examining it.

But to everyone’s astonishment, he sniffed derisively, and handed it back.

“A subpar delivery for what was expected,” the count said, looking down his nose at the shocked father and son. “I was clearly misled; you are not the finest smith in these provinces as I was told. It is a pitiful attempt as a blade: I will give you a tenth of the price to take it off your hands.”

The boy was shocked, outraged. He strode forward in protest before he was blocked by his father’s hand holding him back. He looked up to see his father’s face almost devoid of emotion, would have thought him dumbfounded to stillness if not for the trembling in his shoulders.

“I have no need of your money,” he said quietly. “I will not burden you with such a piece. You’re not worthy of this weapon. You would never have appreciated its craftsmanship— I will give it to my son. It is his.”

The two men stared at each other, one as still as a hunter, the other quivering like prey.

Without a word the count drew his own lightsaber, red and villainous, and darted forward with inhuman speed to stab the smith through the heart.

The boy screamed. The count stepped away and the smith fell, lifeless, to the ground. The boy, now an orphan, shook his father by the shoulders, begging him to respond, tears clouding his eyes in torrents as he sobbed on his father’s chest, utterly alone.

The count had turned to stride back to his steed when he heard the boy scream behind him. Almost bored, the count looked over his shoulder, stopping halfway before turning fully to face the eleven year old child who now stood to his full height, as lean as the blade he held. There was hardly a warning before the boy lunged, the saber gaining color and momentum as he swung, bringing it down to clash against the count’s saber, green against virulent red.

For the longest minute of their lives the child and the count fought in a flurry of lunges, slashes, parries and blocks, locked in a contest of speed and skill. Both were alarmed by the other’s skill with the blade, and for a considerable length of time they fought, sparks of light streaking through the air. The noble had years of experience and strength behind him, but the boy blazed with the heartbroken, righteous fury of a son whose father was killed before his very eyes. The clarity he dueled the master with was unrivaled by any other the noble had fought in his lifetime, and as the seconds wore on they began to perspire, the ache in their limbs being weighed down by the effort it took to attack and defend again and again.

Eventually though, the noble saw his opening and lunged, disarming the boy and knocking the lightsaber from his hands. The blade extinguished as it fell to the ground, useless and out of reach. The boy stood tall with the count’s saber held beneath his defiant chin, his tears turning to steam as they landed on the blade.

“You’re a tiresome little thing,” the count said, still strangely devoid of emotion. The boy refused to answer him, trembling but staring directly into the noble’s gaze. “But my quarrel is not with you.”

With two quick, precise strikes he scarred the boy’s face on either side as a warning, leaving him crying in agony and anger.

“Bury your father, and pray we never meet again.”

The count extinguished his blade and mounted his steed, riding away with his retinue, never to return.

But the boy lived, vowing to avenge his father’s death. On that day he took up the very saber his father made, setting out to train as a swordsman for the next decade so that when he eventually managed to track down the six-fingered man, he would challenge him to a duel the count would not walk away from.

[mask131]

Lets talk about Purgatory... (2)

Last time, we talked about how the belief in the existence of a Purgatory, as a third realm between heaven and hell, slowly came into existence and was ultimately accepted by the Church - but it stayed a vague, undefined realm with very little canonical or official statements about it. And we were about to see how what actually TRULY helped Purgatory grow and develop itself was popular imagination, non-religious texts and other forms of art...

As a reminder, I am still following so far for these posts an article that was written by Christine Duthoit about the beliefs in the afterlife during the Middle-Ages.

So, as we said, the fact that theologians were very vague, uncertain and brief whenever they spoke of Purgatory was a true obstacle for many artists of the time who wishe to depict this realm, and it didn't help that in the many afterlife visions they had to take inspiration from, Purgatory and Hell were clearly confused with each other, or looking extremely similar. Take the vision of Charles the Fat, in the ninth century (I briefly referenced it in the previous post). In this vision, Charles was guided by a being dressed in white, and holding a sort of shining ball emitting a strong ray of light. The guide took Charles into what is described as a "maze of hellish torments": he saw great and deep valleys of fire filled with wells in which were burning sulfur, lead, wax, soot and pitch. And in this place, souls were tortured inside boiling rivers and boling swamps ; as well as within "furnaces of pitch and sulfur, filled with great dragons, scorpions and snakes of many different species". Is it Purgatory or Hell? Hard to say. Saint Augustine was also considered to have been one of the main Christian voices behind the "infernalization" of Purgatory. And, just like with Hell, the dominating element of Purgatory is fire: descriptions are filled with fire-rings, fire-circles, fire lakes, seas of fires, walls of fire, burning valleys, hot coals, mountains of flames... However, unlike the fire of Hell which is only suffering and pain, the fire of Purgatory is meant to be purifying: it notably makes one look younger, and offers a form of immortality. This association of Purgatory with fire explains why many thought the volcanic regions were gateways to Purgatory - the Etna in Sicily, or the islands Lipari, were believed to host Purgatory. And of course, there is "Saint Patrick's well" in Ireland...

