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ceilidho · 4 months

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exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up.

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too.

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him.

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon.

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death.

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world.

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege.

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning.

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house.

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow.

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather.

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar.

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since.

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt.

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest.

He turns down the street leading to his house.

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty.

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar.

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away.

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear.

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him.

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet.

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this.

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought.

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months.

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought.

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right.

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark.

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table.

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries.

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes.

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat.

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache.

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?”

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road.

Still, he asks.

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain.

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable.

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly.

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?”

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin.

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason.

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him.

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together.

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right.

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny.

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems.

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise.

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet.

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing,

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?”

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation.

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit.

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else.

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off.

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.”

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself.

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

#ceil writing #joe bear graves #six (2017)#joe graves #six #big bear

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northgazaupdates · 2 months

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13 February 2024

Journalist Wadea Abu Alsaoud documents the obliteration of southern Al-Rimal in Gaza City. Previously a beautiful and vibrant area with lovely homes and thriving businesses, the IOF has completely destroyed much of it. Instagram user faridaek provides a full English translation:

"Witness the scale of destruction in this area following the withdrawal of Israeli occupation tanks. The area has been completely destroyed, as you can see. We stand amidst a catastrophe zone where everything-trees, people, and stones-has been obliterated. Not a single house or tower was spared by the occupation's missiles and shells; the area has suffered immense destruction. Nothing here has escaped the reach of the Zionist enemy's missiles and attacks. The homes have been extensively burned and destroyed. We're now in the Southern Rimal area of the Gaza Strip, once among the most prestigious locales and considered the capital of Gaza, now severely damaged. The occupying forces' tanks have left no stone unturned destroying everything. This scenes speaks to the occupation's crimes, brutality, and arrogance towards civilians and their homes in Gaza. These were homes of ordinary people: doctors, professors, engineers, and many who had no ties to the resistance. The destruction here is severe.

Not a single house remains intact—this area is now a disaster zone and completely burnt. I am recording this footage hours after the Israeli tanks's withdrawal. You can support us by sharing these videos and our accounts so the world can see the extent of their brutality and injustice. All we ask for is for you to share our videos so they can reach everyone, in hopes of awakening the world's conscience after 127 days.

Source: Wadea Abu Alsaoud on Instagram

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A post shared by وديع ابو السعود (@wadeaa_.9)

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incorrectrotgquotes · 9 months

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The Guardians will not be intimidated.

North

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mrskokushibo · 1 year

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Beg !!!

Kokushibo x Fem!Reader one shot

NSFW I 18+ I MDNI I

Synopsis: Upper Moon One is your lover and you wronged him.... He is angry and you deserve what is coming to you... Are you scared yet?

Warning: This whole scenario is a smut. Violence. Anal. Oral. Penetration. Dom!Kokushibo. Blood (only a little bit). Orgasm denial. Rough sex as punishment. Yandere. Biting. Degradation. Begging. Forced submission. Very explicit content, so beware or.... enjoy.

Word count: 1702

This fic has a sequel now: Forgiveness

Masterlist

Image Source: Ufotable/Crunchyroll

Footsteps echoed in the large hallway. It was him. In just a moment he would enter the chamber. You longed for him, craved him. The knot in your underbelly was now pressing unbearably, all you wanted was to feel his thick length inside you.

But today was different, there was also the terrible lump in your throat, fighting for your attention. What you did was wrong, so terribly wrong… But then again, Kokushibo promised to be back within a week. Weeks went by with no news other than the occasional report that came to Muzan, passed on to you.

And then there was the party, to welcome the young, new upper moon. He was tall with the most perfect physique. His hair was long and almost white and then those sparkling eyes….in all colours of the rainbow. His charisma and charm were overwhelming. In such stark contrast to the dirt, he whispered in your ear by the end of the evening. You could not resist, could anyone? If it was not so wrong it would have been worth it, he was beyond experienced too. The memory of the things he did to you made you blush even now, even though the fear of your approaching lover was gripping you in an ever-tightening vice.

