#and then he’s just. Taunting them. And they realize it’s a trap but its TOO LATE

[snurtsnurtcreations]

I want a scene where the Ghosts think they’ve got Fed Logan in the bag, they’re ready to take him in, you’ve just finished a mission to get to this point all secretive and covert-like, sneaking your way past patrols and enemies, and now you’ve finally zeroed in on the target, Logan.

The anticipation of it, the tension, the relief as they find him exactly where they expected him to be, he’s right there in their binocular sights. And then he turns right towards them. And gives em a lil obnoxious wave. And they realize its an ambush

[s0dium]

𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑!!!

𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫!𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐱 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d find out that your crush, Geto Suguru, was just like you: a murderer. Not only that but you share the same passion; killing criminals and pedophiles! (Happy Kinktober) 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: DARK CONTENT, gore, mutilation, murder, mentions of pedophiles (y/n kills them), serial killing, unprotected sex, breeding, choking, teasing, knife play, whipped Suguru 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.3k 𝐀/𝐧: This is based HEAVILY on the novel Butcher and Blackbird by Brynne Weaver. The original idea is credited to Brynne Weaver ONLY. This work is fan fiction and is not intended for commercial purposes or to infringe on the intellectual property rights of the original author.

Being a serial killer who kills other killers, pedophiles, and rapists is a great hobby.

Until you find yourself locked in a cage.

For three days.

No AC.

With a body you carved up.

You glare at the fly-riddled corpse whose legs are kneeling opposite of you in the locked cage you were both trapped in. The air is thick with the putrid stench of decay, a relentless assault on your senses. The body's skin is pallid, marred by the writhing mass of white maggots that feast mercilessly. Where eyes once held gaze, now only hollow sockets remain, tediously scooped out and vacant. The ears too have been sheared off, leaving clean edges that blend into the mottled, blood-stained flesh. Its chest has been cracked open; ribs pried apart in a macabre mimicry of an unhinged broken cocoon, revealing the dark, empty cavity where a heart once beat.

Then, of course, the piste de resistance of your work, the removed eyes, ears, and heart rest in the corpse's upturned palms—placed with ceremonial care amidst the chaos of mutilation.

So now, if anyone were to walk down the steps of Gary Green House's basement, they would not only find his mutilated body, but the person who did it, trapped in a cage together.

"Fuck." You curse at yourself for the millionth time since you've been trapped here for the last three days. The cold realization that you've fallen into Gary’s final trap gnaws at your mind as relentlessly as the maggots at the corpse across from you. The cage, a cruel relic of Gary’s twisted pleasures, had seemed the perfect place for your ritual—turning the hunter into the hunted in his own den of horrors. But in your fervor to see him pay, you overlooked one crucial detail: the cage's sinister design, which sealed shut the moment its door swung closed.

The remote control, now a mocking symbol of freedom, lies just beyond the bars, on a small, grimy table. You remember the sickening click of the lock, the finality of it echoing in the cramped space as you turned back from the grisly task of dismembering Gary—his last, silent victory.

Even the idiot police could deduce that this was all your doing, seeing as all your bloody tools were still with you in your backpack. With fingerprints. It was just a matter of time before they opened the basement door.

You could practically hear Gary’s voice from beyond the grave: "Hah! Serves you right, you stupid bitch! That's what you get for killing me!" The taunt echoes in your head like a song over and over again and you're seriously contemplating banging your head against the iron bars.

"FUCK FINE!" You yell into the darkness. "I renounce my wicked ways!"

"That's a shame. I bet I would like your wicked ways."

You jump at the sound of a man's deep, smooth voice, the cadence of slight raspiness warming every note. Your curses cut the humid air from the startlement of the man's presence. How the hell did he even get in here? You didn't hear the basement door open. You scurry out of reach of the man who saunters into the thin thread of light from the narrow window, the glass opaque with fly shit.

"You seem to be in a predicament." He says stepping into view. The thin light from the window partially illuminates him, allowing you to make out his face. Oh rather, what is on his face.

Holy shit.

A ghost mask stares back at you, its hollow eyes and elongated mouth frozen in a chilling scream. The stark white of the mask contrasts sharply with the surrounding shadows, and you watch with wide eyes as he tilts his head.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

In any other situation, you might be fan-girling. You know exactly who you're staring at: the infamous Crucifer, a killer, like you, but notorious for his crucifixion of criminals in rather, flamboyant displays. The few eyewitness accounts of the Crucifer all mention the ghost mask, leaving no doubt in your mind about his identity.

While your hunting grounds have been Osaka, his have typically been Tokyo, but despite the geographical difference, his reputation precedes him. In all honesty, you shouldn’t be surprised he’s here. Your victim, Gary Greenwich, is notorious even among the authorities. Despite his crimes, the lack of solid evidence has always allowed him to slip through the cracks of the justice system, leaving him free to continue his heinous activities. He was high on your kill list, and it’s no surprise he was high on Crucifers as well.

He takes a few steps closer toward the cage to stare down at the corpse, bending to take a closer look.

"Well what happened here?" He chuckles.

You are on day three of no food. No water. The gnawing hunger in your stomach feels like a relentless beast, clawing at your insides with increasing ferocity. You wonder if your body has started to eat its own organs at this point.

You can't deal with this shit.

"Self defense." You say.

The man chuckles. "I doubt that, you're not his type." Despite his mask you can feel his eyes shift from the corpse to linger on you.

"And how would you know that?"

"Well disregarding the state in which you "self defense" left him, you're not a 6 year old boy. And," he steps closer so now he is inches away from the bars and his whole body is illuminated. "I make it my business to know."

You don't answer. Instead you watch as he crouches down to meet your gaze. You try to hide behind your tangled hair and folded limbs, giving him only your eyes.

And of course, just your luck, he is stunning

Black hair flows behind his mask and down his shoulder. He's wearing a black compression shirt that hugs every muscle of his biceps and forearms, accentuating his athletic build. His broad shoulders enhance his imposing presence, giving him the aura of a seasoned athlete. Black cargo pants complete his ensemble, practical and intimidating, with a hunting knife sticking out of his pocket, probably what he would've used on Gary if you hadn't got to him first.

Something about him looks familiar, something you can't put your finger on.

"I guess you made it your business to know too." He pauses before moving even closer so his mask is practically pressed against the iron bars. "Hey, you look pretty familiar."

You shift uncomfortably, feeling the prickle of anxiety creeping up your spine. Instinctively, you brush a tangled lock of hair from your face, wincing as it catches on your dry lips. The man's shoulders tense as if he has been electrocuted.

"Y/n?" His voice cuts through the thick silence like a knife.

Oh, what the hell.

You jerk your head up from your hunched posture, eyes wide in shock, meeting the unsettling, hollow eyes of the ghost mask. Your heart races, pounding loudly in your chest.

"Wha-"

"Oh my god, it is you!" He exclaims, his loud deep voice echoing through the basement.

"I'm sorry, I don't-" you stammer, confusion and fear knotting in your stomach.

"It's me," he interrupts, and with a swift motion, he takes off his mask. The sight of his familiar face makes your breath catch in your throat. "Suguru Geto."

Suguru Geto. The name alone sent ripples through your thoughts, dragging along memories and emotions you had long buried. Suguru wasn’t just any ordinary guy; he was a micro-celebrity in Tokyo, renowned for his breathtaking tattoo artistry. His ink adorned the bodies of celebrities, flaunted in TikToks and Instagram posts that garnered thousands of likes. His reputation was impeccable, his designs sought after by the elite.

You had crossed paths with Suguru a few times at various parties, your social circles occasionally overlapping due to mutual friends. Each encounter left an indelible mark on you. His presence was magnetic, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. It wasn’t just his talent that made him irresistible; it was everything about him. Those hawk-like eyes that seemed to pierce through to your very soul, the perfect curve of his lips that could shift from a smirk to a genuine smile in an instant, and those dimples that appeared whenever he graced you with that smile—each feature was a weapon, effortlessly disarming.

You, like many other girls, harbored a secret crush on Suguru Geto. It was impossible not to. That face alone could kill, and his charisma was the final blow.

And now, here he was, standing right in front of you, unmasked and undeniably real. The reality of it all hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and a little overwhelmed.

Suguru clears his throat, a small smirk playing on his lips from how obviously you are gawking at him.

"Shot in the dark here but are you the Mute Collector?"

You part your lips to say something but you can't seem to form the right words.

"I-"

Suguru's grin widens and a sharp laugh escapes his perfect mouth. "Oh my god. I knew it. I fucking knew they had it wrong about you with that bull shit profile they built. What was it, they said you were a 30 year old white man?" Suguru throws his head back and smiles at the ceiling. "And the Mute Collector? You? That's just awesome. I'm such a huge fan."

"Yeah..." You clear your throat and push your hair completely out of your face. He grins at you, as though awe struck, and if you weren't wearing 100 layers of grime on your skin you are sure he'd be able to see the blush flaming in your cheeks for a second.

"And you?" You nod toward the mask. "You are?" You don't know why you are feigning ignorance but something about humbling him seems tastier than actual food right now.

"Oh come on." Suguru's tone flattens and he brings the mask up next to his face.

"The Crucifer?"

You shake your head.

"The cross maker?"

You shake your head again. Lying through your teeth is fun.

"The Tokyo Butcher?" When you shake your head he sighs and stands up. "Well," he glances to Gary whose maggots have made their way to the empty eye sockets. "What do you say? We ditch this lousy scene and get something to eat. Maybe when you get food in your stomach you will remember some of my little nicknames."

Your eyes widen and your stomach growls loudly, reminding you of how long it's been since you last ate. You glance up at your Suguru, a mix of hope and suspicion in your gaze.

"Are you serious?" you ask, your voice hoarse from dehydration.

"Yeah, after we get you a shower, some clothes and burn the house down."

You gulp and stand to your feet. "Could we get burgers?"

Suguru grins before grabbing the remote and pointing it at the cage.

"Fine by me."

~

The Mute Collector.

Geto Suguru is sitting across from the fucking Mute Collector.

And god you are beautiful.

Not that he just realized it now. Like many others, he has always known how attractive you are; he just pushed it to the back of his mind. But now, knowing who you really are and what you do in your free time, your body has practically been encompassed in bright warm light and your head adorned with a halo. He watches as you down your 6th cup of water with a sigh and wipe your mouth with your sleeve.

The two of you sit in a cozy booth at a restaurant, the warm, smoky aroma filling the air. Suguru leans back with a beer in hand, watching you with a mix of amusement and caution. The waitress approaches, placing a large plate with a double cheeseburger and fries in front of you. Your eyes light up, and without wasting a second, you pick up the cheeseburger with your fingers and take a big bite, savoring the flavors.

Suguru chuckles, raising his beer in a mock toast. "You look like you've just found the Holy Grail."

He doesn't miss the way you stifle back a laugh, trying to speak through a mouthful of burger. "If the Holy Grail were covered in cheese and ketchup, then yeah, maybe."

He takes a sip of his beer, grinning. "I’ve never seen someone so excited about food. Maybe you should give up your little hobby and do food reviews."

"Well, that's what being trapped in a cage with the rotting corpse of a pedophile does to you I guess." You grumble, setting down the burger and taking another drink of water.

Suguru's eyes stay on you, and he takes the opportunity to really assess you. Your hair is damp, and the wetness seeps into the white Mickey Mouse shirt you're wearing, causing it to cling slightly to your skin and reveal the elegant lines of your collarbone. He bought that shirt and the shorts for you at a thrift store, and despite the fact that such clothes should look bad on anyone, you are rocking them effortlessly.

He can't help but notice that you didn't buy a bra, a fact that makes him smile to himself.

No bra.

"So tell me." Suguru sets his beer back on the table and leans in.

"The whole ears, eyes and heart thing." He waves his left hand in the air. "The police say it's satanic ritual stuff but I don't buy it."

You pause, a hint of a smile playing at your lips as you meet his gaze. "It's simple, really. Hear no evil, see no evil, fear no evil."

Suguru raises an eyebrow. "You have a way of making the macabre sound poetic."

You're about to reach for a fry, but he snatches it before your fingers could reach it.

"Why not the tongue?" He says. "You know, speak no evil."

You roll your eyes and snatch the fry out of his fingers. "Tongues are hard to cut, too slippery and make a mess."

He nods thoughtfully, leaning back in his seat. "You know, most people would be horrified to hear you talk like that."

"Good thing you’re not most people," you reply with a smirk.

"Touché."

He watches as your lips wrap around the thick fry and your teeth rip off half of it into your mouth.

No bra.

"What about you Suguru?" You lock eyes with him. "Why are you here?"

"Why am I here?"

"You heard me. You swoop in all superman-like, save me from the dipshit’s pedo dungeon and take me out for a double cheeseburger. Why are you here?"

Suguru shrugs and averts his gaze from your unyielding stare. Shit, your piercing eyes are almost making him sweat.

"Same thing you already did. I was going to skin him alive and and display the fucking monkey Jesus style infront of his house. At least, something like that."

"Yeah but why him? I thought your hunting grounds were in Tokyo?"

Your eyes widen slightly as the words hang in the air, the weight of your mistake sinking in immediately. You feel a rush of heat to your cheeks, a telltale sign of your embarrassment. Your lips part as if to take back the words, but it's too late; they've already been spoken.

A sly smile spreads across Sugurus face as he watches your face fall.

"Oh you totally know who I am Y/n."

"Fucking hell."

"You do! You know that I like to hunt near my home, how long have you been a part of my fan club?"

You roll your eyes and fall back into your seat. You blink rapidly, trying to maintain your composure, but the subtle tension in your jaw and the furrowing of your brow betray your embarrassment.

"So which one was your favorite? The monkey I strung up next to the police station? Or the one I flayed inside the Tokyo Union Church?"

"Oh my god I can already tell you are going to be insufferable." You grumble, the heat of embarrassment slowly dissipating as you take a deep breath. Suguru leans back, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he swirls the beer in his hand, watching you with an almost predatory curiosity. As seconds pass, Suguru assesses your face, following how your eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape route, and Suguru’s playful expression falters for a split second. He realizes with a sudden jolt that you're trying to leave. He can't have that. He needs to see you again.

"Hey speaking of suffering," Suguru clears his throat. "Have you heard about the women killings in Kyoto?"

Your eyebrows raise, curiosity piqued. "Yeah, I've heard. Pretty gruesome stuff. Why do you ask?"

A playful smile tugs at his lips. "How about a friendly competition? The killer's already taken six lives so far."

You tilt your head, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to decipher his intentions. "What do you mean by a competition?"

Suguru leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That's exactly what it sounds like. Who can hunt him down first?"

For a moment, you're taken aback, your eyes widening as you process his proposal. A mix of surprise and intrigue flickers across your face. "Are you serious?"

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your reaction. "As sin."

"And what do we get if we win?"

Suguru's eyes gleam with amusement and something else—admiration. "Bragging rights, of course. And maybe... another dinner like this one."

You throw your head back and let out a laugh. "Oh yeah? Who says I'll need you to get me another dinner?"

"Can't let you go hungry again. What do you say?”

~

You sit at your desk, the dim light of your laptop casting a pale glow on your face as you scroll through articles about the woman killer from Kyoto. The room is quiet, save for the occasional click of your mouse and the hum of the laptop. Your phone buzzes, and you glance at the screen to see Shoko’s name. With a smile, you answer the call.

"Hey Shoko, how’s your night shift?" you greet her with a teasing tone.

Shoko’s laugh crackles through the speaker. "Busy as always. Just patched up a guy who thought he could outsmart a bulletproof vest with sheer willpower. Spoiler: he couldn’t."

You chuckle, shaking your head. "Sounds like my type of guy."

By day, Shoko is your best friend and a dedicated med student, excelling in her studies with a, albeit, half hearted, passion for helping others. But when the sun sets, she transforms into the notorious Dr. Reverse, the underground doctor every criminal and lowlife turns to in their time of need. Using her medical expertise, she serves those who cannot seek help through legal means, operating in the shadows and patching up criminals who live by a different set of rules. In addition to her medical skills, she also deals in poisons, further cementing her reputation in the underworld.

You first met Shoko in a moment of desperation. After cornering a serial rapist, you were attacked with a machete, almost severing your arm. With nowhere else to turn, you sought out Dr. Reverse. Shoko skillfully sewed you up and, in the process, deduced that you were the infamous Mute Collector. To your surprise, she didn't seem to care about your identity, and you, in turn, didn't question her underground business or her dealings with poison. This mutual understanding and acceptance laid the foundation for a strong bond, and you've been best friends ever since. 

Shoko laughed, a sound that always manages to lift your spirits. "Right? Anyway, what's up? I saw your SOS text."

You hesitate, glancing at the photo of Geto Suguru on your screen on a separate tab. His annoyingly white teeth glare back at you, and you try to resist staring at his six pack in an instagram photo someone took of him at a pool party.  His dark eyes seemed to stare right through you, as if mocking your indecision. "It's about Geto."

There was a brief pause before Shoko's voice came back, tinged with curiosity. "Geto? What about him?"

You take a deep breath, your fingers drumming nervously on the desk. "He's the Crucifier."

Shoko's reaction was immediate and loud. "Geto is what?" she practically yelled through the phone, causing you to wince.

"The Crucifier. I know." You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the absurdity of it all. "Can you believe it?"

Shoko let out a low whistle. "Wow. I mean, he always seemed like a guy with secrets, but I never pegged him for a serial killer, I mean, someone like you."

"Yeah, well, here we are," You mutter, rubbing your temples. You focus your attention back on your computer screen. Suguru is squeaky clean, not even a bad review on his website. There was only his questionable taste in best friends: Gojo Satoru—the biggest playboy and the infamous heir to the Gojo Company, Japan's largest and most influential corporation. Gojo's notoriety was legendary, his exploits plastered across tabloids and whispered in gossip circles. You’ve met, and been hit on by the man a few times, and not once did you fall for any of his slimy cheap antics. No, Geto Suguru is who your eyes fell on. 

 "And now he’s proposed some sort of competition."

"A competition?" Shoko's voice was practically dripping with amusement. "Like a hunting competition?”

You let out a snort of air through your nose. “Basically.”

Are you gonna do it?"

"I don't know," You admit, leaning forward and resting your chin on your hand. "I said I would, but I don't know. I barely know the guy. Well, I thought I did."

"Well, you should," Shoko said, her tone shifting to one of gentle teasing. "Besides, isn't this your chance to get closer to your crush?"

You feel your cheeks flush. "Shoko, seriously? Come on, that was ages ago."

"Hey, I'm just saying," she replies, laughter bubbling up again. "This could be your big break."

"You're impossible," you grumble, though you can't help but smile. "How's the side business, by the way?"

"Thriving," she says and you can practically see her small smile through the phone.. "You'd be amazed at how many people need a little untraceable something for their enemies."

"I don't doubt it," you say, shaking your head. "Just stay safe, okay?"

"You too, Mute Collector," Shoko says, her voice softening slightly. "And remember, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me."

"Always," you reply, your smile growing wider. "Thanks, Shoko. Talk to you soon."

"Later," she says, and the line goes dead.

You lean back in your chair again, your thoughts drifting back to Geto Suguru and the strange, dangerous world you both inhabit. As much as you hate to admit it, Shoko is right. This is your chance, not just to catch some sick killer, but to uncover the secrets that lie hidden beneath Suguru’s enigmatic exterior.

With a sigh, you close your laptop and stand up, determination settling in your chest. The competition awaits, and you have a feeling it's going to be a game changer.

~

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Suguru rolls his eyes at the white hair man’s mocking tone and continues to stare at his phone. It's been 10 minutes. How long does it take for someone to respond to a text. Suguru lay sprawled on the couch, his eyes fixed on his phone. Across the room, Gojo was bustling about in the kitchen, the sound of utensils clinking and food sizzling filling the air.

"Is this about Y/n? The Mute Collector or whatever?" Gojo asked, glancing over his shoulder with a mischievous grin.

Suguru didn't respond, his gaze unwavering from the screen. He could feel Gojo's eyes on him, the scrutiny almost tangible.

"I don't think I've seen you put this much effort into a woman since, like... ever," Gojo continued, his tone teasing. He turned back to his cooking, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.

Suguru's jaw tightened, but he kept his silence. Gojo, undeterred, pressed on. "Besides the fact that she's the Mute Collector, what do you even see in Y/n? Well, I guess she does have other assets," he chuckled.

"Keep her name out of your fucking mouth, you prick," Suguru snapped, his voice low and menacing.

Gojo raised his hands in mock surrender, a laugh escaping his lips. "Alright, alright, no need to get all territorial."

Suguru continued to stare at his phone, his fingers hovering over the keys. "How long does it take for someone to respond to a fucking text" he mutters under his breath.

Gojo leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Maybe she's busy. Or maybe she's just messing with you. You know, playing hard to get."

Suguru finally looks up, his eyes narrowing. "She doesn't play games. And she's not hard to get—she's hard to keep."

Gojo raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by Suguru's reaction. “Touchy, touchy,” he mutters, returning to his culinary task.

Just then, Suguru's phone pings. His heart skips a beat as he sees your name flash on the screen. He quickly opens the message, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he reads your response.

Y/n: Fine, I'll do it. But what are the details?

Suguru: Oh, I'm thrilled

Y/n: Shut up.

Suguru: The rules are simple: whoever deduces the monkey’s identity first and guts the bastard wins.

Y/n: And how do I know you don’t already have a head start?

Suguru: I guess you'll just have to trust me. 

Y/n: Trust you? That’s rich coming from someone who literally stabs people in the back.

Suguru lets out a snort of air from your comment catching Gojo’s attention. “Ah, there it is. The smile of a man who's finally gotten what he wants.”

Suguru doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he focuses on your message, feeling a grin grow on his lips.

Suguru: You wound me, truly. But where’s the fun without a little challenge? Besides, I wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you

Y/n: Easy, huh? I suppose you think you’re quite the genius, then?

Suguru: Only compared to the average monkey. You, on the other hand, might actually make this interesting.

Y/n: Is that a compliment or are you just trying to butter me up?

Suguru: Can’t it be both? 

Y/n: Oh, don't worry. You’re not the only one who enjoys a good chase. But don’t cry when I beat you at your own game.

Suguru: Cry? Please. I’ll be too busy admiring you in action. It’s a win-win for me.

Y/n: Flattery will get you nowhere, Suguru.

Suguru: Really?

Suguru: Not even a little bit princess 🥺?

Y/n: *One attachment*

You send an image of your hand flipping him off. Your middle finger nail is painted black and he assumes so are all your other fingers. His heart thuds against his chest. God, how he would love to have those nails dragging down his back. His dick twitches just thinking about it. 

Gojo snickers as if he can read Suguru’s thoughts and Suguru considers throwing his phone at the smug white hair man when Gojo’s phone rings. Any humor falls off Gojo’s features like snow from a shaken tree branch. He glances at the caller ID, his eyes narrowing, and picks up the phone with a serious tone.

“This is Gojo.” He says. His voice is gruff as he responds to the caller with clipped “yes” and “no” answers, his timbre low. “I'll be there in 30 minutes.” 

When he sets down the phone, Suguru meets his blue eyes, Gojo’s brief smile is grim.

“Trouble?” Suguru asks.

“Trouble.” Gojo repeats.

On the exterior Gojo is Japan's most infamous playboy and philanthropist. But by night he is the devil's tool, the country's most lethal assassin for anyone from politicians to presidents.  What Suguru and you do for a hobby, Gojo Satoru does for his job.

Gojo dumps his hot food in a container, grabs his hunting knife coat and bag and heads for the door. Before he exits, he turns around to lock eyes with Suguru.

“Be safe. A woman killer is a deadly combo.” He says.

Suguru chuckles, and for a second he doesn't know if Gojo’s talking about you or the guy in Kyoto. “You to ass hat.”  

~

You can't believe you are doing this. 

You can't believe that you took up Suguru’s competition, spent 120 dollars on a train and hotel room at Kyoto and an extra 20 on room service. Moreover you can't believe that you are here, hiding in a forest of bamboo shoots at the dead of night, watching some man who may or may not be the Kyoto women killer.

It’s a warm summer night, and every time the wind blows, the bamboo shoots rustle against each other, creating a haunting melody that sets your nerves on edge. The air is thick with the scent of earth and foliage, and the occasional hoot of an owl punctuates the silence. You’re crouched low, your body tense, watching a man named Noaya Zenin who you followed out here. He seems to be wandering aimlessly, but you know better than to underestimate him. The Zenin clan's reach is long and shadowy, and their involvement in the Kyoto women killings is a tangled web you’ve been unraveling. All key witnesses were either paid off by the Zenin clan or had lawyers representing them from the Zenin clan. The pattern was too precise to be a coincidence.

Your heart thuds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The thrill of the chase, the hunt, makes your senses sharper, every movement and sound more pronounced. You can feel the need creeping up on you, slowly reaching your brain until your skin itches with anticipation. 

Each minute feels like an eternity as you scrutinize Noaya’s every move. He stops occasionally, looking around as if sensing he’s being watched, and you hold your breath, pressing yourself closer to the ground. The moonlight filters through the dense bamboo, casting eerie shadows that dance with the wind. Your mind races, piecing together fragments of evidence and suspicion. If Noaya Zenin is indeed the killer, catching him here could be the breakthrough you need.

“Hiya.”

A scream almost rips through you when you feel someone's breath against your ear, but you quickly cover your mouth and whip around. Of course, you’re met face to face with the man you least wanted to see right now. Familiar hazel eyes gaze back at you, glinting with mischief and amusement. Suguru is crouched right next to you, his nose mere inches from yours, a sly smirk on his face. You didn’t even hear him approach.

“Suguru, what the fuck?” you hiss, keeping your voice low. Your first instinct is to grab your knife out of your pocket and press it against his throat but he holds both his hands up as if surrendering, stopping you.

“Woah woah princess, let's cool our engines.” He chuckles softly, clearly enjoying your reaction.

Your pulse is still racing, but you force yourself to calm down. “You could have given me a heart attack. How did you even find me?” You seethe.

“I have my ways,” he replies cryptically, his smirk widening. “Besides, I couldn’t let you have all the fun, now could I? So,” his eyes flicker to Noaya, who still seems to be staring at his phone. “Who are we looking at?”

“We?” You scoff and roll your eyes. “Are you kidding me? There is no we. This is a competition, remember? Go do your own research.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh, come on. You know you love my company.”

Before you can retort, Noaya picks up his phone. You both strain to listen, and you catch his words clearly.

“Yeah, I’m at the bamboo forest. See you soon, babe.” He then hangs up the phone with a click and puts it back in his backpack. But just when you're about to turn back to Suguru and rip into the man, Noaya pulls something else out too. A hunting knife. A large one at that with serrated ends and a pointed tip that glints in the moon light. Just like the one used on the victims. And as if things couldn't get any more apparent, you watch as a wicked grin spreads across his face when he draws the blade diagonally through the air.

“Oh shit,” you whisper, eyes wide. “That’s definitely him. That’s like some comically evil villain shit right there.”

“Dibs,” Suguru whispers back, a glint of excitement in his eyes as he puts on his ghost mask. “I call fucking dibs.” He stands up, the crunch of leaves making Noaya whip around and stare right at the area you both hid in.

For a solid 5 seconds your two flabbergasted to even form words, you can only watch as Suguru steps out from the bamboo shoots and onto the trail, slowly walking toward Noaya like a lion cornering a gazelle. 

Or course, Noaya turns, screams like a little girl, and makes a hard right straight into the forest of bamboos.

“Oh hell no,” you mutter, leaping up and chasing after him. You sprint through the forest, the warm summer air thick and humid around you. Each footfall is muffled by the dense undergrowth, but the occasional snap of a twig or crunch of leaves marks your frenzied pace. Moonlight filters through the dense canopy, casting ghostly shadows that dance along the forest floor, creating an ever-shifting maze of light and dark.

Your breath comes in quick, controlled bursts, each inhale filling your lungs with the earthy scent of the forest. Adrenaline surges through your veins, sharpening your senses. The rhythmic pounding of your heart in your chest matches the rapid beat of your footsteps. Ahead, you can just make out the faint silhouette of Noaya, his panicked movements betraying his desperation.

Branches claw at your clothes and face, but you push through, eyes locked on your target. The thrill of the chase ignites every nerve, propelling you forward with a singular focus. Suguru’s presence is a constant just behind you, his footsteps a steady reminder of the competition driving you both. You can hear his breaths, steady and calculated, mirroring your own.

The path twists and turns, the bamboo growing thicker, creating a claustrophobic tunnel. You duck and weave, dodging low-hanging branches and vaulting over fallen logs. The forest floor is uneven, riddled with roots and hidden pitfalls, but your reflexes are sharp, your movements instinctual.

The thrill, the excitement, the danger—it all converges in this moment. You are a predator in your element, and your prey is within reach. The bamboo forest seems to blur around you, time stretching and contracting with each heartbeat. This is what you live for, the ultimate test of skill and nerve, the ultimate game of life and death.

Just as you’re about to close the distance, your fingertips brushing the fabric of Noaya’s shirt, he whirls around with surprising speed. The moonlight catches the gleam of his hunting knife as it arcs through the air. Instinct takes over, and you try to dodge, but the blade slices across your palm, leaving a hot, stinging line of red in its wake.

For a split second, time seems to slow. You see the wild desperation in Noaya’s eyes, the way his chest heaves with exertion and fear. But there’s no pain, only a white-hot fury that floods your veins, fueling your next move.

Your grip tightens around the hilt of your own knife, slick with blood but steady. The cut on your palm feels like a mere scratch compared to the surge of adrenaline that courses through you. With a fierce snarl, you lunge forward, using the momentum to drive Noaya back a step.

He stumbles, his confidence faltering as he realizes the severity of his mistake. You don’t give him a chance to recover. You move with a predatory grace, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. The forest around you fades into a blur of green and shadow, all your focus locked on the man in front of you.

Noaya swings wildly, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. You sidestep his attacks with practiced ease, your fury giving you a sharp, clear edge. The scent of blood mingles with the earthy aroma of the forest, and your pulse pounds in your ears like a war drum.

You close the distance again, this time with a calculated precision. Your free hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and twisting it until the knife clatters to the ground. Noaya yelps in pain, his eyes widening in terror. The tables have turned, and he knows it.

Your injured hand, still bleeding, clamps down on his shoulder with a vice-like grip. You lean in close, your breath hot against his ear. “Nice try,” you hiss, the fury in your voice making him shudder. “But it’s over.”

With a swift, brutal motion, you plunge your knife into his chest. The blade sinks into flesh with a sickening thud, and Noaya's eyes widen in shock and agony. Blood spurts from the wound, hot and sticky, spraying across your face in a macabre mist. The initial strike is met with a gasp, a desperate, choking sound that fuels the savage fire within you.

A wicked grin spreads across your face, the thrill of dominance electrifying your senses. You pull the knife out, feeling the resistance of tissue and bone, and then plunge it in again, and again. Each thrust is accompanied by a wet, squelching sound, a symphony of carnage that drowns out the world around you. Blood flows freely, pooling at your feet and soaking into the earth.

Noaya’s body jerks and spasms with each stab, his strength fading with every violent assault. His once panicked eyes grow dull, the life draining from them as you continue your relentless attack. The coppery tang of blood fills the air, mingling with the scent of the forest, creating a heady mixture that makes your pulse race even faster.

You lose yourself in the rhythm of the violence, the way your muscles strain and flex with each plunge of the knife. Blood splatters across your face and clothes, warm and viscous, painting you in the evidence of your victory. Your grin widens, a feral expression of triumph and fury.

Amidst your frenzied stabbings, Suguru places a hand on your shoulder. "I think—" he begins, but when you turn around to face him he immediately shuts up.

Your eyes are wide, pupils contracted like a deranged predator. Your hair flows wildly in the wind as you grab Suguru's throat with your bloody hand, smearing the crimson on his skin and pressing him against a tree. 

"This woman-killer fucker is mine." You seethe.

His dick strains against his cargo pants waistband. You look divine.

“ Of course, All yours baby.” He coos.

~

Geto Suguru would be lying if he said that watching you tear apart that woman-killer wasn't the hottest thing he had ever seen. 

To Suguru, you looked divine. The moonlight accentuated the sharp angles of your face, casting shadows that danced across your blood-splattered skin. Your eyes, wild with the remnants of fury, glowed with an unearthly intensity. The contrast of crimson against your complexion made you seem otherworldly, a dark goddess of vengeance. Suguru couldn’t tear his eyes away, mesmerized by the raw, primal beauty you exuded in that moment.

The walk back to your hotel was silent, but not because you were soaked in blood or because he felt awkward. More like it was because the only think he could think to say is “You are so fucking hot.”

Now here he is, twiddling his thumbs as he stands outside of your hotel door, trying to think of the right thing to say to you because god he needs to see your face one last time before he goes to bed.

He raises his hand to knock, but before he can, the door swings open. You stand there, your hair wet and smelling faintly of vanilla. You’ve clearly just come out of the shower. A tank top clings to your damp skin, and sports shorts hug your thighs. His eyes widen slightly, and he gulps, struggling to keep his composure. 

No bra.

The sight makes his mouth go dry.

"Just checking to see if everything is good," he says, nodding toward your bandaged hand.

You feel yourself fidget in your place and you try to flash a small smile but your emotions betray you. What if you freaked him out? What he saw back there, what you did back there, that was you, the raw you. Behind all the layers of kind smiles and pleasantries, in many ways, you were no different than an animal, consumed by your predatory instincts. You wouldn't blame him if he never contacted you again after this. Shit, did you just fuck up everything?

 His presence fills the doorway, and you’re acutely aware of the tension between you two.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reply, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Thanks for asking.”

His eyes flicker down to your hand, then back up to meet yours. “How’s the hand?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice.

You hold it up and wiggle your fingers slightly. “It’ll heal. No big deal.”

Silence fills the void between you two and you clear your throat, searching for something to say to break the awkward silence, but he beats you to it.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips as he leans against the doorframe. “Or are you planning to keep all the fun out here in the hallway?”

You roll your eyes, though you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Sure, come in. But I warn you, it’s a mess.”

“I’m sure I can handle it,” he quips, stepping inside. His eyes scan the room, taking in the organized chaos. Bandages and clothes are scattered around the floor and he doesn't miss the splatter of blood on the white sheets of the hotel bed. After a moment, Suguru turns around and takes a step closer to you, like he’s examining you. 

You tilt your head slightly, letting a smirk play on your lips. "So, now that I’ve won the bet, what do I get?"

He chuckles, the sound low and smooth, as he takes another step closer, closing the distance between you. "I was wondering when you’d bring that up." 

You arch an eyebrow, trying to keep your composure despite the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. "Well? I’m waiting. What’s my prize?"

Suguru stops just inches from you. "I don’t know," he quips, "What do you want?"

You let out a short laugh, though it’s clear you’re testing him now. "That’s a big question."

Suguru's eyes darken slightly, his playful demeanor shifting into something more serious, more intense. He leans in just a fraction, his breath warm against your skin. "Try me."

The tension between you two is palpable, electric. You’re the first to break the silence, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I want," you pause, averting your gaze from Suguru’s hawkish one. “I want to know if I scared you.” The question slips out before you can stop it, your bravado faltering as doubt creeps in.

Suguru blinks, then a slow smile spreads across his face. "Scare me?" He repeats, as if the idea itself is laughable. He steps even closer, forcing you to take a step back until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. "Scare me?” He repeats again. “You didn’t scare me," he continues, his voice low and sincere. "You… captivated me. I have never, and I mean never, seen something so magnificent as what you did. And that's saying a lot because I've done a shit ton of magnificent things.”

You sit down on the bed, more out of necessity than choice, as he looms over you. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you feel a mix of emotions—relief, curiosity, and something much more dangerous.

"What are you doing?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper as he leans in, his hands resting on either side of you, trapping you in place.

He smiles, a slow, almost wicked grin that sends shivers down your spine. "Well, I thought I might kiss you now, you know, after telling you how magnificent you are.” He tilts his head. “Is that a bad idea?"

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in. You forget to breathe.

You finally find your voice, though it’s a bit shakier than you’d like. "That depends…"

"On?" He asks, his face inching closer to yours, his gaze locked onto your lips.

"On how good you are at it," you murmur.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. Suguru closes the remaining distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s as intense as it is tender. It’s a slow, deliberate connection, his hands moving to cradle your face as if you’re something precious, something worth savoring.

The kiss deepens, and all the tension that had been building between you two finally snaps, leaving nothing but raw desire in its wake. You respond in kind, your hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as if you can’t get enough.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless, and the world seems to have shrunk down to just the two of you in this moment. Suguru’s forehead rests against yours, and he smiles, a real, genuine smile that you can feel in your bones.

"So," he says, his voice husky and low. "How was that?"

You laugh softly, still trying to catch your breath. "Not bad," you admit, your fingers running through his black hair. "Not bad at all."

"Good," he replies, his lips brushing against yours in a whisper of a kiss. "Because I plan on doing it again."

Suguru’s lips are on yours again before you can even catch your breath, this time more insistent, more demanding. He’s not asking for permission anymore; he’s claiming what he wants, and it makes your head spin. The kiss deepens as his tongue slips past your lips, exploring your mouth with a slow, deliberate intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. You can taste him—warm, intoxicating—and you find yourself leaning into his lips, craving more.

His hand, warm and firm, slides down your side, tracing the curve of your waist before coming to rest between your thighs. The touch is electrifying, sending a jolt of sensation through you, and you gasp against his mouth, your heart pounding in your chest.

But it’s too much, too fast. Your mind races, and you instinctively pull back, breaking the kiss. “Wait,” you murmur, your voice breathless, “I dont know if we should….” You avert your gaze and turn your head toward the wall but Suguru grabs your chin, forcing you to look right into his hazel eyes. Then, he dips his head to whisper in your ear.

“Aw come one Y/n” He grazes your earlobe with his teeth. “I’ve been on my best behavior, a good boy,” Suguru pauses to deliver a soft kiss to your temple. “I've been waiting, waiting ever since I met you in that cage to do this. Don't I deserve a reward for my patience?” 

You thickly gulp as he rubs the sides of your neck with his lips.

“I’ve been-” He kisses your jaw. “Such a-” he kisses his way up to your mouth. “Good boy.”

You cave. 

As his words sink in, you feel your resolve crumbling, the weight of his desire pressing down on you in the most intoxicating way. Before you can even process what’s happening, Suguru's strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the bed with effortless ease. His grip is firm but gentle, as if he's afraid of breaking you, and you can't help but let out a soft gasp as he lifts you off the bed and up so your head rests on the plush hotel pillow. His eyes lock onto yours, dark with intent, and you feel your breath hitch as the world narrows down to just the two of you. The room is filled with the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven, mingling with the quiet rustle of sheets as he leans over you.

“I know you have been thinking about this too.” He coos. Suguru’s hands move with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment. His fingers curl around the hem of your tank top, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he begins to lift it. The cool air hits your skin as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, exposing you to his hungry gaze. But before you can feel self-conscious, his lips are on your newly exposed skin, pressing gentle kisses along your collarbone, his warm breath fanning over your skin.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice filled with awe and reverence. “Just so gorgeous.”

His hands are on your shorts next, tugging them down your hips with the same careful slowness, as if he’s unwrapping the most precious gift. As the fabric slips down your legs, he trails kisses along the newly exposed skin, his lips brushing against your thighs, your knees, your calves, until the shorts are discarded on the floor.

Now you’re lying before him in just your underwear, and the way he looks at you makes your heart pound. His eyes are dark and intense, filled with a hunger that makes your entire body flush with heat. “You’re gorgeous,” he repeats, his voice thick with emotion. “Just so damn gorgeous.”

Suguru straightens up slightly, his hands moving to the hem of his own shirt. In one fluid motion, he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside, revealing his bare chest. The sight of him makes your breath catch—his body is lean and athletic, muscles defined and sculpted from years of discipline and training. Tattoos cover his skin in an elaborate tapestry. He’s handsome, impossibly so, and the sight of him like this, just inches away, makes your pulse quicken.

He doesn’t stop there. His fingers move to the waistband of his sweatpants, and he slides them down, revealing more of his skin, his strong legs, until he’s kneeling before you in just his boxers. The fabric clings to him in a way that leaves little to the imagination, and you can’t help but stare, mesmerized by the sheer physicality of him.

Suguru catches your gaze, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Something catches your eye princess?”

You nod, “Yes. You. All of you.” Your eyes tracing every line and curve of his body. He’s more than just handsome—he’s breathtaking, a perfect combination of strength and beauty that leaves you feeling weak in the best way possible.

He leans down again, his body hovering over yours, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Good, wouldn't want you to be disappointed.”

With that, he captures your lips in a heated kiss, his hands trailing down your sides, touching, feeling, exploring. 

You are too lost in the kiss not to notice his hands slipping under your underwear and making their way to your dripping cunt, and when they do, you jump at the feeling of his index finger tracing your slit.

"Gotta get you ready baby.?" Suguru hums and you shake you head vigorously.

"No please Sugu~, I can take it."

You don't have to tell him twice.

In one fluid motion Suguru tears off your underwear, lays you on your back and positions himself between your legs.

"Been waiting to do this for so long," he murmurs as he pulls down his boxers and whips out his dick. You thickly gulp at the sight, you could've guessed he was big not this big, could he even fit in you? A white bead of precum dribbled from his pretty pink tip and down his length and he uses the liquid to stroke himself in a few fluid motions.

You could hear your heart in your ears and adrenaline coursed through your veins at rocket fire speed. The need in between your legs was too much, it was clouding your head and twisting your stomach so tight you almost felt sick. You jolt when his fat tip bumps into your clit; collecting your juices before pressing against your quivering hole.

"Suguru please~" You whine and nearly miss the way his ears go bright red at your words

"I know baby, I know. Don't worry, lift your hips for me love?”

You oblige and immediately when you do so you're struck with the feeling of his length spreading you so helplessly wide and his tip smashing against something which must be your cervix you think. It’s painful, but in the pain is so much pleasure. He presses his forehead against yours as he slides into you, gripping the sheets with his supporting hand as your hot, wet entrance swallows his cock. Instinctively, you're cunt squeezed around the foreign intrusion, trying to push it out, making Suguru let out a low groan of his own and pushing even deeper into you. 

“F-fuck I can feel you doing it to me,” he said hoarsely.

His fingers gently press into the skin of your hip, guiding and steadying you as he pulls back and thrusts into you. The sudden friction and collision with your G-spot knocks the wind out of your lungs. Ticklish pleasure courses through your veins and you immediately throw your head back against the wall as Suguru thrusts into you.

"Hnghh, s-so good~~" You whine. It was dizzying, the curvature of his dick digging itself against your g-spot, scraping against your vaginal walls every time he backed his hips up.

Simultaneously, his other hand sought yours, finding it with a purposeful tenderness. His fingers intertwined with yours, locking them together in a grip that was both a clasp and a caress.

You dont even realize that your eyes are closed until Suguru whispers into your ear.

“Come on baby, open those pretty eyes, look at me.”

You do as he says and when you do you feel your heart thud in your chest. Suguru’s eyes were fixated completely on you, how you were reacting, as his hips were continuously slamming into your body as if it were clockwork. The sight alone had your walls clamping down on him, earning a groan from the base of his chest. 

Suddenly, the hand that had been intertwined with yours released its grip and began to rummage through Suguru’s discarded pants. Your breath hitched, eyes glazed over as you watched him retrieve a knife from his pocket, unsheathing it effortlessly with a flick of his finger. The sharp glint of the blade caught your attention from beneath Suguru’s body, even as he continued thrusting into you, not missing a beat.

Your body reacted instinctively, clenching at the sight, drawing a low, dark chuckle from Suguru.

“Hah, I knew it,” he said, his voice laced with a teasing edge as he brought the cold steel to the base of your throat. “You’re just a slut for knives, aren’t you?”

A moan escaped your lips, the sound betraying any chance of denial. Suguru took it as an admission, pressing the blade firmly against the skin of your throat as he angled his hips to hit even deeper inside you. The cool metal at your throat was electrifying, but it was his other hand, strong and unyielding, that sent a euphoric thrill coursing through you. His fingers flexed, tightening around your neck, the pressure intensifying.

It wasn’t just the air being cut off—it was the dizzying, intoxicating pleasure that came with it. The way his grip constricted, pushing you to the edge of control, ignited something raw inside. Every squeeze of his hand made your body burn hotter, a perfect balance between pain and pleasure, leaving you gasping for more.

What a primal dirty sight you where, being choked with a blade against your throat while fucked brutaly. Even the devil would clutch his rosaries.  

"Were we doing it like this in your head baby?" Suguru grunts, his Adam apple bobs as he groans from the pleasure of how fucking heavenly your pussy feels. “Because we were doing it like this in mine.” Good? Try euphoric, how could he ever think his fist could substitute the wet squeeze of your cunt?

You can't even open your mouth to respond. The friction of his dick against your walls and the adrenaline from the knife is just too good and as his pace intensified, a dizzying warmth spread through you, filling every corner of your being with a euphoric haze. The sensation of being completely enveloped, utterly connected, sent electric flesh arrows of pleasure through your body, making your eyes flutter and roll back slightly in sheer bliss. Every motion Suguru makes, every time his fat tip collides with your cervix, leaves behind a trail of sparkling heat that seems to light you from within.

"Come on eyes on me when I fuck you baby~" Suguru releases his hold from your neck and snakes his fingers between your body , finding your clit and pressing down on the pearl back and forth with the pad of index finger. "Tell me how good you feel, tell me how badly you want to cum.

He doesn’t slow the ministrations on your clit for a second as he snaps his hips into you with primal vigor, your breasts bouncing from the brutality.

"So good Sugu!" You sob. You cant even open your eyes from the colors you're seeing behind your lids. Every time your pussy squeezes around him not only do bolts of pleasure shoot up your body but a ring of milky white cum forms around the base of his cock.

Suguru’s eyes are locked on how good you're taking him - the fat of his head has a hard time popping out with how greedy your cunny is being. He lets out a sharp moan at how wet you are on the inside.

"S-shit baby wanna feel you cum on me, been waiting so long." Suguru is not a whining man but here he is practically stumbling over his words. Fuck, he wants to keep himself inside you forever. He wants your kisses, your skin, your touch, your blood, your lips, to be his to claim until you die together. No one has seen, truly seen him, before you. You are what he thinks about when he wakes up, when he is eating, when he is plunging his knife into some worthless monkey. You are his goddess. 

The world beyond this intimate cocoon of warmth and breath seemed distant, irrelevant. His gaze was locked with yours, deep and unwavering, a silent communication that tethered you through the mind numbing ecstasy.

Then, he reels his hips back and slams into you in a new angle that has your body jerking.

“Found it didn't I?” He breathes through a smile and pummels into you with vigor. And your about to disagree with him, insist that the feeling is too new and foreign to feel good when all of a sudden your body begins to shake and your head starts to feel fuzzy

And suddenly—you feel it. What you’ve been craving for and what you have seen in porn.

Its like all your body's energy centers are activating at once and your left utterly helpless to the feeling of tingling ecstasy wrapping your brain and stomach.

You dont know how to tell him that something is happening, not when the pleasure is too immense your barely breathing full breaths. But he understands once again the words you tried desperately to communicate.

“Do it baby. Cum. I’ll fill you up, and if it spills I'll fuck it back into you"

So you do.

Release washed over you in an all-encompassing wave, radiating out from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes. It swept through you like a storm, leaving a trail of starbursts in its wake. Your body arched instinctively, clinging to Suguru as the wave crested, then gently, slowly, began to ebb.

“Ah, princess, please,” he moaned. “Be a good girl and take it all, yeah?” 

Your fingers trailed up his shoulder, only to drag them back down his spine, nails biting into his skin as he buried himself deep inside you, releasing with a powerful shudder. His movements grew erratic, hips pressing yours firmly into the mattress as his hot breath skimmed across your neck, ragged and heavy.

The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you in this moment, lost in each other, with nothing but the sound of your breathing and the feel of his touch to guide you.

The warmth of his cum spreads through your body with a shiver, and you can feel the liquid expanding against your walls while he kept you plugged and full of him. As you both floated back down from the heights of bliss, your breaths came easier, softer, the lingering aftershocks of pleasure pulsing gently through you.

"You're mine ok?" Suguru coos, and all you can do is dumbly nod.

"I'll die for you, I'll kill a thousand monkeys for you, i'll hold them down so you can cut our their eyes. Just stay by my side."

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

The Arcana HCs: When M6 are forced to attack MC

-- to set the scene --

It was a nightmare.

Thick clouds of miasma hung over the city as you and your lover confronted the sorcerer in the fields outside its walls. Between a series of traps and some well-placed taunts, you had successfully cornered them, which meant that while victory was in sight your opponent was down to their last desperate measure.

The measure in question, it seemed, was for the most horrifying three minutes of your life as you watched your lover struggle against a vicious spell before suddenly turning on you. Their usual loving gaze was replaced with a cold glare and they didn't hesitate to lunge at you with the intent to kill. You ended up choosing to take the hits and focus your energy on dealing the last blow to the evil sorcerer instead, not wanting to waste time hurting the one you love.

As the dust settles, you're too relieved to see cognizance return to your darling's face to notice their horrified expression, or to feel your own blood soaking the ground below you.

Julian

Too busy focused on trying to keep you conscious and heal you to do anything else at first. He's already crying, tears leaking from under his eyepatch as he gives you frantic first aid

Can barely bring himself to look at you once you're safely tucked in at Mazelinka's and being tended to by visitor after visitor. You will need to remind him day after day that it's not his fault

And, yes, convince him not to leave you because of it

Still won't be able to find any peace with it until you tell him you've forgiven him, and even then struggles to believe he's worthy of it

Tends obsessively to your wounds, in a weird combination of torturing himself by constantly checking them and redeeming himself by being the one to help his uncontrolled actions heal

Is able to hold it against himself less the less he sees you suffering. Once you're fully recovered and back on your feet, it feels more like a distant nightmare

Has a new interest in learning magic, if only enough so he can protect himself against behind hijacked like that in the future

Asra

Completely numb and on autopilot. You're hurt. They're going to do whatever it takes to fix that. Just hold on, it'll be okay - it'll be okay

Refuses to leave your side or sleep for very long at a time while you're recovering. It's like his world has narrowed to your survival

Unusually quiet. As in, barely speaks unless you speak to them first, and yet hyper-observant to the point that they're bringing you what you need before you even realize that you need it

Neglects everything beyond his own basic self-maintenance in the process. It's easier to forget himself and save his own pain and guilt to be processed until after he knows you're safe

Itching to heal over any scars left over and terrified of suggesting it and seeming like they just want to brush the whole thing aside

Has to be pushed to talk about it and won't open up until after you're completely back to normal, at which point he breaks down and spends an afternoon hiccuping "I'm sorry"s into your chest

Regresses to a lot of their previous boundaries until you can tell them that you still feel safe with them physically and emotionally

Nadia

She has no doubts about you being a strong person. While she's horrified at what her body was used to do to you and the injuries you sustained, she's most upset at her losing control so easily

She feels guilty for you getting hurt, because she's convinced that she should have been able to withstand the sorcerer's spell

Surely, if she loved you as truly as you deserve to be loved, she would've been able to break free or stop it from working

Carries you back to the Palace herself and sees to it that you have everything you could possibly need, before effectively avoiding you for the next few days. She's convinced your relationship is over

Either because you're leaving her for not being able to protect you, or because you've lost your respect for her as a partner

It's also tapping into her own trauma of being trapped inside her body for a three year coma, which doesn't help the frustration

Genuinely unsure what to do with your forgiveness, understanding, and continued love and admiration for her

She doesn't know what she did to deserve you but she loves you

Muriel

The first count he holds against himself is that he hurt you. The second count is that he was so horrified and traumatized by what just happened that he froze while you were still bleeding out

Thankfully there were other people present to help you out, and you didn't have to find out what could've gone wrong

Refuses to touch you for days. If anybody else had caused the damage he sees on your body, he'd be wishing hell on them. Except not only was it his hands that did it -

He was controlled that easily. He's spent years reclaiming control and ownership of his body after being made a spectacle of in the Coliseum, and in a flash it was all taken away from him again

And it was used to hurt you. None of his nightmares adds up to the combination of violated, afraid, and horrified that he just felt

Relegates himself to being your bodyguard and keeping you provided for, but terrified that you're not safe around him until you're able to convince him otherwise

It's still a reoccurring nightmare for years to come

Portia

So angry at you for not fighting back

Already crying and scolding you while she's putting pressure on your wounds to stop the bleeding and helping you get back home

Did you think she couldn't take it? Did you think she wanted you to get hurt at her hands? Why didn't you fight her back if it would have spared you so much pain?

Why didn't you help her enforce what you knew were her own wishes, and at the cost of your safety and well-being too?

Simultaneously dedicating every fibre in her body to taking care of you. If you so much as breathe a little differently she's checking you over and bringing you whatever you need

Eventually able to find her own healing by being able to accept your love and by beating the absolute crap out of the sorcerer in question until she gets an "I was wrong" out of them

Determined to learn defense and protection magic to makes sure neither of you is left that vulnerable, ever again

Still cries when she sees the leftover scars, sometimes

Lucio

Pale from the shock of what's just happened and trying not to panic as he gives you all the first aid he's picked up through years of battlefield injuries and experience

Frantically muttering "don't leave, don't leave" through clenched teeth and pouring tears while he tries to get the bleeding to stop

Rushes you to the nearest doctor and won't leave your side

Convinced that you're not going to be able to love him after this

He knows he's done things worse than this in the past. He knows that you know that, but the thing that's made a better life possible has been his commitment to not being that person any more

And now he was that person. Event though it wasn't his choice and technically not his fault, he still did it. To you. You experienced it

Also worried that you won't understand that it wasn't his fault this time and wondering if maybe it was his fault, somehow

Able to accept your love and forgiveness pretty easily, but has a much harder time believing that he didn't lose all the progress he's made so far in making good use of his fresh start on life

[strawberri-yan]

TW: Yandere!Jingren x reader, chase scene, nothing explicit, light thriller read, usual yandere stuff

(A/n: Happy Halloween 🎃 🖤💜 A little treat for you guys while I was away. Hope you all enjoy! And yes jingren are an already established couple here, they just saw you and thought you were to cute to not snatch up )

The night was dense and suffocating, shadows stretching far too close as you darted down the dimly lit corridors of the Xianzhou Luofu. Your footsteps echoed against the cold, polished floors, heart hammering in your chest as panic twisted like a vice around you. You had to keep moving. You had no other choice.

 He was close, you could feel it. That stellaron hunter, Blade, moved like a ghost and you had no idea how far, or perhaps close, he was. You couldn’t bear to look back again, couldn’t bear to see him, not when his face was always calm, his lips twisted in that taunting smirk as though he were merely biding his time. Like a mouse running away from a cat toying with its food, you continued to run with no plan, no direction—all you wanted was just to get away, away from that love sick swordsman.

Just as you turned a corner, you slammed straight into a hard, unyielding chest, a solid wall of warmth that smelled faintly of cedar and iron. Strong arms instinctively caught you, steadying you before you could even think to scream.

“Careful there,” came a deep, almost amused voice, and you looked up, breath catching in your throat as you met the golden eyes of the dozing general, Jing Yuan. Relief surged through you, and you clutched at his robes, voice breaking.

“J-Jing Yuan,” you gasped, barely able to steady yourself. “Please—you have to help me. T-that wanted criminal, Blade—he’s—he’s chasing me. He’s gone mad! He wants to—” You swallowed hard, the words tumbling out in a rush. “He wants to take me away, said he’ll lock me up and keep me all to himself, forever. Please, you have to—”

But Jing Yuan’s lips curled, his golden gaze glittering with a strange amusement. He tilted his head down to you, letting out a low, almost condescending chuckle. 

“Did he now?” His tone was almost lazy, dripping with a hidden edge as he looked down at you with half lidded eyes. “Tell me, do you know whose idea this was to begin with?”

You were confused at first until realization hits you like a truck. He… orchestrated all of this? Allowed that wanted criminal to chase you down in the middle of the night by that crazed man? You took a trembling step back, Jing Yuan’s grip on your shoulders tightened, keeping you right where you were, pressed against his unyielding form. His smile only widened as he watched the realization settle over you.

“Wh-What are you talking about? Explain yourself!” you demanded

“I’ve known about it from the beginning. Encouraged it, even. He simply lacked the patience for delicacy.” Jing Yuan laughs softly despite the tense situation.

Both fear and anger took over you, you had trusted Jing Yuan, confided in him—the one person you thought could protect you from that mad man’s fixation. But instead, he’d been a silent conspirator, watching with an amused detachment, allowing this fucked up obsession to unfold. Before you could process it, a soft, steady breath warmed the back of your neck, and you froze. Blade had arrived, as silently as he’d pursued you through the streets, his presence casting a cold shadow over your trembling form. Jing Yuan didn’t move, didn’t even blink as Blade stepped closer until you felt his chest press firmly against your back. The heat of his body sent shivers down your spine, his strong arms snaking around your waist with a possessive, unyielding hold. Jing Yuan’s fingers remained on your shoulder, keeping you in place, effectively trapping you between them.

“You put on quite a chase,” Blade murmured, his voice low, each syllable measured, deliberate. His breath brushed against your ear as his hands tightened their hold, pulling you even closer. “But you know there’s no escaping, don’t you? Not from us.”

Jing Yuan’s hand slid up to cup your chin, gently forcing you to look into his eyes. They were calm, nearly serene, as if this was all a game, a carefully orchestrated plan that he’d crafted with meticulous detail. “Oh beloved, you do know our dear one does get a little skittish sometimes,” he commented, a hint of affection in his tone as he addressed Blade, though his gaze never left yours. “Though I must say, it’s rather… endearing. Like a little mouse.”

Blade hummed, his lips curving into a faint smile against the back of your neck. “Don’t act so innocent, Jing yuan. It was your idea, after all. You wanted to see them panic, to see the way fear would make them so…” His fingers brushed over your trembling hand. “Fragile. In need of saving.”

You could do nothing as you were caught between them, their bodies pressed against yours, you felt trapped as both men sandwhiched you with their overbearingly larger and more stronger frames. You had no where else to run. 

[theproverbialpen]

Desire.

Lucifer Morningstar (pov) x gn!reader

I’ve come to realize getting high makes me horny, so uh… here’s the consequence of that, I guess.

CW// uh idk honestly. Smut? I’m gonna be honest this is just elaborate foreplay idk how to tag this lol. 18+, Minors DNI

Silk. Skin. Sweat. Teeth. Bites and claws and cries and lips. Hair and hands and eyes and desire. And Desire. In pupils the size of the moon, deep as the sea and alluring as the pale lunar glow, Lucifer found a longing so intense it nearly broke him. Perhaps by the end of the night, it would.

But no, no he… he had to contain himself. He had to hold back, to stay in control. For once in his foolish, reckless existence, he had to remain disciplined. Because in his arms was an angel, a beauty, a savior. His savior, from the hollow and empty loneliness that had carved out every semblance of self he ever had. For this first time in years, his bed was warm, his heart was full, and his mind was at ease. For the first time in years he felt wanted. He felt desired. And so he fought to keep his own beast of desire caged within his chest, locked away by steel and fury and sheer force of will. But with each sigh that escaped his lover’s lips, each moan that reached his ears like a symphony, he felt the caged rattle and shake. Desire wished to be free. Desire wished to take and take and eat its fill of the delectable meal beneath him.

He pressed his lips to their neck, traveling down the curves of their body and leaving a trail of wet, teasing kisses in his wake. His lover groaned beneath him, the deep sound rumbling through their chest as Lucifer slid his hand around their waist and onto the small of their back. He would take it slow, tantalizing slow, letting this ghost of his touch drive them to the edge. He dragged his teeth across their hip bone, holding them down as they squirmed and shuddered. A smirked tugged at the corner of his mouth and he let his forked tongue snake forth from its den, lapping up the blood that had begun to flow when they jolted upward, their body craving friction. Lucifer pressed a gentle kiss to their navel, his face resting on the soft pillow of their stomach. He forgot how warm skin could be. He wanted more. He needed more. And he knew they did too. But he would be patient. He would not mess this moment up.

“L-Lucifer,” came a shaky stutter above him. The dulcet tone of their voice was strained, laced with yearning and desperation. Desire crashed against his chest, his heart beating along with the pounding of its fist. He could almost feel the blood in his veins as it rushed to his face and his crotch all at once. The sensation was nearly as intoxicating as his lover’s cries. “Lucifer, please,” they begged, barely above a whine. Lucifer then made his fatal mistake.

He looked up.

Their face was flushed, hair sticking to their forehead where sweat had begun to bead. Their eyes were lidded, doing little to shield that intense longing that laid beneath their stare. Lucifer watched, transfixed as their chest heaved while they struggled to catch their breath. His gaze wandered upward, landing on plump lips, swollen and glistening with drool. It was like something out of a magazine, an image so erotic even the most shameless of sinners would hide their face. They were the very picture of fervor, of lust—of love, even. They were the picture of desire.

Lucifer wanted to fuck them into the mattress until they screamed.

“Luce I-” they began, trembling as he rubbed circles into their sides with his thumbs. He could feel them shake under his hands and where his chin was resting against their torso.

“Yes, beautiful? Don’t get shy on me now,” he taunted, the veil of arrogance doing little to hide the anticipation in his own voice. He used the humor like a safety blanket, one last layer to shield his lover from his feral need. Like a padlock on a rotted wooden fence, it was all he could do to bolster the cage trapping his own desire. If he could play it off, they could keep making sweet, tender love. If he could play it off, his lover didn’t need to find out what kind of sinner he could truly be.

“Please, Lucifer, just- just fuck me already, please,” they begged, and just like that the dam was broken. Lucifer’s eyes darkened into a crimson red, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of their hips hard enough to bruise.

“Darling,” he cooed, his voice dangerous and low. “You gotta be careful what you wish for. Haven’t they told you never to make deals with the devil?” One last one-liner. One last desperate, feeble attempt to save Lucifer from himself, from drowning in the desire that threatened to overtake him. One last out.

“Lucifer, I need you.”

Desire wished to be free. Desire wished to take and take and eat its fill of the delectable, irresistible meal beneath Lucifer Morningstar. Desire was about to break the King of Hell. But as he settled between their legs, pressing his palms into their knees and spreading them wider, Lucifer decided:

He was not going to let this moment go to waste.

[ghcstao3]

siren ghost and sailor soap?

sort of inspired by the pirates of the caribbean sirens scene because it’s one of my favourite things of that series. also i got a little carried away

-

Over the many, many years of traversing the Seven Seas for his life’s work, Soap has become intimately familiar with the abundant myths and legends about the ocean and what lies beneath.

Of course, most of these hold no truth. Most of these are only mere stories to quell the anxieties of sailors, or to provide reasoning to strange occurrences seemingly otherwise unexplainable.

Sirens are, unfortunately, the exception.

Ruthless, ravenous creatures—they’re the worst fear of any sailor who knows the worth of his own life, and like most things that make mortal men afraid, they’ve been transformed into weapons.

Soap only knows that sirens are real because of what happens to many prisoners at sea—from the brig they’re moved to rowboats without paddles, abandoned and forced to sing until the sirens appear to lure them into the water, where flesh would be torn from bone with razor sharp teeth.

It’s a terrifying sight. The creatures are like sharks called to blood with the way they appear, like piranhas with the way they feast.

It’s horrifying. Fascinating. And Soap has vowed to never let himself end up on one of those boats.

But alas. Fate has other plans for him.

Soap had been reluctant to join the crew of Captain Philip Graves when presented with the opportunity, but the pay promised had been good, the work simple, and the destination somewhere he’s never been.

But what Soap hadn’t realized is that Graves likes to take prisoners. He likes to engage in unfair combat with other ships, and operates almost like a pirate, though not explicitly enough to be considered one himself.

Soap realizes his mistake far too late when he wanders down to the brig one night, otherwise unable to sleep. They’re two weeks into their voyage by now, and Soap knows there’s people in the jail—but he hadn’t known the state of them.

Most already without a secure amount of food outside their makeshift cell, they’re emaciated, wasting away in the hull of the vessel. They’re barely responsive when Soap knocks on the bars of the hold and pokes someone’s damp shoulder. Someone weakly latches onto Soap’s sleeve and begs for nothing in particular, and he feels awful for not having known about this sooner.

So he begins sneaking them food, brings them drink. Squirrels away what extra he can without anyone noticing he’s stopped finishing his meals.

Except someone must notice. Because, nearing the end of their journey, Graves is waking him in the dead of night and pulling him into the Captain’s quarters.

Soap swallows the pounding heartbeat in his throat as Graves slowly crosses the room to take a seat at his desk. He’s never liked the man, not one bit—but this just feels unnecessary. Taunting.

“A little bird tells me you’ve been keeping our prisoners fed,” Graves drawls. “Even though, from what I recall, prisoners are the enemy. I don’t suppose you really have been helping them out, have you, MacTavish?”

It’s a trap, Soap knows. Only a fool wouldn’t be able to tell Graves’s question isn’t really a question at all. Graves has his answer, and waits on Soap’s response if only to entertain him with the idea of escape.

Soap knows just as well that there’s hardly a point in trying to lie.

He lifts his chin as he looks straight into Graves’s eyes to tell him, “I have been. They’re still people.”

Graves chuckles lowly, rising from his seat. He rounds the desk, sitting back on its edge with his arms folded across his chest.

It might be intimidating, if Soap were anyone else. If he were a lesser man.

“Well, then—since you like ‘em so much,” Graves says, “surely you won’t mind joining them.”

Soap supplies Graves with no visible reaction. He doesn’t fight as Graves calls for his men to throw Soap in the brig, doesn’t put up any fuss as they try to cajole him.

If Soap has to be imprisoned for doing what’s right, then he at least won’t let Graves have the satisfaction of knowing Soap’s internal panic.

Because Soap knows what Graves plans to do with his prisoners. He’s known all along.

He predicts they’re maybe a day from port when they’re shoved off the ship and ordered into the decaying rowboat, left to drift away—not too far, however, as they’re still tethered to the ship. Because once all prisoners have been drowned, the boat will be reeled back and used again the next time Graves and his crew venture out to terrorize the waters.

No one has the energy to sing, to lure their cruel punishment to them. Soap’s half-convinced some of the others might just jump into the water on their own.

But they have to sing. Especially when a bullet ricochets off the boat and splinters the wood as encouragement.

Despite his time spent out at sea, Soap isn’t overly familiar with many shanties. He just follows along with whatever is mumbled in a weak tune, dreading as the volume builds with a second bullet, and the water below begins to churn. Glancing over the edge, Soap swears he sees the flash of a tail.

The first one appears shortly, singing along to the song like she’s entirely familiar with the melody. Soap feels the pull, though perhaps not as strongly as he imagined he would, if ever he ended up in these circumstances.

He wonders, briefly and distantly, if it has to do with the fact that he’s not really all that into women.

Soap snorts. Wouldn’t that be something.

But as more sirens appear, the pull grows stronger. Soap begins to feel swayed by the song, gone from muttered and off-kilter to something beautiful, hypnotic. The boat bobs with the weight of their new company and the prisoners that rush to the sides to get a better look at the sirens as if they aren’t the dangerous creatures they’re known to be.

Still, though, Soap isn’t completely compelled to join them in the water. He stays put in the centre and grounds his teeth—though he does gasp and reach out when the first prisoner is pulled under, and red soon blossoms across the surface of the water.

Then he appears.

The whole world seems to disappear for just a moment, when Soap looks into big, brown eyes.

The siren’s voice is deeper than the rest, soothing, and though Soap’s hindbrain screams at him that hidden behind the enchanting exterior, the porcelain skin and the straw-blond hair, there lives evil—he can’t help but lean in.

As Soap gets closer, the boat continuing to rock as more prisoners fall victim, the siren’s singing pauses just long enough for him to offer Soap a smile, saccharine, close-lipped. He reaches out an arm to Soap, calloused fingers caressing Soap’s cheek, cupping his jaw.

Soap can’t help but melt into the touch, its simultaneous warmth and coolness, subconsciously chasing it as it retracts, eyes fluttering shut with a short, pleased sigh.

But with the singing fading from the others, Soap’s eyes suddenly snap open. The siren still holds him, still leads Soap with that gentle touch and deceptively kind gaze, but Soap resists. He doesn’t know when he’d gotten to leaning halfway over the edge of the boat, but he scrambles backward to the opposite side, as far as he can get from this siren.

Soap comes to the startling realization that he’s the only one left.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” the siren croons. He props himself up on the edge of the boat, arms thick with corded muscle to show the real power of this creature. He leans forward, the boat tilting with his added weight. “I don’t bite.”

Soap glances nervously about the empty rowboat, gaze accidentally straying the bloodstained waters that surround them.

“I beg to differ,” Soap says weakly.

The siren laughs softly before slowly sinking back into the water. The boat sways. Soap shakes.

Everything goes silent for a suspiciously long moment before there’s a disturbance in the water and the siren appears at the side of the boat where Soap has taken refuge. He’s singing quietly again and Soap feels that pull, so he moves away, screws his eyes shut, and jams his fingers in his ears in an attempt to block it out.

It doesn’t work, not when the singing gets louder, and Soap’s attempt is rendered useless.

“Shut up,” Soap growls. “Please just shut. Up.”

The singing does cease, though only to make way for a deep, full laughter that is somehow tugging on Soap’s conscience with more force than any melody so far.

When Soap blinks his eyes open, the siren is perched on the edge of the boat, arms splayed one on top of the other, his head resting over them. He’s smiling, even once his laughter has died down, a glint of something in his dark eyes—maybe not quite sinister, but certainly mischievous.

“They’re not letting you back on that ship, you know,” the siren says, as if it isn’t obvious. “So you can either come with me—“

“And what? Be drowned? Eaten?” Soap snaps. “Thanks, but I’d rather rot right here.”

“Suit yourself,” the siren hums.

To Soap’s surprise, he actually disappears back into the water. And despite the waves—the ocean seems to have finally calmed.

Maybe Soap did have the tiny, illogical hope that he’d be brought back to the ship. Maybe Soap did have the tiny, logical hope that this siren would just put him out of his misery.

Either way, now he just sits in silence, listening to waves lap up against the hull as the rowboat rocks lazily with the current. Though the peace surely only stretches on for a few minutes, it feels like hours.

Stupidly, Soap goes to inspect the depths. To make certain he’s really been left alone.

Because that’s when he’s pulled in.

Soap barely has time to yell out before his mouth is filled with the overwhelming, stinging taste of salt, unfamiliar arms wrapping securely around his frame so he can’t wriggle free. His shouts are muffled by the water, and he feels the cold soak into his bones as he’s dragged deeper and deeper. The light fades, or maybe it’s the lack of oxygen.

The last thing Soap sees is the siren’s grin, all fangs and malice before everything goes black.

But then, after an unknown amount of time—Soap wakes up to the slow drip, drip, drip of water on a stone floor.

He’s in a cave.

He’s in a cave, and there’s a light source somewhere, and the siren is watching him.

Soap coughs, clearing water from his lungs. He chokes out, “Why… what did you—“

The siren shrugs. “I don’t eat people I like.”

Soap frowns, still coughing. “You…”

“Call me Ghost,” the siren says, then dives into the pool he’d been wading in at the entrance of the cave, and swims away—long, elegant tail flicking behind him as he leaves.

And while many, many thought swirl around Soap’s head as he gradually gathers his bearings about the situation, the clearest of them all is also the simplest; what the hell kind of a name is Ghost?

If only he could guess.

And if only he could know what’s meant to happen to him next.

[hencheri]

i feel like Xiaojun would be the meanest dom EVERR, especially if the reader is desperate/cockdrunk

yes. mean!xiaojun supremacy

18+ mdni.

warnings: humiliation/degradation, impact play.

.

with the way dejun looks at you, you could think he hates you, despises every single little thing about you — but something tells you it's the total opposite. he may be mean to you, so cruel to a point he makes you cry, you still want him entirely.

and dejun is well aware of that. despite his degrading words, his mocking laugh or the brutality of his hands, you still need him against you — all over you.

the fact that you're so desperate for him, so obsessed and drunk, is why he's shaming you at the moment. trapped between him and the wall, dejun stares at you from above, his thick eyebrows frowned.

he gives you another slap to the cheek, skin still burning from the previous hit. he clasps his hand around your jaw right after.

"you're fucking brainless," he scoffs, "how is it even possible to be so... unintelligent? do you realize how dumb you look right now?"

you don't answer, keeping your mouth shut because you know what's best for you. you don't want to make a fool of yourself even more in front of dejun, he already looks fed up with you.

"you know that only whores act like that, right? begging for cock in their slutty little hole..." he says, almost looking disgusted of you. it hurts you seeing this expression on his face, but you can't help but feel your pussy throb at the same time. "mmh?" he insists, shaking your head as if putting some sense into you. "answer me."

"y-yes, i know." your lips tremble, eyes watering, the humiliation too much to handle.

dejun hums, his eyes lingering up and down on your body, "so, what that makes you? tell me, baby."

"... a whore," you answer in a small voice, just above a whisper that dejun wouldn't have been able to hear if he wasn't so close to you.

he still pretends to not have heard, asking you to repeat yourself, "what was that?" he taunts, a faint grin drawing on his heart-shaped lips.

"i'm a whore." you sob, immediately looking down after, avoiding dejun's mocking eyes.

"aw, see, you're not so stupid when you make an effort," he laughs and gives your cheek small taps, making you feel more humiliated. and you like it so much.

he then parts your lips, pushing two fingers inside of your mouth knuckles deep, making you gag right away. his other hand wraps around your throat, wanting to feel you gulp and struggle under his palm.

"shhh, it's okay, baby," he softly coos, but you know his intention isn't to be nice. "that's the only way you're worth anything... with your mouth stuffed full." he watches the way your lips close around his long fingers, drool dripping from the corners of your mouth. "it's not of my cock like you wish it was, but i know you're happy to have that little mouth occupied, hmm?"

his knee makes its way between your legs, rubbing your cunt through your soaked panties and dejun definitely feels the wetness of them. there's no need to deny what he just said, he has the proof of it.

[unusualtfs]

Marvelous Corruption: Captain America

heads up, this story contains lib to con tf as its main focus, so you might want to skip this one if that's not your thing. as a disclaimer, this story is in no way intended as a glorification or endorsement of conservatism or the republican party! that being said, i hope you enjoy the ride...

Crazed cultists weren’t the types of enemies the Avengers typically fought, Steve Rogers mused as he battled his way through waves of hooded henchmen, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. Apparently this particular cult was worryingly close to summoning an actual demon, so it fell on Captain America to put an end to their plans. Not just Captain America, too — Iron Man, the Hulk, and Thor himself were there as well, racing to the center of the complex to stop the ritual before it was too late.

Sometimes Steve missed the relative simplicity of his original time. Sure, the 21st century had smartphones and polio vaccines, but it also had alien invasions and, apparently, demon summonings. But he didn’t let those thoughts distract him as he threw his shield out in front of him, clearing the path forward.

Eventually, the four superheroes reached the central chamber, where numerous cultists chanted in front of a glowing red pentagram.

“Hey Cap, look at that — a star inside a circle. I think these guys are trying to steal your style,” Tony quipped before leaping into battle, the rest of them following suit.

Steve had thought the battle was going well, but just before he slammed his shield into the last cultist standing, the circle on the floor flared with blinding light, forcing the Avengers to avert their eyes. When they were able to look again, they were faced with the sight of a muscular man with ruby-red skin and hair vaguely shaped like devil horns. Steve’s first thought was that the hair was a little on the nose. His second was that they had failed to stop the ritual.

“Mephisto,” Thor growled. Evidently, the Norse god recognized this demon. Still, he made no move against him, instead idly swinging his hammer in his hand — perhaps he was waiting to see what Mephisto would do.

“Indeed, it is I,” Mephisto said with a flourish. “And you foolish Avengers have fallen right into my trap!”

Steve tensed, ready to leap back into action, but the demon just continued standing there.

“Uh, is anyone else not seeing the trap?” Iron Man said. “Because gonna be honest, I’m not feeling too trapped right now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Thor slightly shaking his head. The four heroes stood there, wary of what the demon was planning, but it wasn’t long before the Hulk apparently had enough. With a mighty roar, he charged at Mephisto, aiming a green fist directly at his red face.

Moments before impact, Mephisto did something, and Hulk’s clenched fist stopped inches away from its target, surrounded by a faint crimson aura. Steve moved to assist his teammate, but found to his chagrin that he too was frozen in place — as were Iron Man and Thor. He struggled and strained, but it was no use. Despite the super strength granted to him by the serum, he was powerless against the demon’s occult magic.

“My, such anger! Such violence!” Mephisto taunted. “For all that you claim to fight for good, there is evil in your hearts, Avengers. Such beautiful darkness…”

Fear slowly crept into the back of Steve’s mind. Whatever this guy’s deal was, he might be too much for the four of them to handle, he realized.

Mephisto continued his monologue. “Why not embrace the dark? If you let the corruption take hold, you’ll be rewarded with pleasures unimaginable. In fact…” An eerie smile spread across the demon’s face. “…By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be positively eager to cast aside all that useless morality.”

Steve couldn’t abide by this. “You’re wrong!” he growled, struggling to overcome the immobilizing enchantment. “We’ll never give in to you!”

Mephisto turned to look directly at him, and Steve felt those demonic eyes boring into him. “Ah, Steve Rogers. Captain America himself. You’ll enjoy this process the most, in the end.” Steve felt a renewed sense of foreboding as Mephisto’s sickly smile grew wider. “After all, the brighter the light… the darker the shadow. As you’re about to find out.”

Quickly, the demon muttered an incantation as he aimed a burst of crackling red energy directly at Steve. He only got a brief glimpse of the horrified faces of his friends before his surroundings shifted impossibly around him. Although he remained stuck in place, he felt himself falling faster and faster, until eventually the world around him stabilized. Suddenly released from the spell, he stumbled forward and warily examined his new surroundings.

It looked like he was in an office, and a fancy one at that. In the center was an ornate mahogany desk neatly outfitted with stationary and all manner of documents, accompanied by an expensive-looking leather chair behind it. It was flanked on both sides by large bookshelves filled with books and binders of varying thickness. The office was decorated in a way that clearly indicated the owner’s immense wealth, from the exquisite rug on the floor to the opulent paintings placed tastefully on the walls. Currently, the far side of the room was covered by velvet curtains, which Steve opened to reveal a large floor-to-ceiling window. Through it, the Capitol Building could be seen, and much further in the distance, the Washington Monument.

“I’m in Washington?” Steve muttered. “Why would he bring me here?”

It didn’t matter, he decided. He’d simply exit the office and navigate to one of the Avengers’ safehouses. Hopefully his teammates could handle themselves without him. But that plan quickly ran into a fatal error: the door was locked. It refused to budge no matter how hard Steve jiggled the doorknob, much to his consternation. What kind of door couldn’t be unlocked from the inside?

Well, it was no matter. He’d tried doing things the easy way, so it was time for the slightly less easy way. Holding his shield in front of him, he braced himself, sent a mental apology to whoever owned this office, and then charged full steam ahead at the locked door. He expected it to fly right off its hinges, no match for his super soldier strength. Instead, it stayed stubbornly put, sending waves of pain through his arm as his shield crashed futilely into it.

Befuddled, Steve looked down and clenched his fists. How had that not worked? How had he met his match in a simple door? But that was when he noticed something odd. His gloves had disappeared, fully exposing his hands. And his hands…

Steve gasped. Before his very eyes, his hands seemed to be aging, piling on years of wear and tear every second. As if he was watching a timelapse, he could only stand there in horror as a patchwork of veins and arteries became visible over newly wrinkled skin. Before he knew it, his hands had become gnarled and leathery. These weren’t the hands of a superhero in the prime of his life. These were the hands of an old man.

Shocked, he stumbled over to the window, dreading what he’d see reflected back at him. He tore off his helmet and threw it aside, not noticing that it faded into nonexistence before ever touching the ground. Sure enough, the face he was greeted with was vastly different from the one he’d woken up with. Oh, his facial features were all the same, but they were now accompanied by a wide array of forehead creases, crow’s feet, frown lines, and more. Every type of wrinkle one could imagine was now present on Steve’s face. Making matters worse, as he gazed into the window, he could see his hairline rapidly thinning and receding like an ebbing tide. Concurrently, his blond hair was being shot through with gray; soon enough, it had become entirely silver.

That was enough for Steve to start panicking. What had that demon, Mephisto, done to him? Had he extracted the super soldier serum from his body, made it so that the years spent under the ice were finally catching up to him? Would he soon be nothing but a frail old man? He felt his legs beginning to quake from the stress, so he quickly collapsed into the nearest thing he could find: that leather office chair.

As if a switch had flipped within him, Steve felt himself calming the moment he came into contact with the chair. It was a heavenly feeling, the way the soft leather hugged his ass, allowing him to sink into it the perfect amount for maximum comfort. That comfort paved the way for his next changes as an insulating layer of fat rippled into being all across his body. It started with where he was sprawled in the chair, with his back sagging under its own weight and his ass becoming as soft and cushioned as the chair itself. From there, it spread to his arms and legs, which threatened to burst out of his superhero gear due to their newfound width. His hands grew meaty with fat, larger now than they’d ever been. His torso was blessed with the presence of his newfound flabby moobs and perfectly round musclegut. Finally, the fat reached his face, framing his square jaw with stately jowls. He should have been freaking out, but strangely, he found he didn’t mind the changes. Enjoyed them, actually. His muscular figure hadn’t disappeared — he could still feel its power underneath the added weight — it had just been enhanced. He may be turning into an old man, but with his physique, no one would ever think of him as frail, he thought with no small satisfaction.

Strangely, the sense of comfort was beginning to extend beyond the chair to encompass the entire room. The office felt strangely familiar to Steve, and he wondered if he’d been in here before. It certainly felt like somewhere he’d spent a lot of time in — as if it was his base of operations, his seat of power, almost. Was that weird to think? No, he didn’t think so. The more he considered it, the more he could distinctly remember fielding calls and hunching over legal text in here.

Lost in his reminiscence, he didn’t register anything abnormal when the color began to fade from his uniform, becoming monochrome — pure white above his waist, pure black below. His clothes were changing in other ways, too. His pants weren’t designed to hug his no-longer-muscular form anymore; instead, they became black slacks that hid how his fat legs jiggled whenever he moved. They were soon joined by spotless leather dress shoes and a belt with a simple, but elegant, buckle. Meanwhile, his upper half was soon covered by a perfectly ironed white dress shirt, and that was soon covered by a woolen black suit jacket. A tie in matching black whipped into existence, wrapping itself around his collar to form a perfect Windsor knot. Finally, his shirt tucked itself into his pants, beautifully framing his round belly in the most flattering way possible. Steve couldn’t help but love the sensation of his belt buckle digging into his belly. It made him feel masculine. Powerful.

Speaking of power, something shifted within him as the strength granted to him by the serum was redirected toward a different purpose. His physical capabilities were diminished to the level of an ordinary man of his musculature — which was still far greater than average, but nothing more. But he was still just as powerful as ever. It was just that now, he used his power in subtler ways. Beating up bad guys morphed in his mind into humiliating his opponents every six years. Motivating his teammates with inspiring speeches shifted into winning the support of skeptical voters with empty promises and divisive rhetoric. People looking at him in admiration transformed into people gazing upon him in fear and envy — a change that made him swell with pride. Somehow, these new memories were so much more pleasurable than his old ones, so he embraced the new ones.

Steve didn’t even stop to question where these memories had come from, as the more he thought about it, the more he realized he already knew the answers. After all, he couldn’t have served in the Senate for this long without becoming a master of the game. Coming up on the end of his seventh full term, he had seen it all, and he had thrived in this world of smoke-filled rooms and underhanded deals that weaker men recoiled from. He had rapidly climbed the ranks, going from backbencher status to national prominence in no time at all, aided by his ruthlessness and total lack of morals. His appearance was swiftly updated to match his newfound personality, as his face became capable of exactly two expressions only: a mean, unpleasant scowl, and an arrogant smirk. Meanwhile, a golden Rolex appeared on his wrist, and he fondled it lovingly — it was just one of the many “gifts” he’d been given over the years in exchange for his full-throated support for one bill or another. 

But as much as his cutthroat personality had helped him gain power, it was ultimately his ideology that endeared him to his colleagues. After all, without their support, Steve could never have become the Republican leader in the Senate. Selfish, conservative ideals rushed into Steve’s head like a tidal wave, drowning out any previous convictions he’d held beforehand. With them came even more memories, which felt more real — and more pleasurable — than ever.

He remembered voting against expanding healthcare, because he’d used the payout from the insurance lobby to buy a second summer home in the Hamptons. He remembered voting to fund increased coal mining and fracking operations, because it would be so much better for his stock portfolio that way. He remembered railing against the immigrants and the queers on the Senate floor, frothing with rage, because they weren’t real Americans, not like him.

He remembered all this, because he was no longer Steve Rogers… He was…

Wait, no!

For a brief second, his old identity reasserted itself. He wasn’t some curmudgeonly, conservative politician; he was Captain America, dammit! Desperately, he held on tight to the very pillars that formed the core of his identity as Steve Rogers: his childhood growing up in Brooklyn, his time spent fighting HYDRA in World War II, his commitment to looking out for the little guy, his loyalty to the American ideals of liberty and justice. But all of those rang increasingly hollow to the man he was becoming.

Why would he have fond memories of Brooklyn? He was a real American, born and raised in a small Missouri town — he felt nothing but contempt for that woke shithole, he thought as his hairline receded an inch farther.

How could he have fought in World War II? That was decades too late for him, and in any case HYDRA was small potatoes next to the real threat — communism. As he mentally reaffirmed his commitment to his rancid ideologies, the wrinkles on his face deepened by another year.

Why would he look out for the little guy? Unlike the so-called “little guy,” he had worked hard to reach his station in life, and he saw no problem with doing whatever it took to maintain his place at the top of the pyramid. Freed from the burden of caring for others, his greed and ego reached new heights, causing another pound of fat to be piled onto his portly frame.

And as for liberty and justice? He scoffed and cast them aside, feeling a wave of euphoria wash over him as he did so. That wasn’t the America he believed in. No, his America was one that revolved around himself, one that allowed him to line his pockets and ascend the ranks of power while closing the door on anyone who wanted to reach those same heights. Reacting to this redefined America, the shield that had served him so well in his life as Captain America floated into the air and flung itself at him. By the time it reached him, though, it was no longer a shield, but a small metal American flag pin attached to his lapel.

But still, throughout all this, a small piece of Steve remained within the new, old man, fighting desperately to hold on against the barrage of corrupt conservatism. Despite everything, he refused to give in to the alluring pleasure that tormented him. But then a familiar voice made itself known in his head.

“See Steve Rogers, didn’t I say you’d enjoy this? Like I said, the brightest lights produce the darkest shadows,” Mephisto said. “And your shadow is dark, indeed. Don’t you think it’s time to embrace it? Embrace him?” His voice lowered to a seductive purr. “You don’t have to fight it. Tell me you want it, and it will be yours.”

Steve tried to shut the demon out of his head, but his words echoed in his mind. Combining with his memories of life as an unscrupulous politician and his immaculate clothes and his fancy office and his burly old man physique, it all coalesced into a cascade of pleasurable pressure. He tried to resist. He tried to want to resist. But…

His wealth. His power. His personality. His body. The temptation was too much for Steve to bear. “Yes!” he shouted desperately. “Yes, I want this!”

And that was all Mephisto needed to hear.

Finally, his identity as Steve Rogers detached itself fully, unable to hold on in the wake of the corruption he was experiencing and embodying. He gleefully cast his old self aside. He wasn’t Steve Rogers, not anymore. No, the old man thought triumphantly as he allowed his new personality and memories to settle into their rightful places, he was someone far superior. He was Senator Roger Stephenson.

Roger breathed deeply, satisfied, as he grounded himself in his new life. Not that he had ever experienced another one, he thought as he mentally went over his biography.

Roger had been born in 1943 — ironically on the very day his former self would have received the serum if he hadn’t been deleted from reality — and many said his outdated policies hadn’t changed much since then. Consequently, he was celebrated as a hero by the American conservative movement, and equally reviled by those on the left. His approval ratings were among the lowest in the country due to his blatant corruption, and yet it was thanks to that corruption that he always won reelection comfortably. He was well-known as a slimy, cantankerous old bastard — that combined with his aggressive jingoism had earned him the moniker of “America’s Ass” — and he was proud of it. 

On a whim, he turned in his chair and gazed out upon the cityscape outside, feeling a surge of intoxicating power wash over him. Sure, the President got all the press and the credit. But up here on Capitol Hill, Roger was the one in charge. He decided which bills passed and which ones failed before ever reaching the floor. His endorsement was widely coveted, and with his mountains of cash he could swing elections however he wanted. He had all of Congress, all of the country, wrapped around his fat, wrinkled finger.

Speaking of which, he took a glance at his schedule for the day. This afternoon alone, his office would be visited by a couple of junior lawmakers, a team of auto industry lobbyists, and even a foreign dignitary or two. All of them were coming to grovel at his feet for his support, and he would give it to them… so long as it enabled him to garner more wealth, more influence, more power. To do so was his god-given right as an American.

Roger smirked. God bless America, indeed.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I saw someone talk about Nightmare's shapeshifting today and, you know what would be a messed-up scenario that I don't see brought up too often? Nightmare shapeshifting into Killer to mess with the others.

He puts on Killer's face and uses it to lure Color into a trap. Or to dish out some punishments to the rest of his henchmen because they were getting a bit too cozy at the castle and he can't have them relying on each other.

And, I mean, Killer's the one who knows him best. He's the one others rely on to tell them if the one in front of them is Nightmare or not. It's hard to tell when you haven't spent decades studying all of the octopus' mannerisms. Because they do look identical. And now other people's trust in him is getting eroded so they don't even have the expert to rely on.

(Though I do like the idea of them realizing that's not Killer after a while, because, while they haven't studied Nightmare and don't know all his tells, they know Killer. Like, imagine Color after getting taunted a while just cringing and going "He would NOT fucking say that". That's his blorbo and he knows him better than this!)

Im sorry the idea of Killer being Color’s blorbo makes me giggle—these two just spend every hour together observing and trying to understand and memorize eachother, huh.

Wonder what Nightmare could’ve said to make Color cringe at him so badly. Would be hilarious if Color says something like Killer is more creative in his tauntings too.

But man i can’t imagine the dissociative hell Nightmare’s actions would tell spin Killer into. Everyone is getting mad at him or upset with him for things he apparently did or said, even though he doesn’t remember doing or saying that? And he tries to insist that he didn’t do that, why would he.

and everyone is getting more furious at him, demanding his stop lying and trying to gaslight them or something—and this feels very familiar to killer. maybe he did do these things. why doesn’t he remember? well he’s never had the most reliable memory anyway, he doesn’t even know who or what he is anymore. he can’t be trusted, everyone say so.

maybe he’s the liar here. and he should accept what he did. i can imagine it leads to killer just emotionally detaching from the group for awhile—stage 2 relying on his apathy. ‘they wouldn’t be saying it happened if it didn’t. it sounds like something i think i would do..so maybe i did it.

..whatever. it doesn’t matter. not my problem.’ obviously a little different than that, but if he can’t seem to take control by stopping it, maybe he assumes its happening because the players want it to and therefore there’s no point resisting—so he just basically takes control by greyrockiing and not caring.

basically a mass unintentional gaslighting like what happened with chara.

..and actually now that i think about it. itd be curious to think about how killers knowledge of/belief in players and us controlling everything effects his views of the world and the people across his Stages.

just how often does he view the actions and words of the people around him as just saying and doing what they’re supposed to say or do, if not directly speaking to him or punishing/rewarding him through others. (perhaps the last one is something more along stage 4’s thinking?)

{ @stellocchia }

[ticklishraspberries]

Gotcha (Billy/Stu)

Summary: Before enacting their plans, Billy and Stu need to be sure they’re physically fit enough to pull it all off, leading to ridiuclousness. (Based on this anonymous prompt, thank you so much for sending it in!! Warnings because there is mentions of canon-typical violence. Hope y’all enjoy the fic!! xo)

“If we’re really going to do this, we should start training,” Billy says idly, like they’re discussing running a marathon rather than a murderous plot.

Stu laughs at first, before realizing that Billy is serious. “Train? Like, go hunting?”

“No, dipshit,” he replies, but there’s a lack of venom in his voice. “Have you ever seen a movie where the victim just lays back and lets the killer stab ‘em? People are gonna fight back, and we can’t afford any mistakes.”

It’s a good point, Stu concedes, and thus begins their ridiculous regime of what he likes to call “Killer Camp”, and even though Billy rolls his eyes at the title, Stu knows he finds it funny as well.

True to its name, Woodsboro has many spots that are thick with trees and shielded by the dark of nighttime, giving them an ideal place to practice. With nothing but two flashlights and two knives, the boys set off into the forest at least once a week. It sort of feels like playing a combination of hide-and-seek and tag, except when you get caught, the other person pushes you to the ground and presses a semi-dull blade to the side of your neck.

Stu has the advantage of being taller, his long legs carrying him through the dirt at a naturally quicker pace, but Billy still manages to catch up to him with cunning, sneaking around the trees and jumping out when Stu thinks he’s clear to slow down for a breather.

And every time, Billy grins down at him, presses the cool metal against his pulse point, and says, “Gotcha” in a tone that makes Stu feel terrified and excited all at once. There’s a strange mix of boyish glee and creepy intrigue that shows in those brown eyes, and it should scare the shit out of him, but Stu trusts him entirely, sometimes against his best judgment.

They aren’t officially keeping score, but Stu has the numbers in his head, and he’s sure that Billy does too. He's behind by just one point, and he intends to even the score tonight.

See, Stu’s not the brains of their operation, but he isn’t stupid. He’s been studying the way Billy behaves on these nights, the pattern he inevitably falls into despite trying to keep Stu on his toes. Because while Billy is pretty smart, most of the victims in horror films aren’t, and it's hard not to fall into that mentality when you’re getting chased through the woods.

Billy always runs to the left rather than straight ahead, and he always finds a place to hide so he can try and strike back when Stu gets close. This time, Stu isn’t going to let him turn the tables.

It’s only been a few moments since Billy darted off into the trees, and Stu doesn’t bother running, just idly creeps through the fallen leaves, peeking behind every trunk.

“Billy,” he sing-songs, unable to keep from grinning.

Billy is always quiet when he’s in this mindset, a stealthy predator. But Stu likes to play with his food, so to speak. The anticipation, the taunting…That’s the part of their plan he really likes.

Just ahead, he sees a sliver of light from behind a tree, like a flashlight half-covered by foliage. He smirks, making his way towards it, but at the last second, he pivots on his heel and finds Billy standing there, eyes going wide when he realizes his trick hasn’t worked.

Stu easily grapples him down to the floor, now that he’s caught off guard.

“Fuck you, dude,” Billy pants. “How’d you know?”

“You’re not dumb enough to accidentally leave the light on,” Stu replies. “It was obviously a trap.”

Although he’s clearly disappointed that his plan failed, Billy grins. There’s a leaf stuck in his hair, and he’s smiling, and Stu wonders how a boy could be so pretty while lying in the dirt like this. 

“You gonna let me up now, smart guy?” Billy asks.

Stu hums, like he’s considering it. “Make me,” he says.

Something in Billy’s face darkens at his words, and Stu worries for a moment that he’s actually going to get stabbed. With surprising ease, Billy shifts his weight and sends them tumbling to the side, but the last thing Stu expects is for fingers to jab into his ribs, making him yelp in surprise before starting to giggle.

“What the fuck, man?” he asks, his own hands darting around, trying to catch Billy’s wrists, but his attempts are easily evaded, and those fingers just make their way beneath his arms, making him clamp his arms down with another high-pitched sound.

Billy just smirks at him. “You told me to make you,” he says. “I figured this was a better method than hurting you.”

‘What a gentleman’, Stu’s mind sarcastically supplies, but he can’t spit it out between his laughter. He doesn’t think Billy has tickled him in years, and the fact that he still remembers his weak spots is both inconvenient and oddly touching.

And although he’s technically beaten Billy at their game, the taste of victory is too sweet to fully let go of, especially because he refuses to tap out from tickling of all things.

Despite the urge to keep his arms glued as tightly to his sides as possible, Stu forces himself to fight back, reaching out to squeeze Billy’s hip.

Billy lets out a startled sound, and his hands falter, giving Stu the leverage he needs to wrestle his friend back down, straddling his thighs and tickling up and down his sides, making giggles bubble from his lips in the most adorable way.

“Asshole,” Billy grits out.

“You started this,” Stu reminds him, moving up to dance over his ribs, sending Billy into a new fit of laughter, thrashing wildly in the dirt. Memories of tickle fights back when they were younger have flooded back, and he remembers how this spot always got Billy to give in.

Clearly, not much has changed, because it only takes another moment before Billy is chanting, “Okay, fuck, stop—!” and Stu obeys, giving him a moment to catch his breath before he leans down, their noses just barely touching, and plucks a leaf out of Billy’s brown, wavy hair.

“You suck,” Billy says.

“You love me,” Stu replies.

They’re so close, Stu can feel the heat rise in Billy’s face when he says it, and even in near pitch-darkness, he can see the flicker of emotion in his expression.

Even when it seems like a bad idea, Stu trusts Billy. He’s known him for so long, has felt this way for so long…He closes the gap between them and presses their lips together, and is shocked when the kiss is immediately reciprocated. He was worried that this would end with a knife stuck in his gut, but he’s much happier with this outcome.

When they pull back, Stu can’t help but chuckle softly, and whisper, “Gotcha.”

Billy snorts and shoves him to the side, standing up and brushing dirt off of his jeans. He extends a hand out, and Stu takes it, rising to his feet.

They drive back to Stu’s house, the radio the only sound. He worries that Billy’s gonna pretend this never happened, or worse, be pissed off at him about it. But when they get inside, wash the dirt off of their hands and faces, and change into pajamas (Stu’s shirt is big on Billy, and he looks fucking adorable in it), he’s pleasantly surprised when Billy crawls into bed beside him instead of taking the floor.

“We’re tied now,” he says.

“I know,” Billy replies. “Don’t get cocky; I’ll get you next time.”

Stu snuggles closer, throwing an arm over Billy’s waist, spooning him from behind. Billy sinks into the touch willingly, like he’s wanted it as long as Stu has. “I feel like we should make tickling against the rules,” Stu adds after a pause. “I mean, I can’t imagine anyone doing that while we’re tryin’ to stab them.”

That makes Billy laugh again. “I mean, you never know. We should be prepared for anything.”

“You’d be fucked if someone tried that,” Stu teases, poking his stomach, making him flinch.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Maybe I should do it more, try and build up your resistance. Remember, we can’t afford any mistakes!”

Billy swats his hand, still giggling. “Goodnight, dumbass.”

“Night, giggles.”

He doesn’t protest the nickname, nor Stu’s suggestion that this will happen again. Stu takes this as a good sign. He falls asleep to the steady rhythm of Billy’s breathing, hoping that this is just the start.

[phemestial]

Reummels and curls: a drabble

There are just a few things Mats keeps to himself. He’s a talker, after all, quick to fill any silence with stories and quips. But some things are sacred to him—small, guarded rituals that he rarely shares. One of those is his hair. It’s almost an unspoken rule: no one touches it, no one breaks that steely boundary. But tonight is different.

Mats is worn down, softened by the day’s training and too many late nights, and somehow, he's settled here on the floor in front of the team’s worn-out couch, his head resting comfortably against Marco’s legs who sits above him. Marco’s fingers have found their way into his curls, and the trust in every relaxed tilt of Mats’ head thrums warmly in Marco's chest.

Marco tries to keep his usual smirk in place, a light-hearted front, but something about this—about Mats resting his head so easily in his lap, hair soft beneath his fingers—makes the act harder to hold onto. Mats is quiet, eyes half-lidded, his breathing even, his whole posture relaxed in a way Marco isn’t used to. Mats, who’s always buzzing with energy, always smiling, always thrumming, now leans against him as if Marco’s lap is the most natural place in the world to be in.

Marco’s fingers find a curl, twisting it absently, feeling a rush of fondness he doesn’t know what to do with. “You know,” he starts, aiming for a teasing edge, “you spend more time on this hair than anyone spends on their boots. Surprised you can make it through a game without stopping to fix it.”

Mats chuckles, eyes barely opening, his smile sleepy but amused. “Jealous of my perfect curls, are we?”

The response makes Marco scoff, though he can’t keep the affection from bleeding into his voice. “Jealous of a guy who thinks he’s a Greek god? Not a chance.” He scratches lightly along Mats’ scalp, watching for the small reactions—a slight shiver, the way Mats leans in a little more. He doesn’t know why, but he feels oddly protective, like this easy trust Mats is giving him is something delicate, something he has to cradle close to his chest, teeth bared.

And then Mats’ eyes flicker open, just one, a soft smile spreading across his face. Yet, its edges are sharp, as if he sees straight through Marco. “For someone so quick to tease, you’re awfully gentle with me,” Mats murmurs, his voice low and warm. “Didn’t realize you had such a soft spot.”

The words catch Marco off guard, and he feels his face heat up, a blush creeping in before he can stop it. He clears his throat, but his fingers don’t leave Mats’ hair, they can't, trapped in the mess of soft curls. His usual quick comebacks abandon him, leaving him exposed under Mats’ smoldering gaze.

“Speechless?” Mats’ voice is a gentle taunt, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Or are you just… enjoying yourself a little too much?”

Marco narrows his eyes, struggling to keep up his bravado. “I’m just being nice,” he mutters, though his hand refuses to let go, fingers trailing along Mats’ scalp like they’re made to be there. Mats, still watching him with that infuriating, knowing look, lets out a soft laugh, and the sound is warm, velvet against Marco's skin.

Marco shifts, trying to reclaim his usual confidence, but the warmth of Mats’ quiet laughter pulls at something within him, something he’s not sure how to name. The room has fallen hushed, only the distant hum of voices in the training center lingering around them, like the world has receded, leaving just this.

“Alright, laugh it up,” Marco mutters, rolling his eyes, but the soft, fond undertone betrays him. His fingers continue their slow path through Mats’ curls, brushing aside a wayward strand as if erasing some invisible line neither of them has ever dared to cross. “You’re lucky I’m not charging you for this. With how you act like a prince, you’d owe me big.”

Mats chuckles, his gaze, warm and a little too knowing. “Well, maybe I’d pay... if it means you’ll keep those hands exactly where they are,” he murmurs, his voice low, dipping just enough to send a shiver down Marco’s spine.

The words land, and for a heartbeat, Marco falters, heat blazing across his cheeks. He clears is throat but it's no use, the flutter in his chest remains, fingers twitching, buried in those chocolate curls. “You’re… bolder than usual,” he says, the words barely a breath as he tries to sound unfazed, “What happened to the guy who pretends not to care?”

Mats lets his eyes fall closed, a lazy, softened smile lingering as he leans further into Marco’s touch, as if he’s savoring each second of this unspoken closeness. “Guess he’s tired of pretending,” he whispers, so quiet it almost disappears into the room, a rare crack in the armor Marco knows so well.

And Marco feels it—a familiar warmth blooming slowly within, as if this simple act of touching, of lingering in each other’s company, has peeled back a layer of guardedness, leaving only the quiet contentment of being known, of being seen.

His fingers continue that gentle, soothing pattern along Mats’ scalp, a touch that feels like more than it should, grounding him in the moment. He lets the quiet linger, like a truth between them that doesn’t need saying, and finally, his voice comes gentle, a confession hidden in the curve of a smile.

“Good,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing especially unruly curl, silence settling between them. “It suits him.”

And when Mats laughs, Marco can't help but to drown, fingers trembling, heart thrumming.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

･:*࿔ೃ.⋆inspired by @doodlingbees' art⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[cowboyemeritus]

Day 7

Prompt: Hate Sex

Pairing: Mary Goore/Reader

Tags: hate sex, drunk sex, taunting and insults, dub-con if you squint

Notes: i love mary too much to not include them in Ghostober. sorry (not sorry) to any purists out there.

You never would have shown up if you’d known Mary had been invited as well.

“Always knew you were a fuckin’ slut,” he slurs, so piss-drunk he can barely stand. You’re surprised they can even get it up, let alone stay on two feet. In a similarly inebriated state, for a split second you’re grateful to be in this position, bracing yourself against the bathroom sink while Mary sloppily fucks you. Then you remember exactly what’s going on and the moment is over. It’s easy enough to ignore them and focus on the — you loathe to admit it — delicious stretch of the cock inside you until Mary growls, grubby fingers threading in your hair and lazily tugging your head back. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, makeup smudged and eyes drooping. Mary’s lips are dark red with smears of your lipstick, the same color as the tacky fake blood he always insists on wearing. What an attention whore. “D’you hear me?”

You kick him lightly in the shin. It’s a merciful blow, using only a fraction of your actual strength. A warning shot. Still, they hiss like you just slapped them in the balls.

“Fuckin’ Christ, you crazy bitch.” It works, though, and he lets go of your hair.

You lock eyes with him in the mirror. “Do that again and I’ll break your fucking legs, Goore.” He’s seen you kick down a door — his door — before. They know it’s not an empty threat. Mary scoffs.

“This is why no one wants to fuck you,” they say. You sneer at them.

“‘Cept you, apparently. Must be one killer fuckin’ dry spell you’re-“ The most pathetic noise tears its way out of you when he, instead of laying hands on you again, delivers a brutal thrust right to your sweet spot. You’re fucking pissed; it’s not fair that Mary can be this shitfaced and still lay pipe like that.

“Sorry,” Mary taunts, cupping a hand behind his ear. “What was that? Couldn’t hear you over how wet this pussy is for me.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn with shame. They’re right, it is embarrassingly loud.

“Go fuck yourself.” You’re quickly running out of good comebacks. Mary laughs cruelly.

“Why should I? Got a perfectly good cocksleeve right here.” For emphasis he presses his hips flush with your ass, the head of his cock jabbing at your cervix. It’s like a punch in the gut, and yet there’s something in the way they brutalize you that has your walls fluttering involuntarily.

“Fuck you,” you hiss. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you- Oh!” You’re so close but can’t let him win — can’t give him the satisfaction of breaking you. Feigning more composure than you have, you reach down between your legs to slowly, lazily, play with your clit. If you’re getting there, you’re doing it your damn self.

“Oh, no you fucking don’t.” Mary grabs your wrist and yanks your hand away, pinning it behind your back. Needing your other arm to hold yourself up, you’re more or less trapped this way. His grip is firm, but not enough to hurt. Still, it’s the last straw.

“You fucking freak!” With all your strength you try to wriggle your way out of Mary’s grasp, intent on teaching him a lesson. His palms are sweaty from the exertion, and you’re easily able to free yourself from his grasp. As you rise, though, they take a step forward, pinning you to the sink with all their weight, still inside you. “Asshole,” you spit. Now right next to your ear, Mary laughs.

“That a request?” Their breath reeks of alcohol, and you grimace.

“You’re disgusti-“ Suddenly, there’s a pounding on the bathroom door. Both your heads whip in the direction of the racket.

“You fuckers like each other yet?” Tom’s voice asks.

“No!” You yell in unison. Outside, you hear whooping, hollering, and a few wolf-whistles. You look to each other then, both humiliated as you realize you’ve been caught… together.

“Ten more minutes, then!” Then there’s explosion of cheers from the other side of the door and Mary tries the knob. It turns, but the door doesn’t budge. He must have propped a chair up against it, or something. They bang on the door, calling for Tom, for any of his bandmates, but there’s no response. Groaning, they look back at you in the mirror.

“Should we keep going?”

You sigh. “Might as well.”

[darkcrowprincess]

Soriku: Trapped in a dream

*most of my knowledge of kingdom hearts comes from reading manga, the novels, and watching cut scenes and some of the game play on YouTube. So I apologize if I get some lore wrong or character powers wrong. I never played the games*

Riku was running with their "daughter" in his arms. Funny how that word was an impossibility a year ago. Yen Sid said she wasn't really a "daughter", more of a possibility. Just like how Yozora too was like his "little sister" was a possibility. Something that could happen in the future for them, him and Sora. Sora. Everything was always because of Sora, the good and bad. Riku wouldn't have it any other way.

"What's wrong Keyblade Master?! Don't you want to play!" Taunts the playful yet cruel voice of the Master of Masters.

At the sound, Riku runs faster down the dark corridor. Serena unresponsive but safe in his arms. Her hair brown like Sora's, but long and straight. Like how his hair was when it grew long. She was a tiny thing, even for a child. She reminded him greatly of Sora at that age. Which added to the fierce need to protect her.

Dark shadows and piercing light chasing after him. Reaching grabbing claws, they almost have him. Barley they miss. He had to keep her safe and find Sora. He had to get all three of them out of here. Normally he would stand his ground and fight.

"You can't run forever Keyblade Master!"

However he would never risk Serena and Sora. Especially not with this strange new power in this strange new world. So he kept running, making quick turns here or there. Yet the darkness and light kept after them. Hungry for them. The next quick turn leads into an open room filled with thick purple mist. Riku can hear the Master of Master behind.

The mist is too thick. Riku can't figure out where else to go.

"Why keep fighting Riku? When I can give you what you always wanted!"

Riku turns angrily to face the danger, Braveheart appearing in one hand, holding all of Serena's weight protectively in the other. There's no where left to run, so he must stand his ground now. So he will face what comes. Even if it costs him. He's done it before. What's one more time?

Yet when he does turn angrily to face the danger, his eyes widen in surprise. Instead of an onslaught of darkness and light preparing to consume them, or even the Master of Masters mocking him. Instead of that, he's in another room. The quick change of setting causes him to freeze. Adrenaline still pumps in his veins. His sea green eyes anxiously dart around at where they are, and he realizes with shock this room was familiar. Not only was it familiar, but it was somewhere that's suppose to be safe.

"Riku?" Says a voice filled with love, comfort and worry.

Riku feels a cold nail like sharp shivers run up his spine at that voice. A voice he would recognize anywhere. A voice that was always with him and in his heart.

"Sora?" Riku replies back, confused at what ws going on, but a part him always felt safe in Sora's presence. Sora was in their bed in Yen Sids tower. In sleep clothes. Riku's clothes. He looks fine, tired and waking up from sleep. But over all fine.

'Not recovering from being frozen in ice' Thought Riku, confused. Still a part of him lowers his guard. It's Sora. No matter what he's safe with Sora.

Sora yawns, rubbing one fist into one eye to help wake himself up more. " What are you doing up? And carrying Serena?"

"I-I I was." Riku says confused and uncertain. Sora smiles at Riku to reassure him. He comes up and hugs him. Their time traveling future daughter in between them. Safe and protected. But still dead asleep to the world. Riku stares down at her in worry and fear. Sora cups Riku's face, making him look at him,"Hey its alright, shes just sleeping. Having a beautiful dream."

Sora gentle as can be, takes her from Rikus arms than lays her on their bed. Tucking her in with the soft blue comforter. Both him and Riku stare down at her peaceful sleeping face. Sora than envelopes him in his arms again. Tugging him close. Heart to heart. Being so close Riku can hear the soft melody of their heart song. Two hearts beating as one in tune. He leans his head on Sora's. Riku wants to get lost in the embrace.

"I don't understand what's happening," whispers Riku. He wants to feel safe. He's with Sora, so why wouldn't he feel safe? Yet he can't shake his instincts. His battle ready instincts that have always kept him alive.

"There's nothing to understand. Your with me Riku."

"Yes bu-ut." Riku stutters. Part of him wants to get lost in Sora's and just relax. But he can't. He is a Keyblade master. A fighter. And the fighter instincts in him won't be silenced. Questions fill his head rapidly. Like, "How did he get here?" And like, "How did you recover so quickly Sora?" But there's one question that's haunting him the most.

While still holding Sora (if this really is Sora he thinks darkly), so as not to alert him to any of his thoughts, Riku asks softly,

"Sora tell me something, and be honest. Who is more important? Me or Serena and our friends?"

Sora looks up, and answers without hesitation.

"You of course Riku. Who else would it be?"

At those words, Riku knew for sure. Sora smiles at Riku. He leans up to kiss him.

Riku does something he never thought he'd do in a million years. He stops Sora from kissing him. He puts a finger to his lips and stops him.

Riku smiles down at the confused and pouting Sora, "What's wrong Riku?"

Riku gently pushes Sora away from him, and goes to Serena. He picks her up in his arms. She still lays deep asleep. Turning back around he faces an adorably confused Sora.

We a laugh in his voice Riku says,"Even in my dreams Sora, your still my light."

Sora's face falls at that and turns quickly to shocked and confused. Everything stills. The soft music playing from their heart song becomes silenced. As if holding its breath. Pointing his keyblade to the ceiling, he uses his dream eater powers to wake from the dream. Keyblade shining light covering everything. The last thing he sees before being covered with light is Sora's face. Even if it's just a dream, he hates that look on Sora's face. He looks sad, wishing Riku could just stay. Riku wishes he could too.

[scarletsaphire]

29 Gray Ghost

29- Giggling While Kissing Send me a number and a ship and I'll write a scene!

Valerie sat behind the driver's wheel, stone faced. She needed to stay focus. If she let her attention stray from the road in front of her for even one moment, than everything would be over. She couldn't afford to give in.

Danny wasn't making it any easier. He was flopped over in the passenger seat, clutching his stomach and gasping for air. Sometimes he'd start to straighten, or he'd open his mouth to say something, only to start wheezing and double over again. It was incredibly distracting.

Not quite as distracting as the absolutely horrible music currently blasting from the speakers, but it was close.

Danny must have finally caught his breath, because he straightened in his seat. "Wait, wait I have another one!" he called over the music. "Why didn't the road apologize to the traffic cone?"

Valerie didn't bother trying to figure out the punch line. She'd given up that game by hour two. It was a miracle she lasted that long. "Why?"

"Because what pave said wasn't what pave meant!" Danny said, before devolving back into a mess of laughter and tears. "Get it? Pave meant? Pavement? Cause its- its a road?"

Valerie tried to keep the smile off of her face, she really did. If she smiled, then she would lose. But it was already hour three and three quarters of the road trip, and Danny had finally managed to wear her down. More from his own overzealous laughter than the absolutely terrible to sometimes alright puns he'd been saying the entire time. She couldn't keep the smile off her face.

Danny saw it immediately and threw his arms into the air, cheering. "Yes! I got you to crack! Pull this car over right now, it's my turn to drive!"

Valerie sighed, though it came out more as a chuckle. "If we crash and die in a horrible car accident I'm blaming you," she said as she pulled into the nearest parking lot.

"Aw, come on, I'm not that bad," Danny said. He unbuckled his seat belt, making his way around to the car to the driver's side. Valerie didn't bother to get out, just hopped over the console and into the passenger's seat.

"That's what your dad says too, and we both know what he's like," Valerie said, buckling herself in.

"I'm a better driver than my dad is," Danny said.

"Barely, which isn't saying much. I'm pretty sure that a rock rolling down hill has a better grasp of traffic laws than both of you combined."

Danny gasped dramatically. "You take that back?"

"Never," Valerie replied, sticking her tongue out at him.

"That's it. I was hoping I wouldn't need to use it, since you already cracked," Danny said.

"Oh yeah? Use what?" Valerie taunted.

"My secret weapon." Valerie realized that he hadn't buckled his seat belt yet when he leaned across the console. He was able to move freely, and she was trapped. Danny's hand covered the release button before she could reach it as she was struck with the dawning horror.

"You wouldn't," she whispered, looking into Danny's bright blue eyes, only inches away from her own.

Danny's mischievous smile was answer enough as his free hand snuck under her shirt and started tickling her. Now it was Valerie turn to double over with laughter.

"Take it back!" Danny said.

"Never!" Valerie gasped out between her giggles.

"Then I'm never going to stop!" Danny rebutted. He removed his other hand from the belt buckle, not that it would do Valerie any good. He'd managed to climb entirely into her lap, despite the somewhat cramped confines of the car seat.

She withheld for another minute under the relentless onslaught before finally conceding. "Fine!" she called out. "I take it back!"

Danny stopped tickling her, but didn't remove his hands. "And what do you take back?" he asked.

"You and your dad combined can beat a rock in a driving test," Valerie said.

"Ok, now say that you love me, and you'll be free to go."

"I'll do you one better," she said. She grabbed his wrists, moving them off of her stomach and to her sides, causing his head to lower towards hers. The kiss was messy; broken by the remainders of Valerie's giggle fit and Danny's own laughter. She'd only intended for it to be a quick thing. But the parking lot was empty, and every second that Valerie was kissing Danny was another one that she didn't have to be in the car with him behind the wheel.

It didn't matter too much if they were late anyway.

[mwolf0epsilon]

The Umbaran Pathogen - Day 18: Warm Soup

Summary: Obi-wan really has to stop ending up in these most compromising positions. It's becoming a terrible habit, and people might get the wrong impression. But, at least he does manage to get a few words out of their most gracious host... Although they're not exactly words of comfort...

Warning: Regurgitation grossness and force-feeding (as is to be expected since bugs don't exactly conform to table-side manners)

Here’s what Tup currently looks like (and Dogma's design should give a vague idea of what Cody looks like since they belong to the same cast)

Prev / Next

[In which the events on Umbara are worsened by an unknown pathogen taking hold of both the 501st and 212th. These series of drabbles will follow a non-linear timeline based on the AI-less Whumptober prompt list for 2023.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

---

This, Obi-wan mused, was not an ideal situation...

Not that he wasn't used to this kind of arrangement by now. If he had a credit for every time he ended up bound (and sometimes gagged, if his captors weren't overly fond of his charming personality) in some way shape or form, he'd have far too many credits for it to be sensible or even tasteful for someone of his prestigious position.

Perhaps it was just bad luck on his part that he somehow got himself into this sort of position. Or maybe the Force was just trying to tell him something, in all it's cryptic but somewhat wild and tricksy wisdom.

Whatever the case, he was currently suspended 5 feet in the air while tied up by some very viscous and impressively strong spider-like silk.

Trooper Tup, upon realizing what had been holding him back, had made quick work of all their efforts to restrain and impede the infected. Turning his full attention onto him, and lunging forward before he could change what direction he was pulling him in. The collision had sent Obi-wan flying, the air knocked out of his lungs, and then the monstrously mutated clone had descended upon him in a flurry of vile regurgitation, pulling and weaving.

On the plus side, he seemed to be in no mood for adding him to the roster of infected. On the downside, the few healthy troopers that remained were also trapped in the thick webbing, and the more recently infected were being cocooned while they watched helplessly.

While it certainly proved a good enough distraction to provide the 501st's medical team with some much needed time to escape, it was still not the most ideal of scenarios. Especially considering they were being forced to watch as Tup pulled each of the newly-infected 212th troopers close, considering them carefully, before opening up his jaws as wide as possible. A gesture which each of Obi-wan's men mirrored, accepting the following steaming hot torrent of pinkish liquid that spilled directly into their gullets, as if it were manna from heaven.

The display had not gone down well with the rest of the healthy, who gagged and retched in disgust as they watched their fellow clones be mouth-fed in such a disturbing manner. The horrid stench of the goo reaching their nostrils and eyes, making them sting and drip in irritation.

And the worst part was the wickedly smug grin the altered soldier sent their way, seeming pleased with their discomfort as he bundled up each of the men he'd finished "feeding". The pincer-like mandibles jutting out of his jaw clicking in a taunting manner.

The thing that had taken over the once-sweet young man had certainly twisted him into a rather cruel and sadistic individual. One that most definitely liked to toy with its prey.

"Not exactly weather for warm soup, don't you think?" No matter, Obi-wan was also very fond of toying with those who'd crossed him and the 212th. While Tup was not at fault for this, the thing controlling him was. And if it understood taunting and smugness, then it would certainly fall for the bait and lose even more time trying to argue back in some way.

Pausing for a second, Cody cradled in those terrifyingly sharp pincers of his, the mutated clone seemed to be caught slightly aback. Perhaps assuming no one would think him smart enough to engage in conversation. Or perhaps just curious to see where he was going with this. Regardless of what it might be, it stared at him with a distrustful glare.

"Truly, the men were in very good health before you decided to... Share this sickness of yours with them..." The Jedi carried on. Trying not to flinch in revulsion as Cody accepted the same disgusting liquid almost greedily. Lapping it up with this uncharacteristically doe-eyed look that did not belong on his face. "They were also full from mid-meal when we left our camp..."

"A̸s̴c̷e̸n̴s̷i̷o̵n̵ ̶t̷a̵k̷e̴s̴ ̶e̸n̴e̶r̶g̷y̶ ̸a̷n̵d̵ ̴n̶u̴t̸r̶i̶t̴i̸o̴n̴.̴" Tup hissed, his garbled voice having become much deeper than what it had once been. Rendered even more of a baritone than even the late Krell's naturally deep voice. "N̴o̴n̷e̵ ̶o̸f̸ ̴w̵h̸i̴c̵h̸ ̵t̴h̵e̴s̵e̵ ̸s̵t̵a̵r̴v̶i̷n̸g̷ ̸P̵u̵p̵a̸ ̶h̴a̸v̸e̴ ̶t̵o̴ ̶s̶p̸a̴r̴e̵.̴.̸.̸"

The anger and clear disgust aimed at Obi-wan were more than noted. He had a feeling Tup's opinion of him was less than stellar at the moment. Possibly from him stopping the trooper from attacking the medics but... Well, it seemed a little odd that this alone would make him sound so venomous towards him in particular...

He was missing something.

"I wouldn't call what is happening to these men a form of 'ascension', as you put it..." He argued, trying to keep Tup distracted for as long as he could. Frowning as the other finished wrapping up Cody in a cocoon so his second in command could undergo metamorphosis. "But I do agree our food stores for this mission have indeed been depleted to dangerous levels..."

"Y̷o̴u̴r̷ ̵f̴o̷o̷d̶ ̸i̸s̸ ̴w̷o̵r̵t̶h̶ ̶l̴i̶t̸t̸l̶e̶!̵" Tup snapped as he gently settled the cocooned Commander down next to the other resting bundles. Approaching Obi-wan and the rest of the trapped troopers, he jabbed him on the chest with a clawed pincer. "N̴e̴v̴e̸r̷ ̷f̵i̵l̸l̴i̶n̴g̶.̵ ̴N̸e̶v̴e̵r̴ ̸e̴n̵o̶u̵g̸h̵ ̷t̸o̴ ̴m̶a̶i̴n̴t̴a̷i̶n̴ ̵a̴n̶y̴ ̸p̶r̴e̷c̵i̸o̵u̶s̷ ̸f̴a̶t̴ ̶r̸e̸s̷e̷r̷v̸e̴s̷.̷ ̵U̸s̶e̴l̷e̷s̶s̸ ̶s̸t̷a̵l̵e̴ ̶s̵l̸o̶p̸!̴"

Tail lashing with irritation, the mutated trooper began to pace impatiently. Giving them all a proper and good view of his horrifically misshapen body. The grueling transformation he'd undergone.

In some ways, he almost resembled a Chironian now. His upper torso mostly that of a man (barring the extra eyes, blue and black scales, the jagged fang-like plates and pincers attached to his jaw, all the spikes and the two gigantic mantis-like pincers), while is back end had extended into a four legged almost equine-like insectoid body, with very long and incredibly powerful limbs and tail to match.

The black shield like plating on his back gave Obi-wan the impression that he was also in possession of a strong set of wings, that could fully carry him in flight. Although Tup had yet to reveal those. Opting to intimidate them all with just the sound of his heavy footfalls and brutish strength.

"W̸e̶ ̴w̷e̸r̷e̵ ̷t̷o̴l̴d̷ ̸t̴h̸e̶ ̴J̵e̵d̸i̵ ̸w̸o̴u̴l̶d̴ ̴c̸a̷r̴e̸ ̵f̸o̴r̵ ̵u̶s̴.̴ ̶T̷h̵a̷t̶ ̷w̶e̷ ̶w̴e̴r̷e̴ ̴f̸o̵r̴ ̵t̴h̵e̵m̴,̶ ̶s̵o̶ ̸t̷h̸e̴y̸ ̸w̸o̵u̶l̷d̶ ̸p̸r̷o̵t̸e̷c̶t̴ ̴a̷n̴d̸ ̴s̶t̷a̷n̶d̷ ̴b̴y̸ ̸u̴s̷.̶" The insectoid man growled, glaring at Obi-wan with all 7 of his eyes. "B̵u̶t̴ ̵t̸h̵a̵t̵ ̸w̶a̶s̶ ̶c̶l̴e̷a̶r̴l̴y̴ ̶a̸ ̷l̷i̷e̸.̴.̶.̵ ̵S̷k̵y̶w̴a̸l̵k̶e̶r̵ ̷l̸e̵f̷t̴ ̶u̵s̸ ̴h̶e̷r̵e̸.̸.̸.̷ ̵K̷r̴e̶l̵l̴ ̵s̵e̷n̸t̶ ̴u̸s̵ ̴t̸o̷ ̵o̸u̶r̴ ̸d̸e̶a̶t̸h̶s̷.̸.̸.̸ ̵S̵o̷ ̷m̴a̵n̸y̶ ̸v̴o̸d̴e̸ ̸l̶o̶s̷t̴.̸ ̵P̸o̸w̷e̸r̷l̶e̸s̶s̶.̷ ̵D̵i̵s̴r̴e̴g̷a̴r̸d̴e̵d̴!̶"

He frowned at that.

Yes, Anakin had left, but not of his own volition... If anything, his old Padawan had been reluctant to leave the 501st behind, upon being called away back to Coruscant. Only resting at ease when someone from the temple came to substitute him. He was, after all, protective of his men.

It seemed like things had not gone well with Krell. Come to think of it, the Besalisk Jedi Master had been rather distant as of late. Quieter. Less willing to engage anyone in conversation. Obi-wan wondered if that had anything to do with his death. If perhaps things had taken an unexpected turn due to Master Krell's recent bout of anti-social behavior.

If that were the case, then Tup's aggression towards him might be easier to explain.

"B̷u̷t̶ ̷t̸h̷e̵n̸.̶.̶.̷ ̶I̵ ̷b̷e̷c̵a̴m̵e̴ ̶t̶h̷i̷s̶.̷ ̵I̵ ̸b̸e̷c̷a̶m̸e̸ ̸g̷r̴e̴a̴t̶e̸r̴!̴" And at that, Tup smiled, seeming almost euphoric in how he motioned at himself. Proudly showing himself off to them. "S̸t̷r̸o̴n̴g̴e̷r̵,̴ ̵r̵e̴s̶i̸l̷i̸e̴n̷t̶,̷ ̸a̵t̵ ̸t̶h̸e̴ ̷v̵e̵r̵y̵ ̵t̸o̸p̶ ̶o̵f̸ ̶t̴h̶e̸ ̸f̴o̷o̷d̵ ̴c̷h̶a̸i̶n̴.̷ ̵A̷n̶d̷ ̷b̶e̷t̶t̶e̴r̴ ̵y̶e̷t̵,̸ ̷I̸ ̴c̷o̸u̵l̴d̵ ̸s̴h̴a̸r̵e̶ ̸t̴h̴i̸s̷ ̶g̸i̷f̵t̶ ̵w̴i̴t̴h̴ ̸e̶v̴e̴r̵y̸o̷n̸e̸ ̸e̴l̴s̵e̵!̷ ̷W̸i̸t̵h̶ ̴t̴h̸i̷s̶ ̶t̴r̴a̶n̶s̴f̵o̸r̸m̶a̸t̶i̸o̸n̶,̷ ̷t̷h̷i̴s̷ ̴e̸v̷o̴l̴u̷t̴i̵o̴n̷,̸ ̶w̶e̶ ̵c̶o̷u̶l̷d̸ ̴a̶l̵l̸ ̵l̴i̸v̵e̴!̸ ̵W̴e̷ ̶c̴o̴u̸l̵d̸ ̴a̷l̶l̸ ̷b̷e̵ ̷s̷a̶f̵e̴!̶"

"I see... You're doing this to protect your brothers." The Jedi would stroke his beard in thought if he could. He could see the logic, could see the lies this parasite had fed to a young man desperate to protect his kin, and it honestly repulsed him how something could so easily use such an emotional vulnerability against someone like Tup. No creature should be that naturally cruel.

"Y̶e̶s̴.̷.̴.̵ ̴I̷'̷m̵ ̶m̴a̸k̷i̴n̸g̵ ̵t̵h̶e̸m̴ ̵b̴e̴t̴t̷e̵r̶!̴ ̵I̵'̵m̵ ̴s̶a̶v̴i̴n̷g̸ ̴t̶h̴e̷m̶!̸" The mutated trooper eagerly nodded, twitching with excitement at the idea of being understood. Of his actions being justifiable. "U̷n̴d̵e̸r̴ ̸m̵y̶ ̴r̷u̵l̴e̶,̶ ̸o̸u̵r̴ ̷H̴i̸v̴e̶ ̵w̸i̸l̵l̶ ̴p̴r̶o̴s̸p̸e̶r̸!̵ ̴I̵'̶v̶e̴ ̵d̶o̴n̸e̸ ̴a̸ ̸w̸o̵n̵d̷e̴r̸f̸u̷l̵ ̵t̸h̷i̸n̵g̵!̷"

"No, I'm afraid you really haven't..."

And perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, as the excitement fell of Tup's face. Replaced by a sudden look of confusion and hurt, and then with one of absolute rage at being questioned.

Surging forward with a roar, the mutated insectoid got up close and personal, screaming directly in Obi-wan's face.

"Y̶O̶U̸ ̷D̶O̴N̶'̶T̷ ̶K̸N̶O̵W̴ ̴A̶N̶Y̷T̷H̵I̶N̶G̵!̶" The anger and despair smelled like rotting fruit with hints of decaying meat. Or maybe that was just Tup's rancid breath as he sprayed him with speckles of warm and sticky saliva. "I̵'̶M̷ ̴S̴A̵V̷I̵N̶G̷ ̴M̶Y̶ ̶F̴A̸M̷I̶L̴Y̸!̸ ̵Y̴O̸U̴ ̸J̶U̸S̶T̸ ̶D̸O̵N̶'̷T̴ ̷U̵N̷D̷E̶R̵S̸T̵A̶N̷D̴ ̸T̵H̷A̸T̵ ̵B̶E̴C̴A̵U̸S̴E̷ ̸Y̷O̷U̸'̴R̴E̶ ̶A̴ ̴J̷E̶D̵I̶ ̴A̴N̶D̶ ̶D̵O̶N̴'̶T̴ ̴H̸A̷V̴E̸ ̴O̷N̶E̷ ̵O̸F̴ ̷Y̵O̴U̷R̵ ̶O̸W̴N̸!̵!̴!̸"

Turning away quickly, Tup checked on the cocoons and gently nudged them. Calming down as he felt the troopers within respond to his touch. Antennae and tail twitching in delight as some of them began to break out of the tightly woven shells.

"Y̴o̸u̸'̷l̷l̷ ̴s̷e̵e̵.̵.̴.̸ ̷W̷e̷'̵l̷l̵ ̵a̶l̷l̶ ̴b̶e̸ ̸s̴a̸f̸e̶ ̴w̸i̶t̴h̵i̷n̶ ̴t̶h̷e̸ ̶H̴i̵v̷e̴.̷.̸.̷ ̷S̸a̸f̷e̶ ̷a̸n̴d̸ ̵l̸o̸v̴e̸d̴ ̵a̸n̸d̵ ̸a̸w̸a̵y̵ ̵f̴r̴o̴m̶ ̵y̴o̴u̸r̸ ̵w̴r̸e̷t̶c̷h̸e̷d̶ ̸w̵a̸r̵.̸.̸.̵" Tup purred, as he watched Cody emerge from his cocoon, a fully formed Drone at his beck and call just like Dogma. "B̴u̴t̵ ̷f̶i̴r̵s̶t̴.̶.̷.̵ ̷I̸ ̴n̵e̵e̴d̴ ̸t̵o̵ ̸d̸e̶a̴l̵ ̵w̸i̵t̶h̶ ̴s̷o̵m̴e̶ ̴l̶o̴o̶s̷e̴ ̴e̴n̵d̶s̵.̸"

He motioned for Cody to help the others break out of their own cocoons before moving towards the exit, looking back at the healthy troopers and Jedi with delight.

"I̸t̴'̶s̴ ̷a̴ ̷s̷h̴a̵m̸e̶ ̶t̴o̵ ̶k̴i̷l̶l̵ ̷t̴h̴e̷m̷,̵ ̶b̸u̶t̵ ̵t̷h̴e̵ ̸m̵e̸d̶i̷c̷s̸'̴s̴ ̷m̶e̶a̷t̶ ̴w̸o̸n̴'̷t̸ ̵g̷o̴ ̴t̵o̷ ̸w̴a̸s̶t̷e̴.̴" He smirked wickedly, back plates opening up to reveal two massive sets of glowing wings that were preparing to take off. "A̶n̷d̷ ̸h̵o̸n̶e̷s̵t̵l̷y̵,̵ ̷n̴o̴u̵r̴i̵s̵h̶i̶n̸g̸ ̵t̵h̸e̶ ̸v̸o̸d̷e̷ ̷i̶s̵ ̴w̶h̵a̸t̶ ̷t̴h̸e̵y̸ ̵w̴o̸u̵l̴d̴ ̶h̷a̴v̸e̸ ̴w̶a̴n̵t̸e̶d̴ ̸a̸n̴y̷w̷a̵y̴.̷.̸.̶ ̵W̴e̷r̷e̸ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̸ ̶n̵o̸t̷ ̶t̵o̴o̴ ̴b̵l̸i̵n̸d̶ ̵t̴o̶ ̵s̸e̴e̸ ̴h̸o̴w̷ ̶w̸o̶n̸d̶e̷r̴f̷u̴l̵ ̶a̴ ̸g̵i̶f̴t̴ ̶t̵h̷i̵s̷ ̵i̸s̵.̷.̵.̸"

With that said, the mutant took flight and left the medbay. Either to hunt down the medics, or perhaps to free Dogma so the other could help him on his personal hunt.

Obi-wan could only hope that he'd bought them all enough time...

[gasmeros]

Regarding the ask game what’s the S1 solstice to boat au about???

hi foamyyyy! i talked about it a bit in this post

it's basically a winter solstice au where. it's like. im ficjign struggling how do i explain this quickly. fucjing. fuck it, my snippet is half the fic notes, i dont have much of any proper writing to share for this one anyway

content warnings include mindless rambling, zhao, and threats of violence/execution

s1 winter solstice episode au, very much adjacent to that tumblr post (linked) about zuko getting locked up with sokka and katara and them figuring out about Zuko's fucked up family life.

similar but we bypass the actual verbal conversation by having zhao do taunting stuff cuz he be like that. he says stuff like episode 3 about ozai not wanting zuko back, about him failing his 2ish year long search, about how when they drag him back home, there might even be a public execution for his crimes, wouldn't that be nice? nothing but the best for the prince. and maybe zhao will even get to watch. ("he wouldn't." "can you really be certain, my prince? after what he did to your face? and just for mouthing off, too. how would he punish a real crime?")

then zuko showing how desperate he is to not get dragged back to the fire nation by doing some fucked up dangerus type of fighting back. like, wiggling, screaming, biting, full on child in a grocery store who has learned how to glue themselves to the floor type of reaction to being arrested, except this child has fire and no limits. good chance for that idea where zuko superheats a metal gag and bites through it, burning himself in the process. would be neat to have zuko spit a shard of almost molten metal at zhao cuz fuck him. maybe keep the whole scene chained to the pillar instead in some other room like these fics usually go?

so water siblings realize that something is most definitely Up based on zhao's words and Zuko's reactions, and when roku starts to tear the temple apart, they hit a wall where they realize that zuko's been trapped by the lava flow like them, and while they have appa to hop onto, he doesn't have an escape. so cue these kids being Kind and promptly yanking him along cuz the alternative is zuko burning alive

so we get Bison Time, wherein zuko's still not a fan of anything that's happening, but compared to how he was acting with zhao, he's downright pleasant. which is not to say that he's actually pleasant, he is very much being an angry brat who's like one second away from trying to fight them while still on the bison. the siblings have a lot of questions, because what zhao said about banishment and two years searching and public executions was fucking wack and they need to know why he said that, why zuko fought so hard that he thought burning his mouth as bad as he did was an acceptable trade off. they know why, but they need to hear it.

zuko does not let them hear it. he yells and doesn't answer any questions and demands they put him down or else. bits about the mouth burns obviously bothering him, just cuz im me and im predictable

they end up going to drop him off at his ship cuz his crew wont attack without a command, and zuko's not so dumb to make them attack the bison he's on. they end up making him swear to not do anything until after they fly away

potential bit where they fly over to Zuko's ship, still in fire nation waters, and find its got a zhao shadow. so zuko, while not at all wanting to actually say it out loud, does not want to go back to his ship until the shadow leaves or they're out of fire nation waters, cuz he will absolutely be arrested. cue more gaang being concerned about the arresting thing, and zuko basically pulling his own teeth to ask if he can wait on the bison until it's safe.

Eventually theyre able to land on zuko's ship without risk of zuko being arrested. zuko keeps his word and doesn't let anyone attack until after they leave, and THEN. aang is a smartass and takes advantage of that by just. not flying away :) so zuko can't do anything, cuz then he'd break his word!! that's pretty fuckin dishonorable!! zuko would like to murder aang.

(really aang needs a moment to talk with the siblings because if what he gleaned from the conversation is true, he can't in good conscience just leave zuko to his fool's errand for an abusive father. they need more information, and they have to do something, cuz this is not ok. the siblings agree, though with much more caution because that's been forced into them by growing up in a war)

cue s1 gaang and zuko tea party

and so the whole fuckin fic takes place on zuko's ship cuz aang is be a pedantic little snot and zuko's autism sense of honor wont let him break a promise

i have maybe 300 words of actual writing for this, and im not sure how i feel about those words. this is like one of the first fics i tried to write for atla, which, like most of my atla fics, has dug itself a very comfy hole to sleep in. i'd love to get anywhere with it, if only i had the motivation