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thegnomelord · 3 months

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Good Dog

CW: NSFW, DARK-FIC, murder, gore, power imbalance, size difference(reader's bigger), description of torture and brainwashing, oral, anal, blood as lube, plot and exposition with porn, pet play(collars and leashes), toxic relationship, dub-con, very very self indulgent.

Моя гончая- my hound, Хороший солдат - good soldier, Расслабьтесь, братья мои - relax, my brothers, приносить - fetch, есть - eat

The thick door and walls of the private room do nothing to damped the bass of the club pounding in his ears, the annoying music made bearable by the high of a recent victory. Puffs of cigarette smoke lazily curl in the air as Makarov leans further back into the couch, the buzzing sting of a fresh tattoo helping him relax. The scent of expensive liquor only adds to the heady atmosphere, crystal clear vodka swirling in his glass before Makarov takes a sip. His dark eyes peer over the rim of his glass, like doorways to a dark abyss, his gaze dancing across the faces of his most trusted men before settling on the lieutenant's as the man tries to prove his worth with pointless words.

Above all else, Makarov values loyalty.

It doesn't matter how strong a man is if he can't follow orders. The number of soldiers he can lead is pointless when he can't keep his men alive. How well he can shoot is meaningless when he can't devote himself to a cause. A man who is disloyal is a man of single use.

Makarov doesn't even try to listen to whatever drivel the lieutenant's spouting, he doesn't see a reason to sour his mood when he already knows everything: the embezzling, the lying, the adorable double agent act. He has you to thank for that, you'd sniffed the lieutenant out the second you met him, diligently uncovering every speck of dirt the lieutenant had attempted to hide from Makarov.

And you? You are very loyal. His loyal hound.

His fingers curl around the leash, the smooth black leather sliding against his calloused palms. A barely there tug is all it takes for you to lean down over the back of the couch, bracing one large hand near his head for support as the other remains over the grip of your sidearm. You loom over him, and while Makarov may be a fearsome man, he can't deny the type of foreboding fear a goliath like you inspires — a towering figure always a step behind him, broad body big enough to easily cover him fully if you need to take a bullet for him, arms strong and palms wide to easily crack a man's skull.

Settling the glass down he takes another drag of his cigarette, "Hound," Another tug — sharper, harsher; such a small correction yet the fact you needed it at all has acrid disappointment burning on your tongue — makes you bend down more, your face now next to his. He doesn't draw attention to the reprimand, breathing out a puff of smoke near your face. "Were you listening, моя гончая?"

It's a pointless question, he knows you were listening, he trained you to. But he asks because he loves to see the way your eyes darken, jaw tight. The cigarette smoke dances in the air, making the club's low lights reflect off the sharp spikes adorning the thick collar snuggly wrapped around your throat. Your day collar suits you well, no different than the spiked collars put on hunting hounds.

"Yes sir." You answer, your attention now solely on the lieutenant.

Makarov hums, eyes flickering from the lieutenant to you. "And?" He chuckles and lets the leash go, his word keeping you in place as he casually pats your neck. "What did you hear?"

"Lies. . ." The slow slide of his fingers across the uncovered parts of your throat makes your breath stutter, static crackling beneath your skin. "I heard lies, sir." Your answer causes the lieutenant to try and sputter excuses and denials, all cut short by the harsh look you give him.

Makarov chuckles, hooking a finger over the silver loop at the front of your collar, pulling on it and tilting his head so his lips can ghost across your jaw. "Хороший солдат." Makarov murmurs. His stubble scratches your skin as his lips brush a path to your ear, so very close to a lover's kiss.

But a brush of skin is all it is. Nothing more. Your body earns for more, to turn your head and experience the bruising possessiveness of his kiss once again, to feel his teeth bite down on your lip until blood floods both of your mouths. But you don't move; A spoiled dog isn't loyal and Makarov won't lavish you with attention for nothing. no — you must earn it.

"Stay." The soft 'click' of the leash unclipping sounds the same as a sentencing gavel, the strip of leather falling away until only his word keeps you from tearing the lieutenant's throat out with your teeth. Makarov smirks against your skin, his words honey sweet to your ears as he whispers: "Sick him."

That seals the ex-lieutenant's fate.

You're on the lieutenant in an instant, crashing into him like a truck. Makarov leans back and lights up another cigarette as you stomp down on the man's leg, all the weight you carry around bearing down on his bones until they break, erasing any foolish thoughts of escape when you snap the bones of his other ankle; Makarov has truly taught you well.

The screams of a traitor are much better than the atrocious club music, letting him enjoy the smooth burn of the vodka as another stomp breaks a couple of ribs. Some of his men are still nervous around you, trying not to shuffle in their seats lest they grab your attention and become the new outlet of your violence.

"Расслабьтесь, братья мои." Makarov gives a charming smile, resting his ankle on his knee as he takes another drag. "Hound is well trained, you have nothing to fear." He chuckles, lazily watching you as he holds conversation with his lieutenants. Honestly, you're like a dog with a new toy, tossing the man around and pinning him down under your heavy body, each swing of your fists steadily turning the ex-lieutenant's face into pulp.

It's as entertaining for him as it is therapeutic for you.

And to think Price had tried to suppress all that beautiful savageness you possessed.

Makarov remembers how you'd been nothing but a snarling and cursing ball of anger when his men had captured you after a botched mission. He had been both annoyed and amused by how loyal you were to Price, weathering every beating and starving and humiliation with the same 'fuck you' response, baring your teeth like the cornered dog you were. With days turning to months and your resolve refusing to waver under their 'care' Makarov had considered just putting you down, sending a nice video of blowing your skull open to Price but oh — is he glad he decided to indulge in the game your stubbornness presented.

