#final girl banjjakz
Text
final girl: jjk visualkei idol!au x stan!f!reader
author's note: this is a choose-your-own-adventure PWP series. each route will have its own host of chapter-specific warnings, but some general content advisories include: obsession, stalking, elements of horror, codependent/unhealthy relationships, imbalanced power dynamics, erotic descriptions of death, etc etc
please see: main menu for navigation & guide for recommended route order.
enjoy ~ ^^
> main menu > guide
[PROLOGUE]
➡ GAME START
The time: three o’clock in the morning. The place: one of Kabukichou’s countless dilapidated venues. The weather: piercingly frigid, biting cold which mercilessly impales your already tumultuous gut. Those in attendance: approximately three hundred other dedicated fans, and – of course – the main act:
Shinjuku Showdown.
As an underground idol group, ShinShow makes no effort to conform to some false overly polished, perfectly airbrushed boy-group image. What sets them apart from the rest of the underground crowd is their steadfast dedication to their unique concept: jujutsu sorcery.
Allegedly, all members of ShinShow are reincarnated sorcerers from various eras in Japanese history, reborn to entrance thousands with the preternatural capabilities of their musical talent. In this lifetime, they manipulate the cosmos not with mudras, but with peerless performances.
Many so-called stans claim to know their lore inside out; you, however, pride yourself on being a part of the slim majority of the fanbase who has walked with the members since the beginning. You were a fan of each individual member while they were preoccupied in other idol activities before eventually joining together to create ShinShow. This, you are convinced, sets you apart from the swathe of fresh blood clogging up the congested standing pit. Everyone loiters in one single cesspool of quivering, fanatic anticipation. You bet many others feel like prey, yearning to be caught in the captivating gaze of their preferred member. But you’re different. You aren’t prey.
After years of unwavering support including (but certainly not limited to): countless hours spent digitally streaming; months’ worth of paychecks devoted to VVVVVVVVIP Access Packages, pre-releases, physical albums, official merch; and premium music subscription services, you consider yourself the exact opposite of a creature lying in wait, ready to be devoured.
No, you are the one who does the devouring.
Consuming ShinShow content is the closest you have ever come in your miserable life to satiating the empty void weighing you down, siphoning the sleep out of your nights, rendering your few non-work-related phone calls devoid of any real meaning.
Walking with ShinShow has brought you to a new, enlightened state of being. You are cleansed anew each time you have the privilege of breathing in the same atmosphere into which they perspire, passionately entangled in the performance of their morose melodies. Screaming fan chants until your throat bleeds and pricking yourself with arts and crafts supplies in the effort to make your own cheering uchiwa are essential sources from which you derive a tenuous – but nonetheless persistent – will to live.
Supporting ShinShow has become a devotional act. And you are, if nothing else, devout.
Up above head, the house lights are snuffed into nonexistence. An impenetrable darkness asphyxiates all sense of vision and a charged murmur sweeps through the venue. Excitement runs rampant like an epidemic, spreading from phone charm to deco’d polaroid holder to custom-made fan slogan.
It’s time.
As always, you hear them before you see them: the isolated, mournful wailing of an electric guitar echoes throughout the atmosphere, seemingly pulling a shroud over the crowd and commandeering the entirety of your attention to the mysteriously black stage. Soon to follow are the crashing of symbols, the striking of drums, the unnerving thrum of that otherworldly bassline, and last, but certainly not least, the main vocal’s banshee-like shriek.
The show is absolutely charged with some sort of intoxicating misery. This is why you love them above all others – the unique, dreadful energy that pools wherever ShinShow performs is a testament to their unmatched skills as entertainers.
Even in the midst of a taxing live show, there is not a crack in the façade, not a chink in the armor. The drummer, despite pounding away with reckless abandon, displays an unshakable poker face of utter apathy, which would be made somewhat less terrifying if he didn’t have on his usual corpse paint: a white face, powdered and even like a geisha, bisected at the middle with a harsh black line cutting neatly from cheekbone to cheekbone. Even when shouting some of the raunchier, more aggrieved lyrics, his black-painted lips curl rather cutely around the vulgar vowels.
Just as dedicated to his craft, the bassist plucks out morose notes with limp hands and cold eyes, moving his body as a medical examiner might manipulate a cadaver’s stiff limbs. He’s got lanky, black hair with parted bangs brushing his impossibly long, doll-like lashes. Despite his pretty looks, he appears ultimately ghoulish, with a wan complexion, sunken cheekbones, and lips perpetually bitten raw. This is not to say he doesn’t get excited while performing – because he absolutely does! But when he moves, it is with a disconcerting preternatural speed. Is it truly the adrenaline rush of a live performance that moves him? Or does something else entirely occupy his svelte, hollow carcass?