In the 12th century, four "visions of the afterlife" dominated the European beliefs and culture. Three of them are only evoked in the article but not described in details: the vison of the mother of Guibert of Nogent ; the vision of Tnugdal ; the vision of Alberic of Settefrati... As for the fourth, it is the one collected in the medieval best-seller that was The Purgatory of saint Patrick, written between 1190 and 1210. In this tale, a Cistercian monk of England named Gilbert is sent alongside a knight named Owein to build a monastery in Ireland. The story describes how the future saint Patrick, who was in the middle of Christianizing Ireland, was showed by Jesus a well... Not just any well. A round, dark and deep well located in the Red Lake (Donegal), on Station Island ; and Jesus told saint Patrick that any Christian that would spend a day and a night in this hole would be purged of all their sins - and they would also be able to see the suffering of the wicked and the joy of the virtuous. Saint Patrick had a church built nearby, and a great wall erected around the well, trusting the key of the door's wall to an abbot (mentions of this geography are found in the maps of Topography of Ireland by Giraud the Welsh). Owein, the knight, decides to go down the well, despite him having quite a handful of sins weighing his souls, and despite the warning of the churchmen that guard the well. As soon as he gets down into the hole, he is harassed by numerous demons, and forced to walk in a mix of pure darkness and red lights, filled with tormented screams and fetid smells. The red lights come from the flames of a pace that looks like Hell - and is inhabited by dragons, snakes and toads that constantly torment the souls there. Owein sees people being crucified with red-hot nails, being tied up to fiery wheels, being roasted or hanged by iron-hooks, he even sees people being plunged in huge vats of molten metal... Owein manages to face all the horrors and trials of what he beleves is Hell, by constantly invoking the name of Jesus to protect him. He ends up arriving in what seems to be Earthly Paradise, and is there welcomed by two archbishops... Who reveal to him it wasn't Hell at the bottom of the well. But Purgatory, explicitely referred to as the "third realm" of the afterlife, and where the souls of the sinners complete their repentance and purification. Once the souls of Purgatory are done with their torments, they will reach the Earthly Paradise, and then finally move on to the celestial Heaven. The knight returns to the top of the well, and upon reaching back the world of the living is glad to learn he has been purified of all of his sins.

This story became MASSIVELY popular in medieval Europe - notably because it confirmed what many people wanted to believe into, the idea that the justs and good people had a chance to completely and utterly purify themselves before reaching Heaven. By extension, it meant there were indeed various types and categories of sins, and that not all crimes were as bad - with some sins being forgivable and not preventing one's reach of Heaven...

Another key feature to understand the "creation" of Purgatory in the Christian world is the idea that the dead and the living are somehow tied to each other.

The article begins by the "communion of the saints". This belief did not originate in any actual council or official Church decision - rather, in France, it spontaneously appeared at the end of the 4th century among the Christian communities. The saints weren't just protecting and watching over the living anymore ; now, they formed a bridge and a link between the living and the dead. Most importantly, the sufferings and pains of the dead in the afterlife could be eased or shortened by the prayers of the living - through the saint, that received the prayer, and then influenced the fate of the deceased. (In France we call those interventions for the dead caused by the living's prayers "suffrages").

