#sanctimonious reverence

[fieriframes]

[I've spent my life observing. And then pondering this place. And never has confusion ever ceased. I've also heard a lot of exaltation for our kind. And sanctimonious reverence for peace.]

[michyeosseo]

Do you know why she is honored as goddess? Bedridden for a long time due to her incomplete celestial roots... a deity everyone thought could not be saved... Lord Xingzhi came to take to the Extranatural Heaven. And cured her. Therefore, the Divine Realm's Heavenly Lord gave her a title: Luotian Goddess – blessings from the sky. The girl blessed by the [ancient] gods.

Li Jia Qi as YOULAN

THE LEGEND OF SHEN LI (2024) 1.17-1.19

[tenth-sentence]

This meant caring more about the living family than about ancestors; valuing honest reverence over showy sanctimony; esteeming virtue, not descent; performing rituals accurately with simple equipment; and following precedent.

"Why the West Rules – For Now: The patterns of history and what they reveal about the future" - Ian Morris

[txttletale]

wait whats wrong with stone butch blues? is it a similar situation as the transmisogynistic things in dtwof? also i feel like it’s mostly transmascs not cis lesbians who like it

nothing's wrong with it in particular just like nothing's wrong with dtwof (i have a copy of the essential dykes to watch out for sitting on my bookshelf within arm's reach as i write this!) -- i just find the particular type of person who preoccupies themself greatly with the lost glory of the (white, cis, usamerican) 80/early 90s queer scene and then gets extremely sanctimonious about it when other people do not share their reverence v. grating and it is funny when they are mad online

[annwrites]

⸻ being the septa-in-training that ser criston is in love with would include:

· tags: oral (f receiving), p in v sex, loss of virginity

· tw: religious guilt, dubcon

· ꒰a/n꒱: at the end, some of the text is both regular & small sizes bc tumblr's formatting can be stupid, & this post wouldn't cooperate in my drafts.

The first time he sets eyes upon you, he deems you the maiden made flesh.

He knows it is unforgiveable—for so many reasons—the way his feelings begin for you. The root they bloom from being that of lust.

But you are...perfect.

He cannot help himself in his draw toward you.

It is your young, supple flesh.

Your wide, innocent eyes.

Your perfect lips, which sanctimonious prayers spill from.

Even if he knows they would never be able to save him from the corruption within his soul.

First, he desires his queen—a married woman who rules over the realm as a loving mother—and now a septa. Rather, one who will become as much in due time.

That is not to mention the vows he took as a member of the Kingsguard.

Not that any of these sins are the first occurrence of him sullying his white cloak.

It has already been stained with blood which came from between that whore's thighs.

But you...are untouched.

Pure, in every essence of the word.

Criston seats himself upon a cushioned bench behind Queen Alicent as she kneels to begin her morning prayers. His eyes inevitably wander, looking for another. For you have so enraptured him. And then he spots you across the way, polishing the marble base of the statue of the Smith. Your hair is pinned back and held within a pearl-laden net, while a sheer white veil falls over your shoulders as you begin placing fresh candles upon the God's alter. The thoughts which plague him even here, in this most sacred and holy of places... He cannot bear to even acknowledge them. When you turn, your eyes meet—always his most anticipated of moments—and you smile softly while he bows his head to you in reverence. And all too soon, the moment is over, and he returns to brooding thoughts of loneliness. He wonders if he ever crosses your mind, even fleetingly. He says a silent prayer then, for you not to think of him at all. He cannot bear the thought of tarnishing you as well. Such a sin would be most unforgiveable in nature, and would deserve no less than for him to finally complete what he started all those years ago, and throw himself upon his sword, ending his torment once and for all. After a fleeting moment, he rises and heads toward the statue of the Warrior to pray to be given strength.

You always remain quiet and attentive in your duties. For they bring you much peace. But you are, admittedly, the least bit curious about the queen, as well as the knight who often accompanies her here: Ser Criston.

Many visit this most holy of places, of course.

But royalty, as well as one of the seven from the sacred order of the Kingsguard...

It is very interesting to observe.

Even if you feel badly about it—making the two of them into something akin to an anomaly within your mind.

So you pray for forgiveness.

It's just that you wonder what their lives must be like at the grand castle that is the Red Keep.

You doubt very much that you would like it there amongst politicians and liars.

And so you pray for their souls to remain one with the Faith.

Ser Criston thinks of you often during his days.

Whether it is while making his rounds, while guarding the queen outside her door, or while sharpening the edges of his sword, he does.

You are with him always, in his heart and mind and soul.

He tells himself every day to be the sort of man that you would look upon with admiration.

It is what keeps his resolve to not abandon his post, come to you, and beg you on his knees to allow him to spirit you away across the Narrow Sea.

For he has already made such a folly once, and so he knows what such an offer would be met with: repudiation.

Rightfully so, he knows.

Because your place is there, amongst the Gods, holy men, and your sisters.

Not with someone so internally corrupt and broken as he.

He could never dream of being worthy of one so angelic.

Had he known one like you would one day come into his life...he wonders if he would've ever taken up his post and made a vow to never take a wife.

But you yourself might've still chosen a path of enlightenment, led to the Sept by the Gods' own hands.

And he despises the thought of being the one to tear you from it: your divine purpose and correct place within this horrid world.

You are precisely where you are meant to be.

And it warms him to know it.

To think of it.

You, there, safe and sound. Tending to the ill and downtrodden and weary. To those looking for direction and instruction from the Gods.

You are too good for him.

Too good.

And so, as he closes his eyes before finding rest, he imagines your sweet, comely face illuminated by candles as you pray before the Maiden's altar for your virtue to be protected.

For it is so sacred a thing.

Each day is different in nature for you, but somewhat the same.

Your tasks can vary, but each are familiar.

You wake, tend to yourself by making your bed, washing your face, changing, and so on.

Then you break your fast with your sisters.

Afterward, you either tend to those in the Sept's infirmary, or to the Sept itself.

Both bring you joy and a feeling of fulfillment.

In the infirmary, you tend to those who lay upon sick beds either by administering medicine or food, tending to wounds, changing linens, praying over them, fetching things they require for their comfort, and so forth.

To the Sept itself, you remove candles from altars and scrape up dried wax and polish surfaces until they're gleaming. Then you fill the spaces with fresh candles and wooden lighting sticks while cleaning out the receptacles where patrons place their used ones.

You scrub the floors, dust surfaces, mop, clean, and ensure the space is fit for the Gods.

At times, you have the task delegated to you to help with bringing in supply orders. Fresh fruits, vegetables, cheeses, bread, meats, water, spices, and so forth. As well as herbs, poultices, salves, tools, and so on.

But everyone is always of much help. There is always a hand ready to aid you should you need it.

You cannot imagine being happier than you are in this place.

Cannot imagine living in the gutters within Flea Bottom.

It is not that you look down on those who do reside there. You have befriended many of the location's residents who come to the Sept seeking the Gods' guidance.

It is just that...it seems a place which breeds undesirable behavior, if not company as well.

Corruption does not do well for a soul.

So you remain here, where things are better and more suited to you.

There is truly no place else you would rather be.

He comes to the Sept alone today.

An unusual occurrence for the knight, but not the first time it has happened.

What is unusual is that he does not don his gleaming silver armor.

You don't know that you've ever seen him without it.

For you do admire the lovely, intricate metalwork.

He seems different today in more than just his attire.

In disposition as well.

His shoulders appear tense and drawn together as he kneels before the large marble circle-shaped altar that lies in the middle of the room.

His hands are clasped so tightly they appear to shake.

But you are halfway across the corridor.

Perhaps it is just a trick of the flickering candle flames before him.

But they also cast shadows across his brooding features.

You take note of the way his brows are tightly furrowed in concentration.

Something is ailing him. Spiritually.

You can tell.

Mayhaps you should fetch a septon for him to confide in?

He may be offended by that, however.

You taking his own personal, spiritual matters into your own hands without his asking for you to.

So you decide quickly against it.

You will instead keep an eye on him, should he appear to need anything.

Criston eventually rises and rests back on a cushioned bench while leaning forward, hanging his head between his taught shoulders. He feels at the end of his rope. Around every corner is temptation, he feels. And not necessarily of the carnal nature.  Temptation to violence.  To disorder. To destruction. To disobedience. Disorder in finally speaking aloud the truth all know: that her children are bastards conceieved with another out of wedlock, but still yet in her marriage bed. Destruction in giving proof to the sinful nature of her blasphemous husband and the things he does with his own squires. Disobedience when the king commands him to be silent in what he has witnessed. Death when they take his head for it. But at least he would finally be free at long last. “Ser Criston?” Calls a sweet voice to his left. He raises his head and straightens himself, gazing up at your affectionate, smiling face. He glances to your dainty hands which are clasped softly in front of you, then back into your eyes which sparkle from candle flames. “Sister,” he replies with a bow of his head. You gesture to the seat next to him. “May I?” Temptation around every corner… “Of course.” You gather flowing skirts of white and soft grey, then seat yourself gently next to him and rest your hands delicately in your lap.  “I hope it does not offend you for me to say, but you seem troubled,” you state quietly. He rubs his palms together while keeping his eyes trained on the altar before the two of you. “I suppose I am.” You consider for a moment. “Shall I fetch a septon for you to speak to? So as to unburden yourself?” He smiles softly at your kind consideration for him. This Sept is truly blessed to have your presence within it. He shakes his head. “I think, mayhaps, my suffering is deserved.” Your brows knit together in concern. “I do not believe that.” He doesn’t reply, so you continue, wanting to reassure him that there is no shame in confession. “The Gods may be just, but so, too, do they love us. Each and every one. For we all are made in each of their images—by their careful hands. We each have their attributes and strengths. As such, they would not wish to see us suffer unnecessarily, for we are their children. It is why they offer us their forgiveness through confession.” He swallows thickly. “I don’t know that what I’ve done can be forgiven.” You cannot believe that. That someone like him—honorable and righteous—could ever do something which is beyond redemption. He is incapable of it, you’re sure. “Do you think you are the first to feel as much?” He looks at you.  “You are not, Ser, I assure you,” you say, while resting a comforting hand atop his shoulder. It is the first time you’ve ever touched him, he quickly notes.  It may be fleeting and somewhat impersonal, but he cherishes it—you.  You are always so unfailingly kind. He does not deserve your attentions. You remove your hand then, settling it back in your lap. “May I…” He quickly shuts his mouth. “What is it?” You press.

