#not a shred of humility

[dragon-ball-meta]

Finally feel like I can say something coherent, so here goes... I say this without a shred of exaggeration: Akira Toriyama was legitimately one of the most important creative figures of the last 50 years. His work, especially Dragon Ball, has influenced SO much even outside its own medium. Movies, TV, cartoons, comic books, video games, MUSIC... all of it. You can see his fingerprints in so many other works. Even now, artists and writers, voice actors and animators, musicians and game devs are all mourning him and reflecting on the impact he had on their own work. Titans of anime and manga are sharing in this pain. The craziest thing about this though? The humility he had in spite of it. He was always reluctant to be in the spotlight, preferred to keep his head down and just work, never really worried that much about public perception of himself. Part of what makes him such an icon, man. Losing him is losing a piece of our shared history. It's something that resonates deep in the hearts of everyone his work touched. This is just... such a loss. And I can't even begin to imagine what his family is going through right now. Praying for them all. Rest in Peace to a literal Legend, an absolute Icon, and a personal inspiration in more ways than I could ever express properly.

[marimbles]

my favorite thing about zagreus is that he’s the ultra-cool prince of the underworld, son of the god of the dead, skilled warrior protégé of Achilles himself, tall dark and handsome, completely shredded, with the dopest heterochromia ever, leaving sparks in his wake while he struts around like he owns the place (cause he kind of sort of does). BUT he’s also the most pitiful, disaster-level idiot in the underworld.

He got fired from his nepo job for being lazy and unfit for office work. Whenever he talks to the worker shades in the admin office they all roll their eyes at him. despite his elite training he can only progress toward the surface with endless redos and the constant help of every Olympian AND Cthnonic god. his room is a dump. he’s absolutely terrible at playing the lyre. His outfit is designed after his dog. He is sopping wet from his last dip in the pool of Styx 100% of the time, and every time he fails at escaping the whole house can see his walk of shame while Hypnos loudly makes fun of him for dying AGAIN. And all of this is magnified 10x if you’re bad at the game. incredible story design.

Zagreus’s initial inadequacy makes for an even more compelling narrative that feels extra rewarding with each level of progression. And this is all reflected so well in his attitude as a character. He’s such a fascinating mix of brazen confidence and good-natured humility. He may seem like an entitled brat on the outside but he’s incredibly heartfelt and generous to those around him—not just to those of similar status but also to the nervous housekeeper and his angry ex and the trapped souls he comes across in his journeys. he goes out of his way to help people even while he is trying to reach his own goal. and he never gives up, even when it seems impossible. his repeated failures just serve to emphasize his greatest strengths: resilience, determination, hope, and genuine care for the people in his life.

what a character, man. what a game ✊

[mini-ism]

#— HOLIDAY LIGHTS.

pairings: lighter x afab!gn!reader [MDNI]

words: 3,300

synopsis: he hated the way those cheery holiday lights made him feel so small the night you rejected him. yet, he still answers every time you call. that shred of hope will never die, especially not as it gets cold.

warnings: p in v, biting, kissing/making out, creampie, oral sex/cunnilingus, friends with benefits type relationship (can be read as reader and lighter get together after the fic), lethal amounts of pining, rejection, grinding/dry humping, nipple sucking/licking, unprotected intercourse, afab reader (gender neutral, no pronouns/feminine terms). 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

notes: crossposted to AO3. merry pissmas losers. ily!!

it was a force of habit, always a call away.

ever since his boxing days, he was a call away.

“hello?” his husky voice could be heard on your end. it was getting cold out, the season lonelier when alone.

“lighter!” you spoke happily, almost relieved he’d answered. when didn’t he answer your call? even when he was busy at the time, he managed to return the call, managed to ask you “what’s up?”

in a heartbeat, you could hear his smile through his words and tone, he filled in the blank. “you want me to come over? you know, it’s the holiday season, can’t leave you feeling lonely.”

you laughed, an involuntary, fond, and soft noise. “yeah, could you do that? it’s been a while since i’ve seen you. …maybe you could be my gift?”

he chuckled on the other end, letting a bit of a snort through, “you bet. i’ll be there soon.”

you could only manage to tidy your bedroom before he was knocking at your door, the knocks gentle but persistent. you opened the door for him, standing in his usual attire. he waved hi, making haste to immediately settle in like it was his home too. “you missed me already?”

lighter’s words carried a teasing lilt to them, “well of course i did.” you answered him honestly, perhaps even a bit shyly. he smirked, the expression not entirely smug, carrying a layer of humility.

“well, i missed you too,” he turned to you after hanging his jacket on the back of the nearest chair, outstretching his arms, “come here.”

you obliged, scoffing at his endearment, letting his arms wrap tightly around you. his hug was secure, full of warmth and strength, a level of love underneath the surface of it all. you and him were quite familiar, your bond deep and connection deeper. he had met you when he was still fighting in the ember arena, misery behind his swollen eyes and bruises littering his battered body. yet, you never took him for what he seemed to be — a ruthless man with nothing but his life to put on the line.

hadn’t it been around this time he first kissed you? when he gave you his breathless confession? he tore off his boxing gloves, nose trickling with blood as his diaphragm stuttered with each breath. lighter had taken a particularly ugly punch to the gut, every last bit of oxygen in his lungs getting beat out of him. it still hurt to breathe, and that punch was sure to leave a hideous bruise on his … washboard abs.

as the champagne-golden and multicolored christmas lights illuminated the streets above and around the city, he huffed out an honest admission. a declaration of deep love, a sparkle igniting behind his dark and tired eyes.

you could only tell him that now wasn’t right. that, as much as you loved him back, he needed to get out of here most, that there was still so much interpersonal work to be done for yourselves. his ego was terribly hurt, the beating he took insurmountable to the pain of a slight rejection. but still, you called.

the attraction was palpable, undeniable, tangible. his name was spoken on your lips like a prayer, reverent and begging for his mercy. you begged him like he wholly owned you. the ache in his ego was replaced with a strange swell of pride, the look in your gaze unmistakable as he approached you. you stared at him with those pretty, twinkling eyes, that look beckoning him for his mercy and cruelty, to treat you as his for another night.

lighter would always oblige you. sure, that pain that shattered his fragile ego mended, and yeah, the way you practically worshipped him inflated it further. he was convinced that not even time could rip you away from him, that as he became a different man with new goals and a better set of priorities, you remained in his life. he turned down everyone, a silent part of his heart naively hoping that eventually you’d throw yourself onto him like a damsel in distress. you’d profess your equally passionate love for him, and that you were ready to be his only. he’d always pick up your call.

lighter loosened his grip slightly, bringing you back to reality as a small bit of chill crept in, “it’s always nice to see you.”

you smiled, the affection in his voice oozing with sincerity. you could feel him beginning to shuffle towards your room, holding you tight as you began to backpedal. he released an arm around you to gingerly shut the door behind him, the limb stretching somewhat awkwardly as he smothered you in himself. you couldn’t complain, the man smelled incredible and he was warm as a radiator.

his hands were immediately on you again, moving upwards to cup your face. he couldn’t stop himself from smooshing your cheeks together, stifling a laugh. lighter dove in to peck your lips, mimicking them with a puckered look of his own, the sight was thoroughly amusing.

he couldn’t stop himself after one kiss, the kisses becoming progressively less silly. his hands lessened the puckered tension of your lips and cheeks. he gently caressed your face with his thumbs as his lips deepened the kiss. his lips grazed yours, every second of contact drove him further into a frenzied need. your lips on his always felt so right, so soft and gentle. the way you tasted left him craving something that was so uniquely you, that couldn’t be emulated or sought anywhere else. his tongue was granted entrance, mingling with yours in a familiar way.

