#divine retribution

[beemo-clippin]

Gem doing what has to be done

Transcript

[Scar] I was saying this earlier that Hermitcraft doesn't fall into cheap-

[Etho] oof

[Scar] Oh my god! ... Hi Gem :)

[Gem] He has to be stopped

Clipped from Scar's Twitch stream "Re-cap Of 2025 and What Is To Come - Hermitcraft Stream!" (03:32:04)

[kuroken-divorce-arc]

Suna Rintaro — Divine Retribution

(domestic fluff / comedy / petty revenge) │ he thought karma was punishing him for being a bad boyfriend — turns out, it was just you with a ruler and too much patience.

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you don’t usually get this mad at him.

he’s forgetful, lazy about dates, sometimes too glued to his phone — you know this, you love him anyway — but tonight? this is new.

you’d spent weeks planning your date night. reservations, outfit, even your favorite perfume. you’d sent him a reminder that morning. and yet, when you walked into the living room, dressed up and smiling, there he was — hoodie half-on, headset around his neck, controller in hand.

“hey, babe,” he said, eyes still on the screen. “you look nice. going somewhere?”

you stared at him. “our date, rin.”

his head tilted. “...that was tonight?”

you could hear your heartbeat.

“shit,” he said quickly, setting the controller down. “my bad, babe. i’ll make it up to you, promise. just lemme finish this round—”

that’s when you turned around and walked to the bathroom.

he called after you once. twice. by the third, you’d shut the door and turned the water on, standing under the spray, seething.

you weren’t going to yell. that’d be too easy for him. you were going to plot.

later, you’re standing in the kitchen, still fuming, when you notice it.

suna’s moving around the apartment, eyes glued to his phone, navigating by memory. he doesn’t even look up as he sidesteps the coffee table, opens the fridge, grabs a drink, all muscle memory.

and that’s when the idea hits you.

the perfect, quiet revenge.

that night, after he falls asleep — sprawled across the bed, phone still in hand — you get up.

you start with the couch. one inch to the right. then the coffee table. the counter stools. his nightstand. the rug. even the damn trash can.

you work in silence, a one-woman heist fueled by righteous, petty fury.

when you finally crawl back into bed, you smile to yourself, satisfied.

the next morning, it begins.

you’re sipping your coffee when he stubs his toe on the couch.

“ow—what the—?”

you hum, not looking up. “something wrong?”

he winces, hopping slightly. “think i misjudged the corner.”

“hm. maybe you’re tired.”

“yeah, probably.”

then he bumps his hip into the counter. then clips his elbow on the wall. then knocks his shin on the coffee table again.

you hide your smile behind your mug.

“you good, rin?”

“yeah,” he grumbles, glaring suspiciously at the furniture. “this place feels… smaller.”

“maybe you grew overnight.”

he narrows his eyes at you. “funny.”

by the time he gets home that afternoon, he looks like he’s been in a bar fight with his own apartment.

“i think this place is cursed,” he mutters, rubbing his knee.

“what makes you say that?”

“i keep running into shit.”

“maybe karma’s trying to tell you something.”

he blinks. “karma?”

you nod solemnly. “you did anything lately that deserves punishment?”

he pauses, thinking. “...not that i can think of.”

you shrug. “well, if you remember, you should probably apologize.”

he stares at you, baffled, before mumbling, “...yeah. maybe.”

the next day, you get a text from komori.

komori: did rin hit his head or smth?? komori: he just apologized for like... existing?? komori: said he was “making amends”??

you smirk.

later that night, suna comes home with a weary sigh, like the world’s been personally out to get him.

he sets his bag down and walks over. “hey, babe.”

“hi.”

“i’m sorry.”

you glance up from your laptop. “for what?”

he shrugs helplessly. “...just in case. i don’t know. i’ve been saying sorry all day. feels like it’s helping?”

you hum noncommittally. “sure.”

he squints. “you don’t sound convinced.”

“you don’t sound sincere.”

he groans. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet,” you say sweetly, “you still haven’t died of bad luck. maybe keep apologizing.”

he mutters something under his breath and slinks off toward the shower.

you don’t move the furniture back.

the next evening, you come home from work to find him on his knees in the living room, hands clasped like he’s praying to a higher power.

“okay,” he says when he spots you. “i give up. i’m sorry.”

you blink, amused. “for?”

“for missing our date,” he admits, voice small. “i was an idiot. you planned it, and i blew it off, and i feel like the universe heard me being an ass and decided to make me suffer. and it worked. i’m suffering.”

you cross your arms. “you think this is karma?”

he nods earnestly. “i tripped twice on the way home. i think karma’s done playing around.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. “and you’re sure it’s not just… your fault?”