In truth, if there is any one person within this place he would confess to, it is you.

But to have you look at him differently from then on—with disgust or loathing…

No. He doubts you are capable of such a feeling—the latter-most, that is. 

Someone with a heart as open and accepting as yours… You would never, surely.

“Would you take my confession, sister Y/N?” He asks while dragging his eyes back to yours.

You still.

Septas are not meant to.

Especially one which is still in training.

But, at the same time, many have confided in you before.

Mostly in the infirmary.

The point is, you have listed to individual confessions before.

Typically, you are bid to relay what the people tell you to a septon so they can be properly prayed for—you do not consider it a betrayal of their trust, as there is no judgement in the things you tell said septons, or in their receiving the information—as to judge is to sin—but you somehow feel that to Ser Criston, it would be.

And you are sure that whatever is it is surely inconsequential in nature.

It is easy to…what is the phrase? Ah, yes: make a mountain out of a molehill.

Finally, you nod, merely once. He tears his gaze away from you, unable to meet your eyes as he begins. “I have soiled my white cloak. With…a young woman’s maidenhead.” You bristle beside him. You allow a brief pause before speaking. “Continue.” “To name her…” He begins, then trails off, growing silent. “You needn’t if you do not wish to. But if you do, I assure you that whatever you tell me does not leave this holy place.” He considers. “Rhaenyra.” Your head shoots up, but you do not speak. You should have retrieved a septon after all, you fear. For this is far out of your realm of expertise. “She herself has sinned further, but that is her burden to bear and one day admit to before the Gods when she stands in judgement. Between the two of us, it was one occurrence, but since… I have lusted. For others. Two, in particular. Both of them…sanctified by the Gods. Women who are…” He shakes his head. “It plagues my every waking f—” He sighs. “Forgive me.” You think. And then you think some more.  This is something which clearly torments him, so you wish to respond properly. You do your utmost to not judge Rhaenyra, but instead see her in a light of understanding.  He took her maidenhead, meaning she was thus young. And so, she was not thinking with a woman’s wisdom—as you hope she does now—but instead with a girl’s carelessness. It was something she ought not have done, but so long as it did not result in progeny—even if there are dastardly rumors about her royal issue—then you suppose that what’s done is done. Onto the matter of his attraction to others, then. “I cannot forgive you for your…transgressions with her, as I’m sure you are aware. But I would ask you to pray to the Gods to earn theirs. And if they should be good to you, they will grant it. He remains silent beside you while you merely wait for reply. "How am I meant to be forgiven when my soul remains corrupt? As I said, two others still remain who I...want for. I fear my lust to one day be my undoing. It has already nearly been once." You wonder what, precisely, he means by that, but do not ask. "Have you done more than feel, Ser Criston?" You turn to him to explain. "It is our actions which determine our true character, I think. Try as we might, we cannot, admittedly, truly control our thoughts or feelings. Attractions included. But, so long as you do not act upon it as you once did, I fail to see how you have done wrong in—" "I have embraced it at times," he says quietly, interrupting you. Your brows furrow. "What do you mean precisely? Have you...lain with—" He shakes his head. "No. Rhaenyra was the last. Even if that in itself seems a cruel jest: for her to forever now be that for me." He sighs. "The first which I garnered affections for I cannot name. It is simply best...left unspoken. But the second..." He trails off and his eyes flutter closed. “You say it is our actions which matter. And I have acted upon this sin. Solely, but I have. I have…pleasured myself by mine own hand.”

You are in over your head now. Such an admittance is not fit for your ears. You swallow nervously while attempting to come up with a reply which will serve to reassure his faith. You open your mouth. “While thinking of one woman. The object of my affections,” he states, interrupting before you can speak. You turn your head, but barely. Only enough that you can see him somewhat from the corner of your eye. “I fear I have sullied her in that. For when I explore my imagination… I am exploring…her.” You glance to a passing septa, wondering if you should attempt to signal her. But then Ser Criston would be wounded in his finally sharing these hard truths, you’re sure. It would only serve to make things worse. So you remain silent. You may as well be a Silent Sister in how quiet and demure you always are. But it has always been your nature, which is part of what made you feel all the more suited to this path. Criston turns slowly toward you. “Her lips. Her womanly form. That which she keeps…hidden beneath…” He rests his shaking hand gently upon your knee, sliding it higher, to your thigh. And you promptly stand, filling with shock and panic. “Ser Criston, this… You cannot—” He stands as well and hangs his head in undeniable shame. “Forgive me, sister, I…” His eyes meet yours fleetingly, and then he turns. You watch as he leaves.

For the days that follow…you feel unclean.

You had listened to sinful admittances, knowing it was not your place to do so—that you were going against the order of the Faith.

He had touched you in a lustful manner.

Had insinuated that he thinks of you in a blasphemous way.

And the more you think and hypothesize as to whom the other woman could be…only one ever comes to mind: Her Grace.

You want nothing more than for you to be wrong in that, but you have seen it: the way he gazes upon her when her eyes are closed and she is unaware.

You consider going to the High Septon with all you have learned.

But what if you are wrong about who else he lusts for?

For many ladies reside within the Keep. Titled or otherwise.

There is his confession of what he and Rhaenyra did, but you would be the cause of chaos and worse if the knowledge was taken before the king.

So you resolve yourself to remain silent as always.

And you return to your duties and pray for forgiveness…and for Ser Criston’s soul.

Most of all, you want nothing more than to stop thinking of him.

Particularly when it is late at night and all is silent and you begin to think of dark silken curls, warm brown eyes, and a heavy hand ghosting across your body.

Criston had been ignorant to think he hated himself before.

For now he has truly damned his soul to one of the seven Hells.

To have attempted at tainting you with his own hand… What had he been thinking?

The truth is, he hadn’t. Not with the part of himself he should have been.

He is sick inside.

And he cannot rid himself of the vision of you staring at him with fear and betrayal in your innocent eyes.

You, more than anyone, are ignorant to the ways of men.

He despises that he desires to be the one to change that.

Hates that he spends so much of his spare time now with his fist wrapped tightly around his cock as he fervently strokes at it while fantasizing about you bare before him, giving yourself to him, allowing him between your legs, where he finds absolution at last.

At least you are clean and untouched, unlike that poisonous fucking whore.

You are good in every essence of yourself.

He wishes not to ruin everything he touches.

But he does it anyway.

It’s three days later before Ser Criston returns. 

He does not do so during the daytime. 

He had desired to come sooner to pray and pray and pray for penance, but refrained out of the fear of running into you. 

He wishes not—more than anything—to make you feel unwelcome in your own home. In such a holy and blessed place. 

So, now he is here when the sky is dark and many have gone to bed to rest—you likely among them.

He goes, unexpectedly, to the Stranger—for he feels so often now as one to himself.

You pause when you emerge into the main hall of the Sept and are met by the lone sight of Ser Criston, kneeling in prayer before the statue of the Stranger.

You hesitate, glancing back to the direction you came from, which will lead you to your room, and then back to the knight.

You know you shouldn’t.

That you should walk away.

You know not if it is ignorance or stupidity or concern, but you go to him.

“You’ve returned at last,” you say quietly, seating yourself next to Ser Criston. He clenches his jaw. His fault once again, for he was praying for this. For you. He lifts his head and unfolds his hands before standing.  He puts a healthy amount of distance between the two of you on the bench you now each sit upon. “Sister.” You fold your hands in your lap, now suddenly nervous. “You—” “I wish to ask for your forgiveness,” he states, interrupting you. “My behavior when last we met was…inexcusable. It was an offense to you, your piety, my vows and the cloak I bear, and the Gods themselves.” You blink and breath steadily, and Criston turns his head slowly, looking you over—studying, waiting. “You are still human, Ser Criston. You feel—or, at the very least, felt—as you did, and you admitted to it so as to unburden yourself. I cannot fault you for that. The Gods heard your confession. As did I. And while I cannot speak for them, I do so for myself.” You turn to him and grant him a warm and gentle smile.  “I forgive you,” you whisper, resting your hand atop the back of his own.  Ser Criston hesitantly turns his own until his palm is lying flat against yours, and then he twines your fingers together before lifting your hand to his lips, granting you a loving kiss. “You are too kind to me, I believe.” Your eyes flit between his and he brushes his thumb affectionately over your knuckles. You slip your hand away and rise, suddenly feeling quite overwhelmed. “I should bid you—” Criston rises as well, suddenly, stepping toward you. “I ask for your forgiveness, I know. And yet I mean to… Only serve to…” He shakes his head. And then he considers naught else but his own wants.  He hates himself for his selfishness.  Hates. Hates. Hates. He cups the back of your head and crushes his lips to yours. And as he melds his body against your own, you stiffen and stare with wide eyes at his which are now closed.  Your heart has lodged itself in your throat and you fill entirely with shame.  Shame with yourself. For enjoying it. The sturdiness of his form, the fervor of his kiss, the way in which you fall willingly into his arms.  And it is for those same reasons that you pull away. Tears gather in your eyes and you glance away, looking toward her statue. “I have made her ashamed of me,” you mutter, wrapping your arms around yourself. Ser Criston follows your line-of-sight to the Maiden, and the pit in his stomach grows ever-deeper.  He steps toward you and you step back. He nods—once—and then he leaves. You do not watch as he does so, instead choosing to kneel to begin praying to be forgiven.

Despite your best efforts, your and Criston’s guilt over your actions does not lessen, no matter how much you may pray, or how you may prostrate yourselves before the Gods.

And while you do your utmost to busy yourselves in your respective duties, when night comes and the day is done, you each step out and look across the city to where the other makes their home, wanting nothing more than to cross that distance.

But you refrain.

Until Criston can bear it no longer and he inevitably goes to you.