The apparition of the idea that the prayers of the living influenced the afterlife was part of a wider movement in Christianity that focused more and more about the dead. Take the apparition of All Hallows Day, or All Saints Day. It was created in 610 by Boniface IV, and it was originally the day of the martys - and solely the martyrs. But then it became the day to celebrate all of the saints, martyrs or not martyrs - and Gregory the IV insisted on this day being celebrated by all Christians, showing the importance it grew. In parallel, we know that as early as Gregory the Great's time, masses and religious celebrations included a "Mementa", a part to remember the dead. This expanded into the monks creating "Libri Vitae", to register all the livings and the dead that were named during a mass ; and soon necrologies and obituaries were formed, lists and registers of the deads, their names, the day they died, and their "obit", the anniversary of their deaths. And between 1024 and 1033, a Day of the Dead was created to honor and commemorate all the dead Christians... And it was placed on the second day of November, that is to say the day following All Hallows Day/All Saints Day, further strengthening the bond between the Saints and the Afterlife.

As new conceptions of sin and penitence appeared, as the confession became one of the most important rituals in the life of the Christians, stories and testimonies of deceased coming back to visit the living (usually souls from Purgatory) started multiplying. You had dead people visiting their family to demand their prayers and their memory in the afterlife ; you had dead churchmen or churchwomen informing the people of their order of what happened to them in the afterlife ; mystics and saints kept being visited by ghosts and revenants left and rights. This was a good bulk of the story of hauntings in the Middle-Ages. A greater focus was put on the idea that a Christian had to absolutely purify themselves when alive to avoid the torments of the afterlife - notably through contrition, confession and penitence. The pope Innocent III had a very cynical take on the mental beliefs and evolutions of his time, pointing out that the living only cared for the dead, because they themselves were future dead. Aka, this obsession with Purgatory and ghosts and praying for the dead was simply the other side of the coin of the fear of mortality, and the terror of the trials awaiting beyond.

In the middle of the 13th century, when it came to Churchmen that took care of the fidels and shared their daily life, the Cistercians were replaced by the Mendicant orders, the "begging monks", who were especially popular/influental in urban areas. One of the specific traits was a heavy use of "exempla" during their preach: the "exemplum" is, as the name indicates, an example, the illustration of an affirmation or claim, taking the shape of a small story. It ranges from the parable to the fable, passing by actual ancestors of what we know today as "fairytales". And it is within these exempla that the legend of Purgatory ended up being built (a good example of the results of this "exampla-fashion" is the Golden Legend, La Légende Dorée of Jacques of Voragine).

A man the article speaks heavily about is the Dominican named Thomas of Cantimpré. He was a general-preacher for a monastical province that covered a part of Germany, a part of Belgium and a part of France. After spending thirty years preaching and teaching Christianity, he collected an enormous amount of exempla in his "Livre des abeilles", The Book of bees - and this collection testifies the strong anguish and terror Christians felt at the time when it came to death and the afterlife. They also record how comforting and beloved the idea of the "suffrages", of the power of the living over the fate of the dead, was. Thomas of Cantimpré notably classified six types of "suffrages" that could ease the pain or shorten the torment of the souls in Purgatory: tears (crying for the dead), the wakes (watching over the deceased), fasting (respecting a funeral fast), alms (aka giving money to someone who will think about/pray for the dead), the "sacrifice of the mass" (aka having a funeral mass for the dead), and giving back money (aka, either paying the debts of the deceased, either restituting goods or wealth that the dead stole). This belief was certainly influenced by how Thomas of Cantimpré wrote an official biography of saint Lutgarde of Tongres, a cistercienne nun who devoted her entire life to the souls of the Purgatory, constantly praying and fasting for them.

The article offers a selection of the Purgatory-exempla that Thomas of Cantimpré wrote down.

A) A very sick man prays God so he can be set free from his ill body by death. An angel appears and offers him a choice: either be sick for a whole year and go directly to Heaven, or die now and spend three days in Purgatory. The sick man says he prefers dying now and suffering Purgatory: he dies and finds himself in the middle of cruel torments. After one year of torture, the angel comes back to him and asks him "Do you think you made the right choice?". As the soul of the dead complains about his situation, the angel reveals to him this one year... was actually one day in Purgatory. The dead man eventually agrees to take the other option - he is sent back into his sick body, and suffers his illness for one more year before going to Heaven.

B) A wealthy and powerful duke decides to convert himself to Christianity. He stops spending too much, he is very charitable to the poors of his domain, he has chapels built to celebrate masses "in honor of the souls suffering in Purgatory". The devil, angry at this, causes a rebellion and uprising among the duke's vassals. They accuse their lord of believing imaginary stories, of spending his money in a "dishonorable" way, and to not care about the noble serving under him anymore, giving all his wealth to the dead rather than the livng. This becomes a civil war, but the battle is ultimately won by the duke because he is helped by a celestial army coming down from Heaven - and made by all the souls that could escape Purgatory thanks to the duke's alms and masses.

