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any thots™ on older, loser stepbrother-könig who is an expert at manipulation and coercion? (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

he gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants - because if you turn him down or reject him, he'll get your mother to scold you, or will threaten to create a rumour about you that will ruin your entire life, that will isolate you and force you to become his personal sex slave, because he's the only one who'll accept you and love you unconditionally, you just don't realise it yet.

you'll be sobbing the entire time, rocking your hips back and forth, and squirming at könig's gross touch. the disgust, shame, and nausea that fills you leaves you light-headed and dizzy, with your vision becoming blurry and your entire body jerking and twitching. don't be afraid to knock yourself out, take a hit from his joint, or let your guard down around him - it'll be less painful and mentally draining when you're unconscious and unsuspecting. :3

feel free to ignore - i had to let the brain worms out. 🪼

Orla you've been cooking so good lately. Love you 💖💖

TW: STEPCEST. RAPE. BREEDING KINK. MANIPULATION. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!

Your mom gets so pissed when you don't want to do what König demands because you will not break up the family. She will absolutely plaster all those pictures and videos of you being your stepbrother's slut all over the internet if you don't give him what he wants. She's only doing what's best for you and the family after all. Surely, you're not going to disappoint your family, are you?

He'll invite his friends over and they'll pass you around like a cheap whore. Sometimes, you'll be passed out drunk but most of the time you're not because they love when you try to put up a fight. They love listening to your screams when they're ripping your clothes off, when they're trying to stuff all your holes at once. The ones who don't get a hole you're forced to jerk off. König will watch, fisting his cock as you cry and beg him to make them stop. He loves seeing your abused holes dripping with cum and how beautifully painted your stomach and tits are with it.

Then he'll fuck you when they're done, stuffing his meaty, leaking dick into your aching and raw pussy, making you say "Thank you, König" over and over with each brutal thrust of his hips as a show of appreciation for what he gives you. He's showing you how good it is to be with a real man instead of those useless boys. They can't take care of you like your brother can. Why do you always have to instigate them when they come over?

When you tell him with tear filled eyes that you're late, he locks you in his room for your own protection. It makes his cock so hard to see your growing belly and leaking breasts that he can't help but suck on them and squeeze them together so he can fuck them, watching his milky load drip down your neck and chest. He plows into your soaked cunt, so fucking greedy from the hormones, your gummy walls not wanting to let him go as you cum over and over.

He's made you an unthinking slave, begging and crying for his cock the second you wake in the morning, and begging to cockwarm him at night when you sleep so you're always full. And König won't deny you any of it. He knew you'd be his forever.

Hehe- been a while since I’ve been in Tumblr (can’t access my old account, but I swear this is @gaysimpsstuff and @tiny-ghost-boi I’m now super into Trigun and I posted this a bit ago but want it to reach more people so here’s some Tristamp KV with noncon and some gore!

Masterlist • THE TRIBUTE

pairing: alien prince!Jungkook x human!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, alien!AU, survival!AU, slow burn, angst, S2L rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, inspired by 'the hunger games', gore, fighting in an arena, survival of the fittest, more tba summary: You're selected as a tribute from a ravaged Earth to be offered to an extraterrestrial empire as part of a long-standing agreement to maintain peace. Will the prince be your downfall or your only chance in survival? word count: tba (ongoing)

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

⚔️ Chapter 1

⚔️ Chapter 2

⚔️ Chapter 3

⚔️ Chapter 4

⚔️ Chapter 5

⚔️ Chapter 6

Bonus

a/n: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for this fic 💕

Check out my other work here!

All Rights Reserved © @runariya 2024

THE TRIBUTE • 1

pairing: alien prince!Jungkook x human tribute!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, alien!AU, survival!AU, slow burn, angst, S2L rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: being chosen as a tribute word count: 3.2k

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

masterlist • 02

The fall of Earth wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t marked by fire or chaos that reigned for years, the kind of spectacle you might expect in an invasion. No, the aliens came quietly, without the usual drama of war. It began with whispers, transmissions intercepted by governments that never stood a chance. They arrived one day in ships larger than cities, hanging in the sky like indifferent gods, their presence screaming authority, and the sky cracked open completely and they finally descended, there wasn’t much left to fight for, really. The endless wars in the past had drained the Earth dry, and the alien empire had swept in to take whatever remained. The human race was too weak to resist, the shattered people in all cities too broken to protect themselves. So the world bowed, bent at the knee, in a way that had nothing to do with honour and everything to do with survival.