lighter softly groaned, the sound coming from deep within his chest. he never got tired of feeling your tongue on his. whatever taste your lips had, your tongue was better, it was stronger. his kiss was heated and passionate, seeking that comfort that you brought his soul, your presence a healing balm. he could bask in it for as long as he lives, until his existence is a fading shred fighting the winds of time. his hands came to your waist, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, breaking the kiss to lift your shirt over your head. lighter’s breathing was ragged, eyes carrying the recognizable spark of need behind the darkly tinted lenses.

you stood in front of him, chest bare, your nipples hardening. he could never get tired of those tits, eyes immediately flicking down to look at them. his face was dusted with a soft pink color, peeling off his right glove to get a bare feel. his calloused fingers immediately came up to pinch the nipple softly, rolling it under his thumb and on the side of his index finger. the pressure was enough to make you wince in a delightful pain, drawing your lip between your teeth. his bare hand palmed the swell of your chest, groping as much boob as he could in his large hand. the sensation of your soft skin against his rough palm got him harder than he wanted to admit, you still had that effect on him after years. “…fuuuuck.”

lighter’s curse came out as more of a hiss, a quiet admission of arousal. he quickly pulled off his other glove, letting it carelessly land on your floor next to your shirt. his hands immediately roving back onto your chest, squeezing and kneading as much as he could.

your eyes were lidded, vision growing hazy and careless. you could feel him lift you up, hoisting you high enough to latch his mouth onto one of your tits. his arms were strong and tight around your body, carefully bringing you over to your bed. his mouth was unfocused and lazy, tongue lapping at the bud to stiffen it every time he felt it soften. lighter guided you down onto your sheets, laying himself above you.

lighter’s lips immediately lavished attention onto the other nipple, taking it between his teeth and sucking it with a pop. you could feel his cock hardening in his pants as he laid on you, hips rocking every few seconds. “you have no idea how much i love doing this…” he muttered between breaths.

lighter trailed kisses from your sternum to your clavicle and up your neck. you could feel his breath tickle your ear and his lips drag along your pulse point. his hands travelled down your abdomen, to your lower waist, trailing his tongue down your carotid slowly. lighter savored the whimper you let out for him. “that’s right, baby, let me hear you.”

lighter pressed a sloppy kiss to the junction of your collarbone and neck, tongue licking along the light bite marks he left on your skin to tease you. his fingers pressed into your sides harder, grinding his hips and cock against the flesh of your thigh beneath him.

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, pulling them off with your underwear. lighter parted your thighs with a particularly large and muscular thigh of his own. you carded your fingers through his hair with a sigh, giving him a gentle look. lighter returned it with a smile, letting his lips kiss their way down your body. he replaced his thigh with his face, nuzzling the inside of your thigh as he laid prone on your bed. he pressed his erection into the sheets, grunting as the friction provided him with growing arousal disguised as relief. lighter nipped the inside of your thigh playfully, giving the quivering skin a kiss as a mock apology.

as he dove in, tongue first, he held eye contact with you. he allowed you to remove the sunglasses covering his eyes, the sight of you bearable to the rest of the world. his tongue flicked at your clit, sucking and kissing the sensitive slit between your legs. your fingers worked in his hair, his arms snaking around your thighs to press you closer to his mouth. he shut his eyes, rolling his hips against the soft sheets beneath him.

you had always been more than bearable in his heart, in his eyes. you were probably the only person rooting for him in an arena full of people cheering on his downfall. it had all become too much, the sights, the sounds, the smells. the sunglasses became his weird coping mechanism, serving more than their original purpose. he could only handle parting with them when he was with you, you were the only person that didn’t look at him harshly. you didn’t tell him to fight for you, you’d be the only person to clean his wounds and wash all the dreaded blood out of his hair.

that kiss he gave you during his confession was the only gift he could give you during the season. he was still flat broke, struggling to keep it together. he wasn’t living his life, he was watching it through those pretty green eyes of his. you were the only one to cut through the zombie-like haze of his mundane life. he had nothing material to provide you with, though his soul screamed at him to fight more matches, scrape up enough money doing odd jobs. yet, the way you looked at him had him feeling like all you wanted was him. although you kissed him back that night, he still couldn’t shake the looming doubt clouding his judgement. those holiday lights were hurting his eyes.

it had him filled with a strange sense of jealousy, envy. they were bright and admired, even through all the years of wear and harsh weather. people loved those lights, they would go out just to see them. they would seek them out, they were the substance of holiday nostalgia, something to decorate with and gawk at. he felt small and incomparable to the barrage of festive lights and cheer that night. it was stupid, he knew, but it was real.

a sharp tug on his hair pulled him out of his thoughts. you were breathing heavily, body shaking with pleasure as he mindlessly ate you out. his tongue was coated with a thick sheen of your cum, pussy quivering as you trembled. he didn’t need to use his fingers to get you to come this time, you must have really missed him. he gave your cunt another thorough lick, a long stripe to collect as much cum as he could on his tongue. it left you in agonizing pleasure, the sensation causing you to buck your hips and sob.

he loved the way you tasted. your skin, your lips, your tongue, even your pussy. he could eat it for days, he would if you’d let him. “can’t get enough.” he swallowed down the rest of your cum on his taste buds, the tangy taste lingering.

he had neglected his own body, too. he could feel the sticky pre-cum pooling in his boxers, cock twitching. his dick was begging him for attention, to at least grind on something, to let him bury himself inside you without a thought. his eyes were glassy, his stare magnetic and alluring. lighter’s hair was tousled and messy, his green eyes shining with arousal. it had you wishing he didn’t hide those pretty eyes away from the world, remembering that you’re lucky he still has them, even after all those black eyes and that horrible injury he sustained years ago.

he rose, settling himself differently between your thighs. your body was trembling, but your eyes conveyed full trust in him. you watched as he lifted off his own skin-tight undershirt, the scars along his body speckling his skin. the texture was different from his much softer skin, each with its own unique story. had he listened to you, maybe he wouldn’t have half of them. you still diligently kissed each one when you could, caressing his chest lovingly. his scars were never something he was ashamed of, just a reminder of reality, a reminder that the world isn't what it seems. you say they make him look sexy, so that isn’t half bad either.

the dog-tags around his neck jingled as he unbuckled his belt, throwing it aside with the rest of the clothes on the floor. he couldn’t be reminded to care, palming the prominent bulge in his pants instead. his face was red with lust, sweat dripping from his chest and beading around his hairline, soaking into his soft locks. lighter deftly unzipped his fly, reaching down into his boxers with a sultry drag of his fingers. he traced them down his lower abs, lower, lower…

you could see the outline of his hand stroking his cock through the fabric of his boxers, eventually freeing his dick from its confines. his size never failed to take your breath away, lighter still had to break you in each time. years of fucking, yet you could never get fully used to his cock. he stroked it a few times with a heavy sigh, a noise he reserved for his time with you. “nobody one could get me hard like you,” he mused, “i don’t think i can get hard thinking about anyone that isn’t you at this point. you have no idea what you’ve done to me.”

fuck, if that didn’t turn you on… you moaned, squirming and writhing in arousal, just from his honest thoughts. “lighter, take me. i don’t want anyone else’s dick, just yours.” your voice was strained, laden with burning hot need. you could feel the coil in your gut tighten with every one of his grunts. his voice was so sexy and deep, so smooth and soothing, soft when he wanted it to be.