It is late once again when he does. 

And you would be lying if you said you have not been waiting for him night after night.

“Ser Criston,” you whisper—his name practically an answered prayer upon your lips.  “Y/N,” he replies in answer, coming to you with outstretched arms. You step toward him and nuzzle against his chest while he holds you close.  “I’ve missed you,” he says, sliding his hands up your back. “Trying to keep myself from you is the true source of my suffering. What are the Seven Hells in comparison to being without your affection?” He leans back and gazes down at you. “I mean not to be presumptuous. For we still know so little about one another. But…” He cups your face between his hands. “Let me show you.” Your brows furrow. “My adoration for you. My passion.” Ser Criston takes your hand in his and leads you around the statue of the Crone, knowing that she is the one out of all the Gods which will not see what he next intends to do. He grips your soft hips and hoists you onto the marble base...and then he pauses. The two of you stare into one another's eyes while your chests heave for breath. You know not what he plans to do, and you know you should not want to discover it. That you should instead shove him away. You should run screaming in another direction. This is wrong. Unseemly. Blasphemous. Especially here. But it was not until he touched you a few days ago that you finally realized just how starved you have been for tenderness, and for so very long, at that. He is making you reconsider taking your vows, while you have made him reconsider, yet again, those which he already has. He kneels before you and you grip the edges of the marble base while you stare down at him and he up at you. You are one most worth worshipping at the altar of. He begins to slide callused hands up the back of your calves, over smooth, soft skin, and you jolt. "Do you wish for me to stop?" He whispers. You blink innocently at him with wide eyes. "I don't know what it is which you...you mean to..." He takes one of your trembling hands in his and brushes a kiss along your fingers. "Do you trust me?" Your eyes flit between his while your heart hammers between your breasts. "Yes," you answer quietly—tentatively. He reaches up and cups your cheek. "Then trust me." Criston begins to push the skirts of your dress up, past your thighs, and then is when you panic and grip the hem, holding it in-place to hide the most intimate part of yourself. "We—my...my virtue—"

"Will remain intact," he states. "I swear it. I would never defile you in such a manner." Your eyes fill with tears. Criston then hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your smallclothes, and he tugs them slowly down your legs until they're resting in a pool of fabric upon the polished floor. He marvels at the untarnished sight of you. At the most delicate and lovely thing he has ever bore witness to. He does not see the tears slipping down your cheeks as he begins to kiss along your skin. Does not hear when you whisper for him to stop when he eases your legs over his shoulders. Does not bear witness to your confusion as he begins to lap at the sweet nectar of the Gods which flows freely between your thighs, for you do not see it as that. This most vile part of you is where he deigns to gain his pleasure from? You bite your lower lip and squeeze your eyes shut as he moans, losing himself to you. The thoughts which torment every corner of his mind quieting. Just once. Because of you. Meanwhile, you open your eyes and stare at your patron Goddess, and as you dig your fingers into Criston's curls, bringing him closer, you feel yourself slipping further from Her. As you finish against the tip of his tongue, prayers fall from your own, begging for her not to damn you to a hell of hedonism and horror. To instead save you from your own undoing.

And then Criston rises, wraps his arms around you, and begins to grind his cock, which is concealed within his breeches, against your weeping core. And then you begin to beg elsewise: for her to look away, for you have lost all control. Something evil has taken hold of you. Criston tangles his fingers in your hair, and tugs the net from it, allowing soft curls to spill down your back. He pulls down the top of your dress, freeing your breasts, and he takes a taught nipple into his mouth, suckling. "Please," you whimper. You are unsure what it is which you are asking of him: to cease or continue. And so he chooses for the both of you. He cups the back of your head and begins to suck on the soft skin of your neck while moaning at the feel of you coating his pants. "Criston," you whisper. He presses his lips to yours, quieting you.

It becomes a habit before long.

Criston comes to you in the dark of night and steals far more than just kisses from your lips.

No, he steals all.

Your resolve.

Your faith.

Your virtue.

Your soul.

Your maidenhead.

You lie beneath him, feeling wet all over. Your lips, your skin that is slick with sweat, and between your legs where his member is buried. The first time he had presented it to you, so as to teach you, it had turned your stomach. It had seemed so alien and foreign in form and feel. Hard, but like soft velvet. Squishy, but stiff. The source of your undoing. You understand why there are eunachs now. You wonder what the equivalent is for a woman. You wish for it to happen to you. "I love you," he whispers, easing in and out from where you are now sore. You remain still and silent, waiting for him. Always waiting. Waiting for him to taint you further, as if you are not also to blame. Waiting for him to come to you in the dark of night when shadows are the only witness to the unspeakable things you do to each other. You loathe how pleasurable it feels. How you always want for more. "I love you," you reply with a kiss. You do not know if you wholly mean it. Sometimes, you wish you'd never met him. Wish he had died during the Dornish incursion. And then you feel wretched when you do. For you have never wished for another's death. What has he done to you? You had been so happy when you were ignorant. Now...you are ruined. You had cried in his arms after the first time, when your maiden's blood glistened against your fingertips and you felt as if a fire was burning inside of you where he'd eased himself in. Where he would remain. You had wondered if that is how Hell is to one day feel when you are cast into the pit of it. "I don't wish to leave you," he utters against your naked skin. War has broken out across the kingdoms. He has a hand in it. He has a hand in many things you wish not to name or think of. For when you do so for too long, you consider doing terrible things to make your mind quiet. To force your guilt to find its end at last. Kingmaker, they call him. Oathbreaker, you think. "Do not weep for me," he says. "I will return to you. I always do." You nearly sob at the thought. "I will carry you with me in my heart." You fear that you will carry him elsewhere. He gazes down at you and wipes tears from your cheeks. "Will you pray for me?" He asks. You nod, just once. He presses his lips to your forehead. You do not tell him the nature that your prays will be of. In truth, you do not pray as you once had. In that you have begun to resent the Gods for allowing you to suffer so at another's hands. He has destroyed you from the outside in. When he finishes, it is on the sheets beside you, while you feel numb. When the morn comes, and Criston and his soldiers march out of the city, you gather your things and make for a sept further south, praying for him as he asked: for him to come back. But it won't be to you.

· tagging list: @emilynissangtr @tvangelism

[atlaswav]

METAMORPHOSIS ☾

INFO: 2246 words, kafka x gn! reader SYNOPSIS: The threads of fate were never to be interpreted by the senses of mortals, and you pay the price. An extravagant cage, or a slave to destiny? You play your part like the puppet you learned to be, with Kafka serving as your lesson to maintain the realm between art and the artist. You, the Frankenstein's monster of fate's mistakes, and Kafka, the one who sees everlasting beauty in you. WARNINGS: uh nothing really except angst ig and REALLY FUCKING DENSE PROSE good luck reading allat bc i'm not reading what I wrote again LMFAO. this is gonna flop bc it's too complicated rip AUTHOR'S NOTE: NOT PROOFREAD BC ITS CURRENTLY 3:30AM AND IM DELIRIOUS. This was intended to be a weird character study but it turned self indulgent REAL quick i hate it sofuckingmuch YIPEEE!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated i'll give u a fat sloppy kiss.

Art governs the world, as Kafka says.

The world is governed by its artists. Formed by the hands of sculptors, decorated with grandeur by its musicians and dancers, yet art runs far deeper than these meticulous displays. Art is present in all. It allows life to be breathed into the mundane, allows men to understand their souls – the contours of their being, the purity and refinement of their essence. It allows for the soul to become honed as sharp and pedantic as one’s craft, etching the outline of an artist’s life.

Art allows man to discover and become familiar with themselves, and hence becomes a vehicle for all those yearning for greatness to have their wishes fulfilled. Thus, art is mistaken as a noble practice, each misshapen line of a paintbrush burdened with the virtue it cannot promise. Yet art may not be as noble as what meets the eye, with its breath shaping each whisper of life. As there is an art to all, there can only be balance. Shrouded with the curse of mortality and death, the act of stealing life becomes an art as well. Dark and taboo, but an art nonetheless. 

Killing becomes an art, each spray of blood the artist’s signature, each cut, bruise and scar carrying the same reverberations as the splash of paint on a blank canvas. It could never be replicated, even if the artist’s eye was the most honed at their craft. Done right, killing could be beautiful, and death could be revered. It was a mantra for all she did – Kafka, the absurd devotee to all that was beautiful, perpetually in pursuit of beauty and purpose. 

Beauty, she thought, was the hierophant of art in itself. Though this may present a causality dilemma in all art mirroring beauty and beauty ever present in art, she believed that beauty would reign triumphant. To her, it was a sanctimonious practice that would rule out of presence alone, but instead of interpreting the beauty of the world, she craved to find beauty for herself. Selfish to no end, but what were humans if not selfish?

Many thought she was mad. That her self imposed quest was futile, and she’d return tasting bitter disappointment sickly on her tongue. Her self imposed quest was woven into her being, the thread that perpetuated her fate and directed her to Elio. The thread that gloriously pulled her towards you. 

Were you art, or the artist? Were you the creator, or the created? The all knowing maker or the grotesquely beautiful creation? She couldn’t tell. It was trivial. Did it matter? No, it didn’t. You were beautiful to her – the embodiment of all she believed to ring virtuous and true. Causality dilemma as you may be, you remained unshaken by the wiles of fate.

“How did Elio get you?” were her first words to you. 

Composed of fragments of dreams and broken flesh, you appeared in front of her. Stricken by a plight of existence, but beautiful, still. A Frankenstein's monster of beauty and decay. “He didn’t.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I came to him.”

Curiosity flashed in those eyes of honeyed wine. “What reason would someone like you have to enslave yourself to fate?”

In turn, you smiled at her. “Fate will tell, will it not?”

Fate strung its threads across your body in a pattern of knots so ravishingly complex. Your fate, ambiguous to all but Elio, it seemed, wrapped around you in the most tragic and delightful way, she couldn’t resist tangling herself with you; tracing her gloved hands along your bindings, losing herself in the rumination of possibility. The rumination that she once would’ve scoffed at for being so wishful. 