Their message was simple: Earth would continue, but under their rule. No destruction, no immediate casualties. Just quiet domination, the slow drip of submission. They called it mercy. They showed themselves as saviours—protectors, even. And somehow, despite the bitter taste it left in your mouth, humans believed them. Or at least, they didn’t fight one bit.

The royal family appeared everywhere, almost immediately, their images plastered across screens, on every corner, in every home. Prince Jungkook’s face in particular—a cold beauty—became a constant, a symbol of human survival. His name carried weight, and the people spoke it with reverence, though they were too afraid to admit the fear that simmered beneath. He was praised, all of them were, for sparing you. Sparing Earth from what, though? You were never told.

They broadcast it endlessly, the aliens, with their vibrant robes and strange customs, framed like some divine intervention, their vibrant colours contrasting the dullness that had consumed your live. While they basked in hues of gold and crimson, sapphire and emerald, humans were reduced to grey. Everything was grey now—the buildings, the streets, the sky, and the clothes you wore. It was as if the very life had been drained from Earth, leaving behind only muted shades of what the race once was. The grey uniforms became a symbol of submission, handed out without explanation, worn without protest. A world washed clean of individuality, of hope.

But the aliens—oh, they were different. Every glimpse of them was an assault of colour, a reminder of their power. Wherever they were shown, they brought with them the vibrancy humans were no longer allowed, flaunting their dominance with every shade, every rich fabric that swirled around them like a taunt and warning simultaneously.

Then there was the tribute system. No one spoke of it openly. No one dared. You were told from a young age that it was necessary, that it kept you all safe, but no one knew what it truly meant. Why, every year, a selection was made—human lives bartered like cattle. There was no resistance, no explanation, only the silent understanding that those taken were never seen again. And somehow, that became the new normal. The tributes vanished into the unknown space, and the earth continued in its quiet, grey monotony. 

We had been spared, they said. Prince Jungkook had spared us. But at what cost? No one dared ask.

You’re standing in a crowd now, one among many young humans, yet utterly alone, shoulders drawn tight beneath the weight of a thousand unspoken fears, but you keep your expression flat, indifferent. It’s easier that way. Easier not to feel anything at all. 

In the centre of the square, a screen hangs suspended between two decayed skyscrapers, flickering with static before the broadcast begins. You’re used to this routine, this cold display of power, yet the discomfort in your gut has never fully disappeared. And you’re sure, it never will. The emissary’s face appears, stark and inhuman, its features angular, skin pale like polished bone with robes in colours you only dare to dream of. Its voice, when it speaks, grates against your ears, the tone full of glee and dripping with fake warmth, as if this day is worth celebrating. 

It echoes across the crumbling square, sweeping through the huddled bodies of your fellow survivors. You’ve seen these broadcasts before, year after year, but this time feels different, this time *is* different. This time, it’s your name they call. 

“The tribute for Sector Seven has been chosen. Proceed to the transport at once.”

Your name lingers in the air like smoke, curling through your mind, clinging to the moment. The word ‘tribute’ isn’t one that carries any hope. It’s a word that’s always meant the end of something—of freedom, of choice, and most likely, of life. Still, there’s no time to let the weight of it fully sink in. You feel the crowd shift around you, parting like a tide as eyes slide toward you, pity laced into their avoidance. Some are grateful it’s not them. Others, too defeated to care.

It’s never you until it is.

For a second, the world slows down, your pulse thudding heavy in your ears full of loud static, but the moment passes. It always does. You move before your mind catches up, limbs stiff and mechanical, pushing through the parting crowd. No one stops you. No one offers a word of sympathy. This is the nature of things now: survival is solitary, and everyone knows better than to linger too long on the misfortune of others. Still, you catch a few murmurs from those who watch you pass, low and bitter, the sort of things you’d expect from a world this broken. They’re just glad it isn’t them.

Your heart is hammering, but you keep it all locked down beneath the surface. The last thing you need is to look weak. Not now when ever single step is being watched. Not when every single step brings you closer to something that feels disturbingly like an ending. 

The transport waits at the edge of the square, flanked by two of the empire’s soldiers. You’ve seen them before, standing rigid in their black armour, eyes hidden behind dark visors, their bodies almost too still to seem real. Like statues made of metal, empty of anything remotely human. As you approach, they don’t say a word, just gesture for you to board the ship. You pause for a moment at the threshold, the icy air from the interior licking at your skin, and for a heartbeat, you consider running. You won’t get far, but the urge is there, instincts flaring despite everything you know better. You’ve seen enough of these proceedings to know how it works: once chosen, there’s no refusal, no escape. You either go willingly or you’re dragged. Sometimes even killed, for what a human life is worth? Nothing.

Then you step forward. You have no choice.

The door hisses shut behind you, locking with a sound that reverberates through your bones. Inside, the transport is colder than you’d imagined, the scent of metal and machinery filling your lungs as you take your seat. You glance around, noticing the others who sit in similar silence, fellow tributes from the other six sectors—strangers, like you, plucked from whatever remained of their lives and thrown into this nightmare.

First, they don’t look at you. No one does. It’s easier that way, but you notice in an instant that you’re the smallest, the weakest, and it doesn’t help you keep the calm facade.

The transport jolts to life, the vibrations of the engines buzzing in the hollow space as it lifts off the ground. You try to settle yourself, to calm the rapid beat of your heart, but it’s impossible. Your fingers curl into the cold metal of the seat, knuckles white, as the city below shrinks away into the haze of clouds. There’s a finality to the way the world drops away, as if you’ve already crossed a line that you can never come back from, and in a way, it is.

The flight is long, though it’s impossible to tell how much time passes. You try not to think about what awaits you and close your eyes for a moment, blocking out your surroundings as best you can. Your mind drifts to the stories whispered among survivors—about what happens to tributes once they’re taken. None of the stories ever end well. Some say tributes are sold as slaves in the alien capital, while others suggest a more gruesome fate, that humans are used for experiments, their bodies discarded when no longer useful. But the truth is worse. It’s always worse.

But eventually, the descent begins slowly, the engines of the transport humming a low, ominous tone as the planet emerges from the veil of clouds below. The view from the narrow window is breathtaking, though it sickens you with the cruel reality of what Earth once was. Colours stretch across the landscape like a painter’s wildest dream—rolling fields of emerald green, rivers shimmering in shades of turquoise and cobalt, vast forests alive with every hue of autumn flame, though it is not autumn here. This planet pulses with life, chaotic and untouched, where nothing has been crushed beneath the fist of control. It is almost too much to bear. 

You glance again at the other six tributes, each taken from their corners of Earth. They still sit in absolute silence, their faces sunken, the knowledge of what is to come clinging to the air between you all like a shared sickness. From the strength in their postures, the way their muscles rest beneath their skin, you can see the warriors they’ve become, they are. They carry the defiance of continents long broken—one for each, their bloodlines ancient, their strength unremarkably deep. And then there’s you. The smallest, most fragile among them, bones light under skin that bruises too easily. Even among humans, you’re the weakest, and you can feel now their judging eyes on you, wondering how someone like you was chosen. 

The planet grows closer, the sky a vivid canvas of swirling pinks and golds, like a sunset that refuses to end. Yet, despite the beauty, despite the life that thrives below you, there’s a cold dread lodged deep in your being, one that rises the further you descend. You’ve heard the stories, the whispers of what awaits you on this planet. They tell you nothing directly, only that the arena lies somewhere in the depths of these vibrant lands, and within it, your survival is uncertain.

The transport shudders as it touches down, and you take in a silent breath, steadying yourself. The door slides open, and a gust of warm air rushes in, alive with the scent of wildflowers and soil, so different from the stagnant, metallic stench of the ship and earth. You step out, heart hammering, but your face remains impassive. There are soldiers waiting, but it’s the roar of the crowd behind them that hits you like a wall, an overwhelming volume of voices, cheers, and alien dialect twisted into strange pronounced syllables, all celebrating your arrival as though you were some kind of fallen star, a spectacle to be adored. 

The air pulses with their excitement, their bodies draped in vibrant silks that shimmer in the sunlight, arms outstretched, reaching for you, for any tribute who will acknowledge their praise, multiple cameras capturing every second of your arrival. Some of the others bask in it—grinning, high-fiving the aliens, taking selfies as though they are celebrities, lifted by the wild adoration, their smiles wide as they revel in this twisted reception. Others shrink back, shoulders hunched, their steps faltering as they cower beneath the push of all that attention, heads ducked low to avoid the eager hands reaching for them. 

But you—you keep your gaze forward, eyes locked on the path ahead, walking in a straight line behind the soldiers, schooling your face in indifference as best as you can. You try to give the madness no mind, let the noise wash over you like a storm you refuse to feel, to keep moving, refusing to be drawn into their chaos, not once glancing at the faces that strain to catch a glimpse of you. 

The city stretches before you, impossibly alive. Unlike the greys and browns of Earth, this place is a riot of colours—buildings that glow with warm light, spiralling upwards in organic, twisting shapes that seem to grow from the ground itself. There is no straight line here, no harsh edges or industrial steel. Everything is too perfect, too lush, and yet, beneath the beauty, you sense a hidden darkness, something far more sinister than the flowers and trees would ever reveal.

The palace comes into view not long after, a structure made of golden, glistening stone, it’s opulence disgusting you to no limit, and as you all are led inside, your eyes flit briefly to the faces of your fellow tributes. They hold themselves with the knowledge of their fate, some resigned, others still clinging to the fragments of hope that burn just beneath their skin. 

But you—what do you have but the defiance that hardens your jaw, that straightens your spine as the warmth of the palace washes over you? The silence here is rather oppressive, the sight of centuries of power pressing down on your fragile form. It feels like walking into the belly of the beast, swallowed whole by something vast and ancient, and all you can do is keep walking, keep breathing.

Prince Jungkook waits in the heart of it with seven nobly dressed men beside him. You’ve seen his image before every day multiple times, flashed across screens on Earth as if he were a god come down to walk among men. He’s a prince, they say, though it is not a title that means anything human. He does’t smile in those images, his face always carved from stone, eyes dark and unreadable, framed by robes of the richest, most vibrant colours—the kind that remind you of the flowers that no longer bloom on Earth. Here, in his palace, he is more imposing, more tall, more handsome than the images allowed. 

He watches you all as you are brought into his presence, though his eyes linger on you for longer than the others. His gaze is assessing, and as he takes in your small form, something flickers there—curiosity, perhaps. You’re nothing like the others, not even close. They are all built for survival, muscles honed and bodies strong, their hands made for fighting. But you... you are delicate, too easily breakable, and Jungkook sees it instantly. 

And yet, there is something in you that stirs his interest. You stand with a defiance that belies your fragile frame, your chin lifted high despite the obvious weakness of your body. He wonders how you’ve survived this long—whether it’s strength of mind or just sheer stubbornness that’s kept you alive. His curiosity piques as he steps down from his platform, moving with the grace of a predator who knows its prey has no real chance of escape.

Jungkook circles you all, the sound of his steps soft against the polished stone floor, his eyes never leaving your face. You can feel his gaze on you, piercing cold, as if you’re some strange creature he’s never encountered before. There’s no warmth in his presence, nothing that speaks of mercy or understanding. He’s power, pure and untouchable, and the thought of what he could do to you without even lifting a finger is enough to send your mind into survival mode. 

But you won’t give him that satisfaction. You won’t cower before him, no matter how small you feel beneath his gaze, his so much taller frame. Your heart races in your temples, blood rushing to your brain to keep alert, but your expression remains neutral, your hands clenched tightly at your sides, nails biting into your delicate skin of your palms. You’ve already decided that if this is where you die, you won’t die with your head bowed. Never.

Jungkook eventually stops in front of you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in with his head slightly tilted. There’s something almost amused in his dark eyes now, as if he finds your defiance intriguing, though he’d never admit it aloud. “Fragile,” he states, the word rolling off his tongue like an observation rather than an insult. “But not afraid.” 

His voice is low, almost a whisper, and it sends a tremor through you, though you refuse to let it show. He’s testing you, pushing to see where your breaking point is. You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch under the intensity of it. 

“They say humans are resilient,” he continues, his tone almost mocking. “That you fight, even when there’s nothing left to fight for. Is that true?”

You don’t respond. You’re not sure you could if you wanted to. The intensity of his presence is suffocating, leaving you nowhere to escape, while his words challenge you, daring you to break, to bend under the pressure of who he is.

But you don’t.

“Fight,” his voice’s dropping to a whisper. “Or die. Those are your only options now.”

“Watch me,” you say quietly, your voice steady, though your heart feels like it might pound out of your chest. 

He tilts his head, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I will,” he murmurs, and the threat in his words lingers in the whole grand room. 

Without another word, he steps back, dismissing you as easily as he might a piece of furniture. You all are nothing to him, and yet, there’s a flicker of something in his gaze as he turns away. Interest, perhaps. 

The guards step forward, the seven men too, grabbing your arms and dragging you from the room. You knew this wouldn’t be simple. You knew there’d be danger. But now, standing on the precipice of whatever fate awaits you, the reality of it all begins to truly sink in.

They don’t take you far—just to a small, cold room with nothing but a bed and a single window that looks out over the sprawling city. The guards leave you there, locking the door behind them with one of the seven men, dressed as vibrant as everyone on this planet, standing right beside you.

It’s quiet now, save for the faint steps of the guards outside, but the silence is anything but comforting. And as you turn to face the man beside you, you don’t really want to know what will happen next. All you need to know is that the fight is coming like it always does.

And the next words coming from the man confirm just that—you, a mere human among alien gods, have been chosen to survive it. Or die trying. 

„I’m Namjoon, your trainer for the Tribute Game.“

masterlist • 02

a/n 2: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

Like what you read? Check out my other work here!

All Rights Reserved © @runariya 2024

taglist: @strawberryberrygirl

this is for my pookie, go ask her :3

if you wanna be added to my kinktober masterlist reply to this post!!

the masterlist will be posted in a few days

I don't have a dead dove OC lore in my mind currently but I'd love to hear about yours!

okay, i'd like to give some preemptive content warnings for: stepcest/pseudocest, stalking, emotional abuse, sexual abuse, gaslighting, major character death, and attempted suicide. please note that this story is a work in progress, so i haven't yet figured out every detail and much of this information is subject to change.

touma is the one who steps up to help akemi work through her grief over losing her biological mom. the pair get to know each other better over the following weeks and months and develop a close bond before eventually confessing to each other and pursuing a romantic relationship behind their parents' backs. at first, the relationship is almost idyllic. touma takes akemi on after-school dates, buys her plushies and other small gifts, promises to protect her and keep her safe, and just generally dotes on her as both his girlfriend and his little sister. but then akemi begins to notice small items disappearing from her room — a notebook here, a bracelet there, an eraser off her desk. her phone doesn't go missing, but she does find it in a different place than she'd left it. her friends are more distant, making less and less of an effort to include her in activities and conversation.

the story i'm writing is called the red spider lily blooms before dawn (ヒガンバナは夜明け前に咲く, lit. higanbana wa yoake mae ni saku) and the idea behind it is that it starts off as your typical unassuming tropey high school shoujo romance fare, but gradually turns into a psychological horror, similar to doki doki literature club. our protagonist, akemi niratani (韮谷曙美), fits the archetype of the shy, naïve, airheaded female shoujo lead to a t. she loves bunnies and all things cute and pink and she has a crush on her popular, charming, charismatic senpai, touma higa (比嘉灯守). akemi's parents are separated, so she lives with her mom full-time, but at the beginning of the story, something happens to her mom that results in her death, forcing akemi to move back in with her dad, who lives in a different prefecture. her dad introduces her to his new wife, who just so happens to be touma's mom.

one day, akemi gets paired up with her classmate, seiji kikumi (菊実誠士), for an assignment. at first, she's intimidated by him due to his delinquent appearance, abrasive demeanor, and the rumor that he gets into a lot of fights (hence why he always comes to school all bandaged up), but she soon realizes that the rumors are baseless and he's actually a kind, patient, upstanding guy with a good sense of humor, albeit a distrust for authority, and all that's beneath those bandages are cat scratches. he attempts to warn her about touma, telling her not to get caught alone with her boyfriend and to lock her bedroom door to prevent him from rummaging through her belongings. akemi wonders how on earth seiji could possibly know she and touma are dating, since they haven't gone public with their relationship yet, but seiji refuses to elaborate.

