#It wasn't anything major

[buriedwithoutceremony]

Why did you burn the bridges?

Well I didn't mean to okay.

[michin-haegol]

Omg my "friend" tried to get her sister to threaten me over Instagram so now I have to stop being friends with all my other friends 😭😭😭

[gregorygerwitz]

my hockey husband got hurt 🥺

[muzzlemouths]

Down the Rabbit Hole

Slasher!Sun x Slasher-in-training!Y/N CW: Blood, gore, injury, death, implied kidnapping and hostage situation, general serial killer antics, stockholm syndrome*

Disclaimer: This story is not considered canon to the DFtR au and in fact only bears resemblance in a couple of places, but you're still free to consider this an au of the au.

“Lower, still.”

His shadow stretches over your back, one hand placed between your shoulder-blades, the other laid over your hand, plated fingers leaning into your skin.

“The lateral quadrants of the abdomen are where you want to start. Too high and things get messy, what with all the vital organs that are hoarded up there,” Sun instructs. “The liver, spleen, and kidneys will put him down quick, but if you want to have a little fun, first…”

He patiently directs your aim where he wants it, positioning the knife in your grip to sit atop the skin that guards the victim’s intestines, just below the bellybutton. Cold metal against warm flesh.

“Ovaries and the like can complicate things, but that shouldn’t be an issue with our dear fellow. I picked him out special just for you!”

Your eyes remain locked on the man under your blade. His body slumped forward, deadweight against the ropes binding him to a steel chair. He reeks of sweat and hard won copper, shirt collar sticking against his skin the way crimson clots around his nose and temple, long since having dried. Old blood flaking like dandruff.

If you didn’t know any better, you might have assumed that Sun had brought you a poor sap with one foot already in the grave. It had felt demeaning. All these months spent training for the perfect kill and he brings you a body that’s practically on death’s door like you’re a kitten that can’t yet feed itself. But he had promised you a hunt, and a hunt you will get. The slurred mumbles of the hostage as he— it comes to are certain assurance of that.

“Well, it’s about time,” Sun hums beside your ear. “Might have been a bit too rough with him on the way over here, human skulls can be so brittle these days, but at least it gave you ample time to prepare yourself.” His head swivels on its axis to face you, smile faltering instantaneously. “Are you scared?”

You follow his gaze with slow recognition, watching dumbly as your hand trembles around the knife, its handle made sticky with the sweat coating your clammy palm.

“It’s excitement,” you assure him, desperate to subvert the subtle glimpse of disappointment in his gaze.

“It’s okay to be scared.” He sees right through you regardless. The dissatisfaction in his voice empties into an amused snicker, and his smile returns tenfold, teeth glistening in the moonlight that streams through old factory windows. Broken glass clinks underfoot as he turns you to face him, hands bracing on either side of your shoulders so he can take in the sight of you, hopeful pride in every inch of his grin. “You’re going to do wonderfully, bunny.”

Sun fondly adjusts the lop-ears attached to your cap. A rabbit beanie made of stolen yarn that he’d drawn up a pattern for the day you first fell under his wing. He had presented it to you just outside the entrance to this long abandoned building, all wrapped up in ribbons and bows. A reward for making it this far.

You can’t afford to fail him now.

A final steeling breath pours from your lungs. “I’m ready,” you tell him.

Sun nods towards his— your victim’s rousing shifts as the sorry bastard finally works up the strength to heft his chin from his chest. He is allowed little more time than this to gather his bearings before Sun takes center stage, not oblivious to, but willfully ignorant of the man’s inevitable panic.

“Goooood morning, friend!” He sings. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your schedule so early in the day, goodness knows wall street keeps you busy, busy, busy! It’s just, well, my dearest rabbit here, it’s their very first time doing this sort of thing on their own, see, and I needed someone who would put up just the right amount of fight. We don’t want to make things too easy for them. Where’s the fun in that? And– now, now, struggling isn’t part of the rules, silly! Where was I…oh, yes, on to the matter at hand.”

He comes around to the man’s back, deftly ignoring their attempts at reasoning with him – cries of desperation muffled behind duct tape – and undoes the ropes keeping him there with an easy swipe of hidden claws.

His sigh is nothing if not exasperated as the two of you watch the man test out his newfound freedom by immediately colliding with the floor. 