You didn’t know what you did to her.

“Is it time already?” she rose from her position, glancing down at the unconscious man beside you, oblivious to your presence. Blade was barely conscious, drifting in and out of the hypnotic state Kafka had induced on him. 

“Looks like it. Elio’s never wrong.” you reply.

“Are you nervous?”

“Why would I be? Did Elio mention anything about danger?”

Her laugh is musical. “The trailblazer hasn’t met you yet.”

“I’m excited to make their acquaintance, then, if they’re as interesting as you suggest.”

Kafka smiled, slipping through the doorway of the makeshift abode with a fleeting glance. Fleeting glances, furtive touches, whispered words. That’s what the thin bond stringing you together consisted of. Neither of you let the other linger for too long, so help the stain that you’d inevitably leave. You were the substance she wanted to get blissfully drunk on, yet you were far too beautiful to squander on such menial things. In turn, she was the overture that haunted your dreams, yet disappeared once the score came into view.

Some things were best left at a distance, the careful and prudent restriction promising preservation. 

With a laugh to none but yourself, you followed her from a distance just beyond arm’s reach. You realised you would follow her to whatever end she led you to. You’d let her lead you to desolation, because you trusted she’d restore what she called your ‘beauty’ once again. You trusted her cunning eye – the eye of the artist – to watch you become derelict, and to salvage what could be saved from the shards of your remains. 

The trailblazer had the same eyes that Kafka had – willful and shrewd – yet determination sat at the forefront instead of the tinge of deadly curiosity Kafka held. 

“Who are you?” the trailblazer questioned, eyes flickering between the two of you. Two questions spent, one left.

“I used to be a knight of beauty.” a faint glimmer in her eye as she smiles towards you. “We worshipped Idrila, the Aeon of Beauty. We vowed to guard their beauty with the sword, but one day they suddenly disappeared.”

The trailblazer appeared to be conflicted, gaze darting back and forth between the two of you. “And you?”

“I am the interpreter of the cosmos.” Kafka’s amusement is undeniable. Her lie doesn’t escape you as you weave a web with the string she provided. Playing her game as intended. “The stars ordain their prophecy, and I interpret them into coherent events that mortals are able to comprehend.”

The trailblazer says nothing. The best lies are moulded from dregs of the truth, as she’d taught you.

“What’s your last question?” Kafka asks. 

“What are you two?”

Very few times you’ve seen Kafka taken by surprise. The woman blinks. 

“Kafka is an artist.” you respond in her stead as she scoffs at your answer.

“Then you are the wanderer above the sea of fog.”

Full of riddles, always. She could never give anyone a straight answer. Why would she? She was the artist, forever touched by the calamitous effect of your being.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” The trailblazer frowns.

Kafka laughs in delight. If you could store the sound in your heart, surviving from its pure, unbridled mirth, you would. “Everything leads to the answer eventually. There’s only the illusion of being lost.”

“Quit being cryptic.”

“The future is a labyrinth. Divergences are merely inducements. There is only one true path. You only have to know how to look.” A smile plays across her lips as she gestures towards you. “And I have my looking glass.”

—

If beauty was present in all art, you failed to find the art in deceit. Morally, its falsehoods nurtured the true nature of humankind, yet the guilt that followed in tandem with this practice ate away at the disposition like rotting flesh in the maw of a rabid beast. 

Elio had revealed his plans to you – your script to act out – and you’d shied away in cowardice. Or could it be seen as self preservation? Where was the line between cowardice and preservation? Surely, you walked across it with fear of teetering to one side. There’d been no deceit on your part until this very moment, the illusion of what you’d had finally facing the denouement. 

You so desperately wanted to continue living this beautiful farce with Kafka, but there were other plains written in the stars. 

“Kafka?”

“I’m here.”

“Tell me a lie.” 

“A lie?” 

You frowned, gazing up at the stars. The infinite, perpetually changing stars that voiced their teachings to you with whispers unheard to ears but your own. If it was in Elio’s script, you’d play your part, no matter the height of the fall. Such was your deal with Elio – your shackles in exchange for an extravagant cage. “Yes.”

“Why would I do that?” she asks, leaning against the railing of the balcony. Another city, another task to fulfil via Elio’s requests. Did they ever end? It was a foolish question to ponder. 

“Your lies are pretty. I could get blissfully drunk on them.” your eyes reflect the cosmos in them, and as Kafka leans in closer, you shut your eyes. 

“What do you mean?”

You laugh, palm outstretched in front of you as if to gather the galaxy in your fist and force the fate of the world out of its grasp. “You lie so often that it’s the only constant I can find, anymore.”

She pauses. She’s sure you can feel her body tense beside you. “...Don’t tell me.”

“Lie to me, Kafka.” you close your eyes, leaning against her shoulder as the stars gaze down at you. She remains still. 

“I can’t. Did Elio put you up to this?”

“Why not?” Your avoidance of her question only makes her even more wary. 

“I’ll feel guilty.” she pouts, her light tone an attempt to alleviate the atmosphere, but you turn to face her completely. 

“Kafka, I’m in love with you.”

Silence hung rigid in the air as the stars sang their lonely hymn, their finale of Orpheus and Eurydice. Kafka, the picture of stoicism – the unmoving sword in the stone – was torn. Her facade of cold, amused indifference had shattered, leaving a demeanour that betrayed her emotions, now written clear across her face. You turned away. 

Two stars, born of the same nebula, yet suffering far different fates from one another. Your star burnt far too brightly, while hers shone with cold light that you relished in. Your star would soon wink out, your death a destruction unbeknownst and insignificant to many, yet cataclysmic for one.

Deceit was necessary, or so Elio had told you, for Kafka’s resolve to steel. For her to become the character he needed to execute his script.

So, you supposed, as there was an art in Kafka’s beautiful lies, there was beauty in deceit. A beauty of sacrifice to set Kafka’s beauty etched into time, while you burned away in the depths of history. 

The wanderer above the sea of fog, and the artist that could only appraise its beauty. The two realms far too separate for the artist to reach out and stop the hand that tore the canvas with a blunt knife. 

“Was that a lie?” Kafka asks, voice distant as the look in her eyes. 

“I couldn’t lie to you.” the words spill out like a wound torn open. Rehearsed, and performed like the slave to destiny you became. It repulsed you. You wanted to rip your tongue out. 

“You can’t do this.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do this.” she meets your eyes. Pleading, almost. The Kafka you know never pleads – but the thread between you is stretched taut, and the three fates lie in wait. 

“Tell me a lie, please.” you step closer. She steps back, expression carefully blank. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you despise the air I breathe. Tell me that the beauty that you see in me is unfading.”

“Stop.” her gloved hands rest on your shoulders. Delicate, as if you’re a statue that she sculpted herself. 

“Kafka, please.”

“Enough.” She releases her hold, turning away from you. “Goodnight.”

The art must be separated from the artist, or so Elio had claimed. You were the grotesque creation, and she was the artist with unbridled curiosity. Your mere touch was poisonous to her, Elio claimed – he claimed many things, and you wanted to scream at him, to tear the tapestry of destiny apart with your bare hands, but he gave you a choice. 

Though a life as destiny’s slave was demanding, life as an orchestrator of the most beautiful catastrophe sounded far more enticing – morbidly so. 

Kafka was the artist in perpetual pursuit of all things beautiful, and you could think of no entity more beautiful than the tragic story of your own satirical tragedy. 

Elio handed you the options, and you tugged at the thread lined with gold, cajoled with fables of love and artistry. The world fell silent around you as you stepped into the role of the artist, commanding the orchestra with a baton of bones. Cold, unfeeling. Such should be the shape of your soul, as your art demanded. 

Art aids mankind in discovering the contours of their soul. Yours just so happened to be the missing star in the sky. A tale of destruction unknown to any other except the star burning blindingly bright beside you, mourning. 

You, the monster of art, pressed too close to the artist, and now you were marked with lacerations none could erase. Kafka’s sword found its mark through your heart, and blood sprayed onto the floor in a flourish of red. The artist’s signature. 

“I can’t lie to you anymore.” 

And so the star burned brighter.

written by @atlaswav , published 17th of January 2024

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Blessing — Marcmarc

“Say it.”

It’s intoxicating, the heavy smell of varnish and wood, sawdust and dead things, creationism made beautiful and pied beneath the holy glow of stained glass windows and the flickering tangerine lights of half-melted candles, a twinkling unity of shadow and dwindling flame, of fire.

“Hn–”

Of damnation.

“Say it, mi ángel.”

He used to think that he wanted to be good. Or wise, maybe, on the days when his heart failed him, succumbing to the predilections of mortality and iniquity, as humans are wont to do.

“Fuck y-you–”

It’s terrible, Marc thinks, this desire to love.

To love or to be loved, perhaps, he doesn’t know. But he does know touch, know taste, was baptized into a new life by sanctimonious hands that bestowed purity, proffered virtuosity, that dripped water made clean to wash away his sins and birth him anew in the golden light of God, a sinner made sacred within holy walls and the heady glow of colored glass backlit by the miracle of morning sun and the blessed promise of a new dawn, a new day.

“What was that, ángel?”

He was meant to be righteous, pure, the voice of God within priests’ robes, honorable by nature and impeccant by choice, encumbered by sin but stronger, stronger than the call of it, the sweet song of it, the decadence inherent to it.

“Y-You–”

He was also, Marc knows, meant for this, too — meant to push into this body, feel the warmth of it, the softness of it, meant to trace twitching wings with the blunt of his nail and kiss the sweat from maroon-stained collarbones, littered with the markings of humanity’s hand, of his hand, of lips that were destined to preach devotion and reverence now used to sully and stain that which is hallowed, is good, is pure.

The angel beneath him writhes, back arching against the floor of the basilica as his chest hitches with a sharp intake of air, lungs warmed with the thick weight of humidity and the breath Marc hums against his lips, chasing the way his name falls from the mouth of the divine, a creature of holiness, born from Heaven and sent to Earth to protect, to bless.

It’s only right, Marc thinks, that this miracle be worshipped properly.