Not to be outdone, the lead singer inspires as much awe as he does fear in the hearts of his catatonic, reverential fans. In stark contrast to his easygoing off-stage countenance, his on-stage persona lets his hair loose. Literally. A smooth, unbroken cascade of obsidian drapes his well-toned form from the crown of his head to the small of his back. Many of his female fans are envious of his well-maintained locks, and rant about this very grievance in pages and pages of obsessive online ramblings. With tastefully gauged lobes, a spear of shocking silver speared through his tongue, and swirls of ink lining the ribbed midsection of his throat, the band’s front man is an unapologetically alternative heartthrob. When he sings, it sounds like he’s trying to resurrect something long dead and gone through sheer force of will. How anything alive or otherwise could resist his siren’s call is an eternal mystery.
And last, but certainly not least, there is the guitarist, who stands a full head taller than the rest of his bandmates and at least twice as wide. What he lacks in the conventionally attractive, youthful bishounen image of most male idols, he makes up for with a physique gifted from above (or below?) itself. His muscles ripple, glistening with sweat and the remnants of many upended water bottles, as he shreds his strings and whips his unruly pink hair in all-consuming, passionate fervor. Out of all the members, he must be the most unapproachable – after all, his concept is that he’s an epochs-old evil curse who used to eat women and children for fun! If it weren’t for his washboard abs and de facto stage outfits of open-faced robes and shredded T-shirts, you wonder how many fans he would have left to claim.
Before you know it, the performance draws to a close just as suddenly as it had spontaneously combusted into existence! During the final speaking mention, one of the members wields some lethal fan-service: some fan had thrown a pair of fox ears onto the stage. When he decided to not only put them on, but to pose with cute foxlike mannerisms, the gap moe is too much for the audience to handle. The crowd surges forward, and with a complete lack of any kind of barrier or barricade (this is Kabukichou, after all) you are sent flying into the alarmingly solid, wide, warm chest of the imposing security guard. He looks down at you from the tall bridge of his nose, wordlessly impassive save for the slight quirk of amusement that twists his scarred lips. Beefy arms stabilize you, dispelling your disorientation. Each of his large hands respectively span nearly the entire width of your upper arm. Wow. Sure, he looks well into his forties, but you think he could definitely have a shot as some niche-market idol. He’s even got dark fringe and a sharp jawline! The wrinkles aren’t too bad, either…. if you squint, he’s kinda…
Ahh, you have to pull yourself together! Making goo-goo eyes at this random stranger will ruin your chances at catching the encore. Hurriedly, you (not so) politely squirm your way back into the crowd front, a (not so) respectful distance away from the edge of the stage.
As the final chords fade out into the tepid night, you blink back tears of shock. While it is not unusual for you to be moved to weeping at a ShinShow gig, something about tonight feels markedly different. Is it just you, or were several of the members meeting your eye? Each song in the set saw a moment of charged intensity between either the drummer, the bassist, the lead singer, or the guitarist. In every instance, you flushed red-hot with disbelief, with wanton ecstasy at the thought that you were a passing object in their distracted, roaming gaze. The thought is enough to make you more than a little weak in the knees.
Shaking your head, you are forcibly evicted from your reverie when the house lights surge back to life. The show is over. The music is gone. The members have finally retreated backstage. Some audience members file out of the main exit, while others linger behind in naïve hopes of catching just one more glimpse.
What will you do?
➡ Loiter behind the venue.
➡ Sneak backstage.
#fushiguro toji x reader#fushiguro toji x y/n#choso x reader#choso x y/n#okkotsu yuuta x reader#okkotsu yuuta x y/n#ryomen sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna x y/n#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru x y/n#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#jjk fic#jjk series#jjk smut#my writing#mine#final girl banjjakz#final girl prologue
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final girl: jjk visualkei idol!au x stan!f!reader
author's note: this is a choose-your-own-adventure PWP series. each route will have its own host of chapter-specific warnings, but some general series-wide content advisories include: sex, obsession, stalking, elements of horror, codependent/unhealthy relationships, imbalanced power dynamics, erotic descriptions of death, etc etc
main menu
> prologue > game library > guide > home
> route selection
> help request form
#final girl main menu#final girl banjjakz#choso x reader#choso x y/n#okkotsu yuuta x reader#okkotsu yuuta x y/n#ryomen sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna x y/n#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru x y/n#fushiguro toji x reader#fushiguro toji x y/n#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x y/n#my writing#mine#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#jjk smut
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➡ Lie.
“I got lost,” is your answer.
Entirely unconvincing. Who would believe such a ridiculous tale? The backstage area is clearly labeled as restricted, and the dressing rooms have all of their names spelled out on the doors for fuck’s sake!
And yet, Yuuta regards you with nothing but the utmost sincerity. “Oh, no,” he murmurs, pulling the door shut behind him as he enters farther into the space. There is a soft little click that punctuates his full entrenchment into this increasingly strange situation – was that the lock, you just heard?
“Did you come from the concert, just now? Do you need some help finding your way back?”
He doesn’t stop his slow advance. So kind, always so kind. This unthinking, unwavering compassion is exactly why you fell for Yuuta in the first place.