Kokushibo entered the room, without a word put aside his katana, and walked up to you, his eyes glaring at you with a look you have never seen before. You should have fallen to the ground, begged for forgiveness, and apologise, but as silly and stunned as you were, you simply stood up and smiled awkwardly.

``Welcome back, Kokushibo-sama´´.

You felt so uneasy and stupid, but it was now too late to correct this behaviour. Because without uttering a word, he grabbed you by the back of your neck, claws digging into the delicate skin, and pushed you down to the ground, until you were where you should have been from the start: on your knees.

His lip twitched slightly and he bared his fangs in a condescending grin.

``You betrayed me, whore. I thought you were better than to fuck around while I am away. You will pay for this and by the end of it you will be begging me to stop´´.

The look in his eyes was growing more and more terrifying. There was lust, but also something cold and cruel, you only saw this once before… when he was fighting his enemies. A shiver ran down your spine.

`´Is he really going to kill me? ´´ you thought.

Sure, he spared the young upper moon, but only because Muzan intervened. The youngster was obviously valuable to him. This angered Kokushibo even more than your betrayal. But why would he spare you? You were replaceable, only made his lover because of your looks and charm. He could have anyone he pleased… He could now smell your fear, it surged through his senses like a powerful stimulant, it was awakening his aggression and sending it to new heightened levels.

``Do you think I am going to kill you, hm? That would be too easy on you. I still want you around to please me. So no, I shall spare your life, but after tonight you will learn your place´´.

In complete silence, he untied his hakama and revealed his enormous member, already erect, with precum dripping down the shaft. Normally, you would start your usual routine of sucking and licking, but this time you did not even have time to react before his hand twisted your hair in a tight grip and yanked your head forward toward his cock.

``Open your mouth´´ he commanded in a voice so hoarse and deep that despite the overwhelming fear, you felt your juices run down your thigh.

Like a puppet you obeyed and with one brutal move, he shoved the entire length of his cock into your throat. He groaned and started pumping at a relentless tempo. His spare hand was now gripping your throat, while the other was holding a firm grip on the back of your head with your hair tied around his thick wrist. You could barely breathe now, being basically on the verge of fainting. You were seeing stars but for all the wrong reasons. Eventually, you felt his cock grow and within seconds he came deep inside your throat, his orgasm accompanied by a powerful thrust. He kept on pumping, letting all his seed come out properly until pulling out. You slumped on the ground like a ragdoll. Spit and semen dropped out of your ruined mouth.

Without a word, he grabbed you under one of your arms and dragged you to the futon. With ease, possessing such unearthly strength, he tossed you onto the mattress. You were now on your back with him towering over you. With one quick move, he ripped your clothes off exposing your naked body to the beast that he was quickly turning into.

He then removed his kimono. As always, you gasped at the sight of his magnificent, perfectly toned strong body. His black hair clinging to his sweaty chest in unruly locks.

His long, sinewy, and clawed fingers started to trace your folds, spreading them and rubbing slightly. You were wet and needy. A moan left your lips when he parted your folds fully and pressed one of his fingers against your clit. His movement was lewd and lazy. He positioned himself between your legs and in an unkind manner kicked them to the side to make more room for himself. Once again, without a warning, he thrust his cock inside you with one quick move. This time it was your cunt he started abusing. The initial pain quickly dissipated into indescribable pleasure as his full length and girth were hitting all the right spots. Your moans were growing louder, but just as you were nearing your release, he pulled out.

``Do you think I am here to please you, bitch? Do you?´´

He almost hissed into your ear, his weight crushing you under him and leaving you gasping for air. His lips traced down your neck, bared fangs grazing along, leaving marks.

He raised himself up to hover over you and his eyes grew darker. He grinned as he lifted himself off you completely, he was now kneeling between your legs. Very quickly, his huge arms, wrapped around your ass and waist flipped you on your belly. He moved closer to you spreading your legs with his rough hips and thighs. You were aching to come, to make love to him, to feel pleasure, but you did not even dare to think the thought anymore.

``Please, Master, I am so sorry, I really did not mean…´´.

You could not finish your sentence because a large hand firmly covered your mouth.

``Shut up! You will speak when I tell you to speak´´ he growled.

