#this has unexpectedly turned into a drabble instead of a rant

[what-have-i-unleashed]

freaky toxic kist post 2: electric boogaloo

oh gods why did no one stop me from writing these

(cw: violence, danger kink, homoerotic fighting, not safe or sane)

whenever killer and dust fight each other, it's violent, it's messy, it's addictive. it's like having a partner who knows the song and dance - who knows intuitively and intimately what you will do, what you want, what you crave out of the fight. killer is precise, each of his attacks lethal and graceful like a feline. dust is manic, hard-hitting and destructive in his onslaught.

killer has dust pinned after a long battle. he's trapped dust under a pile of blue attacks to prevent dust from moving. they're both injured, but they won't stop until one emerges as the victor. dust is breathing hard while killer is grinning on top of him. then killer leans down, face inches away from dust while he holds his knife to dust's throat.

"feeling a bit blue there, dustbunny?" taunts killer, as dust snarls at him. but he quiets down as killer presses the edge of the knife to his throat, drawing blood.

dust can feel killer traces his other hand under dust's shirt, stopping at the ribs where his soul would manifest. he can feel killer's intent, an intoxicating mix between homicidal glee and fervent interest. dust can't help but respond in kind, torn between apprehension and excitement.

"you know," killer hums as he strokes the insides of dust's rib cage, "this is how i like it. i can simply blast you to pieces from afar, but i prefer seeing this up close. this moment where you're hanging between life and death..." killer squeezes the bone painfully, making dust hiss. "your soul so close in my hand, the essence of you being all laid bare..." he whispers next to dust's skull. "come on, give it to me, dusty~"

blinking, dust weakly laughs, "heh... go... to... hell..."

silence. then killer slowly raises his knife, his face impassive in its half-moon smile. the knife is pointed towards dust's eye socket. dust's eye lights vigilantly follow the knife with dread heavy in his soul. after a tense moment, killer swings down. dust flinches, as it impales right next to his skull. dust stares at the knife, unable to look away as his breathing abruptly stops. he can't help the unmistakable rush of thrill and fear pumping into his marrow, his soul jumping out of his rib cage. as the adrenaline still coursing through him, dust senses killer cupping his soul reverently. numbly, he registers the cooing, as if killer is speaking right into his rapidly beating soul.

"good boy~"