“Predictable as always,” Sun tuts. He crouches at the man’s side, arms resting casually on his knees, and shares his disappointment with a shake of his head and a quiet click, click, click of his tongue. “They never expect to also be tied at the ankles.” 

He captures a fistful of the man’s hair and idly rams his cheek against the concrete, halting all further attempts at escape then and there. “How positively dull. None of these maggots have a lick of intelligence between their eyes, they’re all boneless writhing and empty promises. Pitiful.” His eyes blink your way. “Not like you, bunny. No, not like you at all.”

Your grip vices around the knife as if it’ll protect you from the questions burning on your tongue.

“Is that why—”

“No.” He silences the notion before it even has room to breathe. “You are where you stand today, alive, for a great many reasons. The fact that you managed to impress me with clever ruses has little to do with it. That said, if you continue to question my motives I will see to it that I find someone quieter to play with. Or have you already forgotten that you aren’t the only soft-furred creature in the burrow?”

His answer arrives as a swift shake of the head, crocheted ears flopping side to side with bitter irony. “I haven’t forgotten,” you promise him. “Is — is that why you’re teaching me to hunt for myself. That’s what I’d intended to say.”

“Oh.” His shoulders fall, joints easing up all at once like a dog relaxing its haunches. He licks his teeth and sheathes his claws for another day. “Yes, bunny, that is why I’ve brought you out here. It’s high time we see the fruits of your labour, hm?”

It is rare that you lie to him, and rarer, still, that he believes you. As such, your answer is a swift nod and a flash of the puppy-dog eyes that got you into this mess to begin with. You aren’t going to push your luck on this one — not when he’s finally starting to trust you.

“Marvelous,” hums Sun. His nails scrape ruthlessly against the scalp as he winds the victim’s head back to see his face, grin widening. “What do you think, bunny — five seconds head start?”

“Make it ten.”

He catches your eye. This — like everything else — is a test, and the flicker of static in his voicebox implies a level of surprise. His gaze rakes over you with the emotionless cadence of someone already expecting to be disappointed. 

“Feeling confident, bunny?”

You need to prove your worth to him. Prove that his investment in your sustained life isn’t a gamble he will live to regret.

“I won’t disappoint you,” is what you end up saying. It’s the answer he wants to hear, regardless.

The ropes at your victim’s ankles are sliced through cleanly and without another word, though it’s obvious by the way he lingers that Sun considers marring the skin with his claws before letting you at him. It’s like an appetizer, he once told you. The game grows boring once they’re dead, and they die too fast if you aren’t careful. You must learn to pace yourself.

But this isn’t your average game. This is a test. This is a hunt.

You won’t leave this building until the knife is drenched in red.

“Oh!” Sun twitches with surprise as the man scrambles to his feet, up and out of Sun’s grip, and takes off around the corner. “Careful, bunny, he’s a slippery one.” He taps the space beside his eye, winking. “Don’t worry, I’ve already started your time. Ready?”

You swallow the remains of your doubt and bolster your grip with phoney pride. “Ready.”

Wordlessly his palm raises, five fingers brandished. Then four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Your shoes snap against concrete. Into a run, then a walk, then an amble. Six months of instruction swells your head, Sun’s voice in your ear: if you’re too hasty, you’ll give yourself away. Slow down. Breathe. The warehouse is only so big, and all exits, save for the one Sun guards, have been preemptively blocked off. You have all the time in the world to get the job done.

A hiss. Just ahead and to the right, muffled abruptly. Behind the pillar. Your neck whirs in its direction, and you tut.

Amateur.

The thing about duct tape is that, try as you might, it is impossible to peel away without a sound.

You press on, happy as a clam with this turn of events. Your anxiety may have been kinder had you known that your first victim was going to hand himself over to you on a silver platter.

The dim atmosphere of the abandoned warehouse aids your every step. Sunlight pierces through the darkness in streams of hazy gold through old, broken windows risen towards the sky. Too high to offer hope of escaping through them, too small to provide anything more than the sparse break in looming shadow.

His silhouette ducks behind a pile of debris and comes around to the other side, hastened footsteps, his gait clumsy and uncertain. Your prey is terrified.

He should be.