He was now rubbing his hard cock on your folds, only to coat himself with your juices. Once he thought the lubrication was sufficient (for him, but not for you), he stretched your ass with one hand and positioned the tip of his cock on your asshole.

You were truly terrified, `` he would not, would he? `` Sure, the two of you had the occasional anal sex, but he was always gentle, there was sufficient foreplay and extra lubricant. But this? This meant one thing: pain. And the pain you would receive; because as roughly as he handled your mouth and cunt, he now did the same to your ass.

The scream that left your lips was animalistic to say the least. The pain was agonising, but your reaction only seemed to arouse him even more. He leaned down over you and sank his sharp fangs into your back, drawing blood. He was thrusting at a fast and brutal tempo, the rhythmic sound of skin slapping against skin reminded more of a satanic chant than lovemaking.

The force of his thrusts was sending you forward as you tried to hold on to the sheets as best as you could. At this point, tears were rolling down your cheeks and you felt like you were sinking into a dark haze of pain and hopelessness, but also, as sick as it was:....lust.... After what felt like an eternity, he finally released himself in you. Maybe this was finally the end of it, of the punishment.. Maybe now you would get to ease your pent up desire.... But no.

He was now sitting on the futon, his legs spread, his cock already semi erect and his scarred chest glistening with sweat, all the while you were curled up on your side, marked and destroyed. The sheets were stained with cum and blood. But he didn´t let you rest.

His powerful arms pulled you up to a kneeling position in front of him. He gripped your face and moved his close to yours. He was about to kiss you, that would be a relief. But then.. you looked into his eyes and realised, that the cold and cruel fire was still there. So indeed, he kissed you, but this was not a kiss of affection, it was the kiss of possessive power. His long demon tongue was deep in your throat, suffocating you and making you gag. His fangs bit your lip. He pulled away and looked at you.

``Now you will beg me for mercy, for forgiveness. You deserve everything that I am choosing to do to you.´´

He tightened his grip on you.

``So now, slut: BEG! ´´

His deep voice was teasing your insides, stirring up fear and arousal all the same.

`` I am so sorry, Master. I have been stupid, ungrateful. I know that I do not deserve your mercy, but I beg you to stop the punishment, to stop my suffering. I will do anything. Please Master, I beg you for your mercy``.

The look in his eyes softened slightly, the cold rage subsiding, but the savage lust-filled darkness was still there, merciless and wild.

`` I accept your apology, but I´m afraid that there is only one way for you to make your apology mean something``

With one powerful movement, using only one of his arms, he shoved your head into his lap, once again growling his command

``open your mouth´´

and once again he shoved his now fully erect cock into your mouth.

``I am only getting started with you, this will be your lesson to not ever wrong me like this again´´.

And the night was only young…

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This is my very first o/c fanfic. I scribbled it down while working on a longer story.. I hope this wasn't too violent 😅.. My main o/c project is more fluff/nsfw with a very romantic Koku 😍 and I can't wait to share it with you soon 😊.

Thank you guys for inspiring me to start writing fanfiction. I am a writer, but this realm is new to me:

@muzanswaifu @muzansfangs @paintoreos @kokusfluffyhair @fuckkyourlife @koku-shibou @nakimex @dahliamalfoy97 @adoriable @xxsabitoxx @doumadono @ask-the-upper-moons @dudeandduchess @angelltheninth @sunsblaze

Reblogs and feedback are welcome!

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ohnoitstbskyen · 5 months

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thoughts on the syndra redesign that just dropped?? including old vs new splash arts!! :D

It's just a splash art refresh, so I wouldn't get too excited - Syndra's been well overdue for one of those for a while now.

It's fairly conservative as a redesign for that reason - mostly just it pulls back on the sexualization of Syndra (which her story has never supported anyway so that's a decent move), and... it gives her a face. Syndra's old splash has a very indistinct face that's mostly smudged out in the shadow of her helmet, but here we get a much more visible set of facial features which has the benefit of making her a lot more identifiable.

Much in the same way that Syndra's story doesn't really support sexualization, though, I would argue that it also doesn't really support immaculate makeup, perfect nails, high-end Dark Queen fashion and flawless smooth skin.

