#not a shred of humility

[h3omb]

I got "hair"

[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 ✊

[explode-this]

.

found the richtok anon was talking about omg

[baccan0pe]

.

[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.

[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?

[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”

[c-rose2081]

The Scepter’s Keeper (Pt. 3)

—

Audrey with her fully matured magic.

She is known by a few different names/titles:

- Harbinger of change, forgiveness and second-chances

- Guardian of youth, dreams, and safety.

- Wraith of fear, justice, betrayal, and humility.

Unlike most wielders in Auradon, calling upon Audrey as a guardian is a bit of a double edged sword. A mix between Fairy Godmother and Enchantress, her magic is dark in nature but very, very potent. It can be used for both good and wicked deeds, and it’s a game of roulette which one you may receive. It’s best to be truthful in her presence, as she’s fair and often generous in her exchanges, but not necessarily kind to those who try (and fail) to deceive her.

Audrey isn’t the type to show herself to just anyone. Certainly not to royalty, or those who have fanciful dreams of balls, wealth, or romance. No. Audrey appears to the ones society has scorned; the dreamers of a different color who have been forgotten, neglected, lost in their own transgressions, or abandoned by those they trusted. She is a bringer of change, forgiveness, and second chances, and her magic can do almost anything to make dreams come true and alter someone’s life forever.

But…

If she see’s even a shred of ill-intent in someone’s heart: a desire to receive but not change, an inkling to be cruel, greedy or sinful, she’ll gift a curse instead of a blessing. A powerful one too, something that’s not easily reversed. It’s an extreme and often grueling lesson, given to force humility and respect upon those in the world who need to be humbled.

Audrey also acts as Fairy Godmother to children. She protects the little ones other magic has seemingly passed over; those who steal, those who lie and cheat, and those that are born with their souls unnaturally distorted by happenstance or false blessings. She is a bringer of forgiveness, but also a keeper of dreams, warding off nightmares for the kids who are already living in one.

She’ll appear to those who need her—a tender but just guardian, if not a tad spooky. But she will only reveal herself after someone has fully realized their desire to change/come to terms with a mistake and beg for a second chance. Once they do, she’ll judge their heart and either bestow an incredible gift, or an equally incredible curse. Audrey will also help lost souls navigate literal situations too, acting as a ferryman to those wandering in the woods, sitting at the edge of cliffs, or trapped in dangerous situations.

[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.

[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!?"

[princess-ibri]

What's your opinion on the take that King Magnifico was right and Asha wasn't the hero of the story?

I think that honestly its just people trying to find anything they can to hate on Wish for the sake of hating it. Not even pointing out real problems. Cuz the thing is it's actively untrue when you look at Magnifico's actions and Asha's argument

She doesn't say "just grant every wish!" She says "if you're not going to grant all the wishes you have, then why not give them back to the people to try and grant themselves? If the wishes are dangerous or bad they can be stopped, but if they're not, the people deserve to remember them and have a chance to fulfill them themselves"

She's not advocating for granting wishes unthinkingly, she actively acknowledges that some wishes might need to be stopped, but she think that the king shouldn't just hoard them and deprive people of their memories and ability to fulfill their goals themselves.

Magnifico meanwhile is so focused in not losing any shred of power that he immediately dismisses this, I think, very reasonable argument, goes out of his way to humilate Asha and her grandfather (100% making it seem like he was about to call on him only to dash his hopes) and then, very tellingly, sings a whole aong where he imagines getting to kick and stomp on his people even before he opens the evil book.

Magnifico might have been a good man at first, with good intentions, but by the time of the movie he's clearly just holding a veneer of civility over a deep chasm of anger and resentment and hunger for power, and none of that is Asha's fault.

So yeah, there are many other legitimate reasons to criticize Wish, but the argument between Asha and Magnifico is not one of them. He was never the good guy and she is not a villian in any actually reasonable viewpoint.

[writersdelight]

hiii ^_^ id like to request fallen adam starting a new band in hell with reader? maybe we met at a bar during a karaoke night and he took notice of our voice and thought we’d be great with our vocals and his guitar skills :3

Fallen!Adam/Vocalist!Reader HCs

Short.

Word count: 319

———————————————————————

→ Content: Mentions of drinking, minor allusion to sex, swearing, not proof-read (we die like Adam)

→ Author's note: LOVE ADAM. Love the concept of fallen!Adam too with all of the potential he had. Seeing a character like him broken down is interesting, he needs some humility.

���——————————————————————

-> His falling from grace… well it had an impact on of him after all, HE LOST HIS PLACE IN HEAVEN. HEAVEN. His worth was now the same as any shit bag sinner in Hell

-> He lost everything he had

-> He lost his fucking band. That was practically one of the only things he had going for him besides being general and being the original dick™️

-> It took soooo much time for him to adjust

-> He spent time in denial, time sulking, time trying to get back into Heaven’s good graces (he’s still trying to figure that out…)

-> After having enough emotionally dealing with that shit, he gave himself a break. He needed it.

-> He went to the bars closest to where he was staying, planning to get drunk. He’d drink a few bottles and bail (possibly finding a hookup along the way)

-> As he sat at the bar, something caught his attention.. a voice. You were singing on the little stage this crappy bar had for the oh so popular karaoke nights

-> He didn’t recognize the song, he doesn’t really keep up with modern music or hell’s music or whatever the hell you were singing but that wasn’t important. It was practically his favorite song now after hearing your cover

-> The second your song is over, he’s all over you, asking you questions, even complimenting you on how good you sound

-> Buys the two of you drinks all night as the conversation goes on and on

-> He definitely wants you to be his hookup, maybe more (imagine that voice in a different context)

-> “ Y’know… I can fucking shred on guitar. You should let me show you some time.”

-> With how things progress.. within DAYS he is wanting a collab/to be in a group

-> It’s giving him some sort of purpose and it’s actually fun