“no,” he says quickly. “this is definitely supernatural.”

you tilt your head. “hm. well, i guess we can’t risk it. how about dinner? make-up date?”

his face softens, the relief almost visible. “yeah? really?”

“really.”

he grins, boyish and hopeful. “you’re the best.”

you smile back, almost feeling bad. almost.

that night, while he’s asleep again — sprawled across the bed in his usual mess of limbs — you move everything back.

the couch. the counters. the rug. the nightstand.

perfect symmetry restored.

the next morning, suna moves through the apartment slowly, suspiciously.

he tosses his keys into the bowl. perfect landing. walks around the couch. no stubbed toe. grabs a drink. no collision.

he freezes mid-step.

“...it’s over,” he whispers.

you glance up from your coffee. “what is?”

“the curse.” he turns, eyes wide. “karma forgave me.”

you blink, pretending confusion. “karma?”

“yeah. i think the spirits realigned or something.”

you smile into your mug. “guess your apology worked.”

“yeah,” he says, nodding solemnly. “guess it did.”

he leans down, kisses your cheek, still half-convinced he survived divine punishment.

“you’re lucky, you know,” you murmur.

“i know,” he says. “won’t test it again.”

you just smile, watching him walk off — straight past the perfectly placed furniture.

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i did this once to my dad after he pissed me off, but he figured it out within like two hours

[qxuiara]

I was suddenly reminded that my favorite pokemon god oc existed soooo

why does this fuckass mew have soooo many names!!!! anyway this is hera theyre awesome i adore them. ignore the outdated design theyre getting a bit of a revamp soon

heres a few more shitposts featuring them

oh and eternity's here too i guess idk all my homies hate eternity

[david-derr]

Releasing the Fury is completed. Here it is and the creation video. Prints can be had in Fine Art America.

[cursedbanalities]

Sins of the Father (A Horror Story)

<- Last Chapter | Index | Next Chapter ->

CW: Gore

Chapter 5:

It wasn’t until December, when the snow whipped past my apartment windows and the wind whistled a cold tune, that I decided it was finally time.

I had been pushing this book aside for months at this point, not wanting to delve into whatever secrets that it may contain. It was simply too unnerving to dwell on. Keeping my mind on other things helped, but the nightmares finally took their toll. There was no sunshine to warm me during this winter month, and no amount of the bitter winter air would revitalize my soul. The monotony of my job broke my will down as well. I was being hypnotized, only instead of watching a pendulous pocketwatch and listening to a soothing voice I made pizza after pizza while being soothed by the hum of the oven.

I sat down at my desk, and tried to keep warm in my poorly-insulated apartment with a cup of coffee and a quilt sewn by my mother. It was one of the few things of my parents’ that I decided to keep– other than my father’s old book, which sat on the desk in front of me. It was heavy in my hands as I positioned it in front of me. It had the smell of a used book store, but mixed with a mildewy stench, like the store had flooded from a horrible storm. I opened it to the first page. The stiff leather binding groaned as though it hadn’t been opened in years, and it was relieved to stretch.

I had assumed that the writing inside would be in a different language, but reading the first couple pages I was surprised to see it written in English. My theory was correct about the contents of the book. It was a book about the occult– specifically, an obscure cult that called themselves “The Divinity of Retribution,” at least, that’s what I assumed the closest translation must’ve been. The cult originated in Sumer, but no specific date was given. The Divinity of Retribution lived far from other civilisations, but would occasionally send people to talk about their cult and to buy supplies for their tribe (that’s what they referred to themselves as, but by their obsession with their god, I would personally call it a cult).

I couldn’t find any sources within the book, but from the way the information was being described to me I got the impression these were both first-hand accounts and stories from this cult. I theorized the author may have been a scribe of The Divinity of Retribution, or someone highly respected amongst them, but no name was ever given. I wasn’t sure how this book survived since then, given the fact that they lived in Sumer, a civilization that dissolved almost 4,000 years ago. I supposed that this was a translation of some sort, but the missing sources and authors made me wonder if that really was the case. Obviously, this didn’t speak English, and I wasn’t even sure if they had the resources to make parchment, for that matter. Despite the incredulity of the contents, I became enamored with the stories within the book. Something about the writing just made me trust it, as though the spirit of whoever wrote it was screaming through time, telling me that everything being told to me was true. I knew it was a dumb thought, but after the book called to me for so long, I was much more willing to believe that.