The "officialization" of Purgatory only appears with the second Council of Lyon, organized in 1274: it is then that the Purgatory became an official belief of the Christian Church. The Purgatory is seen as an extension or substitution to the earthly penitence of the living. It is stated that the duration of a stay in Purgatory depends from person to person - but that it does not have to cover all of the span between someone's death and the resurrection at the end of times (aka, a Purgatory soul can reach Heaven before Judgement Day). Starting from this Council onward, theologians started making complex and fascinating calculations in order to determine how long exactly a soul has to stay in Purgatory, depending on the quantity and gravity of the person's sins.

And with any religous process that involves the metaphysical equivalent of math tests... cheating arrived. In the form of "indulgences". For those of you not familiar with this, the system of indulgences within the Christian Church (Catholic branch) is, as the name says, a system of "pardons" and "leniences" - it is when a Catholic religious authority deserves a form of "pardon" for the sins of a specific person. At first it was another way for living Christians to purify themselves before their death - and it quickly became one of the most famous corruptions of the Church, denounced as much by Protestants as by poets such as Dante. Sinners just had to "buy" an indulgence by giving enough money to a religious authority, and they were cleansed of their crimes in the eyes of the Church - even if they made no effort to redeem themselves, underwent no penitence or did not express any regret. But by the hubilee of the Church in 1300, the Pope Boniface VIII extended the indulgences to the souls of Purgatory - which by the time had become a full part of the Christian art and Christian rituals.

And when Protestantism arose, the Catholic Church held tightly onto the belief in Purgatory: in the 16th century, the Council of Trente confirmed once more that Purgatory was part of their canon and dogma, to better differentiate Catholics from Protestants.

Fascinatingly however, it was not the first time Purgatory served a political purpose... Long before Protestanism appeared, Purgatory had been used as a tool against all those seen as dissidents groups within the Church - aka, heretics. In France, the two most famous heresies of the Middle-Ages firmly rejected Purgatory as a whole. One was the one we called the "vaudois", part of the Vaudois movement (also called Valdeism or Valdism). They held the belief that faith was a gift from God, and that by extension only the Christ could intercede. As in, only prayers to the Christ had any power to change the fate of people or could be able to reach God - by extension, they considered that the saints were powerless, and the indulgences worth nothing. Recognizing only two sacraments as "real", the Baptism and the Eucharist, they considered Purgatory to be a pure fiction, a made-up fairytale with no real existence: for them, there is only Heaven or Hell.

The other group were, of course, the Cathars, who believed that material world was inherently evil and that humans were fallen angels trapped in bodies of flesh. They only recognized one sacrament, the "consolamentum", the only ritual that can grant salvation by setting free the divine part of the human: the spirit returned to God, leaving behind its material body and the evil within it. This ritual, called a "baptism of spirit and fire" was a cross between the "last rites" for the dead (as it was the final ritual ensuring salvation after death), and an ordination, as it was the only ritual needed to become fully and "truly" Christian. Hence why the Cathars called themselves the Perfects, the Good Men or the Good Women (they also heavily used the Gospel of John, which fitted the most their beliefs). As a result of all this - for them death, like with the vaudois, could only lead to Hell (being trapped in the material world) or Heaven (becoming a pure spirit with God) - no in-between was possible.

A third group deemed as heretical by the Church that also rejected Purgatory were the Brothers and Sisters of the Free-Spirit, the Libre-Esprit movement, who preached and swore only by poverty. For them, it was poverty that set a man free of his sins and "resurrected the Christ within him". Long story short: as long as you were poor, you could listen to your every desires and follow your every whims without fearing a sin. This was the teaching of the "free-spirit": you could obtain paradise by simply living on earth, as long as you were poor, since poverty annihilated all sins. In their own words, a poor whore was worth more than a pious and just rich man - and in turn, this allowed them to declare all Churchmen were damned (denouncing how the Church had become one the wealthiest institutions of the Middle-Ages).

This is all I can take from the article - and unfortunately it is quite limited, since the text is about Purgatory in the Middle-Ages, and so it does not expand to modern days... But I hope it was interesting eough as a quick overview! If I find more sources, I'll continue this series.