“i thought you’d never ask,” lighter teased, collecting your wetness at the head of his cock, pushing in slightly with just the tip. you let out a whine, the sound throaty. you looked to him, who was already looking down at you with a loving smile. he pulled back out, the tip of his cock barely slid inside you. lighter’s hand came up to stabilize your leg at the hamstrings, the other aiding his cock inside with practiced ease. he winced in deep pleasure as your pussy graciously accepted his length, you were much wetter than usual too.

he couldn’t help but throw his head back after your cunt took the fattest part of his cock, burying himself to the base, his shaft coated in your wetness. “fuck, you want all of this?”

you gasped as he rocked his hips further into yours, the head of his cock hitting your cervix. you grit your teeth, jaw held tight as he pulled out slowly, dragging his hips out, before slamming back in. he took note of the lewd expression you made, jaw loosening as he fucked back into you, each thrust faster than the last, the pause in between shortening. you looked so hot like that, taking his dick just as you should. it’s got him realizing his love for you has grown even more over the years. it felt less like a trauma bond, blossoming into a deep and profound appreciation, an attraction that his brain can’t handle processing without short-circuiting a little bit. lighter’s expression mirrored yours, his face flushed, hair sticking to his face as he drew his bottom lip between his teeth and held it.

he had gradually increased his pace, the sound of skin against skin gradually getting louder. your bed started to rock against the wall, his hands grabbing the undersides of your thighs tightly. he didn’t dare to look away from you, from your eyes. your pussy was already an eyeful, getting all wet and tight like that, but fuck, the faces you made as you got close made him even harder. hard enough to dick you down into your mattress.

lighter hadn’t silenced you at all, matching your moans with fervor. his hips slammed against yours, groaning and huffing louder. his muscles were wound with the same tightness and tension as yours, your pussy getting unbearably tight with every shaky exhale. “come on, that’s it, lemme hear you. let me feel you come on me, i want you to cum on my dick. can you do that? fuck, fuck…”

his brows furrowed in concentration, his rhythmically rocking into you with a brutal force. the bed frame was squeaking and moving underneath you both, masked by the shared sounds of pleasure and sex. the intense pressure in your gut was rearing its head, coming to a climax, little babbles falling from your lips. “lighter, gonna— i’ll, fuck, ohh… fuck, fuck, lighter! lighter!”

your hips frantically pushed against his, beckoning him deeper, harder. with a particularly loud mewl, your back arched off the bed, wailing in pleasure as your climax washed over every tense muscle in your body. lighter didn’t stop, the pace maintained and ruthless as he chased his own orgasm. “yeah? yeah, just like that, you feel too fuckin’ good. think i’m gonna cum too.” a faint jingle could be heard in the heat of passion, the silver colored dog-tags dangling off his neck with each thrust. “take care of this pussy every time you want me, oh, fuck—”

his final words were strained with pleasure, his own body twitching as his balls drew up tight. he rutted his hips a few times in and out, fucking his cum into you with uncharacteristically deep and desperate moans. his hands shook, palms clammy and body quivering with the after effects of sex.

lighter leaned down to give you a tentative kiss, one akin to the first gift he ever gave you. it was slow, explorative, devoted. he leaned into your neck, nibbling on your ear affectionately, “how is that for a gift?”

“…good enough for me to reconsider our relationship.”

[khuzena]

Fable

Pairing: Sunday x gn!reader

cw: themes of religion, emotional turmoil, mental health struggles, sin and redemption.

Synopsis: In a world engulfed with sin, Sunday feels as if there's no difference between him and the lowly sinners he preaches to. A stark irony in his thoughts and the cross that lay heavy on his chest, a preacher of Aeon Xipe, yet a damned fool that longs for a sinner. He offers redemption as if it's cheap since it only asks faith as its payment. However, the sinner he longs for has no ounce of faith in their soul. In the end, he could only sing praises— if only attaining salvation was so easy.

A/N: GUESS WHO'S BACK (no one remembers me) but I'm here to deliver angst anyways bc fuck this shit. My writing is shitty so bear with me. :(((

“Repent, sinner.” Sunday whispered as he held your hand, “Repent.”

"Sunday— let go” you drawled, voice dripping with shame. You leaned against the wall, the smoke from your cigarette curling lazily through the dim air, mingling with the stale scent of cheap perfume and old upholstery. The brothel was alive with murmured laughter and low music, the worn-out couches and faded curtains casting long shadows in the flickering amber light. Your skin was drenched in sweat, your head riddled in shame as your clothes lay bare on the floor. You've just finished servicing a client yet Sunday's invaded unknown territory; to save you, maybe.

The priest’s eyes swept the room, narrowing as if each detail confirmed his worst suspicions. His mouth twisted in a thin line of disgust as he clutched his Bible close to his chest, as if bracing himself against the "unclean" aura around him. The expression in his eyes was soft, painful—a thousand sermons held back by a single withering look.

“Please,” he said, voice clipped. “You know this isn't the answer— it's never too late.”

“Just go,” you replied, frowning without your usual certain devil-may-care charm. You let sin consume you, as it's all you've ever known. “But you’re right, Father. It's never too late for others but I'm a lost cause.”

You trail off, the musky aroma of carnal desire in the room intoxicating his ‘pure’ soul, “You're gonna save me? With what, exactly? A sermon? A confession?”

“Redemption.” He said the word as if it could wash the room clean. “Even someone like you—someone who parades their sin as if it’s a crown—you could still be saved. Even now.”

You laughed, the sound echoing off the peeling walls, more haunting than humorous. “Saved? By what, exactly? A few Hail Marys and a scolding?” You looked him up and down, that faint amusement never leaving your eyes. “Maybe I’m not the one who needs saving. Ever thought of that?”

Sunday's face darkened, his fingers tracing the edge of his Bible like it was a weapon rather than a shield. “You speak of kindness, yet you live without a shred of humility or grace. Do you really think there’s peace in… in this?” He gestured around the room, lips curling in contempt. “All I see is emptiness masquerading as freedom.”

Your eyes narrowed, your smile fading. “Freedom?” You flicked the ash from your cigarette, watching it drift to the floor like grey snowflakes. “Tell me, Father, when was the last time you felt free?” You crawled to him as he sat on the stained sheets, so close he could feel the warmth of your breath, the faint scent of smoke and cheap perfume mixing with the cold edge of his cologne. “You clutch that Bible like it’s a cage, not a comfort. You come here, looking down on us from your self-righteous mountain, but you’re the one running. From what, exactly?”

He stiffened, the muscles in his jaw tightening as if you’d struck a nerve. “I serve the Lord,” he said, voice quivering with a mixture of conviction and something darker, something unsettled. “I bring light to places that have forgotten it. I offer hope to the lost.”

You smirked, unbothered. “Hope, is it? Funny, you seem more scared than hopeful. You think that because I don’t kneel and grovel that I must be empty, but I don’t need your god to tell me right from wrong. I may be a ‘sinner’ in your eyes, but I don’t preach peace and then threaten damnation. I help the lost here, too, in my own way—without the guilt. And without shame.”

For a moment, his composure slipped, a crack appearing in the stone-cold mask he wore. He looked at you—really looked at you—as if seeing past the lipstick and the smoke to something rawer, something he couldn’t name.