He crooks his finger, watching with starry-eyed fascination as the being beneath him gasps, warm eyes clenching shut as a tremble skates across his skin, vast and downy against the colored floor of the cathedral — too perfect, Marc muses, to be seen by anything other than the flawless, glorious eyes of God.

God and himself.

It’s only right.

Marc's grin sharpens when he presses a second finger into the body laid out below him, watching wondrously as it welcomes him, opens for him, as it always does, back curving and chest stuttering at his touch, and it’s high enough of an honor that Marc feels cowed by it, humbled by it, made supplicant and reverent at the feeling of warm skin beneath his hands, unmarred and unscarred, inhuman in its faultlessness.

“Eres perfecto,” he whispers, voice lost and worthless beneath the echo of an angel’s unearthly moans reverberating across the basilica, the most beautiful choir Marc has ever heard, performed and made wanton by his hand, a hand sullied by sin and tainted by avarice, by humanity’s need to covet, to possess, to claim.

Surely, he thinks, he can’t be blamed for bowing at an altar made too perfect to neglect, for falling for eyes that shine too brightly to be compared to anything but the wide-ranging cosmos, for lips that curve around the words of his Spanish too beautifully, fluent in sounds and tongues Marc could never dare to comprehend. To remain abstinent in the face of heavenly excellence would be an insult to God, and Marc desperately wants to be a pious man, God-fearing and reverential of the power he has always known existed.

“M–Mar–!”

Three fingers, slow circles, and Marc doesn’t dare blink as the being gasps beneath him, wings fluttering dully against the floor, plush feathers catching on uneven floorboards and decorated tile. He can feel the press of irrevocable softness tickling his calf, skin adorned with fallen feathers and the holy glow that comes from being in the presence of something so divine, so lovely, spread out and beautiful around his fingers.

The angel’s lips fall open, mouthing the syllables of Marc's name, voice catching halfway through as his fingers fist the dark of Marc's robes, and Marc can only feel blessed as this creature comes from his fingers alone, skin flushed the color of sangria where Marc marked him, bit him — a pauper’s attempt to claim that which cannot be tainted, a being free from humanity’s bondage, but who still allows Marc to press his teeth to the base of his throat, nipping bruises across celestial collarbones and shoulders that were made to carry the burdens of the frail, that now carry lavish praise and all the reverence Marc can find it within himself to give.

How wondrous you are, mi ángel, Marc thinks, and he presses his fingers deeper, allows them to keep moving in slow, measured circles, drunk and dizzy on every whine and whimper that leaves heavenly lungs, drinking each reverberating noise as if it was ambrosia, as if it was wine, born from the body of Christ Himself and spilled into the cup of Marc's hand, the most beautiful sacrament to have ever been bestowed.

“Too much, it’s too much,” the angel groans, voice echoing within empty basilica walls as his wings bat against the floor in a flurry of hypersensitive agitation. “Marc–ah, you fu– Hm!”

Marc grins as he runs delicate fingers across the base of the being's collarbones, nails scratching lightly at delicate skin, massaging every inch that causes the angel to gasp, to whine, to breathe life to Marc's name, reverential lips forming the shape of Marc's soul in all the ways he never deemed himself worthy, the sweetest mercy humanity could possibly be gifted, hand-delivered to him by God’s own creation.

Mine, he wants to say, mine. To hold, to touch, to pleasure and to praise, to devour. Mine.

He’s on his back in an instant, elbow throbbing with the force used to catch himself, to stop his head from cracking into the pews behind him. He hears a breathless scoff, airy and wheezed despite its irritability, and his eyes flick up to catch a vision pulled directly from the colored windows that adorn the walls that hold him, that cradle him, that give him new life, new purpose, a sight written from biblical stories and dropped onto his lap in what surely must be a mirage, a hallucination, some otherworldly phantom destined to exist beyond the realm of Marc's comprehension.

Golden brown eyes burn their way across Marc's skin, flitting from his hair to his robes to his hands, and Marc only just restrains himself from reaching up and touching, from running his fingers back over wings that span almost the entire length of the transept, that catch the radiance of the stained glass windows around them and gleam beneath their colors, a cascade of dusk-illuminated refulgence and splendor.

The angel steps toward him, bending low so his finger can hook around the clerical collar at Marc's throat. “Don’t think so highly of yourself, Father,” he says, rolling voice like a reverberating chorus in the space of the empty nave. With a swift flick of his hand, the angel pulls the tab from Marc's shirt and holds it between deft, immaculate fingers. “A man of the cloth who so readily gives into temptation.” The angel scoffs, dropping the collar to his feet and kicking it away. “How pathetically Pharisaical.”

And yet you keep coming back to me, he thinks, pulse roaring in his ears when his eyes catch the fading flush on celestial cheeks, the barely-concealed hitch in supernal breath. Marc holds his tongue, feels the burn of each movement in the blood that sings through his veins; his heartbeat is so loud he wonders if the being in front of him can hear it, can feel it, intrinsically tied together in the way only the devout and the divine could be.

The angel raises an eyebrow, soft curls falling over his forehead in delicate waves, catching on his eyelashes as he scrutinizes Marc, kneeling over him to grasp at his chin.“And are you?” he asks. “Devout?”

Marc smiles, teeth delicately scraping the thumb that traces the curve of his lip. “Let me show you how devout I can be.”

Let me remind you what my hands feel like when they worship. That’s why you return to me, isn’t it, mi bendición?

From the corner of his eye, Marc can see the fluttering of feathers and the twitching of restless wings, a white darkened like amber beneath melting candles and the faintest rays of setting light. His skin is warm where it presses against Marc's mouth, and Marc wants to taste him, wants to feel him, wants to imprint his name into the swell of those thighs and show this being the blessed joys of mortality, the decadence of baseless sin, the faith of a soul that would give itself to the hottest of Hells if only to hear angelic lips sigh his name in full.

The grip on his chin tightens, and Marc can see a grin tugging at the angel’s lips, hard-fought and winning, with eyes that sparkle with something that looks prideful, enraptured, human.

Marc raises his hand, settling it at the base of soft, dark hair, letting his fingers curl into the waves that rest against a nape Marc yearns to bite, mark, litter with humanity’s markings and the ecstasy that comes with rebellion. Caramel eyes look at him hesitantly, guarded, and Marc continues to smile, just as he does whenever they meet, whenever they delve into their resplendently wicked transgressions.

Let me, he thinks. Let me, mi ángel.

His angel folds, as he always, always does, follows the pressure of mortal hands until he is settled beautifully across Marc's lap, thighs warm and bare against the scratch of Marc's robes. He’s glowing, ethereal, delicately illuminated with gossamer-light gold, an aura only just perceptible to human eyes, marking him exquisite.

Though, Marc muses, he’d be exquisite anyway. He’s too beautiful to be anything else.

The angel snorts against his cheek, skin warming again with blush as his wing smacks the back of Marc's head. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Marc can’t help but grin, nose tracing the line of the shoulder in front of him. His hand runs up the inside of soft, spread thighs and presses against the hole his fingers were in only a moment ago. “No need to be coy, mi ángel. I’ve already been inside you.”

It takes what Marc considers to be monumental effort not to kiss the whine from the angel’s lips, though he does allow his mouth to press against the underside of a perfectly curved jaw, teeth scraping down the front of a divinely bared throat, demissive enough to make Marc's blood run hot in his veins.

“Demissive.” Marc can feel the scoff against his shoulder, the heat of it the only thing that pulls him from his musings and into a reality far beyond his sweetest of dreams. “Says the man who wears a collar.”

“I’d wear a collar for you, too, mi milagro, if you wanted. Shall I also get on my knees and pray to you?”

The angel shoves him back, face stern as his eyes settle in a steely glare. “Don’t joke about this. You’ve blasphemed enough already–”

“Lo lamento,” Marc hums, voice and hands soothing that temper before it swallows them both. “Forgive me. It’s hard to hold my tongue when I’m in the presence of something so divine.” Marc smiles as he says it, kissing up the center of the angel’s chest and watching with sparkling eyes as he continues to glare, face flushing dark beneath half-melted candles and the arrival of caliginous night.

It’s a lie — they both know it — but the being in his lap only clicks his tongue, fingers rising to pull at the buttons of Marc's cassock.

“That tongue will be your downfall.”

I’m already damned, he thinks, mind flicking back to all the times they’ve descended into lustful gluttony before, tucked into confession booths and seated in darkened pine pews, to every chance he took to mark golden celestial skin, bruising his handprint onto strong thighs and across smooth hips, reverent in his praise and giving in his need to claim. “Save me then.”

The angel glowers at him, and Marc thinks he is so painfully beautiful. “Save yourself.”

The buttons of Marc's cassock pop with the force of the angel’s grip, scattering across the floor and into corners Marc knows he will never discover, lost to time and homilies waiting to be preached. He bites his tongue and bitterly swallows the chastisement, losing himself instead to the teeth that nip at the curve of his neck, to the fingers that brush aside his undershirt and press desperately to his chest.

“Off with these,” the angel huffs, and Marc almost wants to laugh at the petulance of his tone, impatient and restive, with his fidgeting wings and wandering fingers, mapping the planes of Marc's chest as if his tongue hasn’t followed that same line before, as if those lips haven’t already covered almost every inch of Marc's soul, branding him more than Marc could possibly hope to return.

He pushes off his cassock and hastily removes the shirt underneath, content enough to let them crumple to the floor beneath his hands, too eager, instead, to get his fingers back into his angel’s hair, to feel the heat of his breath and the soft of his lips, to know what God’s language sounds like when it’s being moaned against his mouth, the words of the universe rendered sacrilegious when he paints this immaculate body with humanity’s hand, fills it with pleasure and the miraculous splendor of a baseless soul and ever-cycling transgression.

The second his clothes are on the ground, Marc pushes his angel onto his back, wings splayed across the multicolored tile of the transept, feathers dancing in the air beneath old pews. He’s stunning like this, mesmerizing, the work of mythical fable and biblical legend, pulled as art from stained glass windows and hand-stitched tapestries, with legs spread and chest heaving, skin littered with Marc's handprints and the maroon marks he nipped and sucked over sacred collarbones and sloping shoulders.