The Divinity of Retribution described their religion as following the “Flayed God” or simply the “Retribution.” It lists that there are many gods in this universe– many of whom have their own goals outside of the realm of Earth and its puny inhabitants. However, the Flayed God was different. It had shown itself once before to the person who first led the cult, and granted them their greatest wish. So, the cult would pray to the deity once every week, and once every new moon when, “the sky is at its darkest and the night is at its coldest,” according to the book. It also detailed their many rituals and prayers, which involved leaving scars on each other with whatever tools they could get their hands on– sharp rocks, fangs and claws from predators, or even bronze blades if they were wealthy enough to get one. There was a dance detailed in the book where two people would grab each other’s hand and slice through their arm with their tool of choice. The Divinity of Retribution lived a good life in Sumer, but they were exiled when they were blamed for a gruesome assassination of a Sumerian noble. The assassination was described in the book as being animalistic, and that the noble was barely recognizable when he was found.

The tribe fiercely denied being behind the assassination, but because of their beliefs and the bloody rituals they took part in, the Sumerians didn’t listen to their protests. They were forced out into the harsh desert of the Middle East, and encountered hardships at every turn during their exodus. They decided to head south into modern-day Saudi Arabia, following the Tigris river the entire way. They had to cross the Euphrates river, which swallowed a good chunk of them. Then, the hot desert sun of the Rub’ al Khali beat others into submission. They had nowhere to go, with little hope for other civilisations to tolerate their beliefs. After months of wandering the desert, surviving purely on their pack camels and whatever cacti and animals they could find, they came across what the book described as a, “series of pillars with sharp tips extending into the sky… [They are] so great in height that we saw them days in advance… They were completely void of any color: Black as a moonless night, like a spear piercing the heavens itself.”

The city was along a large and fertile oasis, which the tribe rejoiced over. They spent a full day drinking and playing in the water, thanking their Flayed God for answering their wishes. Then, they ventured into the city. The book described it as being completely devoid of life, but they still felt a presence of something watching them. It was eerie at first, but they came to the conclusion that they could feel their god better here; so this became their holy city– The City of Pillars, they called it. The tribe looked for shelter in many of the buildings of this abandoned city, and were all able to fit comfortably in just one. The buildings were described as massive– fit for a giant, or a family of giants for that matter. They regularly prayed for the Flayed God to continue His good will, and to allow these pillars to stand forever in His glory. Their god answered, with torrential rainfalls that promised a possibility for more food.

However, the City of Pillars wasn’t all peaches for the Divinity of Retribution. There was a lack of food around the area. Despite the fertile land around the lake, the fig and olive trees could only sustain the population for so long, especially with the wait from attempting to grow more. Their camels were a food source for a while, but hunting in the Rub’ al Khali didn’t always amount to much, other than the occasional snake or lizards. The tribe desperately needed to find another food source. So, every new moon, they would take part in a ritualistic sacrifice to their Flayed God. The human offering would usually be voluntary, but the book described the sacrifices as people who had some form of emotional intensity. People who went voluntarily usually were those who wanted to help their tribe. Others gave themselves up out of sorrow, usually from the loss of a loved one or reasons similar to that. However, there were stories of dissidents of the Flayed God who were used in the sacrifices as well, so I believe it could be any extreme emotion, and it gives me reason to believe that the Flayed God reveled in human emotion– either He simply enjoyed it, or fed off of it in some way.

The bodies in this ritual would be consumed, as a way to thank the God for their lives and their ability to give to their cult/tribe even after death. It seems that, over the years, these rituals also evolved into a sort of wishmaking ceremony, where members of the tribe allegedly prayed for different gifts, and they received them after the culmination of the ritual when “our Flayed God would show itself to our leader, and would bless him with gifts to bestow upon our God’s people.”

There were also warnings from the scribe to not venture into the center of the city, where the tallest spire is, unless specifically blessed by the cult and their God. It became a sort of pilgrimage, where the strongest would go to see the Flayed God. Many of them didn’t return, but the writer of the book was one of the few who managed to make the trip there and back. They described a dream they had, where their God spoke to them, asking to see them because of their devoutness to Him. They would not say everything they saw once they ventured into the center of the city, nor did they describe what it was like walking inside of the tallest spire of this long-forgotten city.

The only thing that they said about their pilgrimage was: “Our Flayed God has shown himself to me. He is more similar to us than I would have ever dreamed, yet so different in his reverence. His figure was shifting constantly, so I never truly knew what his form was– but the one I could make out the most had wings that stretched across the entire chamber, with long arms that could hug the entire tribe. He spoke so softly, so calmly. I could see no face in his form. I was terrified at first, but he spoke to me– and I listened. He told me to write the history of His people into this very book. I did what He said, spending hours pouring every last word of our history, and detailing our worships to Him. He told me that the writing pleased Him, which made me glow with happiness. We are to continue our prayers, and accept his gifts. A pedestal emerged from the floor. He bids me to place the book and accept his gift, and I shall. Glory be to Him, Retribution. May he forever mark us, may he forever make us, and in the end, may he bring us together once again.”

I leaned back in my chair after reading through most of the book. My cup of coffee went cold without me ever sipping from it, and dawn was on the verge of breaking. I had read the book for the entire night, but the information, already fading from my mind, made me want to read it again. There were no further entries into the history of the tribe after that. The final pages were more specifications of the rituals they performed: the exact prayers they spoke aloud, the sigils and runes they used, and the process of their prayers, but they were written in a different hand than the previous author. I wanted to scour the text for the exact purposes and technicalities of the rituals, but my eyes were too tired to continue reading. I had lost myself to the book– I read it feverishly, devouring the information like the most delicious meal I had ever consumed. The information I had just recited was the tip of the iceberg– I needed more time to fully parse through the book.

It took more effort than I thought, but I forced myself to shut the book and climb into bed.

After pulling the covers over me, the only thoughts swirling in my mind revolved around stories of the Divinity of Retribution and their Flayed God. I began to wonder if my father had become so obsessed with it for the same reasons as I. He spoke to something in the basement that night, making me think those rituals in the back of the book had amounted to something real. It was outrageous to think of, but I also experienced a supernatural entity firsthand. Was it really as outrageous as I thought? Despite the pit in my stomach thinking of the consequences incurred upon my father, I was conflicted. Maybe I could ask the entity why it killed my father, or I could find some way to help myself out– or even the world! I began thinking of the gifts to myself and the world I would ask for, before remembering exactly what the ritual would entail. My stomach churned at the thought of eating another person.

There were some strange similarities with the description of the lost city and my nightmares. I had also wandered through the desert in my dreams, and I had also come across the strange city of spires buried in the sand– but I desperately tried to chalk it up as a coincidence. I found it interesting that they labeled it the “City of Pillars.” For some reason, it reminded me of the myth of the lost city of Ubar, or “Iram of the Pillars,” but I was much too tired to think about this for any longer.

I knew that I would contemplate things more, and that I’d eventually read more of the book to fully understand the Flayed God and His rituals. It would take even more time to study the book, as my job slinging pizza dough had taken over most of my life. Despite those memories of the ritual in my parents’ basement, I wanted to try the ritual for myself. I wouldn’t hurt somebody I loved like my father did, though. I refused to be like him, even if I was following the same path he did. If there was some way to use an animal, I would. If I was really desperate, I would find someone in my life that fit the specifications. I figured that finding someone emotionally intense, like described in the book, would take time anyways, so I would bide my time and just study the book more.

Even as I drifted into my first restful sleep in months, I could feel the book calling to me, begging me to learn more about its contents, and to use its rituals just as my father did. It took everything in my power to ignore it.

————————————————————————

Woah, did you read through that whole thing?? Thank you so much! I really appreciate you taking the time to read this passion project of mine!

For those of you who’ve been keeping up with this story, this is the second chapter of exposition, which I’m very sorry for. I know how annoying it is, but we’re through it— and I have some pretty exciting stuff coming in the following chapters ;)

This has been the longest story I’ve written, and it’s far from over. Stay tuned for more SotF, and let me know in the comments what you think of the story so far!

Peace out, y’all! May Retribution shine on you all! 😈

[hamzajodicke]

"He killed my sister. He murdered my sister Tomoe with his own hands. For all I know, you may mean nothing to him as well—but we’ll find out shortly. And until we know, I'll let you live. As far as I can tell, you're the one he holds sacred in his life right now—if he's capable of holding anything as such. So I brought you here to see just what sort of man he is. If you are sacred to him, he will come to find you. And then I will kill you right in front of him, so he will know how I feel."

Yukishiro Enishi

[izztreme-art-n-stuff]

I drew Super Why’s SRBA second style a lot, yet I haven't drawn Princess Presto’s second style at all, so I might as well do it now since Imma be drawing Princess Presto for the next few weeks.

Super Readers' Biggest Adventure and the Divine Retribution form belong to @iheartgod175

[greekmythcomix]

I was today years old when I realised that Alkinoos (‘mighty mind’) and Antinoos (‘contrary mind’) are Xenia opposites in the Odyssey 😳😳😳