“Kindness without repentance is hollow,” he muttered, almost to himself, fingers ghosting over the cross around his neck. His eyes betray his actions, he can't admit that he loves a sinner like you.

“And blind faith without understanding is cruelty,” you shot back, your voice like a knife through the heavy air. “You think kindness is something you hand down from on high, something earned by prayers and purity. But look around, Father. These people don’t need sermons. They need food, a place to sleep—a little mercy, not lectures.”

He opened his mouth, as if to counter, but words seemed to fail him. Instead, his face twisted, half pity, half frustration. “I’ll… pray for you.”

A dry laugh escapes you, a hollow sound in the oppressive quiet. “Pray for yourself, Father. You’re the one who seems lost here.”

“I just want to save you,” He reiterates, his eyes gleaming with desperation, “Please, just repent. There's always a place for you in the church”

An airy scoff escapes your lips as you smack his hand away, “A place for me? A place for a sin laden person like me?”

A pregnant silence filled the room, he clutched the cross on his neck. There must be an answer, and if there isn't, he'll make you one. His free hand reaches into his pocket, you feel a beaded bracelet rest onto your wrist. It's heavy, so heavy.

“What are you doing to me?”

“I just want to save you,” his hands trembled in sync with the flickering candle light, “Just listen to me.”

“Stop, stop—” no matter how many times you plead him to stop acting so pathetic, he implores mercy for you. The sacred bracelet on your wrist is a testament to his love and his faith— one you could never share.

Sunday vowed himself to never step into the walls of pleasure as they're the home to lust, they're home to fools who seek salvation in sex. Yet, he's here. He's here to seek salvation for you. He brought Xipe’s presence into the home of the devil, in hopes to coerce you to the brighter side.

His presence in this brothel feels like an enigma, he doesn't belong here.

“I don't want you to rot in hell,” he trails off, kissing your knuckles, “I’ve never felt this before— Xipe owns my body, my soul.”

Why does his touch feel so addicting compared to the touches of far fairer men than him?

His wings droop onto his shoulders, your clothes on the floor reflecting on his shiny halo but he doesn't budge. He doesn't want to leave you here, he knows your heart is kind, yet your body's defiled— he’s determined that he'll cleanse you, he'll cleanse you of this sin.

He presses his lips again to your knuckles, “Why do you have to be so difficult?” He mutters to himself as his sacred tears paint your tainted skin.

Xipe may own every fibre of his being, but you've taken his very soul, you've stolen it with every scornful laugh, every unrepentant sin. THEY have save you, THEY need to save you—

However, when he stares back into the abyss in your eyes, he knows you're long forsaken by their blessings.

When you don't recite the verses escaping his lips, he realises you're a lost cause.

Please, Xipe. Please do something about them—

If that's not enough, he's brought jar filled with ash.

“That's enough Sunday—”

“It's not.”

His words sunk low as he turned more desperate than a man faced with death. For you to die and rot in hell is death in itself.

You should run away, you should push him away.

You should throw him back to the cathedral he preaches in.

But a part of you wants saving.

A part of you long to be in the same world he is, in body and soul and in every prayer recited.

But you can’t.

With trembling hands, Sunday brought his fingers to the jar of ash he'd clutched as if it held the very essence of Xipe himself. His touch was reverent, fingers dipping into the blackened dust as he leaned forward, his face a mask of fevered determination. His breath was ragged, each exhale brushing against your skin like a ghost's touch, hovering close as he traced the symbol of harmony on your forehead.

The ash was cold and heavy against your skin, spreading like a dark stain over the sweat still clinging to you from moments before. Sunday’s fingers shook as he sketched each line, each curve, his brows furrowing as if with each stroke he could carve Xipe’s mercy into your very soul. His lips moved soundlessly, chanting prayers, pleading with his god to see you—to reach you. His eyes glistened, holding a desperation so raw it felt as though he were laying his soul bare with every brush of his fingers.

"Please," he whispered, voice breaking as he drew the final stroke, his forehead pressed against yours, the rough ash between you a stark reminder of the worlds that kept you apart. "Please, let this save you." His eyes searched yours, wild with a hope he couldn’t contain, pleading with a faith that was beginning to crumble as he realized that even this sacred act, this final attempt to offer you salvation, might still leave you beyond his reach.

You're still a sinner through and through.

Sunday’s fingers lingered, almost frozen against your skin as he stared at the dark symbol he’d left, the weight of it so heavy it felt like it would pull you both under. His breaths came uneven, shallow, as he fought against the reality sinking in—that his desperate plea might not reach you, that this sacred symbol he’d etched might be nothing more than a stain.

His hand drifted to your cheek, thumb tracing the faint smudge of ash, as though hoping to rub it deeper, to make it part of you in some way that went beyond flesh and bone. His eyes were wet, glistening with the weight of unspoken prayers, with the terror of a man standing on the brink of faith and despair.

“I love you— I want you.”

“Then want me.”

‘Want me without fear’ - what you should've said.

He shakes his head, swallowing. “I can’t. To want you… to touch you? I’d lose everything.” Each word is a knife, cutting through the heavy air between you.

“Then why are you here?” you murmur, your voice laced with disbelief, the irony palpable in the dim light. A saint in sacred clothing before a madonna whore.

“Because you’re worth saving.” His eyes are fierce, but they tremble.

You laugh bitterly. “Even if I don’t want it?”

“It’s not just for you!” His grip tightens around your hands, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I need to believe… that you can be saved, that I can—” He falters, his eyes darkening. “What if I’m here because I’m as damned as you?”

“Then maybe you should let go of salvation.”

His wings flutter as sobs wreck his soul. Why can't THEY save you too? Why does he have to live with the idea that you'll rot— that he can't do anything about it?

And as he kneels before you, his lips brushing over your knuckles in a final, desperate kiss, he prays—more for himself than for you.

"I’ve seen hell, and it’s not the one you think," you murmur, voice low, yet biting. "It’s in the way you look at me—like I’m nothing but a sin."

A flash of pain crosses his face, mingling with the flicker of understanding that never quite settles. Anxiety tightens his grip on your hand as he absorbs your words, though he’ll never truly understand them. He opens his mouth, but only silence falls—a prayer unsaid, a salvation he’s not even sure he can give.

His gaze drops, lingering on the thin sheet covering you like a veil over desecration, and he looks away, ashamed yet bound.

He leans in, lips hovering just above yours—a kiss he tells himself is selfless.

“I'll pray for you."

I'll forgive you.

Note: BYE BER MONTHS HIT ME LIKE A TRUCK— I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED PROGRESS OF MY WIP FICS AND I WAS IN TEARS AND JS CRASHED OUT. IM BACK BC GIGI PEREZ JS MADE ME WRIT EGAIAN

special mention: @whyiseveryname-taken bro I'm still ariting abt that angst jing yuan fic btw if u still remember 😈

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[elwenyere]

These are high-stakes times, and they will only get more high-stakes, so it makes sense for people to feel alienated and scared and angry. Here are a few things I've learned from organizers with a lot more experience than I have, in the case they're helpful to you.

We have to care about the truth, even when it's inconvenient to us or to our narratives. Test assumptions and check facts - especially in posts or articles that seem to confirm your own priors. Be as alert to the contradictions and pitfalls of your own standpoint as you can, and exercise the strongest skepticism where you would be quickest to accept a stance as Correct or to dismiss a person as Wrong. Each of us is wrong about a lot of things - including important things, which are hardly ever simple - so humility is a helpful stance.