You raise onto your toes to muffle the path forward, back hunching close to the ground in a way that bares eerie resemblance to the second and more withdrawn of your two teachers. It’s a short matter of soundless breaths later that you find yourself tucking into the shadow between a pillar and broken furniture, a firm plan already in mind and ready to be acted out by the time you find a suitable piece of debris.

The shard of glass bites at your fingers. You’re careful with it, delicately turning the item in your palm until you’re sure of its weight, then you let it fly. It lands to the right of his silhouette with a hushed ting as though you had kicked it with the toe of your boot and, predictably, the man decides to scurry left.

It’s almost laughable; the way he runs himself into your awaiting knife.

The sound that spills from his throat is gutteral and moist, each pitiful attempt at words hindered by the blood that coats his throat as he coughs into your shoulder. Were this a mercy kill he would already be on the ground, but as it stands, you have some things to prove.

Your knife splits flesh as its sharply withdrawn from his gut in one smooth motion, and he howls, spitting vitriol between blood stained teeth. He stumbles a few paces away and into a delirious, uneven run — though it’s more of an hobble.

It makes no difference to you. Sun’s gaze hovers, expectant, from a few yards away. That’s all it takes to propel you forward.

You’re clumsy, coming up on him too fast, too reckless, and it gives the man room to dodge your first swing. But not your second. This one drives into his shoulder, clawing at muscle and nerves alike. The limb is made useless in an instant. 

Blood pours from the wound like wet confetti, signalling the damage to a vascular vein. That gives you two minutes, if you’re lucky, to finish him off yourself before he’s bled dry.

Red paints your forearm as your knife makes contact for a third time, and his stomach unwraps against the mouth of your dagger like a present. Your wrist trembles with the force applied behind each upward thrust of the blade until your victim falls, and you fall with him, collapsing into a straddle over his already-still chest as you tear your weapon from the body and incessantly plunge it somewhere new. Intestine. Pancreas. Liver. Flesh. Body. Prey.

“Bunny.”

Sun’s voice is a warm ray of light in an otherwise stormy sky. 

His hand lands gently on your shoulder. The other, wound around your wrist where it hangs in the air, halted mid-strike, is almost painfully firm. Decisive. His fingers squeeze until you’re forced to give up the knife. 

You watch it fall to the ground with a clatter, followed by silence.

You look up.

His faceplate tilts with an audible shrill, rusty metal whispering together. “Well?” He mutters, expectant. “How was it?”

Stars dance in your vision, cheering with little voices of praise and pride. “It was…” Your lips part in quick succession, gaping, gulping, gasping around all the words that crowd your mouth yet none of them fall. “It…it was…” 

Terrifying? Your could have died yourself had things gone south.

Horrifying? There is still blood on your hands from a fresh kill.

Disturbing? Addicting? The thrill of the haunt plays on a loop between your ears. You lost yourself somewhere between the chase and the floor. Sticky scarlet coats the underside of your fingernails and soaks into your sleeves. Your hair stands on end and your breath runs ragged, muscles twitching with excitement, not fear.

“Exhilarating,” Sun answers for you. His face splits into a too-wide grin.

You’ve passed the test.

He releases your wrist and comes around to your front, rolling the body of your success out of his way with a shameless nudge of his shoe. Once stood before you he offers his hand, palm up and spotless in comparison to yours, and fits you with an encouraging nod. “You did well, bunny, but this is only a taste,” he promises. “Are you ready to have some real fun?”

Sun allows no room for hesitation. He follows your hand — tiny where it settles against his own — with a fiery gaze that bores into you like that of his namesake. And you shake on it.

“Lead the way,” says the rabbit, in too deep to back out now.

“Good choice,” answers the wolf.

He knows the decision was already made for you from the start.

[renaultmograine]

"movies don't have a specific queer subculture like smut does" is the most zoomer ass take i've ever seen. please stop talking about fanfiction as if it invented gay rights and watch something older than captain america civil war

[charmac]

How are you feeling about S17? I'm getting reaaal worried that it's going to be terrible. No Glenn in the writers room? A crossover episode?? Rob's gradual transformation into pondslime??? Help

Pondslime 😭Lmfao

I'm feeling more than fine about 17, really truly. I don't think anyone should be worried at all.