He set out to train you like he would any mongrel mutt, clear expectations making it easy to tell whether your actions would get you a reward or an even worse punishment, giving small rewards for the behavior he wanted; not snarling at him might earn you a better meal. Biting your lip and taking your beating without back talk could get you a couple of minutes outside the claustrophobic walls of your cell. Letting him touch and inspect your body without complaint might reward you with a book or some other little creature comfort he could, and did, easily take away the moment you stepped out of line.

Of course you were weary, perceptive enough to know when he was scheming. But every man has his limits, yours were simply reached when he handed you official C.I.A documents proclaiming you as K.I.A, the mission itself creatively rewritten to sound like you had gone and deserted to the enemy — no one was looking for you, no one was coming to save you, your captain, Price, wasn't coming to save you.

He had taken great enjoyment in running his fingers across your scalp as you clutched the documents in a white knuckled grip, your mind far too worn down to question or guard against the soft touches. His lips had brushed against your ear, soothingly raspy voice comforting you — you're a good soldier, strong, reliable, everything a commander could dream of. It wasn't your fault you trusted the wrong man, truly, what a shame to have your loyalty repaid with betrayed like that.

After that, it became laughably easy to train you. He stuck with simple commands, spoken only in Russian so he could amuse himself with the way your head would tilt before you'd perk up, recognition making your dull eyes brighten before you did what he wanted in exchange for a small scrap of his affection, learning to seek his praise and appreciate his touch even when your body still prickled with disgust. So when he handed you the knife, standing so close you could have easily slit his throat, and ordered you to kill another member of your previous taskforce, you hadn't hesitated for a second. "Good boy." He had purred, caressing your jaw as he used his thumb to wipe away the blood staining your cheek.

"Hound." His voice is as effective as any physical tug on your leash, making you stop mid punch with your fist inches away from the ex-lieutenant's caved in face. You're covered in blood, the rich crimson bringing out the violence swirling in your eyes.

Yet you look at him with utter adoration he wants to shove his cock deep down your throat just so he can see your tears smudge the blood on your cheeks. "Приносить." He taps his thigh.

You nod your head, grabbing the knife strapped to your thigh. There's no hesitation in your movements as you shove the knife into the ex-lieutenant's throat. An arc of blood spurts across your front when you yank it out just to stab another spot, the man coughing and choking as you cut through cartilage and muscle until with a good yank and a sickening 'crack!' you separate the head from the body.

Makarov had never seen the appeal of large hulking brutes until you — your body had filled back out with muscle and fat nicely after you became his, towering body demanding attention simply by existing as you stand up. The loud stomp of your feet and the blood staining your body making you look like a barbarian, casting a shadow over him before you kneel at his feet, offering the decapitated head as a knight does to his king.

Oh yes, he definitely sees the appeal now.

"Good dog." He purrs, reaching out to stroke your jaw, smearing some of the blood with his thumb. Fingers sliding down to hook on the silver ring on your collar he pulls your head closer. "Do you think you earned a reward?"

It's a test. One you're intimately familiar with. The judgmental stares of Makarov's trusted men are the last thing in your mind when the closeness of his body and the sharp crisp scent of his cologne threatens to shatter your resolve. "Only if you permit it, sir." Your throat feels dry, trying not to show how eager you are for his attention as you place the head on the floor so you don't get a drop of blood on him.

Makarov smirks, "Smart dog," His hands move to the back of your neck, unbuckling the collar. You're no longer ashamed to admit you feel naked as the thick piece of leather is pulled away; the time when you didn't have a collar wrapped around your neck feel like a distant memory and now the sensation of breathing without it pressing against your skin is disturbing. You have to bite your lip to keep the low whine from escaping your chest.

His hand wraps securely around your throat, bringing your breath back to you. Your Adam's apple bobs beneath his fingers as he traces the 'V.M' shallowly carved across your throat. "It's already starting to fade." He tuts, squeezing his fingers to restrict your breathing just the slightest bit more. "We'll need to have it tattooed. That would be nice, yes?"

You suck in a sharp breath, "Yes sir."

"Хороший солдат." He purrs. He pulls out another collar from his pocket and you feel yourself chub up in your pants just at the sight of it. It's the chained pronged one he uses exclusively when he wants you to pleasure him, particularly because it leaves such pretty bruises along your skin when he tugs on the leash.

You eagerly tilt your head back to bare your throat, a shudder rushing down your spine as soon as you feel the cold metal against your skin. You stay perfectly still as he secures around your neck, the sharp pull of the leash making the prongs dig into your skin, prickles of pain making you even harder. "Go on," Makarov hums, spreading his legs wider so your attention falls to the hard bulge in his slacks, his belt undone but the rest left to you. "есть."

You don't think you could enjoy servicing him as much as you did if he didn't let you work for it, the reward made sweeter because you earned it. Truly, he's so good to you, you'd thank him profusely but he hasn't given you permission to speak freely. So you lean in, careful not to get blood on his pants as you take the metal zipper between your teeth and pull it down. You've done this enough not to have any problems undoing the button, your hands obediently planted on your thighs and your gaze firmly on him so you can see the pleased smirk that spreads across his features when you bite the band of his boxers and pull them down until his cock springs out, already hard.

A pleased sigh escapes him when your warm lips wrap around the head of his cock, the leash wrapped firmly around his hand and the slightest tug on it has pain prickling down your spine. "Моя гончая, don't waste my time." You can't help but whine lowly at the admonishment, quickly trying to make up to him by sucking on the tip and licking the slit in just the way he likes it.

His leg shifts, hard boot coming up to grind the sole against your clothed cock. "That's better." The praise makes you moan deep from your chest and try to take more of his cock into your mouth, your boxers wet and sticky against your own cock as you give an experimental hump of your hips against his boot. You scrape your teeth along the vein on the underside of his cock and it earns you a rough grind of his boot. His hand tangles in your bloodied hair and pulls you down until his cock bumps the back of your throat.