We have to care more about doing good work than about being perceived to be good. Even if it were possible to achieve complete Correctness, conditions around us would change in the next moment and demand that we change too. Organizing is about developing the relationships of trust and care and truth-telling that allow us to learn from our mistakes, and to do that, as bell hooks says, we have to love justice more than any aspect of our own identity.

We need more people, not more perfect ones. While there are places for drawing hard lines, organizing is about asking yourself how much discomfort we can tolerate in order to build movements rather than social clubs of people who already share our politics in every particular. We can't do that if we're waiting for people to trip up and reveal that they're not Real Leftists or Good Citizens or Leaning In or whatever so we can either deride and disavow them or else try to shame and scold them into adopting our own tactics.

Yelling at people online might be cathartic, but it's not organizing. That doesn't mean there's no place for critique or for actions that apply pressure to people who are in the position to produce change. It does mean that arguing with strangers online has a small likelihood of alleviating suffering or of changing anyone's behaviors in the real world. Do the conflicts we're engaging in have the potential to be generative for the movement we're building? Do they risk shredding relationships we'll need in order to organize for collective survival in the future? What else could we be doing with the energy that's getting taken up by online arguments? Posting can be part of praxis, but we can't keyboard stroke our way out of the need for on-the-ground organizing.

You don't have to do everything about everything, and you shouldn't. If we're feeling overwhelmed and plagued with feelings of doom, it's often because we're filling too much of our body-minds with problems we're not actually working to move. The challenges ahead *are* huge, and that's why we're going to need people who are focused and in their lane and engaged in concrete action. Pick one or two things, find people who are already working on those issues, get involved in taking material steps, and invite others to join you.

Feel free to pass this along if it's of use to you, and if it's not, feel free to keep it moving. Whatever happens in the coming weeks, there is so much work to do, and we are going to need each other even more.

[federal-goose]

literally obsessed with pinocchio’s “i see myself only as the son of geppetto.” he’s standing before an entity whose power he cannot possibly comprehend and who could shred him into toothpicks with a snap and his only thought to identify himself is his father. lou wilson has beefed high charisma rolls before (lookin at you, gunnie “now you’ve been granted advantage” miggles-rashbax) but that line was a beautiful moment of humility and truth that strips pinocchio down to his core. absolutely unmatched.

[sezez]

So the Poppy Playtime Chapter 4 ARG has been shining a load of light on Harley Sawyer so I figure it's time I talk about it. (I just realize I've been dead for the past...two months? Anyway-)

So we know by now that Harley was part of this program when he was a child or teen possibly and he was favored by Elliot because of his intelligence. But he lack one thing that made the founder worried.

Humility

Harley did not care at all for other people and rather focus on the process and progress of things. He even lashed out at Elliot for being too soft, then stormed out. In a shred up document, he calls Elliot a backstabber for believing and having high-hopes for him only to be let go.

Which is why Elliot had to let him go and tell him to try and reconnect with other people.

(Which basically him politely saying "Go outside, touch some grass and visit a mental hospital)

And then when Harley became an adult, Leith is the one to hire him back into the factory. Which makes me curious as to why.

This could take place after Elliot's passing, but I watched a few SheepRampage's video and he theorize that Harley is the one behind his death; via using a Bigger Body toy to kill him. So if Elliot was in fact alive when Harley got hired, the doctor could have pretended to change and only go back to his usual self behind the founder's back.

And let's just take a quick moment to realize something; Harley could have very much been the one to place the dead body of a young boy in Elliot's house, to ruin his good name and his image as a family man.

(which is a extreme petty move, Harley. You really did that because Elliot said "No more experimenting" to you all those years ago?)

Anyway, back on track; I can guess that Harley was brought back as a desperate move by Playtime Co. after the Catnap Controversy. Which is where the Bigger Body Initiative was made then the rest is history.

Now, let's talk about the audio we hear when dialing the phone number the ARG gave.

So in the audio, we hear Leith, Eddie and Stella in a private room discussing about a mistake/incident that angered the Head of Innovation so much. It's also must be very bad because Leith ask Eddie if this will get out, to which the latter said they'll be in the clearing zone.

And Gerald Lockheart is back, (the same detective who investigated the Theodore Case back in the PPT Chapter 3 ARG) and he soon entered the room, and told the three Heads who is responsible; Harley Sawyer.

And that leaves a major question; WHAT is this mistake? WHY did it anger Leith so much to the point he wants to strangle the person responsible for it?

For the former, I think the ARG is giving a clear hint; the Theater Incident.

The theater has been mention quite a lot in most of the ARG updates, it started with a ripped apart Incident Report from a employee who was touring a bunch of people that led to a child getting hurt, they pleaded to not ever be mention and willing to do anything as long as they aren't blame for it because they honestly don't know what happened because it was so quick.

And now thinking about it, I think this is what the higher-ups were talking about.

But I decided to take it one step further, what if not only this resulted in a injury of a child, but also the death of Elliot Ludwig and the people who were being toured.

As for how it plays out (forgive me if it's so bad) ; So one day in the factory, a group of people were being toured around and reached the theater. Elliot was also present at the time, then suddenly Yarnaby comes out and kills the founder. Leading to a panic and possibly more deaths, and it's like a fire also broke out, base om a few pictures that have shown burnt toys and a poster.

And I know it's a sudden leap to think Yarnaby is the one who killed Elliot. But people kept pointing out Yarnaby is a yarn lion toy, and I like to imagine he is meant to be in the theater as entertainer. Along with the other characters teased such as the Piano Dinosaur and the Jester character we have yet to see.

Also Harley is likely the one to tell Yarnaby to attack Elliot, because he purposefully isolated himself with so he can make it very obedient to him.

So with the founder dead and a few bodies, this obviously furious Leith. And I think what Stella was trying to say before the Head of Innovation cut her off, is that they most likely had to kill any survivors of the attack to keep things quiet.

And even after all of that, they still kept Harley around because he may have threaten to blackmail them or because he is like the one thing that's still keeping the factory together. As much as they hate it, they knew the doctor can just kill them any time he wants.

[ms--lobotomy]

Hear me out: Submissive wump Rogal Dorn.

(I think I'm using the term "wump" correctly here?)

This guy is a such a pent up stoic brick desperately yearning for companionship who's stuck in tradition and hierachy, always holding himself to the cold emotionless standard because he feels he has to or he fails duty tm (and canonically struggles to express himself). I picture him feeling guilty a simmilarish kind of guilty about his lust to religiously repressed Lorgar, only replace religion with "duty". So he's a bit looser about it and probably does jerk off, not wanting to bother the reader with his failure, but does feel bad about not being able to "get a hold of himself" ("This is not the time. I am failing at my duties. I am a failure" etc) and feels bad waking up with sticky sheets because of them.

There's also the joke of him having a humilation kink. So when reader torments him during intimate moments it's a damn feedback loop of him being mortified at how he's reacting…. and getting harder from it. Cock emberrasingly twitching in his pants at every "good boy" and oh is that a wet spot forming sweetheart? He looks away in humilation. And he's so down bad he's practially at the readers beck and call after being riled up and teased relentlessly. Think this big primarch being bossed around by a small baseline human. Other primarchs (bar maybe Mortarion or Ferrus with their strength bs) would be more alright with it, the likes of Roboute or Sanguinius being much more used to seeing themselves on equal footing with humans meanwhile Dorn would definitly notice the whole "primarch getting bossed around by human" and oh by the emperor why is he getting hard from it. Traditionalist Dorn is the one getting femdommed.

