ravneski

https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravneski/works

[thedragontemple]

Spyro, let me tell you another story.

[ravneski]

I can't be the only one who thinks the Doctor quoting from Philip Larkin's An Arundel Tomb is a reference to Amy and Rory, right? Moffat loves his intertextuality, after all.

[ravneski]

Desecration

Kokushibo x Fem!Reader

They take what they can't have and bathe in the sacrilege.

this has also been uploaded to ao3 (kudos and comments there would be appreciated <3) link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46981597

warnings: smut, cunnilingus, fingering, menstrual sex, dubcon nearing the second half of the fic, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, religious imagery, sexual violence, strangling/choking, fisting

word count: 5.4k

Fate was a cruel thing.

Dragging her eyes from the floor, she cursed herself for not staying alert, for not paying attention to which room she had mindlessly entered. The Upper Moon One’s aura pervaded, thick as well-trained metal. She stared and he stared back, six eyes unreadable but nostrils flared, shark in water detecting what slicked her fukusa.

“One day.”

Since she had started bleeding. She tensed. “What of it?”

“It will… be painful.” Kokushibo’s golden gaze bored into her.

“There are worse pains,” she dismissed, face blank. She made to turn.

“Are you going to Doma?”

She graced him a near unnoticeable nod.

“Will you… spread your legs for him?”

Centimetres away from him in a flash too quick to be perceived, her veins frosted. “Doma tells me you opened your own for Daki.”

Their gazes swept one another, rising and falling as the moon did, but nothing as renewing as moonlight enveloped either. “Mourning her?” she drawled.

“I utilised her for… what her job dictated she do…”

Her upper lip curled in disdain.

“And you,” Kokushibo continued, knuckles white from the clasp on his sword’s tsuka, “are no different… from me. Go… to your whore.”

She laughed at that, but the mirth was dry sand, rigid as though hardened by unremitting waves. “Doma isn’t my whore.”

“Then what… is he? Your lover?” he replied, derisiveness worn like armour.

“You tell me,” she said after a moment, gathering herself. “You know his body as well as I, do you not, fornicator?”

A vein throbbed at the side of his neck. “You never hesitated… to run to me when you were bleeding… yet now you spare… time for aimless ambling…”

“Say what you mean.”

Even in the gentle light of the Infinity Castle, Kokushibo was but a shadow. The dark side of the sun, she thought. He knew only his shadows, and she found herself drawn to be engulfed by the same fate. His expression held solemnity it was never without, but by now she saw the veneer. As he inched closer, the fractures in his mask seemed ardent.

“Can Doma not taste… your flow?” he asked, interest sincere. “The one that follows the moon’s cycle… is it beyond his reach?”

“He likens it to wisteria,” she admitted, reluctant as she was, “and talks of the mere touch burning him.”

“One man’s bane… is another man’s ichor.” The suggestion in his voice rang sharper than any demon slayer’s blade. She made up for his mishap, his nerve to close their distance and his barely veiled want, by widening the space between them again.

“It’ll be such ichor to him if I allow him to draw blood from my womb,” she pointed out.

“Will you?”

“Will our lord let me?”

“Mutinous thing,” sneered Kokushibo. “When have you cared… for our lord’s boundaries and laws?”

“No more than you.”

His hand, wrapped around his sword’s tsuka, twitched. “I remain constant.”

“Then leave.”

After a second of hesitation, one he tried with fervour to conceal but seeped through to his countenance, the constriction of his pupils and the scorch in his irises, Kokushibo stayed where he was. “You bleed heavier than… last time,” he noted. 

“Do you observe through your Transparent World every time I shed?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand… I smell it. It permeates.”

And he was the only one who could detect her moonblood. Besides herself, and their master, but Kibutsuji Muzan was swamped in more crimson than she could ever spill.

She pivoted, but Kokushibo grabbed her wrist, iron and impetuous. “He’s angry,” she said as her excuse to leave, searching the old samurai’s face. “The boy who bears your brother’s mark and wears your brother’s earrings is making mincemeat of the lesser Moons.”

The mention of his twin left him cold. “That person will… not miss you,” he wagered. “You have time spare.”

He melded, still, to her wrist, unyielding; the shock of his skin pressing hers reignited what she had long assumed abandoned, a stinging ache that rippled between them as waves in storms devastated ships, naked and exposed. Ghosting the pallid paper of her flesh, his nails were a parody of humanity, short and plates plain. Kokushibo coveted what he could not have. For one to receive, one had to give. The human body had to be sacrificed to exceed its feeble limits, its brittle mortality. His façade was flimsy, and with the right amount of force it would shatter and out would come the demon that he had sold his soul to become.

His gaze drifted to her abdomen, which she had clutched in fruitless instinct, before once more locking with her. “Let me,” he said.

It took little time to think over her answer, as much as the sour wrath in her stirred. She acquiesced, and his hands wandered beneath the silk of her clothes.

