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i like the way you die, boy

Summary:

With her index finger she traces the wet seam of the blood moon she carved into his crotch, mentally patting herself on the shoulder for pulling off such a clean cut, despite how much her hands shook with butterflies when her blades kissed his tender flesh.

Notes:

title from "i like the way you die" by black honey

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Has his face always been this beautifully pale, or is it just loss of blood?

With her index finger she traces the wet seam of the blood moon she carved into his crotch, mentally patting herself on the shoulder for pulling off such a clean cut, despite how much her hands shook with butterflies when her blades kissed his tender flesh.

Master’s cock is just as perfect as she’d always imagined. Fucking herself with it was pure bliss, so it didn’t seem fair to deprive him of the sensation of experiencing his own perfection.

Jill was wise to not only take her trusty scissors with her to Hope’s Peak, but her special harness, as well. His cock is still fresh, limp and malleable for her pleasure, but that problem was easily fixed by the metal rod attached to the harness on which it is now mounted like the most precious of trophies.

In fact, once this is over, she’ll keep it, that whole getting away with murder thing be damned! (As if she hasn’t done so already plenty of times in the past. This will be a dead cinch!)

Her thoughts immediately turn to more important matters. Certainly, there must be some formaldehyde around here somewhere, if she could get her hands on some… then she could preserve his perfect cock for all eternity!

Jill yelps in delight at the prospect… Master’s cock in a pretty little jar on her nightstand… she’d kiss it goodnight, maybe even fall asleep hugging it to her chest like a stuffed animal…

Beneath her, Byakuya groans in pain.

“T…t….”

His wrists, pinned to the mattress by a twin pair of scissors, try to ball into fists, only to weakly curl back open like the petals of a wilting flower.

“By the looks of you, you must be just desperate for it,” Jill licks her lips. “Worry not, I won’t keep you waiting any longer.”

His cock, slick with her juices and his delectable blood, slides inside gracefully, as if it was always meant to be wielded by her. He grits his teeth, turning his face away from her, trying to hide the cracks in his icy expression

“Is this your first time, Master?” she teases him, even though she’s the one who is blushing. This is just like a scene in one of the BL mangas, Toko’s greatest shame and guiltiest pleasure, stashed under her bed. (She wonders what would have happened had that been the secret Monokuma wanted to expose. The other her would have positively given Jill her blessing to leave no survivors!)

In the back of her blade poet’s mind, that annoying, stuttering bitch keeps nagging her that this time around Makoto won’t jump to her defense when faced with a murder bearing the signature of Genocide Jack yet again.

They may not share memories, but their desires, their dreams are one and the same. Though she is loathe to admit it, she would not have been born were the lust for killing not innate to the girl known as Toko Fukawa. The only difference between them is that Jill claims for herself what Toko is too scared to admit she craves.

“Well, even if I end up getting executed, you’d be well worth the sacrifice,” she coos, caressing Byakuya’s cheek. His skin is unexpectedly soft. She very well expected him to be made of marble, after all he is as flawless as a statue. “My pièce de résistance.”

Her heart skips a beat every time she remembers he read the case files, saw photos of all her previous conquests, devoured every detail of her carnage. He probably knew all along that this is how their whirlwind romance was going to end, even though he neglected to include the most crucial aspect of her technique in his homage to her with Chihiro’s corpse (maybe he would have, had he known Chihiro was a boy).

“The others, they all begged for their lives and cried like little babies. But not you. You keep playing hard to get, even in the face of death. That’s so cute!”

She presses a kiss to his lips, colder than they were the moment before.

“I do miss that sharp tongue of yours, though. I guess you’re too busy clinging onto life to shower me with sweet abuse. Might have to cut it out later, as a keepsake.”

She begins rocking her hips back and forth, digging her nails into his thighs until she can feel the skin tear as she fucks him with the gentleness of a rabid dog.

“How does it feel, Master, to be deflowered by none other than yourself? By the disgusting wretch who’d burn this whole place down for a chance to lick your shoes? Can you feel how perfect you are?”

His dignified silence just makes her all the more eager to tear down all his defenses, thrusting brutally into his core until he can resist no longer, moaning while his eyes grow duller by the second, teetering on the edge between climax and exitus.

“I swear, I’m just as much a virgin pure as you. None of these losers compare to you. They don’t freakin’ count!”

She wraps her hands around his throat, feeling his Adam’s Apple pulse with his every dying breath.

“You’re my one true love, Master! I’ll love you forever and ever and ever!”

Perhaps, beneath that stoic exterior of his, he’s longed for this glorious moment just as much as she has. Has he also touched himself at night, praying for the gentle embrace of her scissors?

That, Jill will never find out.

By the time the haze of rapture has dissipated, her beloved Master has become perfectly still, having graduated from the most perfect boy in the world to the most exquisite corpse.

Notes:

I'm currently recovering from wrist surgery and writing this litterally caused me physical pain but what can I say, I can't resist the siren song of F/m rape. Writing Toko/Jill came surprisingly easy to me.