Of course I am a giga sap so my heart won't take him being put in an actually uncomfy situation so the attraction is mutual.

-🟩

Hello, hi! HELLO I NEED TO DOM THIS MAN PLEASE. AAUUUH. wrote a blurb 207 words ENJOYYYYYY

He looked up at you, wrists and ankles tied behind him. You saw something wet in his stone-gray eyes as you looked at him with mirthful glee. The hint of a tear was beginning. You cupped his face in your hands; it was a few times the size of yours, yet you had it cradled, nay, caged like an animal. He was hairy and fat like a polar bear, at the very least.

"Do what you want to me," he said in a defeated tone.

Your face softened. "Rogal..." you began, pressing your forehead to his. While he was kneeling, he was maybe your height, if not still bigger. "Rogal, we don't have to continue if you don't want to. If you remember the safeword, we can stop."

He was huge, and he likely had the power to break out of his restraints if needed. The muscle underneath the hairy fat on his arms was more than enough to rend the rope to shreds, but he looked at you with a shy expression in his eyes. You made him shy, you, oh! As he broke eye contact, he looked down to a wet spot in his pants.

"Oh, Rogal--!"

"I believe there is a different reason for us to stop."

[kamesama]

— scapegoat: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: this is a heavy one ( i mean it ); n/sfw, minors do not interact; virgin! fem! reader given away as a sacrifice; true-form! sukuna; non-con; violence; gore; blood; nudity; foul language; humiliation; degradation; implied character / reader death. — word count: 2166

you have never looked lovelier.

lips red with thick layer of paint; hair held up flawlessly by an ornate pin; body burdened by fine silks. chagrin and shame danced upon your cheeks, leaving blush trails in their wake. their waltz served to ridicule you, its snicker reminding that there was not a single silver lining you could find for yourself to cling to.

and how could you? 

you were a morsel sold for a mock-promise of peace. a sacrifice made for a fleeting moment of stillness. your torment would provide a single eve’s worth of undisturbed slumber, at best.

how many restful nights did you indulge in as a result of someone else’s defiled maidenhood?

the legends echoed off the rugged walls of your skulls; bed-time stories of carnage and cruelty and corpses. of a beast’s menacing frame, caked in red. of his four-eyed, garnet gaze that rolled and glided without a shred of subtlety. of his tongues; starved and shameless. of his hands; mammoth and malevolent.

will someone frighten their children with laments for you? when your bare body is devoured by ivy and when spiders nest in your empty sockets and when field flowers erupt from within your rotten ribcage out of sole pity for your snaffled chastity, will you be mourned and honoured? no one else ever was. 

had you raised your chin, you would have found him seated, one of his hands supporting his jaw in a manner that was nearly overwhelmed with boredom. but you didn’t look up — your chin nearly settled into the subtle hollow between your clavicles, as if refusal to bear witness to his horrific majesty would, somehow, render you invisible. 

if only humility could save you.

“come closer, woman,” he called out, his voice firm and profound. it made you shudder; the elaborate imagery on your gown grew blurry. 

drip.

drip.

drip.

hot droplets left dark stains upon your lap. they expanded gingerly before coming to a halt. your muscles begged you not to let them contract. the tension grew denser than honey.

“come closer,” the echo of his command was guttural, “or i’ll rip your legs off.” 

a pitiable sob escaped you, leaving you uncertain whether your grieving was due to you betraying your own thews, or to the sheer expanse of your misfortune. with trembling limbs, you stood up, cautious as not to stumble over the hems of your extravagant wrapping. every tiny step forward made your heartbeat slam louder at the bottom of your ear canal; misplaced. 

it was the mocking curvature of his belly-mouth that you first laid your gaze on. the inhuman sight pulled your eyelids wide open, exposing the glossy white of your sclera rapidly turning bloodshot.

perhaps you would have turned on your heel and succumbed to the overwhelming amounts of epinephrine coursing through your veins. perhaps you would have fled, even if it cost you anything between your heel and your hip. perhaps you would have, if his calloused fingers hadn’t gripped your jaw, coal nails disturbing the integrity of your smooth cheeks. 

the abuse was barely bloodier than a pinprick.

the force of his touch stretched your neck muscles enough to make it strenuous to swallow. he angled your head so that his eyes — four restless rubies glistening underneath the flickering candlelight — could skim across your entire face. they appeared to lick over every convexity, concavity and crevice. your vision deadened momentarily underneath a thickening layer of moisture that soon after dripped over the rims of your lids. 

“you’re pretty for a whore,” he hummed, his lips arching upwards into a vicious grin, but his amusement withered just as swiftly, “or is it that pesky paint?” he tutted, “they always tuck you in those bothersome shrouds. what for?” his thumb rubbed across your bottom lip, smearing the bold red hue onto the surrounding skin. he cocked his head to the side, his eyes sparkling with a heterogenous mixture of exasperation and entertainment.

“have you got no tongue?” his grip parted your lips as he slid two digits into your wet, warm mouth to caress your teeth, gums and tongue with a callous touch, “there it is,” you could feel your flesh gripped in-between his fingers, “do you need it?”

a perturbed hum sounded from the midst of your throat. the smallest nod — as tremendous as your confinement would allow — served to add weight to the desperation of your agreement. 

“then use it. does your kind take their women all wrapped up?” 

“no…” your voice was timid. pathetic.

“so why should i?” 

you wouldn’t know how to respond, had he given you a chance to. he pushed you away suddenly, planting a profound, dull ache into your mandible. a fog-like haze forbade you from knowing how you maintained a sloppy balance upon your two feet.

“strip, woman. let me see my gift the way it should have been presented.” there was leisure caressing his voice, absorbing into his marked skin. yet, he appeared menacing nonetheless. you clutched the front of your gown with trembling fingers, out of fear that his starved gaze alone would rid you of your decency. your spine bent slightly in an attempt to guard whatever curve wasn’t already veiled by your silken clothes. 

but that annoyed him; his patience seemed to simmer and it evaporated quickly enough to thicken the tension all the more. once again, you found it hard to swallow.

“i said, strip,” the frigid tone of his voice seemed to momentarily freeze the blood in your veins and drag your skin up into goosebumps. your breath paused in your throat, your fingernails clawing at the vivid shrouds enough to overwhelm your knuckles.

you sniffled, “please don’t.”

the voice you pleaded with was a meek thing; pitiful and demure. it would have stirred some sympathy in anyone who possessed at least a single chamber of a heart; sukuna barely had an excuse for the whole thing. 

“please don’t?” he parroted, his voice heavy with cruel amusement. you could hear the wickedness in his words; as carnivorous and as famished as his eyes. the wood cried out from underneath the soles of his bare feet as he stood up, an enormous shadow devouring your frame. his fingers dove into the strands of your hair, disarraying the style it was carefully arranged into; the stunning hairpin fell without a complaint. he yanked your locks, pulling your head back to the point your slender neck curved into a strained arch. his misplaced mouth grinned viciously at the scene, wet tongue coating the thick lips with shameless lust. 

your eyes glistened in the flames’ glow, burdened by the bite of your tears. your lips quivered along with your fingers; it made your efforts hilariously puny as you attempted to tug on his wrist lest he easened the grip or withdrew completely, “s-stop-” you cried out, “stop!” 

the sound echoed, bouncing off the walls before dripping onto the timber floor. he tore the intricate design on your robe with a merciless jerk and ripped the girdle. the gown opened up akin to curtains to reveal every virginal secret you so obediently maintained all these years. it would have pooled in a smoothly wrinkled pile around your feet if it wasn’t for your arms stretched upwards, holding onto sukuna’s wrist in vain attempts to weaken his unyielding grip.

your skin was bared to bathe in the warm light. yet, the air was cold; icy enough to send shivers down your spine and cause your nipples to stiffen. sukuna’s carnal gaze ingurgitated you from the subtle line of the collarbone, down the valley between the breasts and all the way to the smooth curvature at the low of the belly.

his hand let not a single second go to waste; he grabbed your round flesh with all but a tender caress and pulled you closer with another tug to your hair. the accursed tongue finally indulged in the taste of your flushed skin, trailing a dripping wet line up from your navel and to the tip of your sternum. 