“Stop thinking and take your pants off.”

Marc's lips quirk up into a grin, and he lets his teeth scratch the inside of one delicate knee, amused at the twitch that shoots across massive, downy wings. “So demanding,” he smiles, though he lets his thoughts dance with syrupy sentiments of you’re perfect and I’ll always think of you, enough to turn his angel’s cheeks ruddy and pink, chest flushing with frustration and impatience and what Marc knows is diffident pleasure.

“You don’t know shit.”

Marc laughs, fingers easing the belt from his black slacks. He shoves his pants down to his thighs, eyes crinkling with mirth and joy and a certain something dark that settles across his vision when he sees torrid eyes watching him, narrowed and burning, liquid heat turned molten, utterly captivating.

With a hum, Marc reaches out, using one hand to give his angel’s cock several long strokes, tightening slowly at the base before easing his grip as his fist rises. The reaction is instantaneous, as it always is when Marc gets his hands on him the way he deserves — it's like the air has been swept completely from those lungs, and the angel gasps, eyes drooping as the muscles in his thighs tense. His wings shudder, feathers vibrating with the energy that thrums through him, something otherworldly coursing through them with each shake and shiver, and Marc can only feel blessed that he is the one to deliver this reaction to their world, a messenger of pleasure to something so absolutely deserving.

He’s always surprised, somehow, at how easily stimulated his angel is, how simple it is to get his lips moving around words that have no human equivalent, whispering sighs and pleas that only Marc has ever heard, half-choking on the vowels of Marc's name as if he himself is something holy, pure, as if he could ever be worthy of having his name gasped by lips so heavenly, a choir trumpeted from the cosmos and beyond.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, using his other hand to lift the angel’s leg, bringing a perfect knee to his mouth. And he is so beautiful, a creature incomparable to anything on Earth, so perfect that Marc truly would don a collar for this being specifically, would happily stay on his knees for the rest of eternity if only to worship at the feet of something this divine. It would be no sacrifice to be subservient to someone so strikingly breathtaking, so wholeheartedly faultless.

Marc's eyes flick over the span of the angel’s body, savoring the soft wave of his hair, the flush of his face, the hitch of his chest with every gasped breath — still, Marc is pleased to see, unused to their prolonged contact, always so sensitive and reactive to every touch Marc presses to him, bites to him, kisses to him, as he always wants to do.

Marc sucks a bruise onto the unmarred skin at the back of the angel’s knee, teeth nipping the curve of his calf as he pulls away. He’s a sight to see, something wickedly glorious to behold, stained and spread out with a cock already heavy and leaking, wanton like a human being fucked on the floor.

He’s a mess before Marc has even gotten his cock into him, and Marc has to swallow the searing scorch of pride that threatens to split his chest at the thought, fingers desperate to render this celestine creature more licentious than he already is, too enraptured with legs and wings and lips that open for him so sweetly, so gloriously, so damningly.

“Eres tan perfecto, mi ángel.”

Marc receives an embarrassed scowl in return, vision quickly blocked by a massive wing covering the entirety of the body before him. Marc mourns the loss immediately. With a tsk, he drops the leg from his hand and relinquishes his grip on the erection he was dead-set on tormenting, choosing instead to nuzzle below the wing currently acting as what must be the universe’s most regal and infuriating barrier.

His hands skate up the angel’s sides, fingers tracing the lines of muscle and sinew and rib until they settle beside dark, soft hair, and Marc can only smile as he tucks a stray strand behind his angel’s ear, nudging his chin so he can look, wondrously, always wondrously, into eyes that hold the stars of galaxies Marc could never name.

“Don’t,” he says, fingers tightening when those eyes look reticently away from him. “Don’t hide from me.”

The angel frowns, watching every line of Marc's face — and Marc is struck with the stunning, painful realization that he truly would be content to die if it was here, within the nestled cocoon of luxurious wings, blessed with the warmth of heavenly skin and the feeling of this heat against him, falling into eyes that could push Marc to bare his soul to Lucifer himself, if only to keep these memories with him always, a sin for which he could never, would never repent.

“Don’t think such stupid things.”

Marc says nothing, only brings their lips together and kisses his angel for as long as he can, pressing him into the floor and swallowing every whined noise and huffed breath, holding them within his own lungs in the hopes that he will remember the heat of this, the feel of this, so he may bare the mark of it within his soul, proudly so.

He curls a hand into the angel’s hair, feels fingers gripping desperately at his shoulders in return, soft and smooth and delicate, entirely otherworldly, and Marc lets himself touch, too, feeling the contours of a body from which he would take Communion if he could, skin marked like the wine born from the blood and body of Christ. He bites at plush lips, fingers brushing against sensitive inner thighs, and his heart constricts at how those legs part for him, fall open for him, like they do every time, a miracle in glory and in kindness.

Marc wets his fingers on his tongue before he lets them circle the angel’s rim again, pushing easily into the body he has already worshipped before, one he would be happy to do so again, to spend his days admiring, honoring, adoring. He breathes in the guttural moan that is pressed to his mouth when he slips in two fingers easily, grinning against open lips when he nudges the one spot that always gets his angel shaking, quivering and shattered with blind human ecstasy.

“Ah–Father–”

He’s warm, so warm, always burning hot around Marc's fingers. Marc's cock aches when the angel rolls his hips down into him in a desperate attempt to ride his hand, snarling half-mewled demands for more and hurry up and enough with the fingers, would you just fucking–

He’d laugh if he didn’t know it would get him hit, amused by how quickly divinity can succumb to wondrous carnality, falling prey — like them all — to orectic wants and ever-fallible needs. But he cannot find the will in him to tease, too busy, instead, with wandering hands and probing fingers, eager to pull apart the immortal strings that hold this blessing together, wanting to see this being be unwound across the floor of the basilica, made a mess by his mouth and his touch and him.

“Stop thinking and do it, then,” the angel gasps, hips pushing down onto Marc's fingers, taking him just that much deeper, never deep enough.

Marc has a sneaking suspicion it was meant to sound threatening, more of a growl than a plea; he doesn’t even try to push away the supercilious glee that rises in him at that, always loftily prideful of his ability to pull the air from those holy lungs, to render the dignified inarticulate and panting from baptized hands and a simple preacher’s mouth.

He takes himself in hand, stroking his own cock slowly from base to tip, easing only a minuscule amount of strain. It isn’t refined, appropriate, honorable for a man of his nature to be so easily tempted by the beautiful, but Marc, for all his attempts at goodness and righteousness, is also only a man, a sinner who has long since fallen into adoration for molten amber eyes and gloriously soft skin, for a tongue that can recount the history of the universe in languages unwritten but that feels perfect whispering the sounds of his name.

The spit in his hand is a crude substitute for the oil he wishes he had, the one with which this miracle should be anointed, opened and massaged carefully, properly, reverentially, the rituals of which deities are worthy, deserving of the finest and nothing less. He only has a moment to mourn, though, before hands are in his hair and honeyed lips are biting his, intense and all-consuming in their bid to get him to move.

“Make it up to me later.”

With a breathless chuckle and a catlike grin, Marc teasingly circles his dick around the angel’s hole, vain enough, he’s sure, to know a command when he hears it and yet still find it within himself to taunt.

“I will send you to the deepest pits of Hell myself if you don’t fu–uck!”

He eases in with a hum, skin and blood and body burning with the ecstasy that comes from holding a blessing from God Himself, from loving that which can never be had. “Whatever you want, mi ángel,” he breathes, and he knows within the most intrinsic parts of himself that he means it, would walk into Hell willingly if it means enjoying this one final time, pressing in and taking something so wondrously divine that it’s a miracle he doesn’t wither beneath its presence, hot and sweating from sex and the insulated heat of feathers cocooned around them.

Marc pushes in deeper, pressing his hips against gold-glowing skin, hand languidly stroking the erection he can feel nudging against his abdomen with every thrust. He can just discern the tremors in the wings around him, knows he’s hit that one spot that sends his angel wailing when his back arches, voice echoing something deafening in what is unassailable human decadence, iniquitous and insurmountable in its visceral pleasure.

“You’re stunning like this,” he groans, gratified beyond measure when pink cheeks stain themselves scarlet at his word, his thought, his unerring devotion — because he means it, will always mean it, every single word and every single sentiment, for as long as he lives and beyond. The grip in his hair is punishing, but he takes the sting and relishes it, allowing it to guide his lips across sangria-spotted collarbones and to nipples he greedily sucks into his mouth. “You are the most perfect thing I have ever seen.”

The angel whines, hips stuttering down against his, chest flushing and panting with heaving breath and skillful, practiced debauchery. His eyes are squeezed shut, face turned away and half-hidden from Marc, lips open and red from bruising kisses and all the ways Marc likes to leave his mark, a testament to his ability to worship, to lay claim, to handle a gift for which humanity could never be too grateful, could never be deserving enough.

Marc continues to stroke him, slowly, deliberately, enough to feel the angel’s toes curling desperately against his calves, hands like vices around the curve of Marc's shoulders and hair. He feels nails scratch down his back, a searing line of red sprouting in its wake, and Marc can only feel humbled by the meaning of something so incomparable marking him in return.

“You should be praised every second of every day.” He dips down, brushing their lips together, cutting off the growled hiss he knows was about to be leveled at him to shut up and stop speaking and don’t say such ridiculous things, as if Marc wouldn’t dedicate his entire life to doing that exactly.

“I was made to touch you. You’re so responsive to me, aren’t you, mi milagro?” Marc squeezes his hand at the same time that he sucks a mark beneath the angel’s ear, and the resounding moan echoes loudly across the basilica walls, caught only in the feathers of lustrous wings and the dripping wax falling from mostly-melted candles. “You’re divine, so perfect, just for me, hm?”

Legs clamp desperately around his hips, vise-like and ironclad in their grip in a way only the otherworldly could be, and Marc lets a hand curve around the swell of the thighs pressing against him, fingers bruising marks into illuminated skin, hitching them higher so he can press in deeper, harder, pull the breath from kiss-swollen lips until this being is nothing more than immaculate mess and the wondrous, hollow remains of numinous ecstasy.