“Yes please…” You dodge the first question, hoping against hope that he doesn’t notice. “Would you mind?” Why does he keep getting closer? Is he suspicious of something? But his expression is so serene…
Nothing could possibly prepare you for the ice-cold grip on your wrist. Despite the frigidity, Yuuta’s fingers are surprisingly gentle as they handle you, deftly, like a kindly stranger’s hand upon the rough coat of a stray cat.
“Sorry,” he whispers, “I actually don’t believe you.”
Your eyes widen. Breath sputtering to death in your throat, you are frozen with a fear so primal it roots your skeleton to the structure of the building. You are unable to move – to breathe, to think, even.
“You’re just so cute when you lie for me.”
…?!?!
“H-huh—”
“I’d recognize you anywhere,” he continues, eyes half-lidded with something too close to amorousness than you can quite process. “Why do you think I left the door open, princess?”
‘Princess’? Surely, he doesn’t—he can’t—
Leaning in, Okkotsu silences the remnants of any coherent thought in your mind, like two deft fingers extinguishing the end of a wick.
“After all these years, you think I wouldn’t know who you are?”
And then he whispers your name – not your online handle, or any of your digital aliases used across multiple platforms. No, he uses your real, actual name: the name by which those closest to you call out in moment of affection, grief, frustration, resignation; the name to which you are conditioned to respond, as any simple creature of habit is trained to do, with pert ears and an almost childishly open vulnerability.
Understanding breaks through the raging, tumultuous waves of your roiling sensibilities. Despite the temptation to continue living on in disbelief, you choose the word of Yuuta over the word of wisdom, of even internal wisdom: he would never lie to you. That’s not who Yuuta is, not to you.
Not only does Yuuta recognize you as @princess-okkotsu, but he also knows you as you – you from all those years ago, before the wota antics took full control of your online activity, when you were young and foolish enough to interact with his social media accounts with your local profile which still bore your publicly-identifiable name.
“Y-Yuuta-san—”
“That’s not who I am to you,” he murmurs, drawing back just far enough to thunk his forehead against your own. “You know who I am. What do you really call me? Come on.” At your demurring, he nudges his head into yours, a gentle yet insistent push. “Don’t be shy.”
“Yuu-chan…”
So embarrassing!!!!!
It is every wota’s worst/best nightmare/fantasy to have their oshi actually have seen all the embarrassing, mushy-gushy posts made in the throes of starry-eyed adoration! He was never supposed to have known that you think of him as a cute, endearing specimen caged behind glass against which you cannot keep yourself from rapping obsessively…
A full body shudder possesses his body upon your hesitant utterance.
“Again,” he pleas, voice pitching up into whiny territory. “Again, again…”
Daringly, one of your hands rises to cusp the nape of his neck. Is this allowed? Are you really being granted with this otherworldly opportunity. Instead of brushing you off, he leans completely into your touch.
“Yuu-chan,’ you repeat, this time with less of a tremor. “You’ve been waiting a long time, haven’t you?”
Wordlessly, he nods – but there are no expressions in any language that could possibly convey the literal meaning of the way his bones shift and sway, melting at the heat in your charged inquiry. Spurred on by his enthusiastic invitation, you tangle your fingers in his lanky locks, cementing a solid grasp before yanking back hard, forcing him to expose the erratically bobbing column of his throat.
“No more waiting,” you whisper into his trachea. “I’m right here. Isn’t that just the best? Aren’t you happy, Yuu-chan?”
“S-so happy,” he almost sobs. “Can we—can you—”
“Let’s sit, baby, let’s sit down—”
And this is how you find yourself seated on the rough, tiled floor, mere centimeters away from the remnants of scorched cigarette butts and the carcasses of unidentifiable creatures. Yuuta lays halfway on top of you, his back cradled in the crook of your elbow, knobby spine protruding through his oversized tunic and digging into your thighs. He’s propped up in your caring embrace, eye-level with your sternum, and mouth-level with your…well…
“Please,” he groans, nosing into your bosom. Your top had promptly been ripped off within moments of descending upon the floor, and now your bare flesh prickles with nervous, antsy goosebumps. Even though his breath washes over you in hot and heavy pants, it does little to dispel the involuntary shivers wracking through your frame. In fact, the proximity of his moist, red, gaping mouth only makes your body quake even harder.
The words come through you like a message sent from somewhere beyond. Your body is nothing but a conduit for pure, carnal desire. “What do you say, Yuu-chan?”
“Thank you for the meal.”
And with that, Yuuta latches onto your nipple, sucking hard and desperate.
You, for your part, somehow resist the urge to throw your head back and clench your eyes shut with a pleasured groan. It’s tempting – truly – to lose yourself in the all-consuming spiral of pleasure. But you could never forgive yourself if you missed even a fraction of a second of this glorious moment.
The sight of Okkotsu Yuuta – the love of your life, ultimate idol, and forever oshi – suckling on your breast, needy and whiny and sweaty like a bitch in heat, is an experienced that must be forever branded into each individual fiber of your being.
When his squirming legs threaten to topple you onto your back, you finally decide to pay him some attention where it matters the most.
