#knife jinx

[xi-xi-chen]

[backstabber128]

Here's my headcanon look for drunk brawler emo Vi + more inner child healing because I know DAMN well these girls need it for season 2 🙏

[cottoncandyabc]

Some evil age regressor icons <3

[starry-nights12]

Imagine Vi and Caitlyn wanting to hang out with Ekko at his homebase but that's where his fugitive girlfriend is hiding out.

Vi:Hey, Little man! It's been awhile! Can we hangout at your place?

Ekko:NO!

Cait:Oh? Why not?

Ekko:I am just a very busy man.

Vi:Alright...so when are you free?

Ekko:I don't know. Never???

Vi:(glares at him suspiciously)

Ekko:

Edit: This would be a good fanfic tho-

[anger-and-red-flames]

rereading parts of "take your pretty smile, tell them everything's fine." (the jhinhwei scene) and god damn it i m baffled at my own writing??

aka if nobody writes long ass analysis of my fanfic i ll do it myself xD (tw for very much sexual grooming, underage relationship, pseudoincest, i mean its Jhin lol)

i forgot the details and now i m rereading it and i lose my sanity one bit at a time. its so obvious how unhealthy their relationship is, i think its also one of the chapters that really brings out just how young hwei is and in a lot of ways their conversation feels like a talk between a parent and a child, both struggling to let go of each other.

and this is a turning point to an extent, if jhin was a better man he would ve rejected hwei, encouraged the boy to pursue kayn and start developing some sense of independence. but he doesn't do it, instead, he dives right in and makes his dependency worse. Instead of reassuring Hwei that he is alright, that Jhin loves him but that he doesn't care about the kind of sex he is having with his boyfriend Jhin makes clear that he cares, indulges Hwei's desire for him to do so, draws an obvious parallel between the bite kayn left and the scar he cut into him a few months ago.

And what makes this whole thing "worse" imo in that in a scene that is very much smut we also get their first actual conversation about what they are,

Hwei: “You are more of a father, or brother, or friend than I ever had.” Jhin: “You are the only son I will ever have.”

and then in the middle of making out, hwei calls jhin "dad" for the first time, and i think its then that Jhin actually realises the power he holds over this child of his.

like, jhin never planned to be a father for hwei, he never planned to raise a child, he was totally unprepared for the traumatised special needs kid he took in. he had no idea what was going on, just thought that this immensely talented baby artist will never have a chance to bloom if he doesn't get him out of the soul-crushing environment. so he does, their relationship grows, he realises that he begins to love this child, that he wants to give him the world, wants him to be happy.

but now, in the middle of making out with Hwei, he suddenly realises that this isn't right, that if he loves Hwei then he needs to at least give him the space to think this through, show him that he can love him without needing his body for it.

“Let me show you how much I adore you.”  Jhin moved up, took his hands and gently placed them to his side, smiling almost shyly. “Will you let me?”

and when Hwei agrees, fully expecting to just have emotional sex, Jhin stops. and i m so not okay with this, i didn't even expect this to happen, i thought it would just be a chapter focused on them having hot sex.

like jhin totally crossed the line, but he allows Hwei to step back and reassures his baby boy that he ll love him no matter what he chooses :(((

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Masquerade

Silco and Sevika chat Topside money, politics and past selves.

From ‘both sides of the moon,’ a oneshot exploring Silco and Sevika’s relationship through a series of business ventures. Full story on AO3

Silco's hand twitches: a turn of his wrist. He reaches for the inner pocket of his coat, slips out a cigarette case of silver and gold, glinting in the greenery that surrounds them.

"Topsiders exist in a cage of their own choosing," he answers her, minutes past its due—as though she's only just levied her earlier question at him, and not a moment has passed, since. "An outsider no better than a dust of pollen on their heels."

Sevika's learned to keep her thumb on the page. She picks back up where they left off, without a blink.

"You could masquerade it," she reasons. "Money's all a performance."

An air of bemusement slips between them. "Perhaps." He plucks out one hand-rolled cigarette, and another. "A performance they can sniff out, nonetheless," he gravels on. The lull in his words skews curious: a husking purr. "Would you attempt it?"

Sevika narrows her eyes. "Attempt it how?" 

He lifts a brow powdered on. "Masquerade. Appease." The case snaps shut. "Suppose you attended one of their wretched balls; wore their Piltovan silks and named yourself Madame Hakeem."

The unfamiliar taste of her father's name leaves an acrid taint in her mouth: the memory of it long buried within her, as deeply as the rotting bastard, himself.

She curls her lip. Digs metal into the meat of her bicep. "I'd rather walk off a cliff."

He scoffs: his version of a laugh. "I wouldn't doubt it."

He tucks the first cigarette between his teeth, and holds the second out for her. The parchment is crisp beneath her fingers. Fresh-rolled.

She pins it in the corner of her mouth, breathing in dry tobacco hashed with juniper leaf. It's the blend he favors, specially imported from Ionia. Unlit, the scent reminds her of the home: desert wastes bloomed to life in two scant weeks of autumn, brambled brush and dry sweet and the taste of dew on the soil. It burned to something else, in one's throat—a sharp smolder of cedar and pepper, like drinking down a forest fire.

She crooks her fingers within her breast pocket, drags out the chilled cube of her lighter. "What about you?" she grumbles around the roll, thumbing a snap-crack of a flame.

The light strikes an embered glow across the twin points of their tobacco. It paints a strange wash over the sallow of his skin, as though he's existed for a millennia in that choking city below; as though he's still that man in the mines, with only scant years on him—hair scraggled to his shoulders, seaglass eyes blazing; a devil's brooding warmth about those scrawny bones, spiked with dry wit and a rapier-grin that crooked at one side, that another soul, in another lifetime, might have admired.

The man she stands with now buried that one beneath the Pilt, and left him there. 

On rare occasions, he unearths the corpse. Revisits the weight of those old bones, like a spirit repossessing a forgotten shell. 

Most times, he walks straight across that grave, and denies it even exists.

Silco takes a long drag: sighs out a rush of smoke that simmers with spice. "What about me?" he repeats, slowly.

Ash embers in her lungs. She tastes sulfur and carbon in it. 

"You'd put on some Piltie suit and call yourself Monsieur Esdras?"

Too sharp—too goading. A twist of a blade. 

His own father's name leaves the air similarly tainted. There's a touch of something in his eyes, at the sound of it: something wistful, pensive, young. As quickly as she catches sight of it, it shutters closed.

He breathes a sliver of smoke through his teeth, soundless as a dragon. "No sense parading as a dead man." The words bite from the belly of a beast.

She's standing with an apparition, with a man who is no longer here, housed beneath walls four meters thick. It's the image he bares before every head paid by his coin: lethal, for all it hangs guarded.

The shift unnerves her. Irritates her.

She takes in another drag, the tobacco dark and earthen and pleasant, and hisses it out. The hush of the rain turns deafening.

[harmonytre]

Trickster commission dump! He has commissioned me a lot throughout this year, haha!

[chronicowboy]

PALM SPRINGS AU IS FLOWING

[jinx-blackout-84]

Caught myself smiling at their texts someone stab me in the side of the head

[strawbrryrush]

closed starter for gwen ! @wvsteria​

"gwenny, man do i got a story to tell you." she started; with a smirk clear as days on her lips.. throwing herself on the chair right beside the other, "-so i met this guy- he had this knife right? -i mean, and right behind there was this body- i dunno if it was alive- but who cares about details." she shrugged; "but- we ended up talking; i had a knife to his throat; he held a knife to my stomach- it was just back and forth.. then you'll never guess it- we kissed- and more- i mean, it was pretty fun.. i didn't get a second to think- you ever experience anything like that, gwen?" she asked a smile wide on her face..

[captain-daryn]

God I hate allergies

[thenationofzaun]

Love this observation, but the way I see it, her nailing the bunny in plain sight isn't at odds with Silco's words. It's exactly what he imparted to her.

where she's accepted her sister's role in shaping her, but also Silco's advice.

That WAS Silco's advice. He never asks her to forget her old life or try to stamp out memories of it, just to let her old self die. Accept that your old life happened and always remember the horrible situation it culminated in. Including the loved one who hurt and "abandoned" you, remember her and what she did. Make peace with it and try to see it as a positive thing. It was meant to be, to teach you a lesson that your old self cannot feasibly survive in this world. And to finally unleash the strong person that was always hidden under the "weak" exterior.

Don't fight it. Let the transformation happen. So when you go back into that room and work on that gemstone, you will no longer be the scared little Powder who was hurt by it. You will be Jinx. Strong, fearless, unbowed by trauma. It will not be able to hurt you the way it hurt Powder.

Silco's equivalent of Jinx nailing Vi's bunny to the wall would be Vander's knife constantly stabbed onto his desk. Out in the open to serve as a constant reminder of the lesson. It's not a "don't look back" message. It's "when you look back, see it as another lifetime that had to happen to make you who you are now. Never forget it and never GO back."

A small observation regarding Jinx's mental state

In episode 5, Jinx tries out the gem stone and gets badly triggered by the resulting Arcane explosion (on top of her recent Vi-lookalike trigger). It blows the box under doll-Mylo's feet, revealing the Flare and the Bunny plushie.

Shortly after she confesses to Silco she can't do it and gives up, probably a very concerning attitude on her part, given that the events of episode 4 happen solely out of her driving need to constantly prove herself useful. No wonder that Silco decided this was concerning enough to take her down to the Pilt for his pep talk.

There he tells her to let Powder die, become Jinx etc. She seems to take him to heart... And as we learn in episode 9, to her it's Vi who "created Jinx". So interestingly, when we next see Jinx, finally making real progress on hextech, the bunny is not back into the box :

It's overseeing her work, pinned to the wall like on a cross. Like having Vi (who is dead, as far as both Jinx and Silco know) being a more prominent part of her life is necessary to embrace Jinx. Of course, the flare also doesn't go back in the box...

Sevika changes everything by reveling Vi is alive and kicking, but the moment Jinx is at her most efficient and happily working away is in that sweet lull, where she's accepted her sister's role in shaping her, but also Silco's advice.

One is left to wonder how things would have gone for Jinx if Vi hadn't returned, or hadn't confronted Sevika. I mean, Arcane is basically the "what if" show as every other plot point tips us forward into more disaster, but you know...

Tl;dr : Up until Silco's speech to her, Jinx was ignoring her sister.

She has no doll for her. She keeps her mementos in a BOX.

Away from sight. After Silco's speech she's shown using both of them, most likely in an attempt to fully realise "Jinx".

You'd think that's when she's put the bunny and flare *away*, but it's literally when she takes them OUT of storage

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Old Vows

Sevika instigates an argument.

From ‘both sides of the moon,’ a oneshot exploring Silco and Sevika’s relationship through a series of business ventures. cw: violence, manipulation, knives, implied past abuse Full story on AO3

"Late night," he greets her. Hours of lost sleep gravel in his voice: pitch the words to a rougher lilt, lower than usual.

On any other night—bent over stacks of his shipping edicts, a fifth of whisky half-emptied and his fingers splayed about his temple; papers slipped and marked between them, weaving strategies to feed shimmer through Piltie supply chains—she may have found the sound familiar as anything: no different from the hum of music beneath their feet, or the lull of their city's racket past the panes. Comfortable, even.

Now, it strings tension through her metal joints, clear to the socket. Simmers and burns in her throat, in her teeth, in the clenching and unclenching of her fist. 

"For all of us, seems like," she cuts back.

His head turns, marginally, like a cat crooking its ear. He knows her, enough. Knows exactly where this is going, without needing another word.

Slowly, he takes in a drag, huffing the smoke into their city's green. She hears his calluses grit across the parchment. Feels the way air sits in his throat, stifling about the room.

"You weren't there," he says eventually, tapping the spliff's ash into her littered tray on the railing.

Sevika shifts her jaw. "Neither were you."

"She's told me—"

"She?" Her boots thud across tiles capped with green and gold. "What about Dustin? Ran?" His spliff stills by his ear. "The little bitch blew that shit to pieces," she thunders on. "Just like old headquarters. Just like she'll do here, any damned day now—"

"I'd expect you to have more sense than this." 

The words gut through her, quiet as they come—as though she's nothing more than a street-mutt that's gone off and disobeyed, refused to heel at his command.

It lights a fire in her chest, before she can care to douse it. 

"To do what?" she growls, inches from his steel-straight shoulders, from the muscle flaring in his jaw. "Put my knife where it belongs?"

She's nose-to-nose with him, before she can blink. A tigress over a rabid wolf.

There's a tilt in Silco's head, to meet her eyes. She would take some sick shred of pride it in, were it any other man. But this is their nation's Eye, who stabbed Vander through the wall of meat at his back, and gutted him, belly to lung, without hesitation. Who caught wind of Ran's coin-sniffing brute of a brother, and shot the bastard, point-blank. Who once snapped Lock's bulging arm behind his back, manhandled him bodily down the floor during a scrap, and held him there, a snake's hiss at his ear: Try that again, and I'll take your hand, finger by finger—slower than you can dream, boy.

He'd survived an eternity in that coal-blackened hell—and he'd learned to fight dirty, to do it.

She'd learned to do the same, under countless men like him.

Smoke poisons the air between them. "To mind your mouth," Silco answers her, gristling off his cracked teeth, "before you find yourself without a tongue."

Sevika breathes smog and ash in. Breathes fire out.

Anger broils over the apprehension: burns spite in her blood.

"You'd put her before everything else," she blunders on. "The others—"

"You've yet to see her potential."

"—the damned cause—"

"You squash all that she can accomplish, now—feed those doubts back into her head, as much as her bloody sister had—"

"At least that hellbitch knew how to land a punch—"

And he devours her airspace, still as a cobra poised to strike: his eyes splicing into hers, that dead one red.

"How many times has she failed?" It comes as a whisper of a roar, the spliff crushed between his white-knuckled fingers. "How many?" Sevika fights the wrath in her throat: feels it slide past her teeth. She stands her ground. Drinks down the smoke on his breath, the heat of it simmering against her jaw. "How many times has she persevered, in the face of it?"

Sevika digs her claws into her palm: metal squeaking on metal. "She isn't you."

A spark in blood-blue: a twitch in the dark line of his lashes. Lowly, sharp as a blade, Silco hisses, "I know that."

"No, you don't." Because for all he may have reasoned it, claimed to see the girl as untapped strength on her own two legs, he saw too much of himself in her. Too much promise, where there was none. "She won't succeed, where you failed," she thunders on. "She's not a leader, Silco—she's just some scared little girl, looking for a fucking mother—"

In that teal eye, a spark of lightning. "Like yourself, then?"

Red snaps over her. Falls like a curtain-call to a black stage. 

Distantly, there is fabric crumpling beneath the squeeze of her palm. Cool, silken: the crisp points of a collar. A pulse hammering against her thumb, her knuckles welding down through a slim shoulder, the doorframe rattling hard enough through his bones to ricochet back into her own. 

Rage has her fingers a hair's breadth from his throat. 

Curiosity has her captivated in the man she has stripped down, in the face of it.

Oh, she should fear this. Should turn tail and run, before he can bleed her where she stands. Not linger on the shadows of his skin, under raven-black fringe knocked out of place, where seaglass skews to midnight: on the swallow that shifts against her knuckles, his breath shivering into the heady heat of her own. Shouldn't dare to let her mind wander, thinking how he would look hauled back against that tattered old couch, her palm wrenched through the thick quills of his hair. Whether the creature she sees unearthed in him now would bare its teeth, twofold, or bury a husking breath into the cushions. Whether he'd snake that spindly hand around her wrist, a miner's strength still housed within it: let her fingertips drag over the thunder of his pulsepoint, and squeeze.

Jagged steel grazes the bared muscle at her waist, frigid in the cool air. It staggers breath back into her lungs, like the punch of a bullet. Metal kissing metal, ticking over the fastenings of her shirt: a deadly, leaden weight laid into the thick weave of her collar, easing her back on her heels, by fractions.

A dead man leers up at her. In his throat, the growl of a demon; in his eyes, hellfire blistering through the skin. Gooseflesh peppers down her nape. 

"Are you sure you want to play this game?" he seethes—quietly, dangerously calm.

It's nothing near an invitation. But the fight in it's a threat as much as a vow. One he's given, countless times before—but never to her.

Sevika swallows liquid down a throat that burns.

"Is that what he'd say, to you?" she grits out, an implosion aimed and fired. And the man, the beast, stares back at her—and shutters closed. The fire dampened, the fight smothered. Buried four meters deep.

Vander's knife falls rigid against her clavicle. She uncoils her fingers from his collar, nail by nail. 

In unison, the tether breaks. 

[greenglowinspooks]

Honestly I think the fics where Danny’s a Kryptonian have a lot of potential, so here’s me throwing my hat into the ring

Danny was born a human. He was born to two loving (though slightly neglectful) human parents in the painfully mundane state of Illinois.

Then, he died, but he didn’t do it right. He became a Halfa; too alive to be a ghost, but too dead to be human.

Then, through strange, uncontrollable circumstances, that changed as well.

He had been heavily injured, missing a large percentage of body mass, and was at the cusp of either dying fully or just fading from existence.

(Perhaps it was an ordinary fight. Perhaps it was the GiW, or his parents. Perhaps it was a simple accident. That didn’t matter now.)

He fled, phasing through the ground, trying to bury himself as deep as possible.

(Perhaps he didn’t want to be unmasked in death. Perhaps that was already too late, and he just wanted his body be able to rest in peace.)

Unfortunately for him, he was in Metropolis, and ended up in a secret genetics lab below the earth.

Danny detransformed, completely exhausted, falling onto a table covered in different labeled specimen containers. He closed his eyes, and prepared himself for what would happen next.

And… nothing.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.

Danny sat up, brushing off the foul-smelling liquid from the specimen jars, petri dishes, and assorted vials.

He felt…fine.

No, better than fine. He felt normal. Healthy.

He felt like he wasn’t missing most of his internal organs anymore.

Danny looked down at his stomach, and saw that the wounds that were killing him had completely disappeared.

(The blood blossoms, if there had been any, were still there, but they no longer hurt. At most, they itched a little, or maybe just tickled a bit.)

He wanted to question what in the hell had just happened, but he didn’t want to jinx it. He just quietly changed back to Phantom, going invisible and phasing out of wherever he had found himself in, ignoring the loud alarm system that had begun to blare when he broke the samples on that table.

Life mostly went back to normal after that.

If, like Danny, you ignored all the physical changes in a valiant effort to remain in denial that something was horribly wrong.

His skin was tougher, now; he didn’t get scrapes or cuts, even when he accidentally fumbled a knife while trying to cook. His ghost form was stronger, too; he was barely knocked down by his old rogues anymore.

He could fly, even in his human form. Though, admittedly, the flight was much different. It was like using a muscle he hadn’t known existed beforehand. He didn’t just ignore gravity or wind resistance, though he felt more graceful in the air now than he ever did as Phantom.

There were more powers popping up, lasers and cold breath, x-ray vision and super strength. His lungs and heart were larger, and he could handle temperatures much easier. He didn’t have to transform to handle the pressure and cold of space anymore.

His reaction time had improved, becoming much faster than ever before. His senses were much stronger, and he had even seemed to gain a sense of electric fields, like a shark.

The only thing that separated him from a Kryptonian was that he had developed electrokenesis, which he had never seen any of them use on TV.

So, surely, he was fine.

Everything was normal, he hadn’t been transformed by alien DNA in a sketchy lab, he had just had a really weird and specific metagene activation.

—

Clark Kent, Kal-El, was panicking.

It had been around a month and a half since a particularly brutal fight between Intergang and an unknown assailant, and it seemed that Intergang was determined to draw out whoever had scorned them.

Their method of doing this, of course, was trying to level the city.

He and Jon were doing their best to stop them, but with both Kon and Zor-El away on their own business, it was difficult.

And by difficult, he meant almost impossible.

Slowly but surely he was driving them back, but not without massive amounts of damage to the city, especially with only Jon on dedicated rescuing duty.

He was distracted, trying to draw a group away from a heavily occupied building, when a projectile hit him in the back of the head.

The world spun for a moment, and then it went black.

(It was, probably, then, some sort of Kryptonite-metal alloy. Intergang at its finest.)

He woke slowly, forcing his eyes open. He felt like he had been hit by an eighteen wheeler.

Clark jolted up, preparing for the worst.

To his shock, though, the city hadn’t been reduced to rubble while he was out.

Jon seemed to still be working on evacuation, either unaware that he had went down or forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

Then, a lightning-quick figure flew into view, and Clark’s mind went blank.

He thought, for a moment, that Kara was back. But, no, that wasn’t right, she was supposed to be off-planet for another week or so.

Besides, this new figure didn’t move like her. They were lankier and more slender, and they flew quicker than any member of his family.

Their powerset was different, too; they focused mainly on using blasts of ice and electricity to drive enemies back, only occasionally using their strength or lasers—ones which came from their hands instead of their eyes.

He had woken up at the tail end of the fight, it seemed. The remaining Intergang members were fleeing from the mysterious metahuman.

They stayed in the sky, motionless, watching them leave.

As if they could sense him staring, they turned.

They were small, still clearly young. Probably around Kon’s age, or maybe even younger.

Instead of the colorful clothing he had inherited from his family, the stranger wore black and white clothes which looked similar to a hazmat suit, their face covered by some sort of gas mask.

Interestingly enough, instead of the S-shape crest that he was so used to seeing, the stranger wore the letter D on his chest.

Kal’s heart sped up.

From up in the sky, he heard the stranger’s heart, on the left instead of the right, speed up in return.

But before he could say a word to them, they sped off, disappearing into the deep blue sky.

[gropebunni]

knife to my face and a hand around my neck <3

[hijinxthinks]

@lyramundana

kinktober #oo1 | costume party

KINKTOBER 2023 || jinxhallows costume party (knife play) || lino x fem!reader summary: you and minho have been together for some time now, and you two get invited to an adult costume party at your local community center. not otherwise having an excuse to get dressed up, you convince him to go with you... warnings: knifeplay and all the things that entails (like SHARP BLADES and the DANGER OF BEING CUT, knicks, blood, etc), suggestively dub-con if you literally SQUINT, non-idol AU word count: 2.5k masterlist - click here

You have to admit, when the two of you agree on your Halloween costumes, you don't expect his choice to elicit such a reaction from you. You find yourself in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting the fluffy bunny tail attached to your costume. You crane your head over your shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the reflection to figure out what's happening. Just as you're struggling to make sense of it, your boyfriend enters the room. He's fully dressed as Ghostface for the annual Halloween party downtown. Kneeling down, he positions himself at eye level with your derrière, taking the tail into his hands with meticulous care.

With skilled fingers, he expertly repins the tail where it should be. Standing up, he lifts the Ghostface mask off his face, revealing a grin that speaks of mischief and excitement.

“I look pretty badass, don't I?” He asks, holding up his prop knife and pulling his mask back down over his face. "You do," you admit, trying to hide a smirk, "but the Fisher-Price butcher knife ain't cutting it, get it? Cutting it." Minho slides his mask back atop his head. He’s not amused.

His lids drop, and there isn't a trace of a smile on his face. He has taken your comment personally, particularly your jab at his choice of prop.

Your playful banter continues, and he retorts, "I could always get a real one, you know. We have plenty in the kitchen."

"And we would get arrested? You can't have real weapons at a Halloween party, Min. Are you crazy?"

His response is simply, "Yes."

You exchange a bemused look for a few seconds before grabbing your purse off the bathroom counter.

"Come on," you sigh, a grin breaking through the tension. "We're gonna be late." -

You both arrive at the costume party just in time to socialize with everyone and start drinking. It's right in the middle of the peak attendance time, so various creatures and ghouls with intriguing costumes fill the venue.

Amid the crowd, you notice a few Ghostface costumes, a popular choice for Halloween. As you stand in the hallway, waiting in line for the bathroom, you don't pay much attention to the people passing by who are also dressed like your boyfriend.

You've had a couple of drinks, and your tolerance isn't high, so your battery is rapidly running out after almost two hours at the party. You lean against the wall next to the bathroom with a sigh, growing annoyed at how long the person in front of you is taking. You pull out your phone and start texting Minho:

im over it.

Almost instantly, the bubbles indicating his reply in progress pop up,

me 2

wya?

You start typing your response.

"What's your favorite scary movie?"

In the dimly lit hallway of the community center, the presence of someone behind you initially startles you. However, when you turn around and see the person in a Ghostface costume, you roll your eyes.

"Haha, you got me, asshole."

The individual tilts their head to the side, extending their arm and flicking a thumb to reveal a very real, very sharp switchblade.

You step back immediately, your eyes wide with shock. This isn't your boyfriend; it has to be one of the other partygoers.

That's when you hear it—Minho's laughter, muffled underneath the mask as he slides it atop his head.

"Fisher Price, huh?" he teases.

You shove him with the heel of your hand into his chest, and the person ahead of you exits the bathroom, glancing between the two of you standing on either side of the door before walking away. You manage to catch the door before it closes and enter the stall, your earlier fright quickly dissipating. As you lock the stall, you can hear the DJ outside, urging everyone to hit the dance floor at that very moment.

"Good, perfect timing for us to slip out," you think to yourself.

You finish up, clean yourself, and go to wash your hands, rubbing them together with soap until they get nice and foamy. As you look up at yourself in the mirror, you notice that your makeup has lasted far longer than expected, and your nose is still marked with bunny whiskers drawn onto your cheeks.

You can't help but crinkle your nose at your reflection. You actually look really fucking cute.

The doorknob twists and pushes open, and you scramble across the room, an immediate realization dawning upon you—you'd forgotten to lock the door.

"Back up." Minho commands with a hushed urgency through the slender crack in the doorway. Instinctively, you grip the other side of the door, momentarily mistaken, thinking it might be someone else. However, the recognition in his eyes eases your anxiety. You yield, taking a few steps backward, granting him entry. As he crosses the threshold, you efficiently swing the door closed behind him, the definitive click of the lock resounding through the room. “There’s no way you had to go to the bathroom that bad.” You say, turning away from the door and facing the mirror. Leaning forward, you meticulously adjust your bunny ears, finessing them to sit perfectly centered. In the reflection, you observe your makeup once again, and pinch your upper eyelash, delicately securing the tiny, unruly section that threatened to lift.

In that moment, Minho's hands snake around your waist, pulling you into a close embrace from behind. His chin nestles atop your shoulder, the mask he was wearing still perched atop his head. A contented smile spreads across his face, his eyes sealed shut. He's intoxicated, not just from the night but from his deep affection for you.

“You make such an incredibly cute bunny, you know that?” He whispers, his lips tenderly pressing against your cheek. “Yeah, I do.  That’s why I dressed up as one tonight, duh.” His smile drops as he opens his eyes. Again. He’s not amused. He sighs thoughtfully, the air in the room thickening.  “You know, sometimes I fantasize about strangling you in your sleep.” You struggle to stifle the snigger that bubbles up from within you. "Yeah?" you taunt, subtly pressing your body back into his, playfully swaying your bunny tail as laughter escapes your lips. You secure his hands that rest gently on your tummy, holding them in place. “What part gets you off more? The struggle, or my last breath?” “Oh I don’t know…” Minho's response carries a sudden shift in tone, his voice adopting an unexpectedly innocent quality as he slyly slips his hand from underneath yours. His fingers trace along your hips, leisurely making their way to his back pocket, all the while maintaining unbroken eye contact with your reflection in the mirror.

“If I had to pick, I’d say that fear,” In one swift, chilling motion, he retrieves a switchblade from his back pocket, the audible click of its deployment making you involuntarily wince. The cold metal of the blade is brought swiftly to your neck, its back pressed gently against your throat, and you instinctively clutch his thighs behind you, a tremor of unease coursing through you at the unsettling contact of the knife against your skin. “That, right there, the moment before you die, when you really realize it’s about to be over.” Minho continues, his gaze dropping from your eyes to focus on the delicate curve of your jaw, which tilts slightly to the left. Your chest rises and falls beneath the ominous presence of his weapon, your breaths growing more pronounced. A heavy silence ensues, broken only by the sound of his sharp inhale through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s the part that gets me off.” “Min, this isn’t funny-” His left arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer as his warm breath brushes against your ear. “Y/N, nobody’s laughing.” A lump forms in your throat, noticeable even through your thick swallow, as you feel the cold edge of the blade he's holding.

The sudden change in your posture prompts a furrow in his brow, his gaze shifting downwards to where your cheeks curve beneath the sides of your bodysuit, creating a tantalizing silhouette that pushes further against his growing erection. “You’re really getting hard…at the idea…of murdering me.  Min, that’s–” “It’s not to the idea of murdering you, I was fucking kidd–” “-kinda sexy?” It's enough to halt Minho in his tracks, a wry, half-hearted chuckle escaping his lips while a faint smile lingers on his face. With a casual gesture, he lowers the knife to his side, shaking his head in amused disbelief at your side before he returns his gaze to your reflection in the mirror.

Your own response is an infectious giggle, and he simply shrugs, readjusting his mask over his handsome features. “You’re so weird,” Minho remarks with a touch of humor in his voice, his dark chuckle gradually subsiding. His left hand gently cradles your jaw, tilting your head upward. With precision, he places the tip of the knife right at the junction where your ear meets your neck. You remain entirely compliant, entranced by the sensation of the blade's subtle pressure against your skin. It's a subtle reminder that even the smallest movement could lead to an inadvertent cut. Surprisingly, both of you find yourselves unexpectedly at ease.  “Is this seriously turning you on?” he inquires, curiosity tingeing his voice as he traces the blade's edge down the side of your neck, towards the apex of your full breasts. You watch him in the mirror, and yeah, Minho is pretty to look at, especially when he fucks you, yet, in this moment, his disguise as Ghostface adds an intriguing layer of taboo to the situation, as if you're venturing into uncharted territory.

"Hey," his voice pierces the air, sharp and commanding, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. “I asked you a question, and you know I don’t like being ignored.” “Y-Yeah,” you breathe, your voice trembling slightly, “I don’t know why, but it's turning me on.” “I know why,” A soft chuckle escapes Minho's lips, and he allows the blade to glide toward the V-shaped neckline of your bodysuit. Applying the gentlest of pressure, the fabric splits almost instantly, without the need for any sawing motion. As he pushes further down, the knife cleanly separates your suit into two, stopping only when it reaches your navel piercing. “Because you’re the one fantasizing about me killing you.” As soon as he says it, it becomes clear. Those nights you’ve spent with your hand around your throat, stars bursting behind your eyes as you would work yourself into a state of frenzied pleasure, gasping out his name.  It wasn’t just about being choked, Minho does plenty of that in the bedroom with you, instead, it was about pushing the boundaries, teetering on the precipice of discomfort, and riding the exhilarating edge towards climax. It had always been a deeply personal exploration, something you'd never shared aloud, let alone admitted.

Yet now, as Minho uncovers your secret desire, you find yourself rendered blissfully ecstatic by the mere sensation of a switchblade brushing your skin at various points on your body.

“You ruined m-my costume,” You make a poor attempt at resistance as his left palm squeezes your breast, causing you to grip the edge of the ceramic sink harder.

“You wanted me to,” Minho presses the flat side of the blade flush between your folds, your breath quickens as he grabs your chin, directing your face back to the mirror.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you to.” You give in.

“Wanted me to what?”

You swallow.  “I wanted you to ruin my costume.”

Minho takes the knife away, pulling his mask up and off, shaking his hair out as he looks at you in the mirror.  “My, you do make a reaaally hot bunny, baby, do you see yourself?” His voice is getting raspier as his gaze falls onto your body in front of him, down your back, and he angles his hips forward, against your tail.

“Thank you, baby.”

You have no choice, his grip underneath your jaw is still tight.  You move your head up and down, barely, acknowledging yourself the way he’s asked you to.

Your submissive tone takes him by surprise as he looks back up to you.  “Where’d all that attitude go?” He cocks a smile, and you flinch as you feel him slip his knife between your skin and the fabric of the gusset of your bodysuit.  He wastes no time in cutting it, the stretchy fabric snapping against your skin as it separates. 

Minho puts the knife between his teeth, using both hands to rip the nude stockings, another senseless layer keeping him away from your delicious pussy, followed by your thin g-string that he slides aside, bringing his hand back to pull the waist of his pants down, gripping the base of his cock that sits so perfectly at your dripping entrance.

Then you have the audacity to speak up.

“Min, hold on,” Your sense returns, if only for a few seconds, “We’re at a party, what if we get caught?”

It’s enough to get him to remove the knife from his teeth and hold the dull side against your throat, but pressing in enough to make your breathing more audible.

“We won’t get caught if you keep your mouth shut.” His eyes watch you from the side, his mouth slightly ajar, as he slides himself the rest of the way inside of you to the hilt.  He laughs under his breath, thrusting inside you again, a little harder this time.

“Good bunny,” you bite your lip hard to contain yourself as he slaps your ass, holding onto your hip as he fucks you, never, not once, letting up off your throat.

“M-Min-“

“Shh,” he whispers, the tip of it against your lower lip, “Be quiet and let me fuck you, you’ve been asking for it all night.”

You extend your tongue, the blade flattened against the moist muscle, and your eyes roll back involuntarily as you release an audible, desperate moan. Sensing his proximity to climax, you feel the pressure ease on his blade, his ragged breaths escaping through his flaring nostrils. His head falls back, the blade clattering into the bowl of the sink, warm, sticky spurts of cum painting your walls, his hips spasming while you contract around him. You instinctively push back, stimulated by the feeling, your inner muscles squeezing him, while his hands come to rest on your hips, torn between wanting to stop you and being too ensnared in the pleasure's aftermath to act.

Finally, he regains his composure, blinking and widening his eyes as he lets out a sigh, his cheeks puffing up momentarily. He gazes at your reflection in the mirror.

“Yeah, you definitely get off on the idea of murdering me.” you remark, picking up his switchblade and securely locking it back in its place. You turn to face him, a smirk playing on your lips.  "And you'd better escort me out the back; I'm completely exposed now, you asshole." You gracefully move past him into the stall, tending to the remnants of his release running down your bare thighs and legs.

He chuckles, 

“Ah, there’s the attitude.”  - fin