“i won’t stop,” he spoke, “not unless you beg better than that. beg for mercy, woman,” nothing across his features promised compassion — not his eyes, not his lips, not the ink lines ever-so-faithfully parallel to the angle of his jaw, “i may just humour you.”

how could you possibly let a thread-thin chance slip through your fingers?

“please,” you cried out in a hoarse voice. your poor hands had no idea what to do; with one you pulled at the wrist of the hand that cupped the mound on your chest, and with the other you continued your fruitless endeavour of attempting to lighten the force with which he held your locks, “please stop, i beg you, please,” you sobbed, tears pouring down your reddened cheeks whilst you sniffled so as not to let your nostrils leak.

the tension dispersed and his hold grew limp.

it was enough for you to slip out of it — just slip out of it.

sukuna caught your wrist, pulling you into his lap swiftly as he sat down onto the mat. you were caged in a way that ensured stillness, and a hush made your limbs halt, “move another muscle and i’ll taint the floor with your bowels,” his palm laid against your forehead, horrifically larger than your skull. he grinned, eating up the sight of your troubled face; reddened cheeks, wet eyelashes, whimpering mouth. your bare chest heaved as you tried your best to make your starved gasps as quiet as possible, your heart slamming against your ribs so strongly that you felt it might give out.

you wished to hug your body; to cover yourself up. shame devoured you as much as his gaze.

“good girl,” he cooed, “that’s how a bitch like you should act,” his hand pushed your head back to expose the smooth expanse of your neck. he leaned down, trailing his lips across your pulse, “obedient.” 

he pulled onto the remains of your torn gown to bare you further as his mouth abused the sweet spot where your neck merged with your shoulder — licking, nibbling, sucking. you writhed against him, your heart pounding; the fervent pulse was palpable against his scorching tongue as he lapped up the cold beads of your sweat.

“that’s more like it…” he whispered, “you should be grateful. the last one was,” his hot breath brushed against your windpipe, provoking a tickling sensation, “be honoured that i’ll take you, fill you with my seed, you insolent whore.”

his crooked smile widened as his teeth sunk into your flesh; bone-deep.

a sharp intake of breath.

silence.

a scream.

chains with which his threats held you down corroded, allowing you to writhe and kick as he chuckled through his blood-stained lips. he gripped your flesh, your thighs a canvas that he painted cherry crimson and plum purple with his fingers, ensuring that your very marrow wore his mark. he didn’t hush you again, instead letting you whine and wail. even as one of your hands broke free to slam his shoulder and slap his skull, he continued to lap up the essence with his tongue and to gnaw the flesh with his teeth.

“what did i say?” his voice slithered into your torn veins, his palm pressing across the small curvature of your stomach, right where your womb laid. it crept just a little higher, fingernails leaving thin red trails that begged to bleed. your guts twisted at the reminder; you imagined your intestines unravelled across the wood.

but it didn’t matter. 

you wanted to leave. 

you had to leave.

so he let you.

you stumbled off his thighs and onto your bare knees, attempting to crawl away. the futile endeavour bestowed upon him the lovely sight of your bruised skin and round buttocks; the appetising arch of your spine and just a glimpse of what remained untouched between your legs.

you were howling for air. crying. wailing. sobbing. 

he watched, and he listened.

closer. 

closer.

closer.

your cheekbone pressed against the hard floor, succumbing to the tremendous force. he handled your breast in his palm, fingers enclosing around the firm nipple, pulling and massaging enough to make you mewl at the bittersweetness of his lecherous touch. another hand gripped your thigh to enlarge the gap between your lush flesh. the last searched for that chaste orifice with its fingers.

against the floor, a strand of your disheveled hair soaked in a shallow mixture of your sweat, tears and saliva. your tendons pulled at your bones, fire in you yet to be extinguished. 

his touch made you shudder. your core clenched.

“don’t worry,” he comforted, “i’ll have you screaming,” he pressed against you, “clawing, rutting,” he caged your arms against the timber, “be honoured,” he reminded, his words dripping right into the shell of your ear as he besmirched you, “someone gets to sleep soundly because of you.”

ivy.

spiders.

field flowers.

you will never look lovelier.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[homosexualmorelikehomiesexual]

you dont get to desire oliver as an evil mastermind, bc we see its not true. weve seen him lick a bathtub and keysmash his way to milf murder. but you also dont get to desire him as a poor little meow meow, bc we've seen him make calculated decisions to exploit the cattons implicit bias to his advantage and fuck over farleigh and venetia, even beyond the point that its necessary. hes not an antagonist you can morally condemn but secretly admire and sexualize for their power, nor a protagonist you can morally condone and pity and sexualize for their weakness. he is not wholly helpless. and even to the degree that he is, being helpless to his desires to achieve an even higher level of privilege does not make his methods any more savory, because its PRIVILEGE.

oliver is a tragic figure in that he represents the way the upper middle class idealize an achievement that is ultimately hollow and can only be gained by destroying everything that makes life worth living: a romanticized dream of ultimate wealth. felix is the living embodiment of the privileged white supremacist upper class, and how they see themselves: generous. attractive. deserving of their wealth because of their very refusal to admit - or even truly appreciate - the power it grants them, which they mistake for real humility.

but outside of olivers unreliable narration, we see that this is a fucking lie. the generosity of the rich isnt given out of true sympathy, but repulsion masked as pity, fuled by a desire to retain ones status via the appearance of deserving it due to ones beauty, whiteness, and perceived moral highground. and this is never more apparent as when that pity is finally revoked from those it begs for an excuse to openly revile: people of color.

saltburn evokes in us a desire for the *style* of wealth, and a repulsion for the *substance* of how its acheived: through lying and scheming, racism and sexism, rape and murder. to surround oneself with beauty and avoid ugliness of any sort is to drown in blood and choke on vomit and cry into a cold grave, because you deem your grief itself too ugly to feel. and worse, admitting it was your desire that drove the real substance of the thing you were craving - love through admiration - into an early grave is too much to bear.

so. you will flick the dirt from your suit and suck the tears back in your eyes and tell yourself for the rest of your life it was out of righteous repulsion. you will ressurect the ghosts of your victims and tell yourself theyre just trophies, because for all your desire to be alone, you cant stomach living in an empty house that wasnt even yours to begin with. and the physical reminder of your trail of graves to the center of the maze, is the last shred of substance you have left. but hey. at least youre dancing naked in style, right?

[tuffgreg]

CAN I REQUEST SOME QUICK N DIRTY BLOODWEAVE PUBLIC FROTTAGE/GROPING

ft. a mention of our favorite little shithead tiefling and astarion's favorite made up guy to be mad about

ehehe

bloodweave + frottage + rated e + 710 words

“Astarion, please – gods –” 

Gale’s head falls back against the shelf behind him with a thump and a barely-there rattle of a couple of loose books that makes Gale tremble all the harder. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, one clutching at the front of Astarion’s leather armor, the other in his hair (mussed), or Astarion’s hair (also mussed), or tugging at the scandalous plunged front panels of the wavemother’s robe as if he can make it any more suitable for daytime. 