“Oh? Is Yuu-chan excited?” You feign surprise at the conspicuous tent in his trousers. Vaguely, your higher sense of reasoning kicks in long enough to produce the question of how is there even enough room in that leather entrapping for a boner to even tent in the first place?
And yet, there is an undeniable bulge revolting against his fly. It’s an act of mercy, to unzip him as though unwrapping a treat, decadent and illicit, shamefully pleasurable. Head swimming with the headiness of it all, your hand moves on its own accord, creeping underneath his pants, twitching excitedly at the revelation that he’s gone commando tonight, the dirty boy.
“No underwear?” You muse, proud of the way your breath hitches only slightly as he continues to maul your boobs. “Were you expecting something, Yuu-chan? Did you know I’d find you tonight?”
“’Was gonna find you,” is the indignant mumble he huffs into your chest. And here you were, foolishly thinking that your underwear could not get any more soaked.
His long, calloused bassist’s fingers carve desperate crescents in your flesh when you start to stroke his long, hard length. It’s a painfully dry friction, one that brings tears to his eyes and a tortured groan to his throat. Taking pity on his poor soul, you raise the offending hand to his mouth, a wordless instruction for him to spit. Of course, the two of you are so in sync that he obeys your unspoken command, mewling in ecstasy when you whisper a soft, gushy good boy into the crown of his head.
“Does it feel nice, Yuu-chan? Am I treating you well? Aren’t you so glad we were finally able to embrace one another?”
The room is filled with nothing but the obscene squelches of your hand working diligently up and down on his painfully erect arousal, the intimate suckling of his mouth and teeth and tongue and lips around your sore, puffy nipples. He releases you for a harrowing, nearly painful moment, to reply:
“Thank you, thank you, thank you thank you thank youthankyouthankyouthanky—”
“Shh, enough of that – ahnnn, there you go, that’s a good boy…”
You shove his head back into your tits, busying his mouth with other, more pressing matters. From there, it takes little work to rile him up to a hip-bucking, toe-curling precipice. With each twist of your wrist does Yuuta grow closer and closer to imminent release. He must think you a tyrant for releasing your grip after one particularly thorough tug, which sees his mental collapse into lust-addled disarray. At your hand’s departure, he cries aloud, a wounded animal.
Hushing him gently, you bring one hand to smooth down the sweaty hair at his temples as you rock him back and forth like a babe. It lulls him into settling, even just for a moment. His howling betrayal when you inevitably rob him of completion once more is entirely understandable.
By the fifth and final denial of his impending orgasm, Yuuta is a wet puddle of sweat, precum, snot, and tears, loosely contained by your own moist, slick arms. This time, when he begs you, his voice is unrecognizable from any performance or live stream, any pre-recorded vlog or variety show content; you take a moment to relish in the fact that you are the only one who gets to claim knowledge of this side of his (up until this point, he’s maintained his virginity – you’ve made sure of this).
“Puh—puh—puh-lease,” he bellows, syllables accented by his endearing dry-heaves. “C-c-can I, can, w-will you—”
“Ask nicely,” you simper, your hand languidly toying with the slick head of his oversensitive cock.
“Plllllleasenn, ah! Please….can I cum?”
What else are you supposed to say, when he looks up at you with those wide, all-seeing eyes of his? Normally, Yuuta inspires feelings of simultaneous awe and dread in the hearts of his onlookers. Right now, all you can hone in on is the flush high on his cheekbones radiating lethal amounts of heat, the split petals of his pink, swollen lips.
“Can Yuu-chan show me how good he feels?”
Hysterically, Yuuta nods.
“Alright then. Go on.”
The final wail of completion wells inside of him like the pre-eminent receding shore of a tsunami: at first, he shakes apart in unsettling silence, sliding to the floor without sound, a corpse collapsing to its final resting place. And then, when the wave crashes down upon him, upon the both of you, he screams into his forearm, biting down hard against the muscle and tendon shoved between his teeth in a fruitless attempt to muffle his ecstasy. The wave of pleasure only crests higher, only crashes down harsher, when you ignore his feeble pleas to sssstopstopstopsosensitivestop, opting instead to milk his sorry, spent cock for all that it’s worth.
When you’re finally satisfied, you release him. Immediately, he shuffles backwards on his elbows to curl up in your lap, limbs entwined around your midsection with unrelenting affection. It’s all you can do to rub his back and shift your weight from hipbone to numb, floor-bruised hipbone, humming low and quiet in the back of your throat.
Yes, you’re soothing him just fine with your gentle touch and rumbling tones – but the black blanket wadded up in a sad little ball, just a few paces away, calls to you. It only takes but a second to rise, assuring Yuuta that you’ll be back faster than he can start crying again.
Swaddling him in the soft fabric is cathartic for you both. You have to admit, the patterning is more than a little odd – scores of wide-open eyes peer up at you from the obsidian background, made unnervingly distinct by the bright, electric blue irises.
“Is this your blanket?” You coo, softly.