“Let– Let me–” It’s gasped, choked, a babbled plea of half nonsense and half begging masquerading as an order Marc has no intention of obeying quite yet, not until hears what he wants, what he needs, because he is only human, after all, and as devout and God-fearing as he is, he is also blessed with the favor of something divine, and he wants, he wants.

“Say it first.”

He fucks in deep, fast, knocking inhuman sounds from Heaven’s lips until they catch on high-pitched whines and shallow, breathless panting. He presses against the base of the cock in his hand, a pressure he knows will only serve to send the body beneath him spiraling, sobbing, still unaccustomed to touch and feel and want, no matter how many times they do this, no matter how many times they transgress, as though Marc himself is the sole reason for this undoing.

Maybe he is, he wonders, and the thought makes Marc want to imprint the outline of his teeth onto his angel’s shoulders and between his thighs, an unquestionable, univocal claim to God and Heaven itself that he was meant for this, for this, to bring pleasure to something so terrifyingly divine — because what other purpose could he possibly have in this world if not to be between these legs, if not to kiss the pleas from love-bitten lips?

“I need– Marc, I need–”

“Lo sé,” he says, voice low the way he knows his angel likes, because Marc does live to please, and it’s always so satisfying seeing golden skin turn ruddy with blush. “Lo sé, ángel. Say it and you can.”

If he can never know this being’s name, can never pronounce the syllables of it with his human tongue, can never be gifted the honor of calling upon something so lovely and splendid in prayer, then he will have this, bestowed upon him from holy lips and a voice that existed before the song of humanity had ever been sung, from hands that hung God’s cosmos within the skies and a body that would shepherd their world to its path through the universe, timeless in his grace, dazzling in its willingness to bend to Marc's hand.

“Say it.” His hips snap against blinding radiance, lips ghosting over a mouth that stutters the vowels of his name, and he wants.

“Y–Yours!” Dark chestnut waves fall against multicolored tile, wings fluttering with taut restlessness and the steps that dance the precipice of the knife’s edge, teetering on the brink of condemnatory carnality and what will be their inevitable destruction.

Marc strokes him until he’s sobbing with it, back arched and wings splayed across step-worn floors. There’s a sound that gets caught in the wet of an empty throat, but all Marc can see is honey-brown eyes that sear into his, his gaze half-blinded by gold-irradiated skin and a fist that pulls at his hair until he’s emptying himself into the only thing worth saving his soul for, the only thing worth damning himself to Hell for.

Blood pounds too thick in his ears for him to hear his own voice, mind gone and heat suffocating every pore, scorching every breath. He can feel the humidity of labored panting brushing over his shoulder, head no longer ringing with the bruising grip that was once in his hair. Instead, that hand settles on his shoulder, tracing the line of his arm down to his hand, where it links their fingers, soft and sweet, shy.

Marc presses a kiss to sweat-dampened hair, to flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, to panting lips that bring nectar to his name. “Say it again,” he whispers, voice soft and supplicant in the echoing emptiness of the basilica, heard only by stained glass windows made dark by coal-black night and an angel for whom Marc would walk through fire, for whom Marc would defy God, just to be able to revere something so unequivocally sublime. “Por favor.”

“Yours. Marco Bezzecchi is yours, Father Marc”

Blessedly, yes.

[letters-unsending]

No. 25

/////

Superhero tries to stop Supervillain from sacrificing himself to save the city/world.

It’s all very melodramatic and kind of similar to Prompt 22, sorry.

////

“No, no, no. You weren’t supposed to come!” Supervillain shoved Superhero, pushing him away from the sealed door of the reactor room. “I have it handled,” he spat, “and you—you should be away from here. You should be safe.”

Superhero stayed fast to the ground, unwavering as stone as Supervillain seethed and slapped at his collarbones. He reached out and squeezed Supervillain’s shoulder.

“I can cut off the explosion with my shield. We can both make it out,” Superhero urged. The slight weight of his palm, feathery over Supervillain’s rage, seemed to stop the crazed light in Supervillain’s eyes. Sighing, Supervillain stepped back.

“No, you can’t. I know what this thing does and neither you nor me can stop it and leave breathing. I understand your need to fix everything,” Villain turned toward the glass screen and stared at the pulsing, spitting reactor core beyond, “but this, this is my fault, not yours, so leave. Leave while there’s still time left.”

Superhero sucked in a breath. The sound was harsh and scraping against the silence, the dread that hung like a mourning veil across the deserted laboratory halls.

“Supervillain-“

“-just let me have this,” Supervillain cried, “let me make the one good decision I’ll ever make in my goddamned life. Why are you stopping me from doing the right thing?”

Superhero strode forward and Supervillain recoiled, staggering closer to the glass and the molten heat it perfused. It seemed that they would waltz as they always had. Superhero would chase, Supervillain would flee, but as the reactor’s warmth stoked Supervillain’s spine, he stood straight, facing Superhero head on.

Around them, the metal walls creaked, aching against the pressure of the unstable core. Supervillain’s blood boiled in his ears. Superhero paused in front of him.

“Why now?” Superhero asked.

“Now? What do you mean by now?”

“You always wavered, always questioned the [Villain Organization] you fought for.” Superhero’s speech was so impassioned, so mesmerizing, that Supervillain hardly flinched as Superhero reeled him in by the back of his head and forced his cheek against his shoulder. “Why have you defected now, after all this time? Why do you have to go and die to finally do what you think is right?”

Superhero swayed back with Supervillain, leading him away from the fiery glass and stinging heat. The cool air breezed along Supervillain’s hair and the sweaty seams of his suit; the relief was so potent he almost sagged down against Superhero. Superhero caught the stutter in his step with a supportive hand to his back.

“You said you saw the good in me,” Supervillain whispered, “it’s not a surprise.”

“No, it wasn’t a surprise.”

Tension, all welled and coiled in Supervillain’s chest, unstrung with a crack of air, with a cry that Supervillain smothered into Superhero’s skin.

“You sanctimonious shit,” he cursed, bringing an arm around Superhero’s shoulders and holding him fierce. “Don’t take my fucking credit. I always, always envied you. I envied how people revered you, how they loved you. I wanted that—I wanted to be a hero so much.”

“And you can be. We can do this, save the city. You are good, so good.”

“I’m not risking you.”

“Helping you is my choice,” Superhero passed his hand through Supervillain’s hair, a cruel kindness.

“The choice is mine too and I want to do this alone,” Supervillain insisted, not knowing whether to weep or to yell. He kept his body away from Superhero now, holding only his forehead and the tips of his fingers still against him. Behind him was a growing hell. Heat licked at his heels and brought salt down his temples.

“Please, go.”

[edenfelled]

‘ i feel as though we were never strangers , you and i , not even for a moment . ’ / for ardbert maybe..? :eyes:

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓. "I think the Warriors of Darkness tested the limits of it, don't you think?"

Still, he supposed she was right in a way — women often were, so Lamitt liked to remind him ( backed with Renda-Rae's cackle, no less; let him not complain about Cylva's smirk ! ) — and it was all he could do to place his hands behind his back and submit to their 'wisdom' when his rash nature resulted in a cheek to the dirt. Ardbert didn't really feel like a stranger to anyone until the surge of light. He wasn't a diplomat — an even worse negotiator — but he always felt as if though he connected to people. He wanted to help them when he had the means to; nothing was too much when it brought people happiness, no job too great if he knew it was making a difference.

But then came the light, the piety; the sanctimonious reverence. His was the first flood, a wave of white that bleached his bones and suffused his mouth with molten gold. How strange it was, when he was supposed to be holy, that the people looked at him as if though he were speaking in tongues. It was the first time he fully knew what the word 'stranger' meant:

𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐜𝐡. "we didn't mean to cause this!" they appealed to deaf ears. why would they listen? why would they believe? not when their countrymen lay in the street malignant and sanctified, chimeras of marble and kintsugi that chased away the night. not even when he struck his companions down, crimson turning a resplendent wellspring, did it stop. they were virtuous — the first saints. what a pleasure, destiny mused, to watch the world be heaven-sent.

His hand rubbed idly over an armoured wrist. He'd gotten so used to being unknowable by the time he met her, he hadn't liked her eyes. He erected those same walls like a gate — keep your light away o' warrior, do not condemn him further — but she knew him too well. Perhaps that was the burden of them being the same. "I wanted us to be strangers, you and I. More than anything. If I disconnected from you, from your world, it didn't matter what happened to it."

He looked to her with a smile.

"I failed at that. Aye, probable of of the few things I don't regret." He released his wrist, letting it fall to his side. The other reached out and rested idly on her shoulder. "I'm glad we met."

Thank you, he thought, for reminding him of them. For the familiarity that was warm and rich like sunlight — like the dawn, speckled and imperfect. She was never a stranger to him. She was home.

[kyndaris]

Holy Sanctimony!

The sea is a wild thing. It can be calm one moment and violent the next. While the Aegean seemed an almost docile creature in Kusadasi, by the time we arrived at Canakkale, it was whipping at us with gale-force winds with white-tipped waves crashing against the shore. It was as if we had angered the God of the Sea, Poseidon, himself.

Our adventures in Turkiye, on the seventh of March, ranged from a quiet respectful introspection to the loud and boisterous. The first stop for the day was the House of the Virgin Mary, where it was believed she retreated to after the death of her son, Jesus. Though there sin’t any conclusive proof that the hideaway in the Turkish mountains is anything beyond a humble dwelling, it is still treated with much reverence by the staff there. Pastors, too, are even allowed to preach just beside it as well.

From there, we headed to the ancient of Ephesus. Initially built during the Hellenistic period, the site had also been adapted by the Romans when they took control of the region. Of particular note, again, were the baths, the tabernae that lined the main street, the gymnasium, the bouleuterion (which housed the meetings of the council and also doubled as a place for musical performances) as well as a temple dedicated to Domitian, the last emperor of the Flavian dynasty that followed after Nero’s disastrous reign. 

Reading through the information boards, mostly after the fact (because I took pictures of them), I was tickled pink to learn that after the city was bequeathed to the Romans in 131BC, Marc Antony and Cleopatra spent a winter in the city to prepare for their campaign against Rome’s very first Emperor, Octavian (better known as Augustus). And as we students of history all know, the Battle of Actium didn’t quite go in the favour of our beloved star-crossed lovers. 

During this period of Greek and Roman rule, Ephesus served as a major port on the Aegean Sea. Although the sea has apparently receded in more recent millennia, it was still fun to watch our tour guide re-enact how an old-timey merchant might have spent his time onshore after pulling into the harbour. I certainly ought to keep such city-building and planning in mind when creating my fantasy cities.

Ephesus also played host to possible pleasure houses opposite the impressive remains of the Library of Celsus. According to the information board, which I did not take a photo of (silly me), the ‘pleasure houses’ were terraced houses that contained certain objects that made archaeologists suspect that it was being used for more than just a roof over a resident’s head. 

Since, of course, no time machine exists, we simply must make our best educated guess about the civilisations of the past. But for all we know, the ruins that we saw at Ephesus might just have been innocent terrace houses and we ought to stop suspecting the people of the past of committing such salacious deeds. Prostitution might be the oldest profession but well, it’s still up in the air whether this was the case at Ephesus.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that near the surrounds of Ephesus, there was a Temple dedicated to Artemis that was considered one of the Ancient Wonders of the World. As we drove to Ephesus, proper, there were columns along the side of the road that would have indicated the temple’s approximate location. Unfortunately, as explained in a previous post, a lot of the original material that was moved to Constantinople and used in the construction of the Hagia Sophia.

Talk about recycling!

Even with the advent of Christianity in the region, the city of Ephesus stood strong though there were a few changes, including the construction of churches and dedications to Jesus and his mother, Mary.

And while we did see a significant portion of the old city, around 80% of the city is still buried underground. Some can be seen poking through the surface but other remains are buried 8 metres under!

From Ephesus, we headed to a questionable cafeteria that employed a lot of oil in their food before we arrived in the small village of Sirence. Now, the significance of this little town was that it used to harbour a lot of Greeks in the area. As such, it was known for its wine and olive oil. As I walked down the streets, I cooed at crocheted dolls and was very tempted to purchase a number of cute adorable animal creations. In the end, however, I settled for getting a new leather wallet to replace my old Mickey Mouse one that I bought in America back in 2004.

From Sirence, we drove to Canakkale and checked into the Halic Park Hotel. Tomorrow is Troy and my body is ready to regale you all with the cliff notes version of the Iliad. And, of course, tell you about the most infamous horse of all time!

[wurds-fur-nurds]

The Mask of Virtue

In mirrored halls where shadows dare to tread, There walks a soul adorned in sanctity, Whose every step by virtue's grace is led, Yet hides beneath a veil of vanity.

The world beholds this righteous guise with awe, Mistaking pomp for purity's true light, While humble hearts, in silent reverence, draw From unseen wells, their modest spirits bright.

For sanctimonious is but a mask, A fragile shell that crumbles to the touch, Yet inward truth, a less presumptive task, Can shape a life that radiates so much.

Let not the lure of hollow praise enthrall, For quiet deeds of love outshine them all.

[linusjf]

Thomas Jefferson: Constitutionally ill-fitting

“Some men look at constitutions with sanctimonious reverence, and deem them like the ark of the covenant, too sacred to be touched. They ascribe to the men of the preceding age a wisdom more than human, and suppose what they did to be beyond amendment. I knew that age well; I belonged to it, and labored with it. It deserved well of its country. It was very like the present, but without the…

[collymore]

This baby was callously dumped in a pub's filthy toilet, less reverently so than a piece of shit!

By Stanley Collymore

I've no sympathy whatever for this evilly callous but cowardly bitch, whomsoever she is! This vile moron should effectively, unreservedly and unquestionably, unsentimentally, be prosecuted, with the full force, of the law. And don't any of you, come with your feigned, sanctimoniously induced crap, that she didn't know what she was doing. Logic and as well natural commonsense rather simply contradict that irrefutably! Unquestionably self-evidently it's clear she effectively consciously discernibly, quite literally, had no problem going into a pub; rather than her crucially and obviously actually and realistically calling an ambulance, to normally take her to hospital; as pubs usually one would have thought are, in essence the very most unlikely of places to naturally go, when you're knowingly about to give birth to a baby in any situation.

And, just as incredibly, with her presence there why not tell someone around her in that said pub what was happening to her and have them fetch an ambulance, and equally call the hospital? None, of these basic things, this evidently odious bitch did, literally preferring, instead, to make her own way, clandestinely to the pub's toilet; there to spew out, then wantonly, and clearly obviously callously discard her quite undoubtedly, purposely given birth to, in that simply, unquestionably, very specifically chosen, locality; baby very crucially on the toilet's dirty floor! Then just as evidently malevolently to egregiously and evilly very uncaringly, actually simply, purposely leaves that aforesaid location, without informing anybody, of this unmitigated tragedy!

And one realistically should thus feel empathy with this blatantly very perverse moron? No way! A baby, obviously essentially, doesn't just automatically crucially pop out randomly from any woman's pussy! And therefore, the clearly appropriate solution coupled equally with a terse condemnation both of this woman and undeniably similarly her blatantly likemindedly evil kind, is a lengthy and non-parole, stretch of hard labour incarceration in a secure prison.

(C) Stanley V. Collymore 31 January 2024.

Author's Remarks: To those of you specifically basing your comments: vitriolically condemnatorily and racially egregiously on your odious speculation of whether this sick female is non-white or white Caucasian, and obviously quite understandably and also supportively if she's the latter, I really don't give a toss what race she actually is and simply concern myself by objectively dealing with the facts I have at hand, utilizing my astute understanding of how things actually are, as apart from pretentiously, dealt with in the UK; and similarly naturally factor into all this my own trusted experiences and common sense.

For the lame brained this female could have been, they speculate, the victim of rape, familial incest, sexual trafficking, a consensual one night stand while she was already in an obviously meaningful relationship with someone else; simply an underage girl, or even basically one of majority age. Whatever the distinct circumstances however, this female knew that she was obviously pregnant and from my objective perspective wanted to be permanently rid of the baby that she was then carrying.

Underage schoolgirls and furthermore one who is very consciously and visible pregnant and in labour and who clearly doesn't want her situation to be public wouldn't go into a pub of all places and rather ostentatiously draw unwarranted attention to herself. Similarly the astute traffickers of any female involuntarily made pregnant wouldn't run the risk of her solitarily going into a public place, and a pub least of all, running the risk of her going there and basically literally shouting for help whilst there, having the police and other quite significantly requisite authorities involved and for these traffickers to find themselves rounded up and accordingly dealt with.

So this female was very obviously from my logical perspective in that pub quite voluntarily and well aware of what she was about to do, and naturally actually subsequently did. A very growing trend among British women, like the one very recently who left her new-born baby in the freezing weather, the coldest day in Britain so far this winter, after 9.15 PM outside a park and decked out only in a carrier bag; with the said child evidently fortuitously for its own survival, and no thanks to its bestial mother, found by a dog walker, whose dog sniffed out the presence of this quite abandoned child and gratefully saved its life!

So spare me the bogus and indulgently proffered sanctimonious crap that very perverse cunts like you are spewing to make your own pathetic lives feel much better! Britain is a country in view of the vast multitude of bastards that crucially and obviously festoon this island really does have a very competent and also a fully and rather impeccably magnificent integrated contraceptive health system, where contraceptive advice and equally similarly medication, tablets etc. are, as well, both freely and readily available on request through one's own GP or clearly alternatively at a contraceptive clinic. A state of affairs where the patient's own privacy is stalwartly guaranteed even if they are sexually underage and sexually a danger to themselves. Abortions also are free across the UK, so basically put very bluntly there is absolutely no need for any of this barbaric, baby dumping shit that the country is experiencing!

And the only plausible explanation that I can surmise for it, is that these rather kiss me ass Karen's with their evidently very obsessive social climbing agendas who when they don't manage to pull off a Kate Middleton scenario and are left abandoned and forlorn, like the noxious and patently unquestionably selfish and toxically verminous lowlifes that simply they are, they effectively behave badly!

[libidomechanica]

Hear the rich garners of including her, what water way;

Hear the rich garners of including her, what water way; but in being to follies of college: she hands in me to peep on spongy hydropt; and turn’d the fiery Sire, ’ I saw there I would be. Into you remembraces of youth, and defile to woo,—and—Lord know, which of the Bessie in aiding. With sanctimonious God blew half aside, my human eye wax dim, accoutremely for haire that of glorious wind’s on the seem’d my days of the beds’ reverer in dead, and ease, breath—and in rejoicing—a little steps of Europe to any Muse thoughts the sky!

[illicit-lilies]

God I can't stand sanctimonious art about how nature is soooo much more powerful and longer lasting than us. It pretends to be respectful and reverent of nature when in reality that kind of art is some of the most human centric drivel I could imagine

[testudoaubrei-blog]

Or another, from 1816.

Jefferson wrote: “Some men look at constitutions with sanctimonious reverence, and deem them like the ark of the covenant, too sacred to be touched. They ascribe to the men of the preceding age a wisdom more than human, and suppose what they did to be beyond amendment. I knew that age well; I belonged to it, and labored with it. It deserved well of its country.”

“I am certainly not an advocate for frequent and untried changes in laws and constitutions. I think moderate imperfections had better be borne with; because, when once known, we accommodate ourselves to them, and find practical means of correcting their ill effects.”

"Laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths disclosed, and manners and opinions change with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also, and keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy, as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors.”

A term I just learned and which I think should be talked about more in the context of American politics is Necrocracy, rule by the dead. The only officially Necrocratic country is North Korea, with its first president Kim Il Sung still officially being the president even though he died in 1994.

But I think the way Americans, especially American judges and lawmakers, idolize and defer to the Founding Fathers is bordering on Necrocracy. Trying to apply the perceived will of long dead people in decisions that will not affect them but will affect the people who live right now and will live in the future.