unbeknownst to the two of them, however, touma was eavesdropping on their conversation and he doesn't like how close they're getting or the ideas that seiji is implanting into akemi's mind. akemi and touma's parents won't be home tonight, giving them free reign of the house, so touma suggests that they have a sleepover in his room, to which akemi agrees. they go on a convenience store run and buy cup yakisoba, potato chips, popcorn, candy, and juice before coming home. touma lets akemi take her bath and change into her pajamas first, then puts on her favorite cartoon while he goes to take his own bath, but conveniently forgets to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom and also conveniently forgets akemi is in his room when he goes to grab them while wearing nothing but a towel. he then decides to take the opportunity to show akemi “something boyfriends and girlfriends do to show their love for each other.” he explains to her that she should have listened to him and not gotten so comfy with another guy, but it's okay — he'll just have to drill it into her mind. this is for her own good; she'll realize that soon enough.

from that point forward, akemi's brain chemistry is irreversibly altered. no longer as bright-eyed or bushy-tailed as she once was, she convinces herself that what touma did was just a one-off — that he just wasn't feeling like himself that day, that he didn't mean to hurt her and they could go back to the way things were before and never speak of it again. how wrong she was. the sexual abuse becomes recurrent from then on, touma taking all of his frustrations out on akemi and akemi dissociating each time it happens, retreating back into her mind to protect herself from further trauma, after which touma always apologizes for hurting her, tells her he loves her, and showers her with gifts and affection, leading her to develop a codependency on him. by now, she feels completely isolated from her friends and peers, and she has no frame of reference for what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like, since she's never been in one before.

this is the point at which there's a massive gap in the story where i'm not sure what direction i want to take it in. all i know is that akemi will eventually find out that seiji and touma have some sort of history — maybe touma dated or had a crush on seiji's sister in the past? — which is how seiji knows about touma's yandere tendencies, and seiji tried to go to school administration and tell them what happened, but no serious disciplinary action was taken and the event was brushed under the rug because in their eyes, touma was a young man with a promising future who didn't deserve to have his life ruined by one incident, or perhaps their line of thinking was moreso along the lines that it would reflect badly on the school if word got out that one of its top students had sexually harassed, stalked, or even assaulted one of his classmates (like i said, i don't have all the specifics worked out quite yet). akemi will also learn that touma was the one responsible for spreading those rumors about seiji, so seiji decided to embrace his delinquent image because it was easier than trying to combat it and neither he, nor his family had the financial means to sue the school.

in the end, touma dies protecting akemi (from what, exactly, i'm not sure). having already lost her mom and now her boyfriend, akemi attempts suicide, unable to imagine life without him. her attempt fails and she's rushed to the hospital. that's the point at which her dad and stepmom realize how dire her mental state has gotten and that they haven't been nearly present enough in her life. after making a full recovery, she's enrolled in regular mandatory therapy sessions, where she begins to deconstruct and come to terms with the abuse in addition to her own grief. the process is arduous and non-linear and akemi probably relapses a few times along the way, but she ultimately perseveres, and in the future, she marries seiji.

my ideal medium for this story would be a webcomic, kinda like killing stalking, but unfortunately, i'm not a very good artist. just know that the characters look more or less the same as they did in the picrews i showed before except the ties and bowtie have a diagonal stripe pattern, seiji has more than one bandage, akemi's hair is shorter (falling just below shoulder length), and her hairclips look more like this:

and as a bonus, i'll tell you what each of the three main characters' names mean!

akemi niratani

韮 (nira) — perennial plant of the lily family ¹

谷 (tani) — valley, ravine ²

曙 (ake) — dawn, daybreak, sunrise

美 (mi) — beautiful

touma higa ³

比 (hi) — compare, learn, favor

嘉 (ga) — praise, auspicious, excellent

灯 (tou) — light, fire

守 (ma) — protect, defend, observe, caretaker

seiji kikumi

菊 (kiku) — chrysanthemum ⁴

実 (mi) — fruit, reality, truth

誠 (sei) — sincerity, honesty

士 (ji) — samurai, warrior, gentleman

[1] in the language of flowers, white lilies symbolize innocence and purity.

[2] the literal meaning of this kanji is valley or ravine, but it can also be read as, “to reach a point of no return.”

[3] the name "higa" is a bit of a play on words, as "higan" is the japanese word for the buddhist idea of "the other shore" and higanbana, or red spider lilies, symbolize death. also worth noting is that higanbana are toxic to both humans and animals and there's a superstition that if you bring one into your house, it will burn down.

[4] chrysanthemums symbolize longevity and rejuvenation.

i pulled these names off of japanese-names.info, so i really hope the definitions are accurate, but if not, feel free to correct me or offer alternatives!

for @visage-of-hell -- thank you for liking the starter call, and thank you more for having an awesome idea for the thread! you totally didn't have to supply the plot but hgfjshgdfj i love it. btw for anyone casually reading, there's a lil DDDNE under the read-more, so that maaaay not be your flavor.

-

Fuck Verosika. Fuck Verosika and Denis and Stolas and Demetri and Evelyn and Jasper and Rochefort and all of them. Fuck that entire party. Fuck everything and everyone--and most of all, fuck himself. The thoughts rattled around in Blitz's head, sharp as razors. He was too sober for all of this, too sober for this night, for this week, for life. Too sober, but for once, he didn't have the heart to get drunk. He didn't want to. He wanted to be present tonight, to remember all of this, every bit of pain, the humiliation. He wanted to remember seeing Stolas go off to dance with Demetri. Sweet Demetri. God, Demetri had been such a babe, and although their affair had been short, there had been times there when Blitz had thought maybe, maybe...

Fuck everything. And fuck himself. He needed to get out of his head, but he needed to hurt, and he knew where to go for that--and he wasn't even going to have to leave the Pride Ring. Sure, there would be more clubs down in Lust, but Blitz didn't want the general overtones of caring that Asmodeus offered. He wanted someone irresponsibly cruel to hurt him. Usually, he went to Lacerate to be a loving dom, to just do whatever it was a sub needed for the night, to get out of his own head and play with people... but tonight, he went for something else.

Blitz had stopped at home first. He needed the smell of Verosika's party off his skin. He had showered, scrubbing hard, then got dressed in tight leather pants and a black fishnet shirt, with chrome rings for his spines to slide through. He'd put on black eyeliner and he oiled his horns, spines, and hooves with a very lightly scented and pleasant oil--it carried a hint of gunpowder in it, subtly mixed in with the scent of hot stone and cedar. He might be getting ready for a date with someone he cared about--but that, Blitz thought, wasn't likely to happen again anytime soon.

So. All dolled up, he checked in at the desk and grabbed the white wrist-band, a color he'd never actually worn here before, signifying that he was here to sub and that he didn't want someone to ask for his limits, didn't want a safe-word. He wanted complete surrender and didn't care who it was to.

Sinners came to Lacerate; there was always someone here ready to hurt you.

As he drifted through the corridors and rooms, he caught the eye of a handful of subs he had played with before. Inevitably, they lit up, smiling and waving, or at least nodding if their hands were busy, happy to see him. Blitz always smiled back, although it hurt a little more now. When would they start showing up at Verosika's party? He hadn't even done most of those people wrong, he just didn't let them keep him... was that really cause enough to hate someone? To obsess? But Stolas... I hurt him. I hurt Stolas. The only person who matters. And Stolas is going to go home with Demetri, and they're going to fall in love, and...

Good for them, he reminded himself.

Good for them.

When he found someone he wanted, the man seemed surprised. Blitz circled around him, looking him up and down, running his claws over the guy's abdomen--well aware he was showing off his own physique as he did so, letting the undulating blue and purple lights of the low-ceilinged, black-walled room play off of his muscles and spines.

"Blitz? I thought you, you know. Liked to play on my side of things. You good?"

Blitz shrugged and held up his wrist, showing the band. The lights also caught on the Asmodean crystal permanently embedded in the back of his left hand, even when he didn't have a glove on, but he couldn't look at that. "Not really. But I'm not here to be good."

-

Two hours later and Blitz was exhausted. Shivering, aching, pushed past his limit, he wanted to curl up on the floor and be cry until he either passed out or was sick--maybe both. But instead, he let the guy who had just fucked him up pick him up and make him drink a big glass of water. There was something dissolved in it--crushed up calcium and salt, Blitz realized, and grunted in gratitude that this fucker remembered what Blitz's particular race of imp needed in recovery. He drank every drop, closed his eyes, and although he hated himself a little for this, too, just let himself be held against a broad chest, let himself float a little longer in the safe place, where his body hurt more than his heart, and his mind didn't have what it took to keep up anymore.

Eventually, though, his playmate had to go home. He helped Blitz dress, assured that he was actually out of sub-space before he left, and then he was gone. Gone, and Blitz was left alone. Aching--his back was raw from the beating he'd demanded--and heartsick and sober again.

Maybe it was time to go home.

He sighed, rubbed a hand over his mouth, and closed his eyes. Nah. He wasn't gonna fuckin' cry. Not here. Blitz took a deep breath, steadied himself, then headed out of the private little room and down the hall...

But he heard a whimper.

Real pain. Something about it--that sounded off. He stopped in the hall, turning his head to try and listen, try and pinpoint exactly where the fuck that whimper had come from. There was a difference between pain and pain, one that way too many years as a dom who enjoyed sadism had conditioned Blitz to hear, and that sound was the difference; behind one of those doors, someone was getting hurt in a way they didn't want and couldn't stop.

Instantly bristling, growling, Blitz ripped his white wristband off and dropped it on the floor. He was too tired to fight well, but that didn't fucking matter.

He was vaguely aware of someone else opening a door nearby when he positioned himself to kick in the door in question. "Don't fuck with me," Blitz snapped at whoever had just stepped out into the hall, tail thrashing angrily. He glared at the door, kicked it--and while it thudded in the frame, it didn't open. He could hear the heavy locks holding it in place. "God fucking damn it. Hey, you. Help me kick this door down and I'll give you head after we fuck these fuckers up," Blitz offered, sensing someone near him, but not actually stopping to look before he kicked the door again, harder this time, putting all of his damn fury and heartache into it.

Eris hadn't expected him to yield so quickly.

He wasn't sure what he had expected, but not this. Defiance, useless hissing and posturing, threats, or maybe weeping? But the way Hans simply gave in, agreed and gave himself over? That struck a chord in the High Lord, because he recognized it. With a sudden pang of pain--familiar pain, old, a memory that left its secret scars--he recognized that adaptability, the drive to do whatever it took to survive.

He knew--he had been there.

Eris immediately absorbed the heat that had begun gathering in Hans's chest, easing away any trace of the burn that might have been starting, and rested his palm against the now-bare skin instead, standing far too close to him.

Mine. My human. The realization was a sobering one, for even as the human now belonged to him, if Eris accepted him? He would belong to the human in return. He would be bound to protect him, should someone else threaten him--although, in a darkly twisted irony, Eris himself would be able to do whatever he pleased to the human.

His human.

His survivor.

"Remove the chains," he told a guard, without ever looking away from the human's eyes. "And very well. Tell me your name."

As long as you belong to me, I will defend you. Let the monsters come for you; I will fight for you. But I will never, never tell you that.

Stay ever at my side, and you will be safe. So long as you are mine.

"Yes" The man didn't even hesitate.

20 seconds was an awfully short time and everything that had happened to him had happened so quickly it felt surreal. He wished now he had listened to his brother and read more stories about the mythos out there, he had been a nonbeliever in anything and everything magical until he met Elsa and was somehow struck by lightning twice in life running into magic twice it had to mean something, right?

But he was aware no god or deity would come to his aid, at least he was consistent that way. He knew was on his own, always has been, and unknowingly he echoed the lord's thoughts.

What was he to do? In the face of bounds and magic?

Choosing to live now, he swallowed hard hoping he would at least have that decision in his hands later if he came to regret his decisions but Hans knew, he just knew the world wasn't the fastest or the strongest, it was of those who could adapt themselves better to the circumstances, and that was Hans' strongest suit, he had survived Ulrich, his father, he had survived Arendelle. He would survive this somehow.

"I give myself to you, uh... my lord" he tries with the first title that comes to his head.

His palms were sweaty, his heart beating a thousand miles a minute and he was sure his eyes were wide like saucers.

He was terrified. Yet Hans' will was that of the strongest steel. He would do what it takes to survive. Even if at this moment, it was painful or demeaning.