I think sometimes my interactions with Glenn come off a little more serious or abrasive than they really happened in real life (because we have to shout due to how loud it is in the bars), and my immediate transcription is just to get people *information*, which really doesn't convey tone.

For example, reporting that Glenn said "you don't want to know" in response to me asking for any teasers (as to plots this season) was met with a lot of "oh so this season is gonna suck" on Twitter, and that could not be further than the truth (sorry to the people I split-react blocked for saying that lol). In hindsight I get the reaction, because written out it's a response that can be easily misinterpreted and reads as potentially concerning, but know that when Glenn said "you don't want to know" he looked like this:

And when I was genuinely just asking for script information (regarding writers of individual scripts after he mentioned they had broken already) and mentioned Nina (Inflates) and Ross (DTAMHD), he gushed about both of them and then said, transcribed word for word, "It's been a good room, I'll say this it's been a great room. It's been an all-star room, it's been...like, breaking the stories this year has been really fun. [Me: Yeah?] Yeah. [That's great, that is great to hear.] It's been really fun."

So the idea of "no Glenn in the writers room" is really much more akin to Season 16 than 13/14. He was there to break stories (meaning he was in the room when they were brainstorming plot ideas and when they settled on which plots would be turned into scripts) but Rob and Charlie are taking the brunt of writing their (RCG's) scripts because of Sirens. This is the same thing that happened with The Gang Goes Bowling. Glenn's name is on the script, but Rob and Charlie wrote the majority of it while Glenn was shooting Blackberry. (I remember originally being convinced it was a mistake Glenn was listed as a writer for Bowling, lmfao). And Glenn is definitely still contributing, will be on revisions for the non-RCG scripts, and will classically change or improv whatever he thinks is best for Dennis when he's on set (see: the Risk E. Rats script).

Also, I know the crossover is concerning to a lot of people just given the nature of it, but as of what we know right now it's only on Abbott, so it's really just as if this season's The Gang Cracks the Liberty Bell or The Janitor Always Mops Twice took place on a different show instead of ours...

I promise promise promise Glenn was clearly holding his tongue for good things coming up, and Friday night very much restored my confidence that Season 17 will be good. (But..if you don't think Glenn has good contributions to Sunny or understands the agenda, then sorry this response probably sucks lmfao)

[girlfriendline]

one day this season i AM going to murder this man

[anglerflsh]

I'm sorry you have been what in the woods.

oh look who's interested in my getting shot lore now. Should have been there when it happened sorry

[yusuke-of-valla]

I'm saying this right now anyone speaking new Pokémon content into the world at tomorrow's Nintendo Direct better SHUT THE FUCK UP that IS A THREAT

I need the Pokémon company to learn that we can go a year without a Pokémon game without the franchise imploding so they'll fucking take their time with the games again so I'm going to need people to stop being like "oh maybe there'll be a Pokémon announcement that'll be nice" I AM BITING YOU I AM BITING YOU I AM BITING YOU I AM BITING YOU

we're fine! We'll live! Go play Pokerogue, it's fine!

[hypermascbishounen]

There's a deep irony in Berserk being so admired by people who really really hate what Berserk is about on an emotional level, but especially when writers want to take influence from it. Because Berserk is very strong thematically, and someone who can't acknowledge subtext is going to whiff on emulating anything good.

[i-am-just-a-skeleton]

owie owie leg hurt. why

[mwolf0epsilon]

Ahsoka meeting Bean Rex for the very first time.

It takes a while for the clones to feel comfortable enough with the Jedi to share the existence of the Trooper Beans, but some had their suspicions that there was more to their troops than met the eye. Mostly because the Trooper Beans got up to shenanigans that left evidence of "unseen pests" on board.

When you have a living extension of yourself (that embodies both your emotions and personality) hanging about, it's not too unusual that you'd feel a little apprehensive about sharing their existence. Especially when these curious little beings are more often than not, the only remnant you may have of vode you've lost in the past.

Most Jedi don't take the initial lack of trust too hard.

[epickiya722]

I haven't even read the ending and I won't have a full opinion on it until the actual chapter comes out, but from I have seen about "loose ends"... I could imagine that Gege actually wanted to explore more but there are certain reasons that kind of halted that. Similarly, like with MHA's ending.

(I'm sorry but I'm not deciding on just leaks on whether a chapter is good or bad.)