Astarion has his nose buried in the appetizing line of Gale’s throat, at least still possessed of enough proprietary not to bleed Gale out amidst the rare stock of Sorcerous Sundries. Gale would never forgive him anyway, if they were to make a mess of such fine volumes. But he licks a stripe over the thin sheen of sweat – whether it’s panic or arousal is not entirely clear, but knowing Gale as well as he’s come to Astarion suspects the latter – and tut, tuts against Gale’s flushed pink ear. 

“Do you want to draw attention, darling?” Astarion snorts out a laugh as Gale’s wandering hand comes up so Gale can bite his own fist. Astarion presses his thigh more insistently between Gale’s legs, Gale’s cock trapped between the immodest panel and Astarion. “All your protests,” he murmurs, charmed by the way Gale’s lashes flutter against his cheeks as Gale ruts against him. “But I still wonder if you want that tiefling to –” 

Gale’s hand digs into the leather, and his other hand makes a wild grab for Astarion’s hair to yank him down into a sloppy kiss as Gale struggles to stifle his own annoyed noise against Astarion’s mouth. 

“As if that’s not what you brought me here for,” Gale retorts, breathless, when he finally leans back again. His eyes are so lovely like this, slim golden halos around his wide pupils, face flushed and his mouth swollen and terribly kissable despite the slightly sulking set of it. “Not why you –” Another kiss, as Astarion slips a hand between them to thumb at the wet tip of his cock where the panel has been rucked up too high to hide it anymore. “Why you goaded me into this –” 

But Gale is so terribly easy to goad, when Astarion sets his mind to hit – so charmingly inclined to show off. His education, his skill, all the minutiae of his endless depths of arcane awareness, his erudite wit. The enticing dip of his cleavage in the robe’s gravity-defying cut, the eye-catching roll of luscious fat at his hip (a particularly enticing spot for Astarion to feed, he’s decided). How desirable he is, or at least, how desirable Astarion finds him. 

He does so enjoy being wanted, and unsurprisingly for a man who wore around the mantle Chosen without a shred of humility for years, he does so enjoy being claimed. 

“You’ll make a terrible mess, if you don’t start being nicer to me,” Astarion purrs, an edge of threat to his voice – only a little, and a perfectly harmless one besides given the threats exchanged at their first meeting all those tendays ago. “Stains on this pretty dress, dripping down your thigh. Is that what you want?” 

“Is that what you –” Gale’s hushed, harsh whisper is choked off by a groan he struggles to swallow when Astarion bends to his collarbone, fangs grazing his skin. “I don’t – Astarion, please –” 

Astarion hums, and fits his teeth into the nearly-faded remnants of a mark from a few days ago. Please what. 

Gale trembles with the effort of his own restraint. He exhales sharply, and drops his hand to the back of Astarion’s neck, fingertips tenderly stroking over what skin he can get to over Astarion’s high collar. “Your mouth,” he breathes, so quiet Astarion wouldn’t be able to hear him if he weren’t a vampire. “Please, Astarion.”

What a treat, to wheedle so many indulgences out of Gale in one short trip. “Better bite your tongue til we’re done,” Astarion says dryly, rewarding Gale with a tender kiss to the collarbone before he sinks to the floor. “If you get us caught, the only sundries you’ll ever leave here with again will be beneath this clever little gown.”

[crippled-peeper]

having your family members or ancestors bones stored at a museum or university to be gawked at by (mostly white) anthropologists for centuries and not even being given the OPTION to lay them to rest or give them dignity is perhaps the complete opposite of the CONSENSUAL and VOLUNTARY process of donating your body to science - to be a cadaver for medical students or to be studied for your medical conditions because that’s what you wanted to happen to your body.

I wish universities and their deans would gain 1 single shred of humility and sympathy and stop holding onto the body parts of marginalized and indigenous people at their schools against families wishes and calling it “science”

[kitkatyes]

thinking about john juniper again

very rambly so im putting it under the cut

Its the fact that in the second game, this man decided that Phoenix, the very same person he named because of their ability to essentially rise from the dead, known to escape anything, can be left alone in a laser trap whilst he goes to the peace summit

juniper is a little incompetent and prideful, but I'd think he'd know better than to leave phoenix alone; well, I think he'd know better than to leave the drill/scredriver/laser thing in such an easily accessible location.

he knows who phoenix is-- thats the real kicker

maybe, just maybe, theres some shred of humility within him because of this

did he want pheonix to escape? I feel like there may be a possiblity-- he has titled himself as 'the worlds greatest actor', after all. perhaps he was so insistent on the idea that phoenix would escape and they wouldn't be directly killed by him

I mean, i can sense a little bit of fondness between the two-- sorta like, a thrill of the chase dynamic (junipers just living the pipe dream of being some sorta evil nemesis-- I like to think he always liked playing the villain in some movies he'd been cast in) And, like, he seemed so surprised when phoenix showed up

I mean, if juniper wanted phoenix dead, why not kill them there? If he wanted to keep them captured, why not take them to the peace summit (imagine that haha <- not-so-subtle plug for one of my fics [listen, i was thinking about that fic before typing this out in a haze, okay? /vsilly]) He could've exposed the agency's involvement and make phoenix an example-- y'know, show them how serious he was

basically, juniper liked phoenix and wanted them to escape

[thebardandtherogue]

I'm so excited for Dustin's character arc in st5.

In st4 there was the repeated idea that Dustin needed to be humbled, that he needed humility, and that is exactly the purpose that Eddie's death served. Having Eddie not only die, but die in Dustin's arms, after Dustin spent the entire season being (imo and not necessarily wrongly) very arrogant about his ideas and plans being the right and best ones... That would humble just about anyone with a shred of empathy.

And Dustin has empathy in truck loads.

So now we get to see him grappling with newfound humility and self-doubt, struggling with trauma and grief, and finding his footing again. How is this going to effect his relationships with other people? With Steve? With Robin? With the Party? With Erica, who (although she will never admit it) looks up to him?

Will his grief and guilt leave him open to be targeted by Vecna? Up until now, Dustin has been relatively unscathed, in comparison to the rest of the Party. But now he has these juicy parallels with Max, in that he lost an older brother figure and watched him die. It's not his fault Eddie got involved with Vecna, but Dustin dragged him deeper into things. Tried to save him but lost him instead.

I'm just really looking forward to seeing how it all pans out.

[hidetothink]

Personally, even if we tore every shred of modern homophobia from modern Pride, we wouldn't suddenly agree on what it should be?

A parade full of only legitimate homosexuals with The Right Beliefs is still going to include gay men arguing about how nude they're allowed to be lol. Unlike the lesbians, who never disagree on anything ever, I'm assured

That's not going to stop. The first U.S. gay rights organizations formed in the 50's and 60's couldn't agree on things we consider foundational today

It almost makes me happy, though. Even in the best of times, we will argue. The fights we have as LGB people are, within reason, to be expected and encouraged so we grow

I just want those disagreements to stop being "Isn't it faggot behavior to put my penis in a MALE vagina? What if it's HIS afab ass, BIGOT" or "How should we publicly humilate this fucking TERF BITCH for saying lesbians don't have cocks!?"