Yuuta confirms with a groggy nod. “Mhhm… bought it ‘cos I thought of you…”
Oh, wow. Is that your heart you feel, clawing at the back of your throat?
“Thank you…Yuu-chan cares for me so much…”
A sweet gesture in its own right, you are moved to bashfulness at his earnest admission. And while the sentiment really is adorable, you can’t help but be skeeved out by the unblinking assessment of those stitched eyes. The neat columns and rows lining the blanket are evenly spaced and impossibly equidistant, no matter how rumpled the fabric becomes. It’s impossible to count just how many there are – you end up having to re-start the tally several times over. Oddly enough, each total you add up is some multiple of six. Strange. Yuuta’s favorite number is four.
Due to your steadfast loyalty and commendable levels of cunning, you will abscond from the scene with Yuuta’s LINE ID safely stowed away in your phone, as well as the multi-eyed blanket which he insists you keep as a memento of your treasured tryst.
The giddiness will settle, at some point, into a contentment which runs so deep you actually feel at peace for once in your anxious, chaotic life. No longer is Yuuta an untouchable object you must admire (and cry and bleed and fight for) from afar…no, now you possess the intimate knowledge of what it feels like to lay with your idol and have him begging for your consideration. You won’t even make it one hundred meters away from the venue before your phone will light up with a notification from a new LINE user, with several messages already vying for your attention.
On the walk home, you will log into your usual SNS haunts to rave and scream about ShinShow’s excellent performance – and, obviously, about how Yuuta’s stellar skills elevated the show immeasurably. Your numerous fancams receive hundreds of re-posts and comments within moments of their publishing. As is to be expected of such a well-known fan-account as your own.
Despite the sudden development in your relationship, you possess no disillusionment. Yuuta is still your oshi. You will always serve the greater goal of his happiness, success, and satisfaction.
No matter what.
[ROUTE CLEAR.]
next suggested route: Geto Suguru
> main menu > prologue > guide
> report an issue
#okkotsu yuuta x reader#okkotsu yuuta x you#okkotsu yuuta x y/n#okkotsu yuuta reader insert#okkotsu yuuta smut#jjk reader insert#jjk smut#my writing#mine#final girl banjjakz#final girl ao3
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➡ Fall asleep.
When you blink back into consciousness, a gentle warmth welcomes you to the land of the living. At some point in your slumber, you pitched sideways to huddle your achingly cold bones in a fetal position. Now, you find yourself struggling to activate your joints after succumbing to a slumber so deep it’s seemed to have left you with rigor mortis.
As you sit up, an unfamiliar layer of fuzzy fabric slides from your shoulders. A blanket! Ah, that explains the extra warmth. But you don’t remember bringing a blanket with you… and you’ve never seen this particular blanket in your entire life. Sure, it’s cozy and high-quality, but the pattern of wide-open eyes littered across the black cloth is off-putting – although, not entirely unpleasant.
Oh shoot, did someone put this on you? Have you been discovered?
“Hello.”
Spooked, you whip your head to the side, where you had not even registered the presence of another living being. “Ahh!!!”
“I did not mean to frighten you. I apologize.”
Are you – are you dreaming?
You must be dreaming. They term isn’t “yumejoshi” for no reason. There is no way Choso squats in front of you, less than a meter away, so close that you can smell his earthy, metallic fragrance. He hasn’t even changed out of his stage costume: his customary white robes are still soaked through with sweat from the earlier performance, gracing the pale fabric a tantalizing semi-translucence. His purple gi is nowhere to be found, which exposes the unholy caverns of his collarbones, the inviting jut of his skeletal sternum. The signature pigtails are also undone, leaving his stringy black hair to metastasize down the sides of his gaunt face, across the barren valley of his jagged shoulder blades. And yet, that solid bar of black remains perfectly applied across the center of his face.
“…Nn?”
“Are you alright?”
Choso stays where he is, head cocked in concern. Quickly, you realize you have two options.
You can tell the truth and admit that you’d been waiting outside just to see him walk a few paces before getting into a nondescript vehicle. Totally normal fan behavior that will definitely go over well.
Or, you can lie.
“I-I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you demure, casting your eyes down in false bashfulness. You would feel bad about this if you were a better person. “And the memories from ShinShow’s performances always sustain me…I just thought, if I could enjoy the positive energy for a little while longer…I would be sustained. I’m sorry…”
“Why do you apologize?”
One of Choso’s most appealing charming points is his overly formal, somewhat antiquated manner of speaking. He sounds like a historical figure who has been yanked from the past, inserted haphazardly into contemporary pop culture. Very fitting for his lore. But you’d also been under the assumption that this was merely a stage act – is he that committed to his image? Or is it innate?
The thought of Choso simply being Like That is too endearing to bear. You hide your face behind your palms, concealing the tremulous smile that possesses your lips.
“It’s embarrassing… and I’ve troubled Choso-nii…”
The last thing you expect are cold, impossibly cold, hands to wrap around your wrists, kindly (but firmly) uncovering your face. Choso has drawn closer to you, so close that when he breathes, it brushes the bridge of your nose.