Syndra is a rage-driven, traumatized, magical explosion machine, who spent literal centuries sleeping imprisoned in a pool of magic water and upon awakening tore a mountain out of the ground and flew off to live alone on it, because she fundamentally does not want to be around people. She hates them, they are the source of her pain.

But she's designed to look like a cool, calculated, scheming Evil Sorceress who lives all day in a big opulent castle, sending servants into the world to do her dark bidding while reclining in a bed attended by captured slaves. There's a disconnect there - the design is trying to communicate a rather different character than how she's actually written.

Personally I'd like to see a Syndra who is wild and maybe a little bit feral, or hermit-like, an isolated lonely misanthrope who lashes out against others and uses her power to control and dominate her environment and others by sheer force and power rather than by any form of subtle manipulation or social intimidation. Less cool, calculated Maleficent evil queen self-control, more Carrie, more unstoppable force of nature.

There's this unexamined Default™ priority with female characters in League of Legends to make them look cool, beautiful and glamorous, regardless of whether that's what their story or concept actually invites, and I think it occludes a bunch of more interesting and unique design options. Syndra is an example of that.

Like, the best design Ahri's ever had was in the Ruined King game, where they leaned into her feral and animalistic nature, to better tell the story of how she's struggling between her desire to be human and her Vastayan instinct to feed and hunt

It didn't desexualize her or make her not beautiful in any way, but it did, at least, allow for something other than the immaculately composed not-a-hair-out-of-place silky smooth Default™ beauty that dominates her League of Legends incarnation to be a part of her visual storytelling, and I think she was a lot better for it.

I wouldn't mind if Syndra got that treatment as well.

#league of legends #syndra #ahri #ruined king

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prickly-paprikash · 5 months

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Something cool about Blue Eye Samurai is how sex is juxtaposed with the end-goals.

I really love how our three protagonists are all obsessed. And that obsession defines them, torments them, and are subsequently reborn through their obsessions.

Mizu, of course, is obsessed with the concept of revenge. It's not even about getting even or getting justice as some might use to justify the bloody road taken—it is simply about seeking satisfaction for Mizu. She cuts a bloody swathe across Japan because of what the Four White Devils did to her mother and herself. She does not concern herself with the ramifications of her wrath but merely charges forward, leaving behind a trail of viscera and gore behind her.

Like I said before, her vengeance and obsession with satisfaction is not painted by the show as wrong. It is how she allows it to affect others along the path. It's why the episode with Madame Kaji is so enlightening; Mizu should not tackle this quest as a vengeful revenant; an onryō. She has let the world define her as a monstrosity and so she embraced it, when Swordfather and Madame Kaji knew what the correct path was to satiate her need for vengeance. Treat her sword as the Artisan's tool it truly is. Treat her body the way an Artist would treat their canvas.

Madame Kaji and Swordfather are both outcasts, for being a woman and a blind man. Yet they found strength in their exclusion, becoming single-minded in their fields of art. Because sex is art and swordsmithing is art. It's what makes Mizu's body writing scene so fucking good.

Artistic vision becomes stagnant when one pulls from only one source. They become rigid and unbending when Mizu, like her namesake, must be fluid. She has shown fluidity in her use of her gender and her morals, but cannot apply that same flexibility towards her goal. Throughout season one, she was becoming an uninspired artist, merely painting the world in hues of scarlet. In a world that forces Women to be either Wives or Whores, Mizu chose to be a Warrior—but a warrior fights for a cause, whether it be just or otherwise. A soldier fights in an army. Mizu is neither of these things. She is an Artist first and foremost, and her medium is Death. Sex, something Mizu was at first hesitant before her failed marriage, and something she actively avoided afterwards, is what gives her a new perspective. Like an Illustrator studying life to better draw their intended worlds, taking inspiration from wherever one can find it.

Taigen and Akemi are also equally affected by the artistry of sex, as befitting of Mizu's fellow protagonists.

Akemi is quite obviously Mizu's narrative foil. Mizu chases after revenge like a bloodhound whereas Akemi longs for freedom like a bird in a cage. Both are fierce women who are unsatisfied with their lot in life, with their sex and gender being used against them in their lives. Literally, the episode "The Tale of the Ronin and the Bride" is a fucking triple entendre:

Mizu is the Ronin as well as the Bride.