She was undignified in this bestial position, but Kokushibo lacked the temerity to penetrate her through his cock. She could not bear to meet his face; ignoble though the stance of coitus more ferarum was, it provided sanctity, a way to avoid the intense blaze of those six unblinking eyes. Wooden floor scraped and pricked at her elbows as she used them to support herself. She focused on the crevices of the floorboards, the cracks resembling abysses with their infinite black hollows, wondering how much hot red had rolled into them and festered over the centuries.

Her robes were hoisted up, impudently close to the tender swell of her breasts but secure enough to not reveal them, welcoming him, exposing more than flesh when her heart jumped from the warmth of his invasively close breath. Kokushibo explored her, parting her like petals; when her folds had become so wet she didn’t know, nor wanted to, but his fingers trailed them, tentative as though she were made of glass and he feared breaking her. Sticky with her flow, his digits climbed up to the flushed bud and grazed it with their course tips. Betraying her, her hips gave an involuntary buck.

This was decadence, she mused. For the both of them. They would consume the other in every way but literal, the same way he had. Muzan was a blight impossible to efface and stained them even now.

His tongue skimmed the plush of her inner thighs, scraping at the dark cardinal smearing them. The organ roused an acute jolt from deep inside her as it slid in, blood and arousal mixing and gliding to form an easy lubricant. The electric reaction of her body wasn’t quite arisen from satisfaction, but neither was it spawned from pain; it curled and coiled as an endless serpent, a visceral sensation of a latent guilt and a repressed thrill.

Heat unfurled within her, a spark of life, but it wasn’t enough. Grinding her teeth together, she turned herself around, lying on her back. Their gazes tangled, a flash of resentment shared between them; overwhelming the cramps of her womb convulsed something keener, a wretched desire too close to impalement. She raised her thighs for him anyway, as easily as the gates of hell would open for them both, and let the mongrel feast.

The flat of his tongue pressed against the nub at the top of her sex. Long fingers, svelte and elegant enough that they seemed unfitting for a sword-wielder, moved inside her in a focused rhythm, the squelch of sloughed tissue and blood resonating as her body relaxed, sucking him in deeper. Kokushibo’s tongue carded the lips of her quim, dragging down to near his fingers then slithering back to her clitoris, which rose like the opening flowers under sunlight’s grace. Her hips played and rutted to the tempo he dipped in and out of her with, stomach crawling as much as it flipped as she thought of how he had arrogated her with such facileness. Raking the tatami, she searched for a modicum of anchorage over herself, some dose of stability.

She was pitiful, but so was he, and equally deviant. They were deformed, her kind. Demons were death, but they dreaded finality so. She was no exception. Was that widespread fear, lurking in the caliginous heart of every demon, an innate one? Did each of them know there was no salvation in death for their forsaken souls, but only the expecting flames, searing and everlasting?

Once, she had encountered a god, beautiful and bright and unequalled, and underneath layers of false flesh the scars from the conflict, eternal in their retribution, still burned like the sun. If the fires of hell were real, she had felt their touch already, and her cells had never forgotten it.

They were monsters unspeakably damned. Hideous and acrimonious, most couldn’t give reason for why they continued to live other than base instinct, that primal hunger that gnawed and gnawed, impossible to sate. They were greedy to their finest fibre. It was why they were territorial beasts. Sometimes they mated, the odd few, those who dared, foolish and tainted, but it never lasted. Eventually they cannibalised each other, skewing bones and mangling flesh until there was nothing left. The hunger grew too great, too indomitable. Demons could not kill demons through any other means. She summoned the guts to look down at the one on his knees, submerged betwixt her thighs, lapping at nutrition, lifeblood, that which symbolised renewal and viability, and thought there was something poetic about fucking functioning as death.

“He’ll never find the amaryllis,” for those six eyes saw so much, what others could not; she waited to see who those eyes belonged to, the samurai or his lord. “He—” then she stumbled, his two fingers pressed against a hard edge inside her. Drowned into silence by the waves of venereal indulgence.  

“A woman’s hatred… is a sort of devotion,” mused Kokushibo from between her legs.

She lowered her gaze to him, gripping his dark mane to lift his head away from the hot throb of her cunt, though his fingers stayed encased. Pliable, he made a pretty picture painted in her. “Devoted to you?” she ridiculed.

“To him.” His tone was dull.

“I would rather kneel to Ubuyashiki’s Pillars,” she growled. “Your nonsense is bovine. Hold your tongue.”

“Many of our kind would sacrifice themselves to… see our lord live, but you would… throw away your life to see him die.” When Kokushibo tilted his head, the thick, ropelike tendrils of his hair swayed, midnight black percolating into glossy crimson. Strands stuck to the viscous gore around his mouth and he pulled them back. “Do you not… think that is a form of devotion?”

Her jaw clenched in indignant ire.

“Your enmity for him will never… be enough for him to kill you.”

“Does this come from one traitor to another?” The gumption of him to look inquisitive, as though he understood nothing, persuaded her to continue, treading on dangerous grounds. “He was your enemy. And I know you became a slayer to imitate your brother, not out of integrity or duty, but did you never once feel the slightest antagonism towards that person? How can you serve a remorseless man who has slaughtered and devoured thousands after once claiming you would put an end to him?”

“Do you revile him for… his carnage?”

Kokushibo was a mess of slick red, a deceitful embodiment of the rivers of Sanzu. Besmirched by her, flaunting thick fluids and stringy sombre clumps, with the gleam of something darkly holy when her blood caught in the fortress’ ochre illumination, but his features were peeled back into a snarl, teeth whetted and splenetic. Claret dressed between them dribbled past his mouth and down the strong, arrogant angle of his jaw; he was too monstrous to be divine, the beast vespers was sung to ward against than to revere, closer to a wolf than a deity as half a dozen eyes narrowed in synchrony and she recalled the time when he had been her sword, and wondered if this blood was of a wound from where he had turned his weapon on her.

“It’s pointless to wage war against a calamity,” she conceded, then groaned as he stroked that spongy bump at the top of her wall in repeated, lazy beckons, the flick of his wrist and the hook of his fingers.

Grotesquely prurient, ichor in the tiny cracks of them, his lips flitted upwards. “Have you… capitulated to him?”

The question gave her pause. Did she submit? After a millennium chained to her lord, she knew she would never be free of him, that his grasp was indefinite and all-consuming, larger than she could fathom. The gods, if any existed, had surely abandoned her long ago, deserted her to his clemency. But Kibutsuji Muzan was not merciful. Cruelty was in his very appellation and thrived in his every word and action; under his dominance, even those who escaped him through his noxious curse perished in agony, humiliating and revolting, when they uttered his name.

“No.” Her finger smudged scarlet as it traced his jaw.

Riled by her answer, Kokushibo tasted the watery flow that clung to his own fingers. “So learn your place,” he chastised. “Besides, where was your… guilt when you feasted on the defenceless child that… carried rare blood in its body, which now… rests in your gut?”

She smiled, despite his nerve. If she was wilful, she was not alone.

“You bleed a constant rage…”

Waning as the moon did, jilted by the inimitable sun, the smile faltered.

“It ebbs and flows… endlessly in your veins. Are you… not weary?”

His bones trembled as her nail lengthened and sliced into his gristle-coated skin, which split with the proficiency of soft carcass under the butcher’s carving knife. Close to his left bottom eye that it seemed like a rose tear trickling, his blood mixed with hers, finer and more lurid. She lifted a rouge fingertip to her lips and gave a languid lick. With the thorn and bristle of marechi, he withered her, but he lacked its lure. She swallowed him, “And you taste of the storm,” and his fury mingled with hers.

Eyes dark, Kokushibo pulled back. “Your contumacy will not… kill you,” he warned, as if he hoped repeating his admonition would cause her to change. Though he was not a man to indulge in delusions.

Her hand snared in his hair. “Then what do I do with this anger?”

“He is your master,” and she loathed the reprimand of his tone, smooth and ugly.

“He is yours,” she corrected, defiant against his caution anyway, claws pricking at his scalp as her lips thinned. “Is there fulfilment for you in being his lapdog?”

“Akaza retains… that responsibility,” he responded dryly.

“Then what are you?”

“His servant.” The kanji in his eyes, indurated sable that whispered of unfaltering centuries of loyalty, fealty cut regal by the blade, gleamed in the flickering flaxen light of the lanterns. So are you, it rebuked.

She shifted, threading his locks between her fingers. “His ever-faithful Upper Moon One. The strongest of his subordinates, staunchly dutiful to our master,” the word was spat, but eased as she continued with a malicious lilt, “spread for him. Taken by him. Ravaged by him.”

Kokushibo’s eyes flashed. “Why does he allow a woman like you… to roam untethered?”

Oozing furrows were dragged out across his roots. “When did questioning that person become your position?”

“I... am his associate.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when he’s wedging his cock down your throat?”

Rivulets of red ran from his scalp where his hair lay matted, his beautiful strands spoiled by the knots they were weaved into. She reached out, a hand around the thick trunk of his neck, and wrenched him forward until their noses were near touching. Releasing its tight grip around his oesophagus, her hand crawled upwards, spiderlike, stopping its pilgrimage at a flame which befouled his pale flesh. The mark stretched from the right of his sharp jaw, down the side of that strong neck to his collarbone, her fingers descending beneath the white rim of his relic kimono. She brought her lips to his ear, fingertips dancing over the crimson crest as she felt his pulse, faster than it ought to be for a being of tenacious stoicism. Against the shell of his ear, as all his eyes shifted right to follow her, she crooned in a whisper, “Samurai-sama.”

Kokushibo turned to stone, scarlet trickling down his chin and splashing her naked calves. Then he recoiled, swift as a blade sheathed, pulse spiking further and noble face hardening. Her gaze dropped to between his legs, to where the carnal ache of him protruded through the obsidian layers of his hakama.

“A woman like you ought to have her tongue cut,” he snapped.

“Well,” as she began to play with herself, Kokushibo traced every movement with captivated attentiveness, the arch of her back, the heave of her breasts under her robes—with his Transparent World her clothing could be no obstacle, but, whether principle or that men like him preferred the notion of undressing those they lay with, unwrapping their prize, he never indulged in perversion of that kind—the glisten of arousal garnishing her, the cruor dripping out to nestle in the creases of her lips, “I’m certainly glad your tongue is intact.”

While he regarded her with contempt under long lashes, the heat of his groin did not dissipate, a rapt need to slide between her. His breaths were heavy, chest she knew was bedecked with fierce muscle rising under the affluent fabric of his clothing. She paused. “Doma…” she started.

The moment that name was out of her mouth, her curiosity, storm’s gale she had never been able to overcome, was assuaged as his expression soured like fruit gone grossly rotten. Nobody in the Moons would pull out the false diviner from under the sun if he were to be struck by it.

Kokushibo rested his chin atop her imbrued mons. “What kind of slut lies with… a man and speaks of another… male she’s bedded?”

“Don’t insult me if you lack virility where your subordinate doesn’t,” she hummed. “At least I’ve never been reamed open by our master. How much honour did you have, mighty swordsman, when he sodomised you against your will?”

Tapered teeth glistened as Kokushibo glowered.

“You’ve always been undeserving of what I gave you.”

“Perhaps, but… our blood still call to each other.”

Such was devastation’s path. In fleeting wonder, she pondered how many had died to their hands over the distorting centuries. “Then you defile me. We are contaminated by the other. We are filth.”

Kokushibo healed, each gash she had carved into him during irascible delectation repaired by regenerating skin, his hair smoothing out the knots from heady red.

“Filth resonates with filth,” she told him as he pushed her to the floor and tore apart the rest of her kimono with insolent dare, for though her womb had quietened it was not yet silent. “Our blood endure a murky stream,” as he left cochineal fingerprints across her breasts, exposed to him as he lowered his lips to one and suckled with neither care nor violence, but with a rhythm that had her racked in a feverish shiver.

“In a just world, I’d see you… swell and distend with… the weight of my seed,” Kokushibo murmured against her teat, flicking his tongue against it and watching it erect. She blanched.

When his fingers entered her this time, they were not kind, but curled with purpose. They buried deep within her, pumped in and out in time to how he toyed with her nipples, one clasped between the serrated ends of his canine teeth and the other caressed by the hand not thrust within her, rolling it as he kneaded the fullness of her breast on his palm. Stuttered breaths seeped from her open mouth as she smarted from him, yearned in earthquake-like shaking, the coil in her stomach tightening as she clenched around him. 

“We bleed sacrilege,” she gasped, and soaked him in her exhilaration.

Sudden warmth ensconced her as he withdrew from her breast, a string of vermilion saliva snapping, and hid his face in the crook of her neck in a jarring imitation of affection, but it came not from the abrupt facet of affinity and nor was it born of the gratification that had just flown through her, a gentle current now turbulent with terror. Her gaze sidled over the steel thew of Kokushibo to the figure in the corner of the small room. His aura was as weak as it had been when their paths had first met, devoid of killing intent or bloodlust. A chilling resemblance to the Upper Moon demon marked him, but he was distinctly human—and distinctly dead, she reminded herself; yet here he was, defying the laws of the universe once again, and that scared her more than those sixty years after coming across him—with his hanafuda earrings and his soft maroon eyes, connecting with her own.

Cold terror dredged upwards like the pull of limbs from seaweed’s shackles, a fear that had never been conquered despite the centuries separating that night and now. Kokushibo took notice of her stiffened limbs, but in his fatalistic arrogance assumed it was his doing and continued rubbing at her clit in concentrated circles, still resting at her neck.

The Sun Breather stepped forward, face resolute in its emptiness. Vacant gaze, hollow expression. In life, he had never smiled, so Kokushibo had told her. She wondered if a person like Tsugikuni Yoriichi had ever had anything to smile about.

“Leave now,” she whispered to the apparition’s brother. “You’ve fulfilled your purpose.”

Kokushibo’s fangs left her neck and he frowned down at her, bemused. “Stay,” he said, moving his hands up to the slope of her shoulders as if in preparation to hold her in place.

“Stay?” Humouring the lingering note in his request.

“Beneath me.”

“Would you have me like that?”

His hakama rustled with his movement, the grind of his hips, the hardness of him taut and desperate to break free as it rubbed against swollen lips hidden under a thatch of raven hair. “How many men have… had that pleasure?”

“Not Doma,” she confessed.

“Not Doma,” he agreed in pride, then, embittered, “feminised by your wiles… Let me take you as… you should be taken. Under me.”

“Will he kill me then?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Yoriichi ventured another step, only a centimetre but enough to make her skin smoulder with memory. No, she would not die. Not to her master’s cells, not to the Sun Breather’s ruby sword. Across a thousand years, a single opportunity had come to her, a scalding escape, but Yoriichi had failed to take her head.

Years upon years later, here she lay, a man aneled in her blood looming over her with hungry eyes and hungrier cock while a universe beyond her comprehension played games with her.

Although the unworldly dimension of the Infinity Castle protected them from day’s influence, she and the other demon suddenly tensed in unison nonetheless. All Kibutsuji’s mutant creations felt the surface of dawn, a knell within the fibre of their bones to warn them of their only predator. It came with a hounding instinct to run, even if one was safe from the sun’s culling reach. To run and run until the blest recitals of matins was inundated with unfolding nightlight.

As daybreak erupted in another realm, Amaterasu’s sacred child faded, though not before his lips opened and moved with the motion of talk. Nothing audible departed from him. Her heart pounded against the confinement of her chest. Kokushibo finally realised she was glaring past him and turned to follow, greeted by a void corner. When he looked back at her, he discovered no one under him and muttered her name beneath a churlish breath.

“What reason have you to remain? Leave,” she repeated, by the fusuma. Sweat mellowed her body, throbbing from the aftermath of multiple climaxes, but a darker heat piqued within her as she scrutinised his ensanguined form, the wet mess of his face and hands. “You won’t send me to the gallows, Kokushibo, but something worse. Go.”

He towered over her in the blink of an eye. “I don’t… understand you. Women—”

“You don’t need to.”

Bold, he outstretched his hand and splayed his palm in the valley between her breasts, feeling the hammer of her heart. “Do not think me cunt-struck,” the fingers there decayed from paramour’s caress to the scuttling perfidy of insect legs, straining for prey as they made way down a breast and sullied it shimmering cardinal. He groped at her, the roughness men didn’t care enough to reign in. Their teeth nipped and nails scratched. Always squeezing and grabbing. “You will not treat me… like one of your whores, disregarded… once I’ve made you come,” and he placed emphasis on those final words, conceit blatant.

Kokushibo was an animal. The closest of the Moons to Kibutsuji in terms of power. It was only natural, in all the unnaturalness of demons, that he should be so mutant and repulsive, so it puzzled her that she found him beautiful. It, she supposed, was the beauty of a thing ethereal, or perhaps transient; a sacrificed animal, immolated by an unknown force. He was the bleeding lamb, the shot and limping cur, that which was so harrowing it could not be turned away from, the morbid fascination that stirred delight in the sickest minds.

Still, as the lamb bolted from the hand that reached to console it, and bodies withered and mortified from the undertaker’s embrace, his beauty spilled into evanescence. Butterfly wings broke when touched. He mouldered and came to fester a violent, disturbing darkness. While she dwelled on this, he made his move. Pushing her down, mounted above her with the full weight of his strapping form, shoving three virulent fingers inside her.

She pelted him with a livid glare. “I’ll defer when that man dies.” For she would not submit now. That went unspoken, but he heard it. Perhaps his samurai teachings to adhere to greater strength was the only reason his cock remained clothed. 

“Do you… crave death so badly?” Covering her body with his own, he slotted a fourth finger in. The delicate lining of her womanhood stung, his nails nicking as they danced inside her.

“Are you killing me?” she mused. Viridian claws slashed at his violet-ebony kimono, finding purchase in his broad shoulders. Mordancy dripped from her tone like how blood trickled down the hard ridges of his torso.

“Death will not give you peace.”

Perhaps it wouldn’t, but this life was far from pleasant. Though she shook her head at him, Kokushibo drove into her with vigour, the scourge of a whip. She shoved at his chest, his moonlight skin sickly pale, but he did not budge and, in some irreligious depth of her where she ached for this, the intemperate madness of sinners who trod the thin line of destruction and endurance, she was glad for it.

“Stop this,” but her words sounded empty to even herself. He didn’t, because he was a man who took what he wanted and obeyed the whims of only one other beside himself. Audacious, apathetic, awful, he inserted his thumb, then pushed the entirety of his fist inside her. A snarl tore from her throat, and his other hand came to close around that. He did not squeeze, but the mere presence of him around her neck was the potent pressure of a noose. Wet slaps rebounded in her ears as he twisted his fist, drawing his knuckles against her. She burned as if ablaze as she stretched to accommodate the violation.

Why was he here? What had he come for beside the sweet, metallic taste of cunt and the clench of red insides? It was something born of a selfish motivation, she figured that. No different or better than her. Though someone of his station should not act on self-serving wants.

Farther Kokushibo breached. To her unease, her body did little to prevent him. “I thought this was altruism?” she hissed.

His thumb pressed against her jugular, some vile punishment for opening her mouth. It marked her with a hue of cerise, an eager bruise blossoming under the skin. “This is not amity.” By the drag of a craven’s fingertips, veneration was rescinded. “It is… contrition. Yours.”

Bellicose blood smeared her, slewed down the inside of her thigh, not her moonblood, but thinner, of a greater, brighter constitution. Venous, drawn from a wounded and maimed creature, dismal and writhing like a worm on a hook. The hardness of her cervix turned friable. There was a knife—or a sword, she thought wryly, and wondered if he would fuck her with his disgusting katana if he could—in her cunt and it stabbed its way to where no foreign intrusion should have. She spasmed, wrenched out the arm of the hand clasping her smarting neck and suddenly they were both bathed in sticky red, tepid as it gushed from Kokushibo’s socket. It reeked. Not of them, but of him, the laden scent of Kibutsuji. Vessels for his violence, clawing at each other like rabid dogs, fuelled by the instinct to tarnish and impair, the need to rip apart with teeth and talons. They were nothing if not that man’s vestigial reflection; as Kokushibo hollowed her out and the sordid point of his nails pricked at the firm, barred organ of her cervix, it was not the samurai that penetrated, but his lord. A maggot burrowing away, carrying a corrosive disease. There was sin in their veins and it ate at them.  

“Warm my bed,” said Kokushibo, too frustrated to be a growl, too stark to be a plead. A demand, one which she spat at him for, all noble airs abandoned. He flinched as if her saliva cauterised. She hoped it did, hoped that his patience was a manacle and not frangible thread. She had seen what monstrosities cultivated within sullied wombs; the devils seized out of broken hellmouths in downpours of black ichor; the thousand deaths endured in pregnancy, in childbed, in motherhood. That was not a desirable end. It was not true death, but something beyond it, worse and unending, and men were baleful enough to inflict it on any wench they deemed deserving.

Depraved in the way ruby tainted rare moons, Kokushibo gouged her in repeated blows, battering the closed pale-pink neck of her uterus. She wept as his cursed touch shed more of her flesh than her own body could. A malevolent torrent of something she couldn’t put a name to raged within the leaking fissures of her. Here, raising a hand that trembled as it pressed his cool cheek, she was close enough to delve out his awful eyes, to slit his neck, to divaricate his limbs. Close enough to devour him.

But she wouldn’t. An insidious weakness.

When she yanked his savage fist out of her, she freed herself of her cage as well as gaoler. Torn from her insides, the pear shape of her womb, hot and rosy, and aperture of her cervix. Arteries and veins fell like tears, burst like shattered mosaic. She threw the poison in her system to the floor, where it soaked the wood with her diseased red, and relished the surprise on his face.

Kokushibo scanned the consecrated blood daubing him, then his gaze scraped her, fibrous sclera and aureate irises glowing, pupils blown. All they were was blood. They rotted with it, congealed and decayed until there was no trace of who they had been, only the stench of who they had slaughtered. They were their victims’ legacies, harbouring so many ghosts.

Crucifying agony dulled with each passing second. Already her body was repairing itself, working against her as it always had, cancer regenerating within her. Kokushibo rose and she stepped back, bare before him like an offering, though she was not sure what virgin oblation she could be when she had already been eaten; she could not consume him when he had consumed her, and from that she knew he was desecration. Vitiated in the spoils of him, she fled to ensconce herself within the umbrage of endless slanting corridors, praying they would guttle her too.

[ravneski]

Can I ask for a oneshot fo Tengen + his wives as they being nice and trying to comfort the young woman who is going to be his forth wife (or already is just not for a long time yet)? Because she is nervous about this whole thing. Like... she likes and loves her new husband (and co-wives too) but she is not imagined her life exactly like this and she still need to get used to it.

TENGEN UZUI + WIVES COMFORTING NEW FOURTH WIFE ONE-SHOT

Nausea clawed at you, your head spinning. Tengen Uzui was... He was many things. Flashy. Flamboyant. He was beautiful and brilliant and the moment you had bumped into him, you had known he was the one.

What you hadn't known was that he had three wives. Would he want another?

Suma was the friendliest. A ray of sunshine, though her own shadow seemed to frighten her sometimes. Makio could be cold and a little sardonic, but you knew she meant well. Hinatsuru was the one you got along with best. She was kind and considerate and although she wasn't Tengen's first wife, she could understand the worries spinning around your head better than anyone.

At first, it had seemed like a dream; the day you had at long last managed to work up the courage and asked—practically begged, much to his good-natured surprise—Tengen to be his fourth wife. With a smile and a warm, jovial chuckle, he had patted your head and agreed with as much nonchalance as though you had just asked him what the weather was like. Since that day, your heart had refused to calm its ecstatic, frantic beat.

Even now, a week after you and Tengen had married, your heart was still leaping in your throat, almost breaking out of your ribcage.

"It's okay, you know. It's fine to be nervous." Hinatsuru's fingers drew shapes on the small of your back. "We all felt like that at first."

"But Tengen-sama loves you deeply, you know!" added Suma, who was knelt on the ground with a comforting hand placed on your knee.

"I know that," you sniffed, biting your lip. "It's just... I thought... I knew this was going to be different from your ordinary marriage, but..."

"But you weren't expecting this?" Makio stood a little distance away, arms crossed, but there was a hint of a smile on her face. "What are your concerns? Don't stress over this. That's what idiots do. You're not an idiot, Y/N."

You lowered your head, feeling embarrassed. The thoughts circulating your brain were one thing, but voicing them? You began to sorely regret bursting into tears ten minutes ago and attracting all this attention. All these women were such fine kunoichi and you... you were just some country bumpkin who had happened to quite literally bump into Tengen in the countryside. How could you ever compare to them?

Hinatsuru slung her arms around your neck. "Whatever worries you have, we're here for you. We'll be with you every step of the way," she coaxed, her voice gentle, slow.

Gratitude swelled in you. "How's it going to work?" you mumbled, pink colouring your cheeks. "I mean, I didn't really think about it but... How does any of this work?"

"It goes however you want to go."

Eyes widening, you stiffened. The new voice was deep, melodic, smooth as marble. It sent electricity running through your veins and a shiver down your spine.

As he sat himself down next to you on the log, his gaze met yours; pools of fuchsia read your very soul, and a wide grin spread across your husband's handsome face. Muscles rippled in his arm as he raised his hand to cup your cheek in a tender manner.

"I don't care about your status. It doesn't matter to me whether or not you're a kunoichi. Even if your life before meeting me was unflashy, that doesn't bother me."

At his touch, his skin so soft, you felt you were on fire, averting your eyes in case you became lost in his mesmerising ones for ever. Hinatsuru rested her chin atop your head, and Makio came closer, hands on hips. She shot you a sly smile; irrepressible emotions burst from your heart, an amalgamation of happiness and anxiety that had salty tears trickling down your cheeks. Tengen wiped at them lovingly, soothing you.

"Don't cry, Y/N! I'm glad you're part of our family now; we all are," enthused Suma, hugging your legs. Her face fell as more tears spilt, heavier and bigger, not understanding they were happy tears. Immediately, guilt coiled around your gut. You hoped she would catch on that you had been touched by her words, because right now the lump in your throat was way too big and your mouth was too dry to speak.

"You guys are the flashiest, most important things in my life, you know," said Tengen, beckoning everyone closer. He outstretched his arms to envelop you all and whispered, "Y/N... You're unbelievably flashy."

As he pressed a delicate kiss to your temple, you knew what he was really saying. He loved you.

All the ill-feelings that had been shaking you like a ship at turbulent sea dissipating, you could say with confidence the feeling was very much mutual. You loved Tengen Uzui, and you were more than elated to be his fourth wife.

[winterswake]

I think it’s going to be a whopper, and I think you might be scared. And however scared you are, Clara, the man you are with right now, the man I hope you are with, believe me, he is more scared than anything you can imagine right now and he needs you. 

 DOCTOR WHO “Deep Breath”

[dailydwgifs]

Doctor and Companions + HUGS | Requested by Anonymous

[christophernolan]

DOCTOR WHO • THE DAY OF THE DOCTOR

[julielilac]

[dailydwgifs]

CLARA OSWALD being a badass™ | Requested by Anonymous

[bloodraven55]

If you ever wondered what it would be like if the She Ra reboot characters had the voices of their 80s counterparts… wonder no more.

Inspired by this incredible video.

[pyroclastic727]

I love how the entire fandom has collectively decided that the 80s She Ra Out Of Context video is the entirety of the old series…nothing else exists except Shadow Weaver saying “hoeee, come out Adora”

[hxh-textposts]

[virginiadre]

Euphemia li Britannia (11th Oct 2000-14th April 2017)

[hanabiis]

[phinkstotallywould]

I remember watching this scene and leaning over to my nephew. I asked him “what the hell is he taking about” literal seconds later, turned killua and I were in agreement.

Like…… what?….. chrollo……

I love you, but what the hell?!……

Did you just say?!

[yourillusoryenvy]

Definitely thought the same thing first time I watched it. But I think it add such depths to the characters of the phantom troupe. It adds to who they are and prevent us from just seeing them as the bad guys. They are not simply able to kill so many people because they don’t know them. It is deeper than that.

Chrollo says that he cannot express it verbally. But he feels it. Deep down he know why he/they are like that. He feels the reason for the action of the Phantom Troupe and why they are able to do what they do without remorse. They are not just monster without regards to human life. They are more than able to recognize value as we have seen them cry over Uvo’s death, seek revenge for Shalnark and Kortopi and even sacrifice themselves to save Chrollo. (RIP Paku.)  Anyway, back on track they are people that were rejected from society, disregarded, treated as though they are worth nothing, their existence never mattering, never truly existing in the world (I mean goddamn it Feitan doesn’t even know is birthday!). They were stripped of things that tell us who we are. They were stripped of a sense of identity and of that deep sense of belonging that every human needs. They have seen a world that turned its back on them when they were mere kids, using their home as a place to dump all the waste the rest of the world. And with that broken sense of identity and a growing anger against the world they sought to find something to fix them. And here is why the Phantom Troupe was created, that is why the survival of the Spider is more important than any member. So the world will remember them somehow, their existence will matter someway. Yet by seeing themselves as part of a whole, rather than whole themselves, they still don’t have a full sense of identity and struggle with the psychological implication (look at Paku debating doing what she herself wants to do – save Chrollo – v. doing what the spider wants her to do – get the all team and go kill the chain user –). Chrollo is just like that. I don’t think that they truly understand themselves. I don’t think he does, and I think that is what he is expressing.

 How can he do that? How can the Spiders slaughter people that have nothing to do with them like that? Because they are not individually doing it, the Spider is. He does not know why he individually does it, he know why the Spider all together do it. For acknowledgment. For a sense of identity. As fuck you to a world that did not care about them, so why should they care?

I think the Phantom Troupe backstory is really similar to Razor, Gyro or Scissor guy from greed Island. A tough childhood, during which their life did not matter and their value as a human being was disregarded, eventually leading them down the road of crime. Motivated by vengeance against the whole world and desire to make a lasting impact in the world, they became cold-blooded murderer, thieves, etc.. Scissor guy and Razor met people (Gon and Ging, respectively) who redeemed them. Gon and Ging gave a really chance to those two murderers, they saw deeper and acknowledge them for their TRUE identity rather than for their actions. Ging entrusted Razor with an important task, and you can see how proud Razor is of being give such a task. As for Scissor guy, who, let’s not forget, is a serial killer who was ready to torture and kill Bisky whom he though was a little kid, Gon thanks him for helping them trained. Someone finally saw them. Someone finally acknowledged them. Thank them and appreciated them for who they were. Scissor guy got his identity back acknowledging he never wanted that life and deciding to turn himself in.  Gyro and the Phantom Troupe were never given such a chance. And so they are left in the dark, only motivated by those feelings they cannot truly explain nor express. 

It would be incredible for someone to have the self-awareness to realize all of that by themselves, especially when prompted to think about it because of a kid, as you are hunting down for you friend’s murderer. Chrollo is seeking to understand himself, and here in this exchange with Gon, he start to realize that maybe to do that, he needs to understand how he can do what he does and why he does it. He needs to understand it as more than just a mere feeling but as something he is capable of expressing and putting words on. He is merely thinking aloud. He knows that he is capable of killing innocent people not merely because he doesn’t know them but for why? He still has a lot of thinking to do to reach that conclusion, but to me that thought process (just like Paku’s thoughts process) it shows just how interesting member of the Phantom Troupe are.  Finally, diverging from Chrollo a bit but note how interesting it is that it is Killua that is wondering what Chrollo is talking about. Not Gon, who asked the question, but Killua. It is really telling to me, since later on he will be having a somewhat similar identity crisis. In the Chimera Ant Arc, in order to protect Gon, he needs to understand why he does what he does. He needs to seek his true identity, his true motive and his true beliefs in order to understand that the fear he feels in combat is not from within but was implanted in him by his brother. Only then can he be free from Illumi’s needle. Maybe this scene was meant to foreshadow Killua’s upcoming personal challenge. 

Anyway ok I got a bit carried away, but the psychology underlaying the Spider’s motive is my favorite thing to ponder about. So thank you for listening to my HxH TedTalk.  (Also English is not my first language so I apologize for any vocabulary or grammar mistake in there!) 

[lovepsychothefirst]

Ho-ho! I found something really interesting on one of yours CG replies~ Why do you think that Schneizel and Ligth could be comparing? I've never seen this idea anywhere before, and now I'm a bit excited! Could you please explain what did you mean? I loved your previous CG meta about Lelouch and Suzaku and and their... issues with trust and care, I would love reading more~

Both are very privileged people who claim to want to fix the rotten world. But Light’s actions are pointed out repeatedly to mainly feed his own ego. Similarly, Schneizel is the same. He was “born with a silver spoon in his mouth” and it shows. Lelouch even criticizes him in that regard.

Neither of them actually ever dealt with the actual problems in the world. Both have lived comfortable lives; Light’s in a high middle class family and Schneizel is freaking royalty.

Meanwhile, L and Lelouch don’t have that. L is an orphan and that, along with other hints dropped in how unusual he is as a person and his relationships, extra materials even, suggest someone who clawed his way up in society.

Lelouch officially was put in a shed while he was a hostage of Japan. A literal fucking shed. He also became the primary caretaker of Nunnally at age ten. I suggest checking out this psycho-analysis of the effects Lelouch having to be the parent to his sister and no longer having any parents to care for him had on him. It’s not pretty and explains 9 out of 10 of Lelouch’s various issues.

He also had to get his way through a war. Again as a freaking child. As Lelouch states in the second to last episode, he’s actually lived among people while Schneizel has not. He knows the real problems lie in the governments not in the common folk for the state of the world.

Light and Schneizel are also obviously twisted people. Both lean towards A God Am I mental state, get drunk on power, and put on a nice outward facade that, on closer inspection, is very obviously fake. Light plays up being perfect son and student, Schneizel plays the part of Prince Charming. But very early on it becomes clear just how messed up they are in their heads; Schneizel rather callously disregards Euphie in regards to Suzaku being her Knight of Honour, Light has a lot of maniac laughter about the Death Note and its powers.

In other words, please stop comparing Lelouch to Light. He’s a) obviously smarter than that dick and b) would likely kill him dead if he ever met him. Please compare Light to Schneizel as both fill the slot of being psychologically unstable people who believe only their view of the world is the right one and that A God Am I is in full effect for them.

Also their defeats are satisfying (more so for Light in the original manga) humiliating them as they are crushed down by the true good guys in the story.

[anightonrefrain]

[anightonrefrain]

[anightonrefrain]