It just feels odd to me. I don't know, it just does.

I think about the overall scheduling and that Gege can't and can do certain things because he does work with other people he has answer to. I wouldn't be surprised if after this, Gege comes out with a statement saying there was a lot he wanted to continue to explore but couldn't due to reasons. There's also Gege's health to consider.

Whether the ending got fumbled or not, again, I don't know. I'm not here defending Gege or making excuses, but putting insight and why the ending possibly became what it is.

Hell, just last year people were upset because how some of the episodes of the anime looked but then it's turns out how the workers literally had to crunch for time and apologized (which I think was just so sad to do because the animation and pacing was fine for me and I know that has to be hard to do with little time to perfect it but some of you couldn't relate but I digress) as if they are actually to blame when they're just employees.

Maybe it is just me but it just seems odd to me.

And I know some people are upset about Gojo. If you are, I'm not holding it against you. I like him, too and yeah, I'm shedding a tear or two.

However, how this fandom acts now compared to before is such major whiplash for me.

Some of you want to throw around "Gege hates Gojo" so much but Gege is the same creator who gave the audience Gojo and a story to understand and yet a lot of people still mischaracterize him and only see him as "a hot character" or "the powerhouse that should come back because how dare he be happy in the afterlife" or "the blue eyed twink".

Actually, I find that some of you probably hate canon Gojo more than Gege supposedly does because of all these different versions that the fandom have conjured up.

The most Gojo did deserve is a funeral after he died and I get being upset if he didn't get that in the story, I would be upset for sure.

But given how much I have seen the fandom act when it comes to Satoru Gojo's character, I'm taking a lot of opinions on "Gege mistreated Gojo's character", the ending and everything else with a very teeny grain of salt. Yeah, be "critical" all you want but it just seems for anything nowadays that's all people want to do without considering other factors.

You can still hate or like something and acknowledge other things that play into why that something is the way it is.

[benoitblanc]

heavy sigh. siri queue landslide by fleetwood mac

[time-is-restored]

btw not to make everything about My Fucking Guy but i honestly think one of the things that seperates q!phil out from the other islanders is the approach he takes to dealing with the lack of agency + control all the islanders have over whatever the fuck the federation's doing.

it shows up most prominently whenever tubbo is excitedly telling him about the 'progress' he's made with cucurucho or various investigations (ie: trapping him into a corner with the 'do you have free will' questions), and phil always shoots it down w an immediate 'that doesn't mean anything. curucuho will say anything to mess with you. you can't take anything he says as true.'

and it's not that phil is... a paticularly pessimistic character? he's just EXTREMELY practical. like, he's yet to give up on anyone EVER finding ANY answers (he was the one who initially gave the federation that one week ultimatum w the cage for a cage stream), he just doesn't trust the idea that curucuho is ever going to voluntarily give them. they're uncontrollable + senseless - you might as well argue with the weather.

and like, if that's how he sees the one (1) and only point of contact the islanders HAD with the federation for months, it explains a lot abt his characters lifestyle! ofc he sits on the wall all day, talking to his kids, and keeping his head down. he believes that the federation wants nothing more than to drag the islanders into sick games + tasks just so they can fuck with their head (ie: curucuho revealing he was the one cellbit gathered all that information for). and while he can't totally PREVENT any of that from ever impacting him, he can make sure his kids are well fed, well protected, and as happy + comfortable as he can manage. this is objectively not a perfect situation, there is a guaranteed amount of suffering + fear that he can't mitigate, but he can at least account for it.

like, he REFUSES to engage. whenever curucho shows up, he treats them with total ambivalence. he's not going to get riled up by anything they do, he's not going to get super attached to the guy, he's just gonna laugh it off and irish goodbye it when things drag on. the ONLY time he's strayed from that general guiding principle has been since he's lost his eggs, and can no longer afford to let the federation's fuckery go: those are his fucking kids.

hence the completely unprecedented levels of outward rage and sadness and terror he shows throughout the birdcage streams - almost all directed directly to cucurucho. it's all a completely fair + proportional response to the horror the islanders are being subjected to, but it feels so different bc until now, q!phil has been so dedicated to not reacting, and not giving the federation any sign that they're actually getting to him.

[viiridiangreen]