#Adorn the doctrine

[superbdonutpoetry]

And Last, But Not Least...

If you believe the “may” in this sentence represents the fact that Christ died in order for all of mankind’s sins to be unconditionally forgiven: Acts 26:18 – Authorised Version To open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith that is in me. You…

[preacheroftruthblog]

Something Good To Wear -- Roy Knight

It is said, “Clothes make the man.” Simply put, the clothes we wear represents the person inside. Most people in the morning will stand in front of a mirror and examine themselves before going out into the world. Why? Because we do not want to be embarrassed by having something on our face, a spot on our clothes or to have clothes that do not fit quite right. Yes, clothing speaks volumes about us…

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　𝗔𝗖𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗠𝗜𝗖 𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗗𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

　　　　　𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x student!reader

SUMMARY: Amid relentless academic pressure, Y/N finds herself consumed by the desperate pursuit of perfection in her college. Her obsession with validation leads her to neglect her own basic needs until a sudden accident forces her to confront the reality of her situation, receiving the complete help and support of her boyfriend, Chris.

WARNING: Comparison, crying, dark thoughts, fainting.

REQUESTED?: Yes, by @sturniolowhore

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Y/N sat at her desk in the corner of her shared room with Chris, surrounded by mountains of books, papers, and her laptop, whose screen glowed brightly in the semi-darkness of the room. The clock on the wall showed 2 a.m., but for her, time had lost all meaning.

The sound of Chris' light snores, who was sleeping soundly in the bed just a few meters away from the girl, sounded muffled against her ears. She had tried to sleep, really, but sleep wouldn't come at all, and when Y/N was sure that her boyfriend had finally slept, she was able to get up.

Her mind was totally immersed in study. Every cell in her body focused on absorbing every detail of the laws, the precedent cases, and the doctrines. She was obsessed with academic validation, an incessant compulsion to be the best in her law school, not because she wanted to be better than others, but to show herself that she was capable of something.

The pressure to achieve excellence was overwhelming. Every time a score was posted, her heart raced in anticipation, and each less-than-perfect mark was a stab at her already fragile self-esteem.

Y/N never felt like she was enough, no matter how hard she worked or how well she did. There was always that underlying fear of not being good enough, of not living up to other people's expectations and, even worse, her own unrealistically high expectations.

Days and nights melted into a haze of books and coffee as she sank deeper and deeper into her quest for perfection. She found herself studying until the early hours of the morning, neglecting her basic needs.

Eating had become a sporadic activity, limited to quick and insufficient snacks. Drinking water was a luxury she couldn't afford to waste time on. Taking a shower or even going out to get some sun was completely out of the question.

Her body began to show signs of abandonment, her eyes sunken and tired, her skin pale and lifeless. The dark circles that adorned her face were like badges of honor, marking the sleepless nights and days of incessant study.

But Y/N ignored all the signs.

She was determined not to be overcome by her own limits, even if it meant sacrificing her physical and mental health in the process.

Chris, worried, tried in vain to bring a little normality to her life. He watched from afar every day, helpless in the face of the web of obsession that enveloped Y/N.

He would try to talk to her, sometimes even begging Matt to do so - his brother had a way with words, but she would always evade it, sinking deeper into her bubble of study and self-denial.

Y/N didn't want to worry him, didn't want to admit she was losing control. She was determined to face this battle alone, no matter the cost.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The clock on the wall read almost 9 pm of a Tuesday, and Y/N was still locked in her shared room with Chris, immersed in a sea of ​​books and papers. Her desk was a chaotic mess, with crumpled papers and several tabs open on Google on her laptop, each representing a different subject that she was desperately trying to absorb. Her hand hurt from writing so much, her eyes burned from reading so much, and her body was weak from the time she had spent there.

Chris entered the room for the fifth time that day, carrying a glass of water in one hand and a pink plate with a simple sandwich in the other. His heart sank when he saw Y/N's state, her tense and exhausted expression, her almost obsessive determination to continue studying, ignoring everything else.

His blue eyes traveled across the mess of the table slowly, noticing the plate of Y/N's favorite cookies, which he had brought hours earlier, still untouched, and he swore he felt his heart break again.

"Hi babe... Here, you need to eat something." The boy approached cautiously, trying not to scare her. His voice sounded softly, showing her the plate with the sandwich.

Y/N looked down at the ceramic, her tired eyes reflecting a mix of stubbornness and exhaustion.

"I... I need to keep studying." She murmured, shaking her head, her voice weak and shaky. "I have an important test, Chris. I can't stop now."

Chris felt a wave of frustration and anger rise up inside him. He knew how important that test was for Y/N - and all the others she studied incessantly, but he also knew that she was pushing her limits. He refused to stand by and watch as she destroyed herself.

“Y/N, you can’t go on like this.” He insisted, his voice rising slightly with urgency. "You need to rest, you need to eat, you need to do something besides studying!"

"I can't, Chris. I can't stop now. I need to..." Y/N shook her head determinedly, keeping her blurry eyes fixed on the papers in front of her.

Chris sighed heavily, dropping the plate and cup onto the wooden surface with a thud, his own frustration spilling over into angry tears.

“You’re destroying yourself, Y/N.” He murmured, his voice choked by the weight of his own emotions. "And I can't stand here and watch it anymore."

With that, Chris turned and left the room, leaving a very lost Y/N behind, her teeth biting her lower lip hard in an attempt to stop her feelings from taking over herself, an atmosphere full of tension and despair taking over the environment.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Then came the day when her body finally said enough was enough.

It was 2 a.m., and Y/N was sitting at her desk as usual when a wave of exhaustion hit her with full force. She felt dizzy, her vision blurred, and her hands shook uncontrollably. The world around her seemed to fall apart as she fought to stay conscious.

The girl gripped the edge of the wooden surface tightly, trying to stabilize herself, but the force used was almost nil, her fingers sliding across the table and her arms falling limply. Her senses gradually disappeared, causing her body to bend to the right until she completely collapsed, escaping the safety of the chair.

The sound of Y/N's body hitting the floor made Chris jump out of bed in instant fright. The boy sat up abruptly, his sleep-clouded eyes traveling around the room in search of the source of the rude sound. His heart raced with panic when he saw his girlfriend lying on the floor, motionless.

Chris ripped the blanket off his body, quickly standing up and running to her, ignoring his own confusion and worry flooding his mind.

"Y/N! Y/N, baby, wake up!" He shouted, desperate, as he knelt beside her, pushing the pink gaming chair away.

With shaking hands, he checked her breathing and pulse, relieved to find that she was still breathing. Carefully, Chris turned her onto her side, briefly remembering when Nick told him that this was the correct procedure to do when a person suddenly passed out. His wide blue eyes ran frantically over her body as he silently counted the seconds in his mind.

Relief flooded him as he saw Y/N begin to regain consciousness, her eyes blinking slowly as she tried to understand where she was.

"Chris? What... what happened?" She murmured, her voice weak and her brow furrowed in confusion, her right hand rising from its limp position and reaching towards her head, pressing against the side, a pained expression spreading across her face.

Chris ignored her question momentarily, lowering himself to her level and pulling her into a hug tightly, sighing deeply as he repeated in his mind that she was there, alive and fine.

"You passed out, sweetheart. I heard the noise and... Oh God, Y/N, I thought you had..." The tears - which the boy barely noticed coming into his eyes - began to flow freely down his cheeks, his heart aching at the thought of the possibility of losing her.

His thoughts self-sabotaged him, making him feel guilty, he felt that he should have realized sooner - despite all the countless attempts to try to bring her out of her bubble, that he should have done something to prevent her from getting to that extreme point.

Y/N slowly sat up with the support of Chris's hands after he backed away, still feeling weak and bewildered.

Upon hearing her boyfriend's words, she felt her own eyes fill with tears, the accumulated emotions overflowing into a torrent of anguish and despair.

"I'm sorry, babe. Fuck- I'm so sorry. I... I can't do this anymore, Chris." A sob escaped her throat roughly, her voice choked with crying. "I'm destroying myself because of my own expectations. I... I don't know what to do anymore." She whispered, lowering her gaze to the ground, trapping her lower lip between her teeth in an attempt to stop the ugly sounds that wanted to escape in an avalanche. "Oh my God, I hurt you."

Chris held her gently, pulling her to lay her head on his shoulder, cradling her in his arms like a baby while they were still on the floor, unburdening herself of all her worries and fears. He listened intently to her ranting, his heart clenched by the pain Y/N was facing alone.

“Hey, hey, baby, don't do this to yourself. You’re not alone in this, Y/N.” Chris murmured, gently kissing the top of her head. "I'm here, always have been and always will be. I promise we'll get through this, love."

"I'm so sorry, Chris." The girl murmured, lifting her gaze from the ground and focusing on the brunette's orbs, wondering how he still allowed himself to love and help her so much, even after causing him such worries and fear.

Chris shook his head, silently reassuring her that everything was fine. He pulled his girl's pink chair towards them, slowly lifting himself so as not to hurt her and sitting on the plush seat, before guiding Y/N onto his lap, sitting her sideways on his thighs and laying her face on his shoulder, his mind working hard to come up with an idea to help Y/N find a healthy balance between her academic aspirations and her personal well-being.

"Why don't we establish a more realistic study plan, hm? With time to rest and all the self-care that will be good for you, I'll help you." The brunette whispered, looking down anxiously, hoping she could understand his point. "We can also seek professional help, a therapist, who will help you deal with your emotions and anxieties. If you want, I can participate in all the sessions with you."

Y/N looked at Chris with gratitude in her teary eyes. She knew it wouldn't be an easy journey, but with Chris's loving support by her side, she felt a spark of hope light up in her heart.

"Would you do that for me?" Her voice came out in a broken whisper, her heart warming at his sweet words.

"I'll be right by your side, my love. Always." Chris responded without blinking.

He lowered his head, sealing the top of Y/N's hair for long seconds, stroking the area with his nose lightly. His hands wrapped tightly around her body, keeping her secure in his lap and against his own body, before beginning to draw invisible circles with his fingers against her covered back.