His face is impassive, as usual – but upon closer inspection, you notice a strange, wavering quality in his eyes, a slight tremor in his lips. There might actually be color on the tips of his ears. Usually, he appears as though he is so pale there is no blood coursing through his veins that could produce a blush.
Evidently, this is not the case.
“Choso-nii is not troubled,” he states plainly, leaving no room for argument. “The night is no place for a little one to be sleeping unguarded.”
Oh, you could faint here and now. It’s an active choice on your part to remain conscious. “Mn…”
“You will come with me now.”
And so you do.
This is how you find yourself in the back of an unmarked, utilitarian white van. To anyone else the vehicle would appear as little more than a maintenance truck. But you know better.
Inside the living-quarters is a mish-mash of discarded clothing items in varying degrees of cleanliness; discarded guitar picks; empty takeout containers; and a random jumble of electronic chargers. Inexplicably, there is also an abundance of first-aid supplies, with over half of it apparently already used. As he sits you down on one of the distressed leather seats, Choso uses the medical kit to tend to a few scrapes on your legs and arms earned from your impromptu nap on the concrete.
“It’s really not that bad…You don’t have to—”
“Enough.”
Embarrassed, you shut your mouth. How do you even cope with this situation? Here you are, in the back of your oshi’s travel van, as he sits on his knees in front of you, hands impatiently pushing your clothes away to reveal your bare skin. His touch leeches the body heat out of you like a parasite. You want to be sucked dry.
“This will sting.” That’s all the warning you get before hydrogen peroxide is unceremoniously dumped on your fresh scrapes.
Unbidden, you let out a strangled whine, hands flying to the closest part of him you can reach – which happens to be his head. You clutch at his hair to absolve you of your suffering. “Choso-nii! It hurts!”
Ker-thlunk. Glug… glug… glug…
Fuck! Your spasming must have knocked over the hydrogen peroxide…. the upended bottle spills its guts across the floor, drenching the air in an oppressively medicinal stink.
Oddly, no irritancy mars Choso’s features. If anything, he looks more flustered than you feel, which doesn’t make much sense to you.
“I’m so sorry! I c-can clean it up, I promise---”
“Leave it.” He speaks without meeting your eyes. “You are injured.”
Barely, you want to retort. But acknowledging the fact that your so-called “injuries” are very minor surface scrapes would shatter the illusory bubble of realized fantasy into which you have miraculously stumbled.
Before you can reply, Choso continues: “The human mouth is the fastest-healing part of the body. Saliva heals.”
“Okay,” you say, because there is nothing else you could possibly respond with. He can’t mean—surely, he doesn’t—
But there he goes, leaning in close to the supple flesh of your bared leg, breath ghosting along the very surface, raising the hairs that quiver in eager anticipation. “I said I would help you feel better. Please allow me this. It is my duty.”
And then he begins to suck on your wounds.
“Oh-kay,” you squeal, entirely convinced that you have begun to astral project. The scrape on the inside of your knee is laved over by his tongue, which is, strangely, just as chilled as the rest of him. When his eyes flick up at your exclamation, you realize that you have yet to release his hair.
Nor do you want to.
“B-be gentle, please…” You’re laying it on thick. You know it. How could you resist? He’s eating it up – literally – mouthing repeatedly over the sensitive area as though he is spiritually compelled to do so. And just because you’re a little too observant, a little too greedy for your own good, you decide to push your luck: “Will Choso-nii make me feel better everywhere?”
With a wet pop, he unleashes your leg from his wet, red mouth. “Where does it hurt,” he asks, pupils blown wide, nothing more than a twin pair of black holes.
“Mn…all over…I’m sore, from sleeping on the ground…”
Choso rises from his knees to crowd you into the back of the seat. Of course, you willingly melt back, pliant in the wake of his potent desire.
“Do you need Choso-nii to make it better?”
“Please,” you whimper, peering up at him through your dewy, tear-damp lashes.
Holy shit, you can’t believe this actually worked. Two hours ago, you were just one of hundreds of faceless, sweaty fans, screaming their hearts out to some of the most hauntingly morbid lyrics.
And now, you are caged in the unforgiving embrace of your oshi, completely at his mercy, littered in hickeys and lovebites and bruises as he has his way with you. Your sharp cries of pain do the opposite of dissuade him; with each groan and plea for him to slow down, take a pause, ow, ow, it hurts Choso-nii--, he grows all the more impassioned, all the more frantic.
He only pulls away from you when there is not a single inch of exposed skin left for him to mark. The sound of your comingled pants fill the van, fogging the windows with physical evidence of your salacious tryst.
Neither of you speak for a moment, content to simply gaze into each other’s eyes. His hair is frazzled every which way, due in no small part to your rough handling. Is it normal to be turned on by such a trainwreck of a human? Should you really be wet between the thighs at being mauled?
“Do—” his voice cracks in a way you have never heard before, not on any livestream, not in any video, not on any stage. “Do you feel better, now?”