The play showcases the tale of the Ronin and the Bride.

It is also Mizu as the Ronin and Akemi as the Bride.

And when Mizu finds her center as she melts down her blade and engages in body writing, this scene of enlightenment is juxtaposed with Akemi laying with her new husband Takayoshi. Both, in this moment, are taking control of their lives through sex. They are both taking control of their futures through the ways Madame Kaji taught them. Mizu and Akemi are both rebels against this oppressive society, and are both talented artists with their body. Whether that be sex, politicking, or ass-kicking.

Taigen, like the two women before, finds freedom through it but in a more subtle manner.

Where Mizu and Akemi are narrative foils, both using sex as a form of art and escape, Taigen finds liberation through his awakening.

Like the closeted bisexual man he is, he begins his journey of self-realization when he first encounters Mizu at the Dojo.

Every single battle these two have is purposefully rife with sexual tension. All his life, Taigen has been taught that a man must live with honor. That he must take control of his life and his identity, or he will have failed and that he is better off dead than to live with such shame.

Taigen is just as much a victim of the Patriarchal society around him. Mizu rails against it violently. Akemi seeks to run away from it all. And Taigen, with the privilege given to him by his manhood, chooses to become a perpetrator, enabling the vicious wheel of society to keep moving forward.

His obsession with honor leads him to hunting down and even protecting Mizu. Mizu is no doubt the better warrior, but even she knows she owes so much to Taigen. The blockhead not only did everything to protect her in the valley, but also sealed his lips shut even under the duress of torture. His obsession with honor becomes an obsession with Mizu.

His regrets over tormenting her over her looks and ethnicity as a child. His shame in having lost so decisively in his own dojo. Taigen was a man born with nothing and climbed up to the top with every advantage he could muster, and suddenly it's all ripped away by this one vengeful spirit passing by.

Taigen learns to surrender control around Mizu. He begins to discover his own sexuality and purpose around Mizu, redefining what honor really means to him now that he, as a man, has a budding attraction towards the man who beat him.

Mizu's Vengeance. Akemi's Freedom. Taigen's Honor. In all three, Sex becomes a catalyst in redefining what each of these concepts truly mean to them all. It's not just sex of course, but it is undeniable how the writers keep juxtaposing sexual acts and thoughts with massive character moments.

It changes how Mizu chases after her Vengeance. It recontextualizes how Akemi can be Free. It showcases the absurdity of the Honor forced upon Taigen.

It's so fucking refreshing seeing Sex not used as fanservice or shoe-horned in just to further a stale, poorly written cis-heterosexual romance; but used as a plot point that cannot be ignored. An impetus that fuels the narrative.

Moving forward, I'm curious as to how sex will be used.

The next few ideas aren't as sound or organized because I'm neither Asexual nor Genderfluid, so please if anyone reads this who understands it better, feel free to point it out.

I think it'd be cool if Mizu met the inverse of Madame Kaji. A person who is apathetic to sex. Sure, Swordfather has shades of this, but I'm tired of the person with disabilities also being on the Asexual spectrum. And I'm not saying that Ace or Graysexual people with disabilities don't exist! But they always tend to be written as having some form of disability (Varys from ASOIAF) or a Robot.

Just as artists need a variety of sources to pull inspiration from, I hope in the next seasons we get to see different perspectives on sex and gender. In London, it feels like Mizu finding the other half of herself, and with that having a better way of tackling her own identity. Whether it be gender, sex, combat, etc.

Basically what this inane rambling amounts to is that Blue Eye Samurai tackles sex and violence and revenge and obsession in ways that most media has yet to truly do. So that was pretty cool.

#blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai spoilers #blue eye samurai season 2 #mizu #mizu blue eye samurai #akemi #taigen #metal #media analysis #character analysis #blue eye samurai meta #netflix are cowards for not announcing season 2 immediately #come on dickheads #the fans and the creators have been fighting for the green light #hand it over #you cocks #paprikash ramblings

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