"Sleep, sweet girl. I'll be here when you wake up. Everything will be alright."

taglist:

@lustfulslxt @ladybunny44 @worldlxvlys @earth2starkey @remussbitch @freshloveforthefit @il0vebeingdelulu @sturniolowhore @mimi-luvzyu @alorsxsturn @urfavgirllyyyyy @domizzzsstuff @sturnizd @hearts4chriss @cupidzsq @dracoflaco @leah-loves-lilies @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @rootbeerworshiper @junnniiieee07 @elliesturniolo1 @sstvrnioloo @lightsgore @gidgett11037 @sturniolho @ksskianshd @ccolleenn @sturniolo-lover1317 @soimightlikeoldmen69 @hrtyjy @ldr-sl0t @breeloveschris @bellasfavbisexual @its-jennarose @sainzzsturns @ecliphttlunar @thebottledwatersupplier @soso-scarlettolivia @maryx2xx @sturnolio-luvs @bitchydragonparadise @lvrsturn @freshsturns @h3arts4harry

(If you want to be added to the taglist, go to this post)

[konigbabe]

the great war

DAY 3 ⇢ Hate Sex Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!curse user!reader Word count: 4k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; hate sex; timejump (2007 → 2018); lovers to enemies vibes; angst; lots of self-loating; pronebone; p-in-v; angry (??) Gojo; unreliable narrator Summary: When the news of Suguru Geto's death reach your ears, the weapon in your grasp guides you to the place where the cause lies - to Satoru Gojo. [Part of NSFW Gojo Week 2023]. Divider is mine.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

His palm presses firmly between your shoulder blades, a commanding touch that demands submission, while his other hand clamps onto your hips, fingers digging into the curves of your flesh with just the right amount of pressure.

September 2007

Buddhists believe that life is filled with suffering and misery. That death, in the end, is not a singular event, but rather a fundamental contribution to the misery of human existence.

It was a doctrine you refused to believe in. Spending days by the side of fellow sorcerers, suffering and misery rarely crossed your mind. It wasn't that you were naive or ignorant – quite the contrary. As a sorcerer-in-training, you were acutely aware of the dangers and horrors that lurked in the shadows. Cursed spirits, malevolent curses, and the constant struggle to protect the oblivious, helpless civilians were all part of your reality.

However, you clung to an alternative belief – that while suffering is an inherent aspect of life, whether it leads to misery rests entirely within your control –

Among your companions, your unwavering optimism often stood out. While others carried the weight of their pasts and the darkness of their experiences, you chose to embrace hope and resilience. This outlook didn't make you blind to the reality of suffering; rather, it gave you the strength to confront it head-on. At least you had something to hold on to.

– How stupid of you.

With Satoru's chest pressed firmly against your back, you watch the night sky unfold its kaleidoscope of stars above you. It's not often that the night is quiet; when even the stars shine through the clouds of haze and graze you with their gentle glow.

Arms casually thrown over your shoulders, his sharp chin digs into the crown of your head as he looks up at the sky. Your face tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Suguru leans against the railing to your right. Uniform rumpled, hair a cascade of frowzled strands; your eyes shamelessly roam over his face – pale (more than usual, and even more visible against the obsidian backdrop of the night), eyes staring vacantly forward, a well of shadows pooling beneath.

His appearance resembles a spectral apparition. Haunting reflection of the turmoil that seems to have taken residence within him. Events from the past emerge into your mind – Tengen' merger, Amanai's death, Toji, Gojo's enlightenment and the last piece, Haibara's tragic end.

Satoru's hand reaches to gently cradle yours, fingertips tracing the contours of the simple, polished ring adorning your finger. A single aquamarine gemstone decorating the silver band, its shape resembling a tear. His touch so soft and tender that it feels almost imperceptible.

"Hey," Satoru's voice tears you from your thoughts. Suguru's eyes dart to yours, a brief contact before he looks at Satoru, "are you even listenin'?"

("So you never thought ‘bout it?" Suguru's head sinks heavily onto his arms, the once-pristine white shirt now marred by wear of time and crinkled as he sits against the classroom wall. Class ended almost an hour ago, with Satoru leaving by Shoko's side to grab lunch.

"I mean," you release a deliberate sigh, ankles crossed on top of your desk with arms folded over your chest, "it might be an option," rising one hand, you point a finger at him, "but it's evil. And unreachable. Like c'mon," you flick your wrist dismissively, "we're talking about a worldwide genocide."

"Not worldwide, just Japan."

A derisive chuckle escapes your lips, laden with incredulity, upon hearing his words. "Just Japan," you look at your classmate, close friend, "are you hearing yourself, Suguru?"

He gazes up at you, eyes heavy with weariness and emptied of their usual vibrancy. The burden of his thoughts etched onto his face.

"Suguru," your tone drops, voice becoming a mere whisper; the man before your eyes being close to a delicate thread on the verge of snapping, "are you holding up okay?"

"No.")

"Yeah, yeah," you murmur into his skin, returning his touch and caressing his wrist.

"As I was sayin'," your eyes return to Suguru momentarily before flicking to the horizon of darkness stretching above the school's grounds, "once we finally graduate and I become the head of my clan, we could use my estate as our home. Then we can make loads of babies. Pretty sure my father would be pleased if I had a son."

"It's not your estate," you correct Satoru.

"It's a Gojo estate. And I'm a Gojo. The one with Six eyes and the future leader," his fingers sneak under your chin, gripping the soft flesh of your neck to tilt your head to the side and up, gently straining your neck so that you're compelled to look at him. Eyes the same hue of a tranquil ocean under the moonlight.

"I'll put in the work," his tone turns into a whisper, a murmur that wraps around your body like a velvet night, shielding your conversation from intruding ears – including Suguru, who's standing barely an arm's reach away. The man who now feels like an outsider to the intimate exchange of his friends, "get you all full and happy. You won't leave the bedroom until you go into labor."

It's not his words that render you speechless. Immobile. Mouth slightly ajar. Nor the promise they carry, or the weight of the commitment. It's solely the look in his eyes. As if this man truly believes his words. That he sees this not as an equal partnership, but you as the vessel for his legacy, a mother to his progeny, a means to secure his lineage.

The jujutsu society has carved a mark deep within Satoru Gojo's psyche, even if it's been only a subconscious influence.

"Satoru,"a subtle frown creases your forehead, despite the way his words ignite a fire between your legs, make your pussy throb, "I'm not a breed–"

"Some people believe that the stars are the souls of the people who've passed on," Suguru's words cut through the exchange. Pulling your eyes towards his profile, seeing as he continues to watch the night sky, hands tucked away in his pockets. A gentle smile graces his face.

While you're thankful for his precisely timed intervention, Satoru sneaks a hand onto your abdomen, resting in inside your muff pocket with palm squeezing the soft flesh over the clothes. He releases a theatrical breath, capturing the attention of both of you.

"Way to ruin the mood, Suguru," he adds after a while.

"I think there might be some truth to that," you offer a small, appreciative smile.

In the days that follow your conversation, a dark cloud of dread casts its shadow over your every moment, only fueled by the devastating news of Suguru's most recent mission. After that, each moment's laden with a sense of impending unease. As if the future has already been foretold – only a matter of time before the summons arrives, the call to a meeting that you can already taste like the metallic tang of apprehension on your tongue.

Stepping into the room, it's not just the mission that settles heavily upon your shoulders; it's the weight of an unspoken truth that hangs in the air, casting a pall over the proceedings. Staring upon the silver band encircling your finger, cutting off the flow of blood, it's the revelation that has changed everything for you.

The task assigned to you appeared simple, straightforward, presented with a cold and calculated logic: Kill Suguru Geto and return within fourteen days.

(Reality has a way of deviating from the plans made.

It is why you never came back.)

Early 2018

The ghost of Suguru Geto hovers over you like a specter in the periphery of your thoughts. Especially when you stand in front of the man you've avoided for almost a decade.

There's no solid reason for you to be here. In Satoru Gojo's overly expansive, unnecessarily spacious penthouse. His ignorance to wealth and what's necessary versus what's superfluous still glaringly obvious. Especially with his current job; one that back in the day, back when you were all still students, wouldn't even cross his mind.

You weren't entirely certain if he'd be here today. Tonight. Tracking his movements, they'd always end within the barrier of Tokyo's Jujutsu Tech. A barrier that, if crossed, would result in your immediate arrest and subsequent execution. And despite your occasional recklessness, you had no death wish to speak of.

"That's why you're here?" Gojo's glasses now replaced by a black blindfold, folded around his neck. His eyes, shining even in the dim lighting, twinkle with raging stars when they shift to the weapon in your hand, sensing its foreign cursed energy that overwhelms even your own, "to kill me?"

A sardonic snicker escapes you, your laughter bordering mockery as you respond, "Come on, Gojo. Don't get foolish now. I can't kill you."

With a touch of exasperation, you add, "No one can."

"Then why're you here," he demands, his presence commanding the room. Uniform jacket already cast aside, the white button-up shirt partially undone, showing the contours of his clavicles. Time and age have done the sorcerer good; with gained knowledge, he also gained the physicality of experience. Something that creates longing – desire for the past that surges through you. A tidal wave of yearning. A wish that you stayed; that you were there, by his side, witnessing his transformation.

(Could it be the grip of regret? The sting of rue? Perhaps. But the past already happened, ensnared within the grasp on time's flow; its passing moments already etched into the annals of history. Dwelling on it now serves no purpose but to churn the tempestuous sea of emotions.

The sea whose waves are starting to crash against the rocky shores of the present.)

"You disappeared years ago. Without a word. Not even a goddamn ‘Goodbye'."

You watch his cold, distant façade crumble, anger seeping through the cracks as he waves one hand, advancing with measured steps, "I looked for you. Scoured every inch of Japan. For you. Where in the world were you?"

Gojo's eyes blaze with molten determination; boring into your soul, seeking answers you're hesitant, almost reluctant, to provide. Doubt lingers in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog, clouding the once familiar connection between you two.

A connection that you severed with a violent, rapid stroke, leaving nothing but shattered remnants in its wake.

"You had no right to do that," he seethes, words dripping with indignation.

"You are the one to talk," you return his anger, the relentless tide crashing against unyielding cliffs, "you killed him. You killed Suguru, Gojo."

His face contorts with fury, a wildfire raging behind his eyes. The air crackles with tension as your words cut deep, reopening wounds that had never truly healed.

It's then that the distance between you two narrows until he's almost within reach; enough for your fist to connect with him. Fully aware that it would never actually reach him. His flesh. That you won't feel the warmth of his skin. With the jutte sword's blade facing you, fist tightening around the leather handle, you hit and hit a void.

"You killed my friend," your voice trembles with a mixture of sorrow and rage, teeth sinking into your lower lip. The side of your fist repeatedly collides with empty air – it's a cruel dance, truly – a void that fills the space between Gojo and you, a chasm that feels as vast as the abyss, "my friend. Suguru. You killed him–took him away."

Your eyes lock onto his, a desperate search for answers, while Gojo remains a silent and immovable figure. Face resembling carved marble – all solid, perfect yet devoid of any emotion. Letting you spill your anger onto him. You observe as the brilliance in his eyes wanes, those once-vivid blue hues, reminiscent of a precious topaz, gradually losing their luster, darkening, and becoming more reflective of a human's ordinary iris.

Your fist meets the muscle of his chest.