Maybe it’s fate…maybe, somewhere out there, far, far away, there is a benevolent being who wants nothing but the best for you. Maybe they concentrated their divine powers into finding you, in this moment, and directing your gaze to the loose pocketknife innocently resting on the grimy floor next to his clunky black platforms. In this moment, as you pick up the blade, unsheathing it without breaking eye contact with the ghoulish specter hovering above you, an inexplicable wave of love and appreciation washes over you, bathing your half-dressed body in the warm waters of some distant, far-off shore.
It's almost too easy to slice a surface wound – a cat-scratch, really – into the plush swell of your upper thigh.
“What about here, Choso-nii?” You ask, enraptured by the peculiar twitching of his facial muscles. “Can you kiss it better right here?”
Once again, you are right on the money.
Choso dives to chase the rivulet of blood running down your leg like a man stumbling across an oasis in the desert. Devotionally, he tongues at the gory slit, sucking more blood from your self-inflicted wound, moaning as if he is the one being pleasured right now. In a strange way, you think he might be.
Your initial quick-thinking unleashes an outlandish chain reaction which finds you, inevitably, entirely unclothed with a not-insignificant amount of reddening slashes across your naked form. When it’s all said and done, Choso will tend to each and every cut, diligently disinfecting and dressing the disrupted flesh, allowing you to weakly tug at his hair (now pulled back from his face into two twin pigtails) when it burns.
Upon the final swipe of antibacterial ointment, you are halfway in dreamland, barely cognizant enough to recognize that you should probably be getting the hell out of here, at this point. However, shunning reason and common sense is the exact behavior that’s gotten you this far – so you decide to stick to what you know.
“Choso-nii,” you murmur groggily into the leather seat. “Blanket?”
“What blanket?”
His confusion is confusing you. “The one you gave me… ‘s cold…”
“…I did not give you a blanket.” For the first time since he’d picked you up behind the venue, Choso’s voice sounds grounded in reality. Released from the shackles of lust and taboo desire, he speaks with lucid candor. “Was that blanket not yours?”
“Nope,” you hum, blissfully dazed. “Where ‘s ‘t?”
Sleep descends upon your worn, battered form before you hear his answer.
Oh well. As long as Choso-nii is nearby, you have nothing to worry about.
[ROUTE CLEAR.]
next suggested route: okkotsu yuuta
> main menu > prologue > guide
> report an issue
#choso x y/n#choso x reader#choso#choso jjk#choso fic#choso smut#jjk fic#jjk smut#tw blood#tw self injury#tw selfharm#tw knifeplay#final girl banjjakz#final girl ao3#final girl jjk#final girl choso route#my writing
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notes: major character death; gojo satoru is not a good person (we know this); direct continuation of geto suguru's route; if you have not completed the good end may you rest in pieces.
➡ Sneak out of the fire escape.
The thought of trying to navigate your way even further through the deep, dark bowels of this strange place fills you with a fearful repulsion – and not the good kind. While you got off quite lucky with such a faithful encounter with Geto, you shouldn’t get cocky. After all, the security guard from earlier could still be lurking around…imagine if he caught you in such a state of obvious erotic disarray: hair mussed, knees scraped and bruised, face flushed, lipstick smudged…you can’t imagine that would go over well.
Steeling your nerves to do something truly unhinged, you begin to search for the fire escape.
At least you aren’t jumping out of the window, or something insane like that – albeit, sneaking out of the fire escape is a little out there, even for you.
But you no longer inhabit the normal and upright world. It is almost as though you are now floating through reality, your soul wandering through life in an ambiguously disparate state, hopping from absurd situation to absurd situation, motivated by little more than the capricious nature of your arbitrary whims.
It's not like you have much left to lose, after all. The most important thing to you – perhaps the only important thing to you – in your life is ShinShow. And you’ve just achieved the highest goal of any dedicated fan: ultimate recognition.
The eventful evening’s erotic high and the delusional adrenaline coursing through your veins gives you the courage not only to locate the fire escape, but also to slip through the dingy, rusting door and shimmy down the rickety, narrow steps. Even by Japanese standards, the contraption is quite small. Several times, you almost lose your footing and go tumbling down over the railing. Instead of instilling you with healthy fear, the near-accidents only serve to propel you forward with renewed vigor each time you brush closer and closer to impending mortal injury.
As soon as your chunky platforms hit the worn concrete, now back on solid, stable ground, you find it difficult not to deflate a little bit. What a night! What an experience! And you have Geto Suguru’s personal LINE ID to show for all of it…how are you supposed to return to your ordinary, mundane life after such an experience?
The thought depresses you. Work, school, family, friends…it all pales in comparison to the evening you and Geto shared together. Oh, if only every night could be that way!
But that would be selfish of you. Geto is a leader, after all; an inspiration to many, and an idol to all. To usurp him for your personal pleasure and only yours alone would be doing a disservice to his life’s work. You recognize that you must share Geto-sama, as much as it might pain you to do so.