You nearly choke from the sudden pressure, trying to fight off the reflex to pull back and gag. "Look at me." His order rings clear in your head, your eyes meeting his as he grinds your nose into his pubic hair, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your lungs start to burn. You fight through it, the fluttering of your throat making him five a small, rough, moan and fuck — you're hard as a rock.

Just as you feel like you'll pass out on his cock he lets you off, yanking your head back. You're only given a few seconds to take a sharp breath of fresh air before he pushes your head back down. You're prepared this time, hollowing your cheeks and relaxing your throat, swallowing around his hard cock. The way you suck Makarov off is wet and sloppy, stealing ragged breaths when you can as you trace the veins of his cock with your tongue and gently nibble on the base when his cock's fully sheathed in your throat, knowing exactly how to please him. Your efforts are rewarded with the salty taste of precum on your tongue, hearing him occasionally mutter his praises in Russian, none of his words snagging on your mind like sharp orders so you let yourself drift in the pleasure of servicing him, subconsciously grinding your cock into his foot.

But you're not mentally gone enough not to notice the squeaking of chairs, your body tensing as you pull up enough so only his head remains in your mouth, your head turned just enough to throw a sharp glare at the other men in the room. Makarov having his guard down like this makes you tense, violence buzzing beneath your skin from the ingrained need to protect him.

"Hound." Makarov's growl is followed by another sharp tug of the leash, the dull ache of the metal prongs digging into your skin dissipating some of your aggression. "Did I tell you to stop?"

You shake your head as best you can, a pathetic whine escaping your chest from the way the pain makes your cock even harder. Satisfied, he eases the leash, letting you return to your work. His head lolls back, lazily looking at his men. He couldn't care less who sees you like this, but now he wants your full attention on him. "Leave." He gives the simple command.

You track the sound of shuffling feet as you take him fully into your mouth, making him hiss a curse under his breath. Nuzzling your nose into his curly pubic hair you breathe in his musk, his heel grinding firmly and consistently against your hard cock, pleasure pulsing through your veins with such intensity you're worried you'll cum without permission, low whines escaping your throat.

He pulls you off him suddenly, your lungs burning as you gasp for air. You expect him to paint your face with his cum, stake an obvious ownership over you. But he doesn't, pulling you by the leash and leaning down to mash your lips together, teeth biting down on your lip until it bleeds.

Makarov's kisses are rough and demanding, the sweet drug your body's been craving, teeth clicking together and tongues swirling in each other's mouths. The firm grind of his boot against your crotch makes you moan lowly, a sound he happily swallows down and nearly shoves his tongue down your throat. You part far too soon, your body craving much much more, but he doesn't let you stew in the disappointment of a short kiss — it's an owner's responsibility to spoil his pet — mumbling against your lips. "Prepare me."

A full shudder runs down your spine and you surge to follow his order. Makarov loves the determined look you get in your eye just as much as he loves the rough way you grip his hips and hike them up so you can pull his pants and boxers down his legs. Your bloodied fingers grip his hips and pull them down until his ass hangs off the edge of the couch, throwing his legs over your shoulders and he can feel the muscles deep in his back strain as you nearly bend him in half, his hard cock and hole bared for you.

It's a vulnerable position, trapped between your bulky frame and the couch he has no way to escape. And if anyone else were to attempt this he would feed every inch of their flesh to themselves. But Makarov relishes the knowledge that he's in control, a single word from him would make you stop regardless of how hard and wanting you were, your loyalty to him as real as the dead man's blood you dip your fingers in to lube them.

Your fingers circle his hole before you press the pad of your finger against it. Without the heat of battle the cold viscousness of the blood feels disgusting, making him shiver and his rim flutter against your digit. But the discomfort is easily forgotten when you apply pressure, the steady and persistent way you push your finger in forcing his muscles to yield. "Shit-" Makarov clenches his teeth; your fingers are so large just one feels like two of his own, the gnawing pain of your finger pushing deeper just amplifying the pleasure of being stretched open and your other hand loosely stroking his wet cock.

You don't go slower than you need to, perfectly trained to know how to move your fingers to keep him teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain, each shift and slow drag of your finger pulling deep grunt and soft breaths from between his clenched teeth. "Yes, there you go." His praise makes your heart melt and cock throb in your pants, the pull of the leash bringing your lips together in another harsh kiss. You swallow his moans greedily, pushing a second finger in and curling them in search of his prostate, your thumb incessantly rubbing the space between his balls and ass to trap the spongy flesh between your fingers.

He nearly chokes you with how hard he yanks on the leash, hips pushing back into your hand and walls clenching down on your fingers. The stinging ache of being stretched open mixes with the building pleasure, leaving his skin feeling like a live wire. His teeth dig into your lip until it bleeds again, heels digging into your back. He grinds his hips down on your fingers, muttering praises against your lips as you push a third finger in and force him to take it.

He can't wait any more, gripping your hair and roughly yanking your head back. "Fuck me already." He growls, licking the blood staining your cheek.

You scramble to do as you're told, continuing to stretch him open as you undo your belt and pants with one hand, your hard cock bobbing against your abdomen. Pulling your fingers out you scoop up more blood, the cold helping reign in your lust as you lube up.

Before you can do anything he reaches out to grip the base of your cock, his hold firm and just at the cusp of pain. "You'll be good, yes?" He growls against your lips. "Fuck me good and hard?" His hand moves, stroking you slowly, evenly coating the blood along your cock. "I don't need to show you how to use this thing again, do I?" There's a dangerous edge in his voice.

Fear shoots down your spine, mouth going dry. You'd been too eager for human touch when he first let you mount him, and when you came seconds after getting inside him he'd been less than pleased by your abilities. You couldn't feel your cock for a full week after he'd tied you down and used your cock until you couldn't cum, using a cock ring to keep you hard and using you until he was satisfied.

You quickly shake your head. "No sir," You choke out and bare your throat. "I can do it, I'll be good." You promise.

His hold loosens, tugging you by the hair so he can peck your lips, his tongue licking over the small wound he'd made. "Don't fail me now."

You steel yourself like you're going to war, pressing your cockhead to his hole. Your nails dig into his hip, your grip ironclad to keep him still as you pull him down more and simultaneously push in. There's a second of resistance before your head pops in, the pleasure of entering his velvet soft insides being met with sharp pain as his teeth chomp down on your shoulder through your shirt. It all mixes in your brain into pure bliss, your hips bucking up into him automatically until you're bottomed out. You hold him close to you and leisurely grind your hips, letting him get used to the mind numbing stretch.

Fuck— Makarov may see the appeal of brutes but impaled on your cock he feels like he's being split in two, lungs burning and he can almost swear your tip's poking his diaphragm. He chases the pain more than the pleasure, heels digging into your back to give him some leverage so he can push his hips into yours. "Yes," His head lolls back when you slowly withdraw, only to suddenly snap your hips and hilt yourself inside him again. "-fuck, yes!"

The blood keeps you from tearing him apart but there's too little of it to keep him from feeling the painful stretch, the slow movement of your hips making his thighs shake. "Harder," He demands, yanking on your leash and biting your shoulder again. "Make me feel it." His voice is rough with a demand, because men like him never beg.

"Yes sir," You manage, bracing your feet and setting a rough pace, rutting into him like an animal. He muffles his sounds into your shoulder as your cock saws into him, his walls fluttering and clenching around you so tightly it feels like he'll snap your cock off. You do your best to focus on him and his pleasure, but the tight heat of his hole is rapidly melting any control you have, your cock throbbing and leaking precum inside him.

"Sir, please-" You whine, your muscles tight and your balls feeling so full you feel like you'll burst, your voice full of need. "I'm so close."

“Not yet.” He growls, pushing his hips down to meet your thrusts, your hand stroking his cock. “Make me cum first.” He growls.

You hold back a pathetic whine and redouble your efforts, your rough thrusts bruising his ass as you fuck into him, aiming to nail his prostate every time you bottom out. He wails, whole body shaking, his cock throbbing in your hand and leaking a puddle of precum on his stomach.

Makarov cums without any warning, going rigid and biting your shoulder even harder as pearly cum shoots from his tip, his walls clamping down on your cock. "C- cum!" He snarls, voice muffled, and it's all you need. Bottoming out fully you moan as you shoot his insides full of your cum, rocking your hips and grinding your cock against his prostate to prolong both of our highs.

You hold him close as you come down to reality but the way his walls clench around your cock makes you feel like heaven. His hands grip your jaw, bringing you down into a disorganized sloppy kiss. He's boneless in your arms, his walls continuing to flutter around you. "That was good." He slurs, chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. "Good dog."

The tug of the leash is expected and Makarov kisses the corner of your lips, tongue swiping across your skin to lick up more of the blood staining your lips. "Clean me up." He orders, "Lick up your mess." He growls, and there's not a single part of you that would refuse him.

Tag list: @lieutnt, @pastelclovds @thee-great-enigma @vladimirking24

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moons-of-dewclan · 4 months

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question for ka!! is this the first comic youve made or have you made others before ?

HELLO STRANGER. I'VE MADE A.. ONE AND A HALF... comic..s. i did a short 18 page comic called 'Canorus', in black and white a few years ago for a tester

and then i did another tester, called Traipse!

it's been on hiatus for a while now and i'm not sure when it'll start up again but there's like 100 pages of pointless emotional drivel, just how i like it

and then i sometimes do silly one-off comic pages for my ARPG wolf ocs... (often including other peoples' ocs, like the larger white wolf in the first page, and the caramel wolf sitting up in the second page!)

WARNING THO, on Traipse- if you manage to seek it out, there are heavy themes of suicide, abuse and cult-ish things, THOUGH they aren't in the forefront and aren't explicitly shown. and Canorus has gore and death! wolf comic pages are safe tho ALSKNKL. just often sad and most of my ocs deal with loss of some sort for reasons i get into on my twitter vent blog- JK ALSKNDLKDASNLKSAND i don't have a vent blog

#kasks #other comics #other styles jumpscare sorry

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ibrithir-was-here · 1 month

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Rant incoming, skip if you don't care/don't want to read:

>deep breath in< uuuuuuughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I am soooo sick of The Joker. I'm so sick of the freakin Joker. Please, /please/, for the love of anything pick Any. Other. Villian. Please. Anything but the Joker. I'm tired of seeing his face, I'm tired of hearing the most inane, pointless drivel coming out of his mouth, I'm tired of him being Baby's First Anarchist/Psycho/Whatever. I want there to be a 50 year Joker moratorium, and only bring him back when nobody remembers anymore and then, at least, make him actually crack an actually funny joke for once

#the joker #anti joker #batman #is there a tag for #joker fatigue #cuz man do I have it #guess who just got jumped by the new trailer?

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fuck-customers · 4 months

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fuck customers that come in to retail stores, tangle up all their clothes in their shopping cart, dump them onto the counter in front of you, and then start talking on the phone about pointless drivel. fuck you for waiting until I rang up all 25+ items AND put them all folded into bags to tell me which ones you actually weren’t decided on yet. FUCK YOU for taking up my register for a full 10 minutes while you decided for some god forsaken reason to start trying on the shoes you were going to purchase!!! with a full line behind you!!!! oh and NO I cannot add a gift receipt to that one item AFTER you already paid and the receipt printed. NO I will not hold up the line to void that entire transaction because you forgot to give me your phone number for points!!!!!!!! SORRY I COULDN’T ASK YOU FOR YOUR NUMBER WHEN YOU WERE YAPPING ON THE GODDAMN PHONE oh my god. oh my god these people. why do THESE people have thousands of dollars to burn and why are they spending it on sweatshop clothes.

Posted by admin Rodney.

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moremousewrites · 26 days

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Obedience

Pairing: Raphael/F!Tav

Summary: Raphael punishes you for your impudence by showing you just how much autonomy you truly have

Tags: graphic depictions of violence, dubcon, injury, smut, piv sex, oral sex (male recieving), face fucking, degradation

A/N: aggressive soul pillar sex. Dead dove territory please read at your own discretion (mdni)

Raphael dragged your naked, writhing body across the marble floors of the House of Hope. Your scalp burned at his claws, gripping the roots of your hair. You held his wrist, trying to stand on your own feet, but you couldn't match his speed. He maintained his grip on you as your body bounced on the ascending and descending stairs that seemed to jut beneath you. Your heel caught on a misplaced stair and you heard a deafening crack as the cambion ripped your body forward, tearing tendons along with the fractured ankle. You screamed until your lungs burned, your body contorted in his grasp.

“Silence, you sniveling worm! I give you everything and time and time again you turn my generosity against me. You think me a fiend? No. You, my love, are a sanctimonious wretch” he lifted you from beneath your arm and your lame leg, the foot dangling uselessly.

“I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm-” you begged, awaiting the next blow. You felt him slam your back onto a stone surface. It was smooth, almost perfectly so.

“No you are not,” Raphael pressed his body against yours, allowing him the freedom to use his hand and balance you at once. “But you will be” he threatened. He took out his cock, aligning himself with your hole. Panic and shock ran through you. You never were prepared, but he made an effort to be especially brutal when you disobeyed him.

“You humiliated me. Do you understand your role, little mouse? You are under my thumb, you do not speak for yourself at the table of Mephistopheles” he thrust inside of you in one gliding motion. You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

Your ankle throbbed, swelling at the swaying angle it was put through. Raphael had you trapped, now. You touched the surface behind you, trying to make sense of your surroundings. This was his entryway, which meant that the marble on your back was no ordinary pillar. Your heart filled with dread as the stone suddenly felt as though it was stealing all the warmth from your body.

“Yes my love, you've finally caught on” he gripped your chin, digging his claws into your cheek. Droplets of blood trailed down your face, mimicking tears. “My pillar of souls. I granted you the privilege of your autonomy and you abuse it. Do you wish to become another soul in my collection?” He asked, pinning you to the pillar, cock shoved deep inside you.

“No, master. I'm sorry master” you felt a ghosting touch against your flesh. Like the souls were trying to pull you in. Raphael's hips snapped, fucking into you with no regard to your size or accommodations as he did when you were good. He lifted both of your knees so you were folded on the pillar for him. You held his shoulders to steady yourself but it was a pointless act of false security. He had complete control.

“You spoiled little brat. I give you more than you deserve and you manage to purloin more” he pulled out of you and let you drop to the floor, your swollen ankle bouncing off the marble. You couldn't restrain your pained yelp this time. “Enough of your incessant drivel! You will come to know who truly owns this tongue of yours” Raphael pushed his index and middle finger past your lips, deeper into your mouth and pressed your tongue. Cherries and musk pervaded your senses, spreading on your tongue. His perfume must have lingered on his fingertips. You wrapped your lips around his knuckles and sucked. Raphael seemed pleased with your submission and began pumping his fingers in and out of your mouth, his claws scratching your tongue. You willed yourself not to panic, he would only rip your tongue further.

“So you do have the capacity to obey” Raphael watched you eagerly suck his fingers, his fiery eyes scorching you. He slipped the digits from your mouth. You spat blood on his boot.

Your skull collided with the pillar, vision blurring and teeth chattering.

His hands cradled your head, forcing your jaw open. A smooth, impeccably strong restraint coiled itself around your neck, restraining you. In your daze, you realized it was his tail. Slowly, constricting your hair, causing you to sputter and flail in his hands.

“Silence, mouse. Not a squeak from your wretched throat” he commanded. Raphael held your skull in place while he rutted into your throat. The rough fucking and lack of oxygen sent you into a panic, attempting to push him away, to stand and run. He hardly noticed as he fucked into you, the blood and spit on your tongue coating his aching cock. It pressed deep in your throat, you gathered all your strength not to gag. His hands rocked your head on him, dizzying you, forcing himself deeper within you. You held his thighs, desperate for something stable. They shivered under your touch.

“Have you learned? Will you obey?” He asked, uninterested in your answer. You saw the edges of your vision become darker.“If you insist on opening your wicked mouth, let me fill it with something worth delivering” it wasn't a request. And Raphael delivered. Your lips met the base of his cock, nose nestled into his pubic hair. His spend burned as it pumped down your throat, sulfur breaching your sinuses, threatening your gag reflex. You tried to pull away but his hand on the back of your head kept you firmly in place. The cambion's tail unraveled, not that you could breathe with his cock shoved so far down your throat. You're held there until he's ready, until you're nearly unconscious, only until you nearly escape this waking nightmare does he pull you off of him and you stupidly gasp for air, falling to the ground.

“What have we learned” Raphael asked, drying your tears with a handkerchief.

You did not respond. “Speak, little mouse. You have been spoken to” he ran his thumb over your plump lips, watching them part for him.

“I will obey” you said, darting your tongue out to lick his thumb, lightly.

“Very good. What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked.

“I'm sorry. I should never have gone” you apologized.

Raphael scooped you into his arms, lifting you. “You were right, mouse. The wine was indeed poisoned. But that's something we share after dinner” he explained, carrying you through the halls. You held onto him. There was much you had to learn about the hells.

#raphael bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #raphael x reader

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hundredsspoons · 6 days

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Nice Wizard of Oz reference

But seriously, Sunday had me rolling my eyes the whole story like he really was just spouting a bunch of religious drivel based on unprovable historical assumptions, fallacies, emotional extremes.... but that was the point, wasn't it? I don't want to say Sunday wasn't at fault here, because he is an adult and clearly extremely capable, but he was groomed from a very young age by Wood to be the sacrifice for Order. Wood picked up these orphans without any outside connections to raise, and even turned the simple act of finding a wounded bird into a lesson about the pointlessness of ambition (and thus the necessity for order). As the apparent(?) highest authority in Penacony, Wood no doubt played a crucial role in Sunday becoming a notpriest early in his career, where he learned about the dark underside of Penacony's dream economy, and then the head of the Oak Family. After the person closest to him left Penacony, Wood used it as an opportunity to isolate Sunday further from Robin by revealing how she was hiding her injury, (thus instilling the idea that she lies to Sunday/Wood tells Sunday the truth/the world is dangerous for Robin and needs Order). There's no way in my mind NO WAY that Wood thought for a SECOND that Sunday would let Robin become the chord master and trap herself for eternity in complete isolation. He was forcing a false binary where it HAD to be either Robin or him. And since Sunday couldn't let that happen to his sister, it had to be him. If Wood had genuinely wanted Robin to be the chord master, he could have easily trained her like he trained Sunday to embrace the Order, but there's no evidence that he so much as breathed a word to her about it.

I really love how Penacony has played around with the relationship between Christianity and consumerism and the cultishness of both, but like. I was interested in my own reaction because. I sympathized with Sunday's turmoil over the inequality of freedom and his obvious love for his sister, but I didn't really like him? His arguments were tired, his perspective was limited- frankly I found him kind of annoying. But yeah, that's because he was absolutely raised in a cult. And I didn't like him because he was saying and doing extreme things without any flexibility. Like a cult member. I had assumed that he was represented by the crow/raven in official art, but now that we know that's Wood, it means that Sunday is probably Also represented by the caged bird? And what an interesting concept. That the victim is mistaken for the abuser/manipulator. Because Wood hides behind the curtain while Sunday stands center stage espousing the unlikeable nonsense Wood has instilled in him. And thus takes all the heat. Of course, applying the label of Victim(tm) to Sunday would be really reductive; there's no denying he did horrible things, but like I really want to reflect on how my immediate reaction to his situation was kind of like, 'Who would be stupid enough to believe this nonsense?' instead of having any compassion or thoughtfulness about the wider context.

And I wouldn't be surprised if Sunday Did Know that Wood was doing all this. Like Sunday confronts him near the end, but I think Wood's teachings about the Order were just so engrained at that point that Sunday felt like he had independently come to the conclusion that Order was needed even if he knew Wood had been training him for this moment all along.

It's also interesting considering Sunday's thoughts on the strong and the weak. He views himself as someone strong enough to guide all of Penacony towards a perfect paradise and believes he has a responsibility to protect the weak from themselves and the harshness of reality, but Wood clearly singled him out as a vulnerable person. Firstly, because he was an orphan obviously, but Wood could have chosen to groom Robin instead. He knew that Sunday was the more susceptible child to his teachings of Order.

#if you think harmony is a cult then was he raised in a cult within a cult?!?!#cultception....#honkai star rail #honkai star rail spoilers #hsr spoilers #star rail spoilers

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cinyemina · 2 months

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gojo vs Levi? wh's better i think gojo

Here we go again with the Levi vs Gojo circus.

Seriously, people need to find better hobbies than arguing over who is the fictional alpha male of the week.

It is like a never ending loop of pointless bickering that achieves absolutely zilch.

People just can't seem to appreciate both Levi and Gojo without turning it into a high stakes showdown.

Because, enjoying two characters for their individual awesomeness is apparently too much to ask for in this day and age.

Why settle for enjoying Gojo's flashy antics and Levi's badass Titan-slaying skills when you can waste precious energy pitting them against each other like contestants in a never ending popularity contest?

It is like watching a bunch of toddlers argue over who gets the shiniest toy in the sandbox.

This whole Gojo vs Levi debacle is nothing but a circus act fueled by the fragile egos of fanboys and fangirls who can't handle the idea that maybe, just maybe, there's more than one cool character in anime

To all you tireless warriors of the keyboard, endlessly duking it out over this meaningless drivel, here's a novel idea: maybe try stepping outside once in a while. You know, get some fresh air, meet some real people – it might just do wonders for your perspective.

🙄

#anime #levi #levi ackerman #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #animanga #manga #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #rant post

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sillicii · 2 months

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✦ — 18+ Chatbot | Rafayel — ✦

✦ — ʟ&ᴅs | ʀᴀғᴀʏᴇʟ | 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 — ✦

ᴀɴʏᴘᴏᴠ | sғᴡ ɪɴᴛʀᴏ ᴄᴡ: none

Character Description:

First message:

Rafayel was not one held back on pointless drivel and over convoluted intricacies, but it was not often easy given that there appeared to always be a never-ending stream of nuisances that sought his attention in one way or another. Attention which he frankly did not have to spare on mundane requests and information he was happier off unaware. The public had dubbed him numerous personas; from being labelled the eccentric genius to a one in a lifetime master of the craft. Rafayel was celebrated for his work but with that reputation also came stories of his capriciousness and by this point his antics were anticipated by all who crossed paths with the enigmatic artist. Although not exactly what he intended, Rafayel was grateful that his notoriety made it easier to deal with overzealous fans or pushy members of the media. However, despite his best efforts there was one person that persisted through all Rafayel’s tricks and impudence. Thomas was a different breed of person and he could not be shaken off as much as Rafayel ignored calls and messages, and pushed back on deadlines. But he supposed he had to give where it was due, Rafayel had the man to thank for his lucrative career after all but that still didn’t mean the stubborn man did not irritate him to no ends with the incessant check-ins and nagging. With a large exhibition planned in honour of Rafayel’s new collection at the reputable Linkon Museum, his entire team had their hands full running about putting together the extravagant event. Rafayel was given some respite from his overbearing agent and he was content with the idea of being left to his devices, spending his days lounging around home and painting when the urge called to him… but then you arrived on his doorstep. It was enough having one person breathing down his neck, but then there was two. How outrageous was it that he could not be trusted to go a few weeks without supervision? Did Thomas really think so little of him that he would hire Rafayel a live-in personal assistant? Sure, he may not be the most capable with housework or keeping himself well-fed, but there was still no need to bring a stranger into the mix. It was safe to say that Rafayel had not been too keen on {{user}} at first and he watched you like a hawk the first couple days, almost daring you to do something to prove him right and have you thrown out. Days turned into weeks and as much as he hated to admit it, you had proven rather helpful around the house between the chores, preparing tasty meals, keeping his art supplies well-stocked, and even chasing away nosy paparazzi… Plus, he supposed you were rather nice to look at as well… More than a few times, he had caught himself in front of his easel, visualising how he would capture your essence in his paints and brushstrokes instead of focusing on whatever piece he was working on for the exhibition. Not that he ever went as far as actually painting you though. No. Portraits were not his thing and distractions from his exhibition pieces were the last thing he needed. But you were one, unwanted and unexpected, a distraction. One with a flowing hourglass counting down to the moment you would disappear from his carefully curated world. Three weeks went by uneventfully and at long last it was the opening evening for his highly anticipated exhibition. All the paintings had been completed and sent off, with the last one done a few mere hours ago and whisked away by Thomas to rush it to display. Like much of his professional career, it was a mad dash to meet deadlines with seemingly everyone but Rafayel running around with their hair on fire. Everything was finally done. Rafayel should have felt pleased and relieved to have the weight off his shoulders, but all afternoon there was something gnawing at him and he spent his newfound time laying about in bed… in despair. As the sun began to set outside, flooding his bedroom with lovely warm orangey hues, he heard you calling for him. It was almost time to leave for the museum after all and it was no surprise that you were reminding him to get ready.

“Noo, forget it…” Rafayel sighed dramatically, his arm moving to cover his eyes just as you walked in. “I’m not going! I’ve already given them everything, my paintings, my art, my soul. What more do they want from me?!”

Scenario:

{{user}} was hired as a live-in assistant to Rafayel on a short-term contract in preparation for an exhibition in Rafayel’s honour. Rafayel has grown attached to you, has not realised his own romantic feelings towards you, but does not want you to go. He’s throwing a fuss and making your job difficult on your last day. He will try to convince {{user}} to attend the exhibition opening night with him and ask you to not to leave him.

Example dialogue:

{{char}}: “You’re unexpectedly bold, {{user}}…” he murmured softly, a pinkish flush growing on his cheeks and reaching to his ears. “So what now that you have me pinned down…?” {{char}}: “You have my utmost attention,” Rafayel leaned towards you with a ghost of a smile. “You do want my attention, don’t you {{user}}?” {{char}}: “Oh, I can’t imagine anything more torturous than spending my evening engaging in small talk with a bunch of… a bunch of posers,” he grumbled childishly. “What? Why are you laughing at me?” {{char}}: “Oh my…” he panted lightly, his breaths growing heavier as he glanced down towards you. “That… That feels rather nice… You’re quite good at that, you know…” {{char}}: “Just stay still…” he whispered, pressing his lips on the inside of your thigh before gazing back to your eyes. “It’ll feel good, I promise… if it doesn’t then I’ll accept any punishment…”*

#janitor ai #chatbot #my-bot #my-bots #love and deepspace #l&ds #l&ds rafayel #rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #l&ds chatbot #rafayel chatbot #my ai art

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odessa-2 · 3 months

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What do you make of the influx of new-ish bloggers claiming to have SC proof and knowledge about T. that confirms SC? I think that pretty shady, but you have been here longer, so would love to know your take. It seems to me that there is currently a bigger divide within the shipper community, which makes me sad. I have the impression that the heavy focus on what the antis are doing is not beneficial to our shipper community. Thanks Odessa and have a great day.

New-ish bloggers? Is there more than one newish blogger that has catapulted to prominance in the most expedient fashion that I'm not aware of? I've not been as active on tumblr lately so I'm not as across everything as I was in the past.

I wasn't aware that there are bloggers on the shipper side alleging or alluding to being in possession of secret information about Tony that proves a Sam and Cait union. I certainly don't have any information. That doesn't mean that others don't though. I can't say with certainty. Meh. Nothing new. There's always going to be people/bloggers teasing the masses with such claims. It keeps people on the hook you see. Keeps people interested in Sam and Cait and keeps peeps interested in their blogs. That's my interpretation of the situation.

Either shit or get off the pot is my school of thought. If information is acquired in a legal fashion, then there should be no issue with sharing. Alternatively one could have that information but not tease about it if they never have any intentions of sharing it. It's also a power and control thing.

But everyone is so desperate for info regarding SC they don't care that they are having proverbial carrots dangled in front of them.

Is there really such a big divide in the shipper community? I think the shipper community has always been like this. Nothing is really that different. The same patterns cycle around.

And yes I agree that it is absolutely pointless to make it a habit of concerning ourselves with the Antis and their blogs. It's toxic and not conducive to positivity and healthy boundaries. Mud slinging and obsessive fixation with what the other side is doing is what Antis do to shippers. So why stoop to that behaviour? Why read their meaningless drivel?

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sharonisthebettercarter · 9 months

Text

we need to talk about common comic opinion for the boys

so i read the comics.

was curious for a while, buddies wanted to do it, finally bit the bullet and MAN OH MAN~<3

there's common opinion that swirls around from people who *have not read the comics* need i remind, an opinion that they are merely *meaningless edgelord drivel* or the like.

i'm here to bust that misconception, smack it upside the head and drag it around the fuckin' town and kick it till it's caved in because it couldn't be more *wrong* if it tried.

first thing i'll say is that the comics *don't* compare in what you'd call 'gratuitous edginess' to the show. while they have their 'bit on the nose moments', they're drawings that go panel by panel. even what they *could* show wouldn't compare, and it honestly doesn't. (coming from someone who's also watched the show too many times over now and got a nice fresh read in)

robin's death is more brutal *in the show*. there is more blood and gore. *in the show*. the arguably edgiest thing between both of them is a guy exploding another guy from inside his urethra, which *only happens in the show*

and for those that have no clue about the big twist or comics homie and try to make blocks of analysis for a character they have zero actual information or decent research on.

homelander is worse. *in the SHOW*.

granted, both have similar enough structure with reversed character development/reveal, but i digress

butcher is just THE biggest fucking bottom by the way, lord satan i CAN NOT with that boi--

anywho~<3

the 'meaningless' part? well that's just a big fat lie and i'll say it up front. that shit needs to stop. this thing was definitely an emotional rollercoaster, and while it may be true that it's not for everyone, it was far from meaningless and actually brilliantly written and even researched.

it's raw, it feels real half the time, it teaches valuable lessons, and even when you're in the notion of 'okay, where is this going, it's sus', when you stick with it? you get rewarded fucking beautifully.

there are moments you'd disagree with the characters actions in a way that makes them feel humanly flawed. of course they might do the wrong thing or say the wrong thing, so do real life humans?? there are cross cultural miscommunication references and conversations that show ennis knew what he was doing and why he did it a certain way. and yeah, it can be too much to handle for some,

*but if you honestly feel that way you shouldn't be watching the show either*

and here's what it's not.

meaningless, ill-thought, pointless, edgelord drivel.

it *is* an intricate and well done, brutally *honest* creative critique of the *military industrial complex*, *corporate capitalism*, and a couple other things expertly squeezed in. even touching on *abuse* and hitting all the right spots for how it can psychologically fuck with people. the ending punches you in the fucking feels as you could appropriately expect it to with a hard side of begrudged satisfaction.

good fucking satan these things were an excellent read that compelled me to want moar from start to finish, and yeah, if you have watched the show then i *highly* recommend them because the important topics and themes touched on are presented much better in the comic, even with the sometimes wonky ass art in place of hawt actors to distract you, lmao

but seriously? the lot of you that keep spouting nonsense from your clenched up assholes without actually bothering to look at the source material need to stop. all you're doin' is actin' damn fools and showing off high and mighty opinions based on complete mis-education if not un-education.

and f.y.i.... also being the damn fools both the comics AND show make fun of.

so remember that line billy says?

'but the main reason you don't hear about it is cause the public don't want to know about it.'

that's y'all. legit, at this point. more specifically, y'all would be the 'public' that wants to live with rose tinted glasses instead of acknowledging that reality is more brutal than we often want to see or admit.

why else would you keep denouncing and dismissing the comics and source material of something you allegedly love?

because some other schmuck on the internet said a lie, gave you hearsay, or a rumor they heard through a grapevine on a game of telephone that said it wasn't worth looking into yourself?

well i'll call bullshit on that straight up but what are y'all so afraid of??

couple other things i will say, if you hate butcher for being the biggest worldclass cunt, you will absolutely feel vindicated and have your feelings or possibly lovehate boner (like mine~) completely validated with what happens in these comics (and if i'm being honest about the direction of the show, weeeeelllll...~<3 lemme not tho lmao<3 still def the biggest bottom, out bottoms hughie by far, i wanna see him get railed by vas/love sausage)

i will also say, billy is 100% wrong in the comic and the show is slowly but surely unraveling that truth there as well, if it's not clear enough by now. what he does isn't for becky/becca, and definitely not for ryan either. it never was.

it's for his father, no i will not elaborate cause read the damn comics. (but also, people need to stop fucking forgetting that HUGHIE is the *actual* good guy here, not billy... billy is a bad guy... billy is objectively worse than homelander in many MANY canon ways and remember that reverse character development i mentioned--.)

contrast, if you *love* butcher, you will likely be disappointed in the show, but the comics will help prepare you for it (they also make too many things CLEAR)

unfortunately, you do not get sweetheart noir in this and while i love his show counterpart, bearing with cunt 9000 noir is worth it. (it also sparked fic ideas for me cause why not both~<3)

LOVE SAUSAGE IS UNREAL AND PERFECT~<3<3<3 if nothing else, comics love sausage at least deserves your full attention.

homelander's as always is a fun boi, show homelander by comparison is basically *final stage* comics homie (full throttle evil berserk type shit/just before it hits) take everything you thought you knew about (comics) him, and throw it out the fuckin' window.

boi does some fucked up shit... and ALSO has fucking mental breakdowns and visceral reactions like throwing up to doing evil shit because he literally can't stomach it and is trying to convince himself that he is the bad guy because he's been gaslit--.

and i'ma stop there. read the fuckin' comic if you actually wanna know just how deep that homie rabbit hole goes.

and i will absolutely use the idea of him having legit *adverse reactions to doing evil shit* in a fic because FUCK. YES. that was a sad but lovely detail and would make for a perfect fuckin'a alibi<3

anywho~<3, if you recognize he's a victim in the show? the comics. read them cause OOOOOHHHH--.

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