"I hate you," one, two times your fist hits, "I hate you so much, Gojo."

Then his fingers slither around your wrist, twisting it painfully until the loud clank against the floor indicates that your weapon has slipped from your grasp.

"I know," his voice remains monotonous; a mere echo.

He advances, closing the distance between you, his presence a relentless force pressing against you. Eyes a tempest of longing; a tangible aura of desperation that shouldn't flicker across his stoic countenance. All you want to do is stab the look out of his eyes. Gauge it out with your fingers. Stealing away what he so callously takes for granted –

Maybe then he will stop being blind to his surroundings.

– just as he robbed you of your childhood friend. Someone you considered a brother.

"I hate myself too." It's all he mumbles, his voice a barely audible confession, before his lips crash into yours. A tumultuous collision. His hands are everywhere, grasping your shoulders, trailing down your arms, and gripping your hips with an urgency that borders on desperation. Pushing and pulling; body pressed against yours.

Gojo's tongue sweeps over your teeth, the wet tip coaxing yours, drawing forth moan after moan from you, hungrily swallowing every sound you release, trying to quench an insatiable thirst that only your moans can satisfy.

The kiss ravenous, consuming – it makes you unable to resist the magnetic pull of his ardor.

When your name slips between his lips, the reality crashes onto you. Pulling away, you look into his blazing eyes. Lips bruised and swollen, shirt somehow unbuttoned. Showing the contours and hard edges of his chest and abdomen. The scar across his whole upper body, though healed, remains visible. Body sculpted into perfection by years of determined training.

Your hand reaches forward. Fingertips tingling with the longing to make contact, to savor the tactile sensation. And Gojo stands still, a hand resting on your hip, molding your form against the sturdy frame of the couch. Your thighs caught between his, pressed against the velvety embrace of the dark brown upholstery.

Both of your disheveled hairdos mirror the chaos, intensity of the moment, framing your faces with unruly tendrils. Eyes fixated upon his body, hesitating to meet his eyes. Your arm extends more. An outstretched limb seeking connection.

His scrutinizing eyes trace the landscape of your face – witnessing as time stripped away the youthful, once-cheerful smile that had once adorned your lips. Now swollen, hardened lines with two delicate, faint marks traversing your upper lip – a scar. Curiosity gnaws on him, wondering of its origin. If whatever caused it might've been circumvented if you'd stayed.

If you had stayed.

(Maybe if he searched more thoroughly. Fought with greater determination…)

Your hand jerks back. Recoils as if touched by scorching heat. Gaze turning into a torrential downpour as it locks onto his, a deepening frown carving lines across your brow.

"No," he swears he hears you mutter to yourself, lips finding refuge at the juncture of his clavicles. Hands slipping beneath the satin shirt, clenching the taut muscle of his shoulders. One leg draped across his hip, you grind against his thigh without reservation, embracing the sensation of friction against your clothed core, the fabric beginning to absorb your burgeoning desire.

"What–"

"Just fuck me," you nibble at the skin, voice thick with passion, teeth sinking into the flesh and pulling, causing the man to hiss, "fuck me, Gojo."

He grips your jaw. A touch both benevolent and directing. Pulls you off his neck, compelling you to confront the storm of his eyes. Vortex of unspoken emotions. A cyclone of pure desire and passing hesitation. His thumb and index finger press into the soft flesh of your cheekbones, compressing the pliant contours until your lips pucker and part.

"I hate you," you manage to utter, the words emerging as a strained whisper through clenched teeth.

In the ensuing moment, Gojo acknowledges your declaration with a solemn nod, a silent recognition.

"Good," he then pivots you in one fluid motion. Hands finding purchase on the couch's armrests. Gone is the restraint he's maintained until now. He doesn't hold back. Not anymore, not when you made it abundantly clear how you feel; what you want.

His palm presses firmly between your shoulder blades, a commanding touch that demands submission, while his other hand clamps onto your hips, fingers digging into the curves of your flesh with just the right amount of pressure. With an irresistible force, he bends your body to his will.

Fingers seeking the buttons on your pants, swiftly unzipping the zipper and tugging both your pants and undergarments down your thighs. Until they lock your knees together. His fingers graze your folds and you feel him hiss under his nose. Fingertip tracing your opening, feeling the slippery wetness, Gojo doesn't hesitate to push one finger in.

And your body eagerly sucks him in. Allows him to thrust his finger in and out repeatedly, making your fingers dig into the cushion, lips parted and shamelessly moaning with hips bucking back, meeting his thrusts. Until he adds another finger, scissors them inside and opens you up.

"Fuck," you hear him breathe out, his hand sneaking from your shoulder blades to your hip, venturing beneath your shirt to caress the exposed skin, "you always sound so pretty. Feel so good."

"Shut up," you scoff at his words, voice laced with disdain, "just–ugh," his fingers curl inside, massaging your walls in harmony with the hand on your hip, tracing tantalizing circles, "ah–just don't–don't talk," and you arch your hips backward, prompting his fingers to delve deeper. Palm completely covering your soaked cunt.

"Don't care," you add when he continues the rhythm. In and out, stretching the limits of your resilience, scissoring to accommodate something far more substantial.

"As you wish," he withdraws. Fingers glistening with your juices. And you can feel the dewy slickness spreading as he toys with your pulsating clit, circling the throbbing bud, causing you to clench around empty air. Every nerve ending in your body awakens, dormant embers being stoked; heat blooming inside.

Then he presses himself against you, hands grasping your shoulder to pull you onto his body as he hovers over you. The close proximity allowing you to feel the hard length of him, thick and pushy, begging for entry.

"Stop teasing," you practically growl at him, an annoyed command laden with unrestrained desire.

"Fine," Gojo lets out a husky huff in response to your impatient plea. Pushing your upper body down, nearly bending you over the plush cushion until your forehead meets the silky surface of his furniture. You can hear the unmistakable sound of him unzipping his own pants, the slide of the zipper seemingly never-ending as your pussy leaks onto your thighs, mind of its own; tugs them down just enough for him to fish out his cock. All hard and swollen, the engorged tip glistening with the telltale evidence of his arousal.

One hand palms your pussy, collecting your juices to spread over his cock. Lube it enough for him to slip inside your awaiting walls easily. Yet he hovers over your entrance, tip kissing the opening before running between your folds. Gojo lets out a sigh upon the long-lost feeling of your wet pussy.

It's been too long.

He wants to savor it. Savor the moment your drenched pussy opens up just for him. Swallows him whole and lock him in, never letting him go.

"Gojo," you push back, hoping that maybe it will cause him to slip in – it doesn't. Instead, the tip of his cock probs at your clit, "fuck me."

"You never shut up, heh," his hand secures the back of your neck, the other guiding his cock to your entrance, feeling you open up around the mushroom head, letting a satisfied moan out upon the feeling.

Gojo doesn't bother. At least he shouldn't, right? It's not like he's your lover. You aren't his paramour no more.

But he does take his time. Every inch a struggle, every second a torture. Until finally you feel yourself split open, the tightest of knots unraveling, and then he's thrusting deep, pushing into you with force. Your body welcomes him, contouring to his shape, embracing him fully. His breath comes out in a rush and you're soon meeting him thrust-for-thrust, hips pushing back.

Blood rushes to your head; bend at an unconventional enough angle that allows him to hit the deepest spots inside you. He pulls back then, his cock easily sliding out of your embrace until only the tip remains inside the cocoon of your warmth. Stretching your inner walls in a way that makes you feel dizzy, mind foggy. Fucked stupid.

Your moans are muffled by the couch cushion, but Gojo pays no attention; his focus solely on chasing his own high, eyes closed to draw your presence out. His thrusts become more powerful and insistent as each one hits its mark with precision.

Your name refuses to leave his lips.

Yet his name sounds like a sacred incantation spilling from your throat.

It makes him push. Hips slamming into yours with enough force to actually send you over the couch's edge; causing you to stumble.

"What the f–"

"Lie down," he commands. Stone-cold and demanding. Your body moves on its own accord as you do what you're told, lying flat on your stomach as his hand guides your body up his couch. Face sinking into the decorative pillows, he lies his weight on top of you without shame. Elbow resting next to your head, fingers tangled in your hair – pushing your face into the pillows.

Slamming his cock back inside, a surprised shriek leaves your lips. His legs on either side of your thighs, one arm holding his upper body slightly off you, the other gripping your hip, fingers biting crescent moons into your flesh.

His breath's hot against your neck, coming out in quick gasps and grunts, the growl in his throat driving you wild and you're not sure how much longer you can take it before you beg for it –

"Fuuck–so tight–ngh–"

His hand is everywhere while yours remain tucked underneath the pillows; nails tracing their way around sensitive skin and curves like a map of pleasure points.

– so you bite your lip. Face flushed against the couch's cushions. Feeling yourself cresting towards the edge. He hitches a breath as your moan’s muffled beneath the pillows, his own rhythm faltering before he plunges deeper.

"M’gettin’ close–"

You can feel the heat radiating from him, sweat dripping down your neck as he takes you higher, presses his forehead against your nape. Heat rises to your face as you feel yourself dripping. Acutely aware of yourself, the slick, shameful squelches that resonate each time Gojo plunges deep inside. Buries himself to the hilt. Pelvis melting with the curve of your ass. Smacks his balls against your thighs.

The air feels thick and stifling as you feel Gojo everywhere. Your entire being consumed by the feverish desire coursing through your veins.

His thrusts become more intense, almost frenzied as he searches for something only he knows and finds it in your body. You're so close now, the pleasure so sweet that it's almost overwhelming.

You swear it feels like an eternity before finally your orgasm rushes over you like an unstoppable tide; overwhelming every single one of your senses as he continues to thrust deep within you. Your entire body quaking beneath him, pulled even closer into him by some invisible force.

Gojo finally lets go with a loud groan and collapses onto your back; leaving him panting heavily against your neck while his cock remains firmly embedded inside of you for a few moments more, painting your walls in translucent white before slowly slipping out with a wet sound akin to pure satisfaction.

You lay there unmoving for some time; eyes closed and lips pressed tight together as if to contain all the pleasure of this moment forevermore in one single solitary heartbeat – before reality comes crashing back in around you both in an instant, making Gojo pull away.

[feederheart]

The Weightlifter

CW: feederism, ssbbw, weight gain(F), muscle gain(M). It's a wholesome story this time, no humiliation or BDSM, sorry.

Mr. Bruce slowly made his way to the podium where reporters awaited to conduct an interview with him. The ground shook when he stepped as his gargantuan, muscular, and bulky body walked across the hardwood, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. He couldn’t feel his muscular arms, legs, glutes, or core for he had just competed in the Mr. Muscle weightlifting circuit. There was, however, something that he could still feel; the gold medal around his neck.

Normally Mr. Bruce didn’t care for interviews but he was in a darn good mood today; he was a world champion after all. Despite his willingness to answer pretty much anything, he wasn’t quite prepared for the first one.

“Mr. Bruce, records indicate that you only began weightlifting six years ago at the age of twenty-four. How did you go from a novice to a world champion despite being so far behind the competition?”

That was not an easy question to answer, not that Mr. Bruce couldn’t have told the truth in a short and concise manner for the purpose of the interview (or just lied), but rather because the story of why was too beautiful not to tell.

Six years ago, he was about as skinny and frail as an old fallen tree branch at the mercy of termites and bark fungus on the forest ground. He was quite tall as well; you may have seen him before walking down the street and mistakenly mistook him for a lamppost. Additionally, his name was just Bruce; he had yet to earn his “Mr.” moniker.

Beside him was his girlfriend, Rose, whose body could not have been more dissimilar. She was short and round, very nearly two hundred and fifty pounds. Her weight was somewhat evenly distributed, although most of the weight clearly went to her belly, she had soft, supple, and plump arms and legs, large breasts currently hanging slightly over her too-tight sports bra, and a big, jiggling ass that bounced with each step. Her olive skin was soft, smooth, and nearly flawless, her auburn hair shone in the sunlight and hung just past her shoulders, her round and chubby face was adorned with light makeup, and her feet slapped against the soles of her flip-flops as she walked. 

Bruce loved Rose and loved to show his affection in any way he could, especially by spoiling her with food; she was quite the bottomless pit. However, as they walked, there was something on his mind bugging him. As he walked, he noticed another couple on a stroll, both of whom were young and fit. The man picked up the woman and spun her around, giving her a big kiss as she laughed with joy. Bruce saw this and felt a twinge of envy. He wanted nothing more than to pick up Rose and carry her around like a princess but there was certainly no way he would be able to do so, he had never lifted a weight in his life.

As their stroll continued, Bruce spotted a gym nearby full of equipment that he had seen before but had no idea what they were for. He saw several men and some women inside who all had larger muscles than he did and were lifting more than he could. One man stood out as by far the largest; although he was by no means lean (his gut stuck out of the bottom of his XL t-shirt), he was busy putting away three-hundred and fifteen pounds on the bench as if they were nothing while his two spotters bellowed words of encouragement.

Bruce had seen enough. He walked into that gym, signed up, and never looked back. He began watching bodybuilding videos and guides as if they were religious doctrines. Five days a week he spent working on whatever part of his body wasn’t sore from the last time he worked it. Sometimes Rose would come along with him; not to work out, of course, to sit back, eat, and watch her lover get swole.

After a few months of working out, Bruce’s muscles had been beginning to show. For the first time, his chest wasn’t as flat and pale as an undercooked pancake. His arms and legs began to show some definition and although his abdominal muscles were still hidden, he could feel them with his finger. Most importantly, he finally surpassed a 250lb squat for 5 reps for the first time. Today was the day he was going to try and pick up his girlfriend.

Rose stood in their bedroom completely naked, her belly, breasts, and even her arms hanging down. She cheered him on as he knelt down and tried to pick her up; before she could get more than a half inch off of the ground, Bruce stopped. Rose asked him what had happened; Bruce answered honestly; she had gotten fatter. Her belly now hung over her fupa, she had gone up two bra sizes, and she had ripped two pairs of jeans and a dress just by putting them on.

“Oh no, now you’ll have to work even harder and get even stronger,” she cajoled sarcastically as she put her hands on his chest and rubbed his pecs seductively. 

Bruce, who was just cursing himself in frustration, smiled instead.

By the end of the year, Bruce’s hard work had been really paying off. He finally managed to cross the three-hundred-pound mark on the squat rack and also surpassed two hundred and twenty-five pounds on the bench. However, Rose had surpassed three hundred and ten pounds on the scale, nullifying his achievement. She giggled to herself as she looked down at her belly covering her lover’s head.

“Looks like you’ll have to keep lifting,” she cajoled.

Bruce obliged. He would keep getting stronger, challenging himself to surpass his previous limits no matter how much pain he was in. He was building muscle so fast that stretchmarks began to show on his arms. Every month would bring a new personal record for him to be celebrated by his new friends he made at the gym.

Meanwhile, Rose was hard at work too; after all, she didn’t want her boyfriend to lose motivation. She lounged on the couch for hours every day gulping down sugary sodas, heavy creaming milkshakes, buckets of fried chicken and potato wedges, entire family meals from fast food restaurants, and whatever fatty, delicious treat she could get her thick greedy fingers on. Her weight always increased at a faster rate than Bruce’s strength, just as she intended. As his peck grew, so did her beasts that spent most of their time hanging down her chest with no bra to hold them back. While Bruce’s abdominal muscles grew to be more defined, Rose’s were further buried beneath her ever-expanding belly which was now so big that it split her thighs. While Bruce’s glutes and quads grew bigger thanks to the squat rack, Rose’s ass and thighs grew fatter, so fat in fact that Bruce has to lotion the latter every day to prevent his princess from getting chub rub. Her fingers and toes, which Bruce painted red himself, were getting thicker and fatter as if her wrists and ankles intended to swallow them. Even her neck got fatter while Bruce’s became defined and strong.

A year turned to two, which turned to three, four, and five. Although both Bruce and Rose’s gains would eventually slow down, they never stopped growing for each other. Bruce’s body was now approaching the size and shape of a WWE wrestler while Rose’s looked more like a sumo wrestler. The former was now breaking records at the local gym and state weightlifting competitions while Rose was breaking furniture and scales. While Bruce was guzzling weight gain shakes after his intense workouts, Rose was guzzling them after her intense naps. Eventually, Rose would finally be too big to move meaning Bruce had to finally catch up and carry her.

Rose and her six-hundred-pound frame stood up next to her future husband wearing nothing but the massive ring that he had given her. Bruce, now over three hundred pounds of muscle, grabbed Rose’s right arm and dragged it over his shoulder careful not to suffocate via arm fat, knelt to the ground to reach underneath her apron-like hanging belly and between her thighs each the size of an average person’s torso, and he braced himself; he was ready. He began to push off of the stone tiles beneath his feet and lift her into the air. Her arms, belly, breasts, thighs, and even her neck quivered, jiggled, and drooped downward as Bruce pushed skyward with all of his might.

Finally, he was standing and his future wife was now hanging over his shoulders.

The two celebrated like never before with food, drinks, and the absolutely nastiest sex they’ve ever had with each other. The two fell asleep together happier than ever, perhaps the only exception being the day Bruce proposed to Rose (by hiding the ring in a container of weight gainer for her to find). 

It was now year six of the journey and Bruce stared down the reporter’s microphone as he thought of an answer to her question. He decided to keep it short and sweet.

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my wife,” he answered. “She kept me on this path even when times were tough and I wanted nothing more than to quit. She was always there for me and I love her more than I could possibly express!”

[nrvcntr]

Losing Everything

sooooo i haven't written fanfiction since i was a preteen but i got hit with a case of gale dekarios and could not rest until i wrote a really angsty thing about tav trying to move on from god!gale ......... that is all

“You may not wish to enter the heavens, but you do a fine job conjuring them here,” He said. Then he was gone, again. The God of Ambition, formerly Gale of Waterdeep, formerly Gale Dekarios. Somewhere in there had been a man that you loved dearly, but there was no trace of him now. Only a faint scent remained. The same one that stuck to your pillow and sheets and the bed that you shared, the scent that hung around you like smoke. When you were falling asleep and in that space between dream and wake, it was almost like he was still there. But when you reached out, you were met with the realization that you were alone yet again. 

So you moved on. The best you could, at least. You dove into your old work as a historian of ancient poetry. You translated what you could, but primarily focused on seeking out old texts to verify their authenticity. One of your recent interests was the poet Copperbloom, whose complete works were rumored to be hidden at one of the libraries in Amn.

On your first afternoon there,  you saw the temple dedicated to the God of Ambition. Like a magnetic force pushing you through, you walked in, taking in the sights of brilliant marble pillars and rich purple fabric adorning the walls. A testament to the power of ambition. It looked so clean that you were afraid your mere presence was a mark on its face. You looked at the altar of Gale, a looming, giant sculpture that looked like him and unlike him. Like a sculpture of a picture someone painted of a picture of Gale. The features were generally right, but it was missing his warmth. Something about the eyes and the smile were inconsistent to you, as though he was smiling at something painful. That wasn’t like the man you remembered. 

Your eyes closed, and that familiar scent drew you in. Here in this temple, it made sense that he felt so close. It was enough to break your heart again, but months of waking up alone had shattered it beyond repair. What else could you lose at this point? There was nothing left. You held a coin in your hand, ready to make an offering to the embodiment of ambition, when you heard a voice from behind you.

“Excuse me,” it said.

You turned, meeting the eyes of a handsome young elf.

“Is that a book of Copperbloom’s poetry you’re holding?” He asked. 

“Yes, it is,” You replied.

He told you that his name was Adlar, and that he was a fan of Copperbloom’s poetry. Excitement radiated from him, his eyes bright and alert when he told you that he was raised among the trees, and that Copperbloom eloquently captured the beauty of nature in a way that so few could. You slid the coin back into your pocket, enamored by the creature in front of you. He was awkward, sure, but a welcome distraction from your self-imposed isolation. 

“Would you like to talk about this more, somewhere more private?” You asked.

“I--Yes, I would like that very much. There’s a tavern around the corner, if you’d like to go,” He replied.

So you walked out of the Temple of Ambition with the handsome young elf on your arm, who chattered your ear off the entire way. After exchanging pleasantries about poetry, the basics of who you are and where you’re from, he asked if you were a devotee of Gale.

“No, I’m not. Are you?” You asked.

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” He replied, “He has given me everything. Before I learned of his doctrine, I was lost. Wandering around, wasting my potential. But now I have a purpose. I helped to build the temple, you know. And I’m leading the expansion.”

“An expansion? It’s one of the largest buildings in the city,” You remarked. 

“Yes, it is going to be the largest building in Faerun if I have anything to say about it. That’s the beautiful thing about ambition. It led me out of the forest and into places I had never even heard of or dreamt I could be. Like here,” He said, tentatively reaching for your hand. You allowed it. Adlar was the first person you touched since your electric goodbye kiss with a deity. Well, other than crying into Shadowheart’s arms for as long as she would let you. 

And so you began a love affair with the handsome young elf, slipping into a summer routine of balmy nights cooled by morning tea on the terrace, then separating to do a day’s work. You, toiling around libraries and bookshops in search of poems, and he leading the expansion in the temple. For the first time in a long while, you felt the comfort of a routine and a home.

You could still feel your former lover, his scent lingering on you no matter how hard you try to wash it away. At some point, it stopped feeling comforting and started to suffocate. You threw out your old clothes, ready to start something new. If you could change your hair and clothes and look like someone new, you thought, maybe you could start a new life. It may not be perfect, it may not have the magic of the Weave, but it could be yours. 

Well, until your dreams were dashed again. That God you had loved had once remarked about how easy it is to lose things, no matter how hard they are to gain. 

Adlar would meet you every night outside the temple. You never went back inside after your first visit. Until that night, that is, when thick black smoke blanketed the air and other devotees ran out, screaming about a collapse in the expansion wing. Instinctively, you ran toward the danger, passing the sculpture of Gale, whose smile looked menacing behind the haze of smoke. You approached the rubble where your elven lover would lay forever and begin feverishly clearing it again. Even after your fingers begin to bleed. Even when your hands ached. When someone picked you up to move you from the carnage, you kicked and screamed. But you knew. No one could survive under there. Especially not your gentle love, whose hands trembled that first night you held them. His bright eyes would never stare into yours again when you revealed your fears to him. You would never again wash the dirt from his hands after he delivered you a flower that Copperbloom compared her lover to in one of her famous poems. He was gone. A casualty of ambition. 

You broke from the grasp of the person holding you and ran toward Gale’s altar. You slammed a coin down. 

“Please, let me talk to you.” 

It was a plea, not a prayer. But he answered nonetheless. You found yourself in a strange state that seems real and unreal, beyond mortal comprehension. Gale stood in front of you, a bemused expression on his silver face. 

“You called?” He asked.

“What happened?” You ask in return.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do not fuck with me, Gale. I know that you know what happens in your own temple.”

“Oh, right, the collapse. Hm. Such a shame. They were making great progress. You know how foolish mortals can be at times,” He replied flippantly. This set your teeth on edge. 

“Did you cause the collapse?” You asked.

“I could never, and I would never. You have my word. They knew the risks of what they were doing, and it was a dangerous endeavor.”

“But was the God of Ambition in their ears, telling them that the reward would be worth any risk?”

“Some risks are worth taking, you know,” Gale said.

“I do not need advice from you,” You replied.  

“Well perhaps you should heed some advice. You’ve been toiling your summer away laying about with some elf who is far beneath your station. What are you doing? Your mortal life is so short. You could be brilliant. You could do anything that you want. You could be anything you want to be. You could be -”

“A goddess?”

“Perhaps. If you wanted to be.”

“I don’t. I already turned down that offer.” 

Silence. 

“Why?” Gale asked.

“Because I loved the man you were, not the God you pretend to be,” You reply.

“I do not pretend. I am a God. And I did it for you. I did everything for you. And you repay me this way? You must know that I care for you because I would never let a mortal speak to me the way that you do.”

“Did you cause the collapse because you were jealous?” You asked. 

Silence. Whatever love you still had in your heart for the man was replaced by animosity for the God. 

“Answer me, damn you,” You demanded, reaching out to shove Gale’s chest. Lightning crackled when you made contact with him and you pulled your hand back in agony, cradling it with the other. 

“It is not wise to pick a fight with a God,” Gale warned.

“Why? If that is how you treat your most devoted followers then I would like to see how you treat a heretic,” You hissed. “Smite me, then, if what I say so offends you. Ambition is a curse. It has stolen everything from me. I will never bow to it. I will never honor it. I will never love it.” 

In that moment, you hoped he would strike you down. If only to take away his favorite toy. But he doesn’t. 

“I would never harm you,” He said.

“You have destroyed me,” You replied, “I want nothing to do with the God in front of me. I loved the man I knew. I will miss him for the rest of my days. And one day, I will be gone and I do not know what will happen or where I will go. But you will be here, alone. I hope it was worth it. Was it?” 

You stare at each other. No words could come out that would give either of you solace, and some wounds can never heal. Instead of a reply, you found yourself back at the smoky temple, surrounded by carnage. You walked out, never turning back even once to look behind. That night you crawled into your bed and stared at the wall, trying to will comfort out of the isolation. Finally, you were free from that scent. You were truly alone. At least when you’ve lost everything, nothing else can be taken from you.

Somewhere on some plane that mortals can’t comprehend, in a place that exists and doesn’t, the God of Ambition looked out at eternal nothingness. He had the powers of a God, powers that he had always dreamed of. 

But, the thought flickered in his mind. Perhaps he could have lived without them. After all, without you, what did he really have? Nothing, as far as anyone or anything could ever hope to see. 

[talonabraxas]

Kalachakra Mandala

Kalachakra is a sanskrit word that means “Time wheel”. It refers to one of the most complex philosophies and meditation practices within tantric Buddhism.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama from: 'The Kalachakra tantra, rite of initiation':

"The Kalachakra system was one of the last and most complex tantric systems to be brought to Tibet from India. In recent years many Westerners have become acquainted with this tradition as various lamas have given the Kalachakra Initiation to large groups of people. I myself have given it several times in Western countries, as well as in India and Tibet. Such initiation are given on the basis of a mandala, the sacred residence with its residence deities, usually depicted in graphic form . The tradition I follow employs a mandala constructed of colored sand which is carefully assembled prior to each initiation and dismantled once more at the end. Due to their colorful and intricate nature, mandalas have attracted a great deal of interest. Although some can be openly explained, most are related to tantric doctrines that are normally supposed to be kept secret. Consequently, many speculative and mistaken interpretations have circulated among people who viewed them simply as works of art or had no access to reliable explanations. Because the severe misunderstandings that can arise are more harmful than a partial lifting of secrecy, I have encouraged a greater openness in the display and accurate description of mandalas."

The best known form of the Kalachakra mandala is the sand mandala, for which colored sand grains are painstakingly placed. This sand drawing represents a 3-dimensional palace of which every single detail has a symbolic meaning. A mandala is a symbolic representation of many aspects of a specific tantra. In the Kalachakra tantra, all elements of the mandala refer to the universe (outer Kalachakra), the body and mind (inner Kalachakra) and the practice (initiation, generation and completion stages).

Every detail of the mandala, from each deity to every adornments of the building, refers to time and the universe (Outer Kalachakra), physical and mental aspects of Kalachakra and ourselves (Inner Kalachakra), and also to aspects of the practice (Alternative Kalachakra).

It should be noted that in the Kalachakra tradition, an unusual order of directions is followed in the description of the mandala. As usual (in Tibetan artwork), the Eastern direction (black) is directed to the viewer, or at the bottom of an image, but when going around the mandala, a somewhat complicated order is followed: clockwise from East to Southwest, clockwise from North to Northeast, and finally clockwise from West to Northwest.

[ross-hollander]

History was made...

...when, during the Combine-Dominion War, a group of Rasalhaguer soldiers established a field chapel.

This was hardly news on its own. Faith persists in the darkest of times- some might even say it flourishes in them, or at least that people tighten their grip on it -and has accompanied humanity from their cradle out to the farthest reaches of the Periphery. There have been countless wars and so there have been countless religious soldiers, and many religious armies.

What was historic about this chapel was its declared intention, in the memo sent to the headquarters reporting on it, to serve as the first "Walk Thru 'Mech Chapel". After all, their doctrine stated that at least some 'mechs were to remain crewed up and ready for action at all times, so not everybody could attend standard services because not everybody could physically fit.

A spare hangar was emptied out of the detritus that seems to accumulate ex nihilo on any army's base and adorned with a large projector screen (for the chaplain's face and relevant texts during sermons) and a sound system. PBI attending services claimed a definitely heightened sense of awe and fear, although that may have been the risk of being crushed by a fellow congregant.

[bhaalsdeepbat]

I have been stewing in Mercy's relationship with Orin and I'm just-

Bhaal never divulging the fact that he even already has a Chosen sculpted from his own hand. A body made of his flesh who he will force to bend to his will, or else take back the very life he created. They can enjoy the life he planned for him or no life at all.

And Orin raised that entire time thinking She would be the one to lead the Bhaalists in Bhaal's name, only for her upbringing and the pain she suffered being raised under Bhaal's doctrine from birth. I like to think she tried to resist when she was younger, but the punishment was severe and she kept in line from there.

Then during her teen years, Mercy shows up. Mercy, who got to experience the freedom of living outside the temple, waltzes in and takes everything. Right after Orin had resigned herself to this life, with her only saving grace being that SHE would be the favorite. Bhaal's Chosen. Mercy observes alongside Orin for a little while, then is handed everything Orin had attributed her own suffering as payment for.

And like the resentment in Orin only building as she's expected to be HONORED to be demoted to serving Mercy in whatever way needed. Mercy was made to conquer, to devour, and Orin was simply made to be a tool to aide them in that. Her only use, now, in the eyes of Bhaal, is to serve his Scion and not him.

And like. She can't say no. Her life is all in service of Bhaal. The only way she was going to escape this servitude was by forcing the blood duel. It was meant to free her as much as it was meant to get out the resentment and take back everything Mercy took from her.

But Bhaal never loved either of them. Orin was just a backup, never truly loved or cared for. Mercy was loved, but it wasn't unconditional nor was it Mercy that Bhaal loves. He loves them so long as they fulfill the destiny he crafted for them. He loves their potential - who they could be, and he certainly isn't going to let them retain the life he gave should they refuse to live the life Bhaal created them to have.

And that's the tragedy of it all. Mercy and Orin constantly trying to prove they were worthy of being Bhaal's favorite, but it means nothing if they aren't truly getting a chance to live their lives.

But like. Those years where they were both still kids/teens, Orin was more of a lady-in-waiting but make her Bhaalist. Like not even given a role as Mercy's own blade or one of Bhaal's assassins. No. Orin is tasked with the role of serving Bhaal's Scion entirely. A role any Bhaalist would have taken with pride.

So, a tiny Orin adorning Mercy in ceremonial garb and delivering messages on their behalf. Orin going through and reading messages and just getting so fed up.

Orin beginning to decode the messages. Putting two and two together. Noticing behaviors. It's just what she needed to, to gain her rightful place as Bhaal's Chosen.

And accidentally sowing the seeds of her own demise.

[superbdonutpoetry]

How is a Soul Saved?

By trusting Christ by means of the gospel – the word of truth. After having done this, you are sealed with His Holy Spirit. Ephesians 1:13 – Authorised Version In whom ye also trusted, after that ye heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation: in whom also after that ye believed, ye were sealed with that holy Spirit of promise, There is simplicity in Christ. This is the gospel which…

[star-wars-writing]

In Sickness and in health

Story written for the @codywanbingo @swfandomevents

the prompt I used: Nursing back to health.

Now the story:

In the heart of Coruscant, as the first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, the Jedi Temple stood majestic and serene. Its towering spires, once silent witnesses to the echoes of war, now basked in the light of a peaceful era. The galaxy, having weathered the storms of the Clone Wars, embraced a newfound tranquility, a hard-earned reprieve from years of conflict.

Within the Temple's venerable walls, the air hummed with a gentle, almost musical calm. The hallways, adorned with ancient Jedi artifacts and symbols of the Force, resonated with a quiet, harmonious energy. This was a time of healing, of rebuilding, a time when the Jedi Order, the guardians of peace and justice, turned their focus inward, nurturing the delicate balance they had fought so fiercely to restore.

The integration of the clones, the brave soldiers of the Republic, into the daily life of the Temple marked a poignant shift in the Order's history. These warriors, once defined by their roles in the grand theater of war, now walked the peaceful corridors as brothers and sisters in arms. Some had chosen to accompany the Jedi they had served alongside during the tumultuous days of battle, their bonds forged in the crucible of war now evolving into deep, enduring friendships. Others explored new paths within the Jedi Corps, lending their unique skills and perspectives to various roles - from Temple guards to instructors for the younglings, each finding their place in this new chapter of the Order's legacy.

In the Council Chamber, high above the sprawling city, the Jedi Masters convened, their presence a tapestry of the Order's wisdom and strength. Among them sat Obi-Wan Kenobi, a figure of quiet dignity and thoughtful resolve. His eyes, carrying the depth of experience and the gentle touch of empathy, reflected the morning light that streamed through the tall windows.

Beside him, the esteemed members of the Council, each a pillar of the Jedi philosophy, engaged in thoughtful discourse. Master Plo Koon, his keen insight as profound as the depths of his Kel Dor heritage; Mace Windu, his presence commanding yet tempered with a deep understanding of the Force; Kit Fisto, his Nautolan grace and jovial nature a reminder of the diversity within the Order.

Together, they discussed the future, contemplating the path the Jedi would tread in this era of peace. The conversations were reflective, considering not just the protection of the galaxy, but the growth of the Order, the nurturing of young Padawans, and the exploration of the deeper mysteries of the Force.

Obi-Wan listened, his thoughts often drifting to the wider implications of their decisions, the impact on the countless lives across the galaxy. Yet, part of his mind lingered elsewhere, on a presence that had become a cornerstone of his own life - Commander Cody.

Cody, who had stood by him through the darkest hours of the war, had become more than a comrade. In this new era, where the rigid doctrines of the past were being reevaluated, their friendship had blossomed into something deeper, a connection that transcended the usual boundaries of Jedi detachment.

As the Council meeting drew to a close, Obi-Wan's thoughts were with Cody, anticipating the quiet moments they would share, away from the responsibilities of the Council and the weight of their past.

In the serenity of the Jedi Temple, amidst the timeless halls echoing with the wisdom of the ages, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Commander Cody had crafted a life together, a testament to the enduring peace they had both fought valiantly for. Their shared quarters, a harmonious blend of the Jedi's contemplative simplicity and the soldier's pragmatic touch, stood as a sanctuary where titles and ranks were left at the door.

Cody's transition from the battlefields to the tranquil corridors of the Temple was marked by a profound shift in his role. Alongside his brother Rex, he had taken on the responsibility of instructing not just the young Padawans but also the cadets freshly arrived from Kamino. These young recruits, the next generation of those who once formed the backbone of the Republic's army, were now being raised and educated within the Temple's nurturing environment.

The presence of these cadets within the Temple's walls was a new concept, one that symbolized the evolving nature of the Jedi Order in this era of peace. Cody, with his firsthand experience of the Clone Wars and his natural leadership abilities, was a pivotal figure in this integration. He brought to these young minds a blend of tactical knowledge and life lessons, instilling in them values of loyalty, courage, and integrity.

For the Padawans and cadets alike, Cody and Rex were living links to their heritage, figures who embodied the history they had only read about in their studies. Their teachings were practical, often taking place in the training grounds where simulated exercises and real-world scenarios brought to life the principles of strategy and teamwork.

Obi-Wan, in this new chapter of his life, found solace and fulfillment in the quiet joys of domesticity shared with Cody. The burdens of war, which had once weighed heavily upon his shoulders, seemed to lift in the comfort of their companionship. Their evenings were often spent in quiet conversation, sometimes joined by Rex when his duties with Ahsoka allowed. These moments, filled with laughter and shared memories, were a stark contrast to the solitude of the Jedi Masters' usual existence.

The couple's bond was a subtle dance of understanding and respect, visible in their shared glances during council meetings, or in the way Obi-Wan's hand would find Cody's as they walked through the Temple gardens. Their relationship was a silent declaration of the changes that had come to pass, of a world where the lines that once divided Jedi and clone had blurred into irrelevance.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows through the corridors of the Jedi Temple, Obi-Wan Kenobi returned to the quarters he shared with Cody, his thoughts still echoing with the day's council deliberations. Pushing open the door, he expected to find Cody, perhaps reading or preparing their evening meal, the usual domestic routines that had become cherished pillars of their life together.

Instead, he was met with an unusual silence, a stillness that prickled his senses with unease. The room was dimly lit, the only light emanating from the small lamp on the side table. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness, and he saw Cody lying on the couch, his body wrapped in a blanket, shivering despite the warm temperature of the room.

"Cody?" Obi-Wan's voice was tinged with concern as he approached. The sight before him was disconcerting; Cody, always the embodiment of strength and resilience, now appeared vulnerable, his usually stoic demeanor replaced by a visible discomfort.

As Obi-Wan neared, he reached out with the Force, instinctively seeking to understand Cody's condition. What he felt through their bond startled him — a tangible sense of misery and physical malaise emanating from Cody. It was unusual, for Cody had always possessed strong mental shields, a necessity forged in the crucible of war.

"Cody, what's wrong?" Obi-Wan asked, kneeling beside the couch, his hand gently resting on Cody's forehead. It was burning hot to the touch, a clear indicator of fever.

"Just a bit under the weather, I guess," Cody replied weakly, attempting a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His voice was hoarse, each word seemingly an effort.

Obi-Wan's brow furrowed in concern. Cody's attempt to downplay his condition was typical of his stoic nature, but the Force did not lie. The tremors that ran through Cody's body, the pallor of his skin, and the strained look in his eyes spoke volumes.

"Let me get you to the medbay," Obi-Wan suggested, already calculating the fastest way to get medical help.

"No, no... I'll be fine here. Just need to rest," Cody insisted, his words punctuated by a fit of coughing that seemed to rack his entire body.

Obi-Wan hesitated, torn between Cody's wishes and his own concern for Cody's well-being. He knew the importance of respecting Cody's autonomy, yet the alarm bells ringing in his Jedi instincts urged him to act.

"Cody, you're burning up. This is more than just a minor ailment," Obi-Wan pressed, his voice laced with worry. He placed a gentle hand on Cody's shoulder, feeling the tension coiled within.

Cody looked up at Obi-Wan, his eyes conveying a mix of gratitude and stubborn resolve. "I don't want to cause a fuss, Obi-Wan. I've been through worse," he said, trying to muster a semblance of his usual strength.

Obi-Wan sighed softly, reading the underlying fear in Cody's gaze — the fear of vulnerability, of being a burden. He understood then that what Cody needed most was not the sterile environment of the medbay, but the comfort and reassurance of their home, of his presence.

"All right," Obi-Wan conceded, his decision made. "But I'm here for you, every step of the way. You're not alone in this, Cody."

As he settled beside Cody, offering his warmth and the gentle, healing touch of the Force. 

With gentle yet firm movements, Obi-Wan helped Cody into their bed, arranging the pillows to prop him up comfortably. Cody, whose pride often made him reluctant to show weakness, acquiesced with a tired sigh, the lines of discomfort etched on his face. He lay there, a stark contrast to his usual robust self, his breathing shallow and labored.

Obi-Wan's gaze lingered on Cody, a storm of emotions swirling within him. Concern was at the forefront, mixed with a sense of helplessness that was foreign to the seasoned Jedi. He knew he needed to act, to do more than what his limited medical knowledge allowed.

Stepping away from the bedside, he moved to the corner of the room where a small communicator rested. As he reached out to activate it, he was acutely aware of the contradiction in his actions. He, who had always preached self-reliance and the Jedi's philosophy of detachment, now found himself grappling with the overwhelming urge to protect and care for Cody. It was a humbling realization, a testament to the depth of his feelings.

The communicator flickered to life, and soon, Bones' familiar face appeared on the screen. The medic, who had served with them during the war and was now working under Master Vokara Che in the Temple's healing halls, was a sight for sore eyes.

"Bones, I need your help," Obi-Wan began, his voice betraying his underlying anxiety.

"Obi-Wan? What's wrong?" Bones' expression shifted from surprise to concern. He had always been perceptive, able to read the unspoken distress in others, a skill honed on the battlefields.

"It's Cody. He's fallen ill, and it's beyond my ability to treat," Obi-Wan explained, his eyes flickering back to where Cody lay. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't serious."

"Say no more, General. I'll be right there," Bones replied promptly, his use of Obi-Wan's wartime title reflecting the gravity of the situation.

As Obi-Wan ended the call, he felt a twinge of guilt for his hypocrisy. He knew, deep down, that if their roles were reversed, he would have insisted on Cody not fussing over him. Yet here he was, doing exactly that. It was a contradiction he was willing to accept, his concern for Cody outweighing his own principles.

Returning to Cody's side, Obi-Wan took his hand, offering a silent stream of comfort through their touch. Cody's eyes fluttered open, meeting Obi-Wan's gaze with a mixture of gratitude and mild reproach.

"You didn't have to call anyone, Obi-Wan. I'll be fine," Cody murmured, his voice a shadow of its usual firmness.

Obi-Wan offered a small, rueful smile. "I know you're strong, Cody. But sometimes, even the strongest among us need help. Bones will know what to do."

Cody's gaze softened, understanding dawning in his eyes. He knew arguing was futile; Obi-Wan's concern was as stubborn as it was endearing.

As the stillness of the room enveloped them, Obi-Wan stood, his movements quiet and deliberate. He moved to the fresher, retrieving a flannel. Soaking it in cold water, he wrung it out carefully, his mind a tempest of thoughts and worries. Returning to Cody's side, he gently placed the damp cloth on Cody's forehead. The coolness of the flannel was a small comfort, but Obi-Wan hoped it would bring some relief to the fever that had taken hold of Cody's strong body.

The clones, engineered for strength and resilience, were not often felled by illness. Their robust constitutions were one of the many marvels of their creation, a testament to the ingenuity that had birthed them. This reality only deepened Obi-Wan's concern. Illness in someone as inherently robust as Cody was rare, and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Cody, sensing Obi-Wan's unease, managed a weak smile. "Always the caretaker, huh, Obi-Wan?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Obi-Wan returned the smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, clouded as they were with worry. "Someone has to look after you, Commander," he replied softly, his hand brushing back a strand of hair from Cody's sweat-dampened forehead.

"You know, I'm not used to being on this side of things," Cody said, his gaze drifting towards the ceiling. "Always thought I'd be the last one standing."

Obi-Wan's heart clenched at the words, a poignant reminder of the countless battles they had faced together, where the fragility of life had been all too apparent. "We've both seen enough to know life has its own plans, Cody. But you're not alone in this fight," he assured him, his voice firm with conviction.

Cody's eyes met Obi-Wan's, and in them, Obi-Wan saw a mixture of gratitude and a trace of the soldier's innate fear of being seen as weak. "I never thought I'd be glad to be wrong," Cody admitted, the ghost of his usual humor flickering in his eyes.

The sound of the door chime sliced through the stillness of the quarters, heralding Bones' arrival. Obi-Wan stood, a mix of apprehension and relief stirring within him. As the door slid open, Bones stepped in, carrying the air of seasoned professionalism tempered with an underlying current of concern, a medical bag in his grip.

"General Kenobi, Commander Cody," Bones greeted, his eyes swiftly appraising Cody's condition from the doorway. "I hear we're having a bit of a medical evasion again?"

Cody, despite his evident discomfort, managed a weak smirk. "Old habits, Bones."

Bones approached the bed, his movements efficient but not without a gentle touch. He began checking Cody's vitals, his practiced hands betraying no hint of the frustration they had often felt during the war, chasing after these two whenever they evaded medical check-ups after battles.

Obi-Wan watched silently, the memories of those hectic days flooding back. Both he and Cody had been notorious for avoiding the medbay, often needing to be dragged there by Bones for treatment. It was a trait born out of necessity and stubbornness, a soldier's and a Jedi's shared disdain for showing weakness.

Cody, trying to sit up, winced slightly. "I'm fine, really. It's just a small fever," he insisted, echoing the many times he had downplayed his injuries in the past.

Bones, unfazed by Cody's protest, gently but firmly pushed him back down. "Commander, you might have evaded me on the battlefield, but in here, I call the shots. Let's not make this a battle, shall we?"

Cody relented, albeit reluctantly, settling back against the pillows. Obi-Wan could sense the internal struggle within Cody, the ingrained soldier's instinct to never appear vulnerable, to always be battle-ready.

After a thorough examination, Bones straightened up, his expression relaxing. "It's the flu, nothing more. It's been going around the Temple. Even with your engineered resilience, you're not immune to everything, Commander."

The tension that had held Obi-Wan in its grip began to ease. "Just rest and care, then?" he asked, needing to hear the course of action.

"Exactly that. Rest, fluids, and some TLC," Bones confirmed, preparing to leave the necessary medications on the bedside table. "He'll be back on his feet in no time."

As Bones made his way out, he turned back with a knowing look. "And no sneaking out, either of you. I know your tricks."

Once alone again, Obi-Wan settled beside Cody, a small smile playing on his lips at the familiar banter. "Seems we can't fool Bones," he said.

Cody chuckled weakly. "Never could."

Obi-Wan's gaze softened as he looked at Cody, this man who had been his comrade in arms and was now his partner in life. "I'll take care of you, Cody. Just like I promised."

Cody's eyes met Obi-Wan's, a depth of trust and affection shining in them. "I know," he whispered, his hand finding Obi-Wan's.

In the quiet of their room, as the evening deepened around them, Obi-Wan held Cody's hand, a silent guardian in the stillness of the night. The Force hummed softly around them, a comforting reminder that in this moment, all was as it should be.

As night enveloped the Temple, a cloak of silence settled over the quarters shared by Obi-Wan and Cody. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast gentle shadows across the room, creating an island of calm in the vastness of Coruscant’s nighttime tapestry. Throughout the night, Obi-Wan remained vigilantly at Cody's side, his concern etched in the lines of his face, illuminated by the dim light.

Every so often, Obi-Wan would rise, his movements a quiet dance of care and concern. He would refresh the flannel on Cody's forehead, the cool cloth a small but significant comfort against the fever's relentless heat. Each time, he watched Cody's face for any sign of relief, any hint that the fever might be breaking.

Cody, caught in the grip of the flu, shifted restlessly under the sheets. At times, he shivered uncontrollably, his body fighting the invisible battle against the illness. Then, moments later, he would throw off the covers, the fever spiking to the point where even the light fabric was too much.

During one of these restless moments, Cody’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Obi-Wan’s gaze. "Obi-Wan, you should go, stay with ashoka or with Rex ... I don’t want you getting sick because of me," he murmured, his voice tinged with worry.

Obi-Wan offered a gentle, reassuring smile, his hand finding Cody's in the darkness. "I'm exactly where I need to be, Cody. I won't leave your side."

"But the Council, your duties..." Cody’s words trailed off, a frown of concern creasing his brow.

"The Council will understand. You are my priority now," Obi-Wan replied softly, his voice resolute. The Force flowed around them, a soothing presence that comforted Obi-Wan as much as it did Cody.

Cody, too weak to argue further, simply nodded, his eyes closing once again as he succumbed to the exhaustion wrought by the illness. Obi-Wan watched over him, a silent sentinel in the quiet room. His thoughts drifted to the countless battles they had faced, the many times they had each been the other's protector. Now, in this battle against illness, Obi-Wan found a different kind of strength – the strength to care, to nurture, to simply be there for the person who meant more to him than any title or duty.

Throughout the night, Obi-Wan continued his vigilant care. He soothed Cody’s fevered brow, whispered words of comfort, and held his hand, a steady presence in the face of uncertainty. The bond they shared, forged in the fires of war and solidified in the peace that followed, was a beacon of light in the darkness, a reminder that even in vulnerability, there was strength.

As the first light of dawn crept through the window, casting a soft, diffused glow into the room, a sense of relief slowly began to unfurl within Obi-Wan. The long night had passed, each hour marked by his unwavering vigil beside Cody. Now, with the new day, came a welcome change – the fever that had gripped Cody so fiercely seemed to have finally broken.

Cody, his face still pale but no longer flushed with the heat of illness, stirred weakly under the sheets. Obi-Wan, who had dozed off in the chair beside the bed, awoke at the slightest movement. His eyes, heavy with the remnants of a sleepless night, focused on Cody with a mix of concern and hope.

"How are you feeling?" Obi-Wan asked, his voice soft, the worry of the night still lingering in its timbre.

"Better," Cody rasped, his voice a shadow of its usual strength. "The fever's gone, I think."

Obi-Wan's hand found Cody's forehead, confirming the absence of the feverish heat that had been so persistent. A sigh of relief escaped him, the tension that had coiled in his chest easing at last. "That's good to hear. Very good."

Cody attempted to sit up, his movements sluggish, the ordeal of the past night having taken its toll. Obi-Wan was immediately at his side, offering a supporting arm. "Let's take it slow," he cautioned, his eyes scanning Cody for any sign of lingering weakness.

With Obi-Wan's help, Cody swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing for a moment to gather his strength. The simple act of sitting up left him breathless, a stark reminder of the flu's impact on his normally robust physique.

"I think I can manage a shower," Cody said, determination edging his voice. It was a small milestone, a step towards reclaiming his strength and independence.

"Alright, but I'm right here if you need me," Obi-Wan assured him, his tone leaving no room for argument. He helped Cody to his feet, keeping a firm but gentle grip on his arm. Together, they made their way to the refresher, Obi-Wan's support unwavering with every step.

In the refresher, Obi-Wan steadied Cody as he undressed, his movements careful and mindful of Cody's weakened state. The steam from the warm shower filled the small space, a comforting embrace against the morning chill.

As Cody stepped into the shower, leaning heavily against the wall for support, Obi-Wan remained just outside, ready to assist if needed. The sound of the water was a soothing backdrop to their quiet morning, a symbol of renewal and recovery.

A few days had passed since Cody's bout with the flu, days that had slowly returned a sense of normalcy to their quarters. Cody, now mostly recovered, moved around the kitchen with a renewed vigor, the clatter of pots and the aroma of cooking filling the space with warmth.

As he stirred the simmering pot on the stove, he glanced towards the door, anticipating Obi-Wan's return from the Council meeting. The sound of the door sliding open drew his attention, and he turned, a greeting ready on his lips.

The words died away, however, as he saw Obi-Wan step inside, a noticeable pallor on his face. His steps were heavy, weighed down by an unusual fatigue, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. The Jedi Master's cough, rough and persistent, echoed in the otherwise quiet room.

"Obi-Wan?" Cody's voice was laced with concern as he moved towards him, setting aside the wooden spoon.

Obi-Wan managed a weak smile, an attempt to dispel Cody's worry. "It's nothing, just a bit of a cough," he said, though the effort of speaking seemed to take a toll on him.

Cody raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wry smile despite his concern. "Looks like you should have listened to me and stayed with Rex. Now you've got the flu too."

"I didn't want to leave you alone," Obi-Wan replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he leaned against the wall for support.

Cody's expression softened, the teasing tone giving way to one of affectionate concern. "Stubborn Jedi," he murmured, helping Obi-Wan to sit down at the table. "Let me take care of you now."

As Obi-Wan settled into the chair, his body surrendering to the fatigue, he looked up at Cody, his blue eyes conveying a mix of gratitude and apology. "I suppose I'm not the best patient," he admitted, a hint of ruefulness in his voice.

"You're the worst," Cody agreed, but the fondness in his voice belied his words. He fetched a glass of water, placing it gently in front of Obi-Wan. "But I've got you, just like you had me."

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

"Be men! In courage; not cowards, turning our back on the foe, or giving way in danger, or reproach, or evil days. In solidity; not shifting or shadowy, but immoveable as the rock. In strength; as the man is, so is his strength. Be strong! In wisdom. Foolishness is with childhood, wisdom with manhood. Speak and act with wisdom, as men. In ripeness. The faculties of men are ripe, both for thinking and working. They speak ripe words, think ripe thoughts, plan and execute ripe things. In understanding be men! In all things – what you do, and what you refrain from doing, be men. Act the manly part – let nothing effeminate, luxurious, sickly, childish, puny, little, narrow be seen about you. Christianity makes men, not babes. Adorn the doctrine of Christ by your manliness. In the Church, in the world, in business, in conversation, in prosperity, and adversity, [act] like men! Let no man despise you; and let no man despise the Gospel because of you." – Horatius Bonar

[sailorspica]

Kat, my honey, my darling, the light of my life — I've a question for you

What (if any) was the Council of Trent's influence on the art? (specifically about depicting nudity)

It's for... research purposes

mae my angel my baby.........

now I don't know that nudity was a specific concern but iconography in general, the sacred image, depictions of saints and biblical figures and with them the rennaissance system of patronage?

very vital to the catholic counter-reformation, against a growing trend of protesant iconoclasm mostly in the netherlands. the 1563 (final) session of trent mostly focuses on the doctrinal/pedagogical use of sacred art and icons, reviving debates from byzantium where people were confused about whether god/jesus/mary/others were actually present in the images, whether images were idolatry, but they leaned back into that to avoid the most compelling criticism that calvinists had for art, which is: why is the church dumping all this money into symbols of wealth instead of feeding and housing the poor?

but, the 1563 session throws in, just as a little tiny nugget:

Moreover, in the invocation of saints, the veneration of relics, and the sacred use of images, every superstition shall be removed, all filthy lucre be abolished; finally, all lasciviousness be avoided; in such wise that figures shall not be painted or adorned with a beauty exciting to lust; nor the celebration of the saints, and the visitation of relics be by any perverted into revellings and drunkenness; as if festivals are celebrated to the honour of the saints by luxury and wantonness.

what artistic license *i* think you can so take here is: people are damn hypocrites, and wealthy art patrons in the papal states who want to see nude men probably don't keep up with doctrine closely and might think they're above it. if you try to criticize them or the artists? they could deny, deny, and accuse anyone trying to censor their horny saint art commissions of being protestants. i think it fucking rocks. like you can't tell me what's lascivious or not??

one from venice a good few decades before trent:

here's the martyrdom of saint sebastian by michel coxie, just 12 years after trent, not in a papal state but still the HRE:

here's baroque ones, a century later by pietro della vecchia:

please peruse the wikmedia commons category

point is, nothing fucking changed the roman catholic church is so slow but moreover, so horny

[autisticgirliesbracket]

What makes Don Quixote from Limbus Company the autistic girlie ever of all time? Here's what the people have to say:

Don Quixote-related asks/reblogs: x This post will be updated after each round!

Image ID in alt text and under the readmore.

[Image ID. White slide with an image of Don Quixote in the bottom right corner, she is laying on a multi-coloured floor mat and playing with dolls. She is surrounded by text boxes which read,

"She hyperfixates on anything she likes to the ultimate degree! Her current hyperfixation is fixers (which are sorta kinda mercs for hire within the Project Moon universe) and her belief that they are enactors of justice! She's so obsessed with fixers being valiant heroes that she's covered her work uniform in fixer memorabilia and talks like an old timey knight (lots of thees and thys and referring to her manager as Manager Esquire) and jumps at the opportunity to be the arbiter of justice, even if it means, uh, killing a person or two. In every universe you can find her in, she's found something to hyperfixate on, be it company history in the W Corp Don universe or the cultish practices of N Corp in the N Corp Don universe. In the W Corp universe, she goes on and on about how interesting W Corp is to the point that people wind up leaving because she'll get so excited about it she won't even notice that they've left. In the N corp universe, she's so obsessed with the doctrines of the N Corp cult that she wound up making written copies of their creed and reads it to herself regularly (while most others are fed brainwashing juice, she just got into it on her own). In short, she's my baby and I would do anything for her."

"hyperfixates on "fixers", is oblivious to social cues and rushes in to do what right no matter the consequences of her actions. she collects fixer merchandise QwQ"

"She has a special interest in Fixers (a particular occupation that exists in the game's setting), constantly going on about them, having a collection of merch for famous Fixers--including a number of pieces worn on her person--and dreaming about being one herself, mirroring the literary Don Quixote's obsession with knights errant. In chapter 3 she got the snot beaten out of her by a famous Fixer and promptly asked him for his autograph with stars in her eyes. Her in-game introduction reads: There is no sinner that can outmatch this one's level of passion. An avid aficionada of all things Fixer, she adorns herself with a variety of Fixer-related merchandise. They won't affect her performance in combat one way or another, so there is no need for you to restrict her from keeping her decorations. She is deeply immersed in the role of a righteous Fixer, hence the exaggerated mannerisms akin to those of an actor. (Has such a thing ever existed, really?) It's advised to play along with her for a smooth mission."

"She's weird girl don quixote, what more do you need" End ID.]

[liberty-or-death]

Wei Wuxian's Spell - "Her shy charming eyes" (Beauty of Nanyuan 南苑逢美人”written by He Sicheng 何思澄)

Let’s talk about the first spell that Wei Wuxian uses in the Yi City. 

In Chapter 36, he choses to animate two female effigies.   The two female effigies seemed like identical twins - they had the same clothes, appearance and makeup.  The effigies appeared to be smiling and one could almost hear their laughter.  The doll’s hair was tied in a shuanghuan updo, wore red pearl earrings, a gold bracelet and embroidery shoes.  Wei Wuxian also thinks they look like servants of a rich household.

(Shuanghuan was a double bun updo favoured by unmarried ladies.  They were popular in the Warring States and are commonly described in Tang poetry.)

This poem has also appeared in both the donghua and CQL!

The spell’s from the poem “Beauty of Nanyuan 南苑逢美人” written by He Sicheng 何思澄 (502-557) in the Southern Dynasty.  南苑 Nanyuan is located just south of Beijing. It was an imperial hunting ground during the Yuan, Ming and Qing Dynasties. The current Beijing Nanyuan Airport is named after this and it’s the oldest airport in China.

洛浦疑回雪 巫山似旦云

Just like the Luo Shen (The Goddess of the River Luo) with skin as white as snow, and like the goddess of Mount Wu with skin as clear as the clouds. 

倾城今始见, 倾国昔曾闻

Her smile today destroys a city, and I heard it can even destroy a country. 

T/N: 倾城 and 倾国 are used in poetry to describe someone who’s incredibly beautiful

媚眼随羞合 丹唇逐笑分

her shy charming eyes, and her red lips are parted lightly

(This is the line used in the spell)

风卷蒲萄带 日照石榴裙

The wind blows the belt adorned with grapes, and the sun shies on the pomegranate skirt

T/N: 蒲萄带 is directly translated as belt with grapes, but it’s believed that the “grapes” refer to green jade and from a distance they look like shining ‘grapes.’   This is the pomegranate skirt.

自有狂夫在 空持劳使君

As long as the crazy husband’s around, emptiness awaits the gentleman.

T/N: There is a similar theme in another text 陌上桑 The Mulberry Tree field road, whereby a woman rejects the emperor’s advances because she’s already married.  The same idea applies here, that this beautiful woman is someone that the author cannot get. 

Personally, I think this is a very common poem used to describe a woman's beauty. I even find soft porn sites tagged with this line lol. 😂 So hmm, I don't think MXTX would have intended to mean too much?

Let’s talk about the second part.  This is split into the phrase “do not question goodness or evil,  (I) draw your eyes and summon thee.” So let’s break it down.

“不问善与恶 do not question goodness or evil” - There is a concept of goodness and evil 善与恶 in Buddhism. It's a complicated doctrine and I won't be going into it so y'all can read about it in the link.

"点睛召将来 (I) draw your eyes and summon thee" - This phrase comes from the the idiom “drawing a dragon and adding the eyes 画龙点睛”.  There is a famous story behind this idiom.  Zhang Shenhao was a famous painter during the Liang Dynasty.  He was known for his vivid drawing.  One day, he painted four dragons on the walls of a temple in Jinling and someone asked him why he didn’t paint the eyes.  He then remarked, “The eyes are the essence of the dragon.  If I paint the eyes, they’ll fly away.”  Everyone laughed at him when he said that.  Zhang Shenhao then added the eyes to two dragons and unexpectedly, they came to life and flew away.  Hence, this term was used to describe a situation whereby one’s finishing touch would bring a piece of art to come to life.  MXTX probably used it in this case as well, Wei Wuxian did draw the eyes of the dolls and made them come alive lol.

[suguwu]

Bee ur lil god!knives stuff is making my brain go brr but esp those tags abt vash??? Like I’m imagining catching vash’s eye long before knives turns his to your little village…

How the legends say the Stampede walks among humans, selfishly and cruelly—against the wishes of his brother, benevolent and careful be the lord of the hunt, for the merciless Vash brings only death and destruction. How you never put much faith in legends, and let the stranger into your little home in the woods because you have always let strangers in, and because he needed help you could provide. How you allowed him to stay as long as he needs, put him to work caring for the home while you’re off collecting plants or at your apothecary in town, and grow steadily attached to his presence in your home—and your bed, soon enough.

How he leaves you in the night, and how you wake up blessed.

Your village adheres strictly to doctrine. They would not call you blessed. A blessing from the Stampede is not a blessing by any means, however much the wind brushes you like a lover’s caress, no matter how healing your very touch has become.

They have lost you. You are a child of the village, and he has stolen you away. Whatever remains cannot be sacred.

When the high priestess, therefore, pays your quaint little home a visit, they rejoice. She tells them of her dreams. The mighty lord of the hunt still considers them worthy enough to provide an offering despite their failings with you.

But when they bring every villager who meets the requirements—your age, your hair, your eyes—all are rejected. The elders rumble, hushed and frantic. The quiet threat of the Stampede is carried in on the wind, but they have their faith. You must be the one. The lord of the hunt, magnanimous be he, has not abandoned you as your village has. You must be truly adored.

Acolytes storm your cottage in the woods. They burn it to the ground, stained as it is with the Stampede’s presence. The trees shake, the wind howls; your struggling body is dragged from the blaze, helpless.

Your mother weeps when she is allowed a final visitation before they take you away, and you cannot tell if the tears are relief or mourning. Your father stares as if he witnesses a walking ghost. You have been bathed and perfumed, draped in silk and gold, a circlet of precious jewels upon your forehead. They have never seen you look so holy.

The acolytes bring you to the Great Temple far away from your home. It is vast and grand and well kept; you’ve never been before, though your pious grandmother made the trek once late in her life for prayer.

The door to your chamber remains locked and guarded at all times but you manage, in the final hour, to crack your window.

Through it the wind, weak and restless here in the temple, brings you a wildflower. Stubbornly you tuck it into your flimsy girdle with the other flowers you’ve been adorned with.

(The lord of the hunt’s invisible hand finds it first when he arrives. You cannot see him any more than the acolytes, but you feel the pressure; your mind is flooded with an oppressive enmity.

He plucks it from your waist and lets it fall to the ground, withered. For once the wind does not answer)

plu i am SHAKING oh my god what a TREAT to wake up to!!! and yes i couldn't help myself with the vash tags and those tags have served me so well by bringing me this absolute deliciousness!! those last few lines...i'm gnawing off my own arm.