“I don’t wanna share him,” you mumble to yourself, aimlessly launching the decrepit corpse of a crumpled beer can across the alley with a limp, half-hearted kick. “Geto-sama should be all mine…”
In the desolate boughs of this seedy in-between limbo sandwiched between towering buildings of various questionable services and wares, your pathetic utterances should be private, unheard by only your own self-pitying ears.
Operative word: should.
“Haha. That’s a funny joke!”
Your heart drops faster than you can turn around. By the time your body processes the shock at not being alone (seriously, when the hell did someone else get here? You’ve been loitering for several minutes, at this point!) the owner of the unfamiliar voice is already entirely too close for comfort. One moment, the snarky quip bounced off of the aged reinforcements of a residential building several paces away – but now, as you pivot on your heel to confront the stranger, your nose is but a hair’s breadth away from painfully colliding with a wide, solid chest clad in nondescript black cloth.
When you finally glimpse his face, the first thing that comes to your mind is that he’s definitely a douchebag. If the bleached platinum faded undercut weren’t bad enough, this asshole is wearing sunglasses at night. His over-six-foot stature is worn with a sort of self-reverential pride; he carries himself like he knows he’s probably the hottest guy in any room at any given point in time.
How annoying.
This is why, outside of ShinShow, you don’t really care to interact with the male species. They’re all cocky, self-assured, greedy, immature, uncaring, inconsiderate morons! Nothing like your hard-working and self-made idols…ugh.
Just being around this dude makes your skin crawl. Not in the sexy way.
“Excuse me,” you mutter, cutting him a sharp glare with wide, whaling eyes as if to actually convey the more sincere message you hold for him within your heart: get the fuck lost, creep.
But when you go to rush past him, his body moves – again with that mind-numbing, preternatural speed – and you run straight into his annoying firm and solid abs.
Oh God, is this it? Is this really how you are meant to depart from this world? You would’ve preferred to be sent to hell by Geto’s hand over anyone else’s…
Despondent and kind of over it, you direct a firm stare upwards at this asshole’s infuriatingly unbothered smirk. “What’s your problem?”
“You,” says the stranger, simply, distracting you with his blindly white smile so that it is far, far too late by the time you realize that both your wrists are now incapacitated by one of his large, strong hands. “Don’t struggle. It won’t make a difference. Or do! It would actually be kinda funny to watch.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” You demand, instinctively jerking away and finding his grip to be even more iron-solid that it had initially seemed – if that was even possible. “Let me go!!”
When you go to kick him, you find that your perception of reality shatters apart like glass skittering across kitchen tile in a million, tiny, irreparably disparate fractured pieces.
Your foot cannot connect with his body.
The more force you put behind your futile defense against your assailant, the more frustrated and exhausted you become. How can this even be possible? It’s like there’s an invisible paper-thin shield dividing you and him – and yet, despite the thinness of the protective layer, the intimate proximity of your limb and his infuriatingly chiseled torso, there is an endless ocean of space that separates you. No matter how hard you try, you cannot touch him.
You cannot win.
How this is even possible, you haven’t the faintest idea. Some sort of illusion? An advanced kind of electromagnetic technology?
Horror dawns upon you like a red sun on the horizon: there’s no way you can escape this.
The stranger is a seasoned and well-trained predator, that much is for sure. He senses the fight leaking out of your body as a shark might follow the intoxicating scent of blood in the water. He pursues your misery with a keen appetite, one that threatens to devour you whole.
“You’re almost cute,” breaths the strange white-haired man, crowding you up against the brick wall with little more than the oppressive force of his presence. “I can see why he thought you’d be easy.”
A stab of familiarity pierces clear and true through your thundering innards. Surely, he couldn’t be talking about… “Do you know Geto-sama?”
The bastard has the audacity to laugh in your face. His breath is annoyingly minty fresh.
“Oh, wow. You actually call him that? I thought it was just an inside joke between him and the fans, or something. Hah! That’s really good. That’s just too good…” He, honest-to-God, wipes a tear from his eye, underneath his sunglasses.
Even the precarity of your dangerous situation is not enough to cow the bullish indignancy that flushes through you, hot and temperamental, at the suggestion of a perceived slight against your (new?) oshi.
“Hey,” you grunt, chin checking up towards the sky, “you shouldn’t talk that way about Geto-sama. He’s really hard working, and such a good leader…the best there ever was or could be.”
“The best,” mulls the stranger, one large hand descending to stroke his jaw. You can’t tell if the gesture is more a mockery than it is a genuine display of sincere pensive contemplation.
“Tell you what. I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
And then he leans down, easy and natural as breathing, as blinking, lips coming to ghost along the crest of your quivering, hypersensitive ears:
“I already know that.”
With viper-like speed, his fist shoots up to close around your throat. “You don’t think I know that?” You’d sputter out a response if you could breathe. Or think. “Sweetheart, I’ve been here before that statement could even be said to be true. You could say we’re high school sweethearts. My one and only, he is.”
Oh, fuck.
Oh, God, oh, fuck.
Did you just mess with an OG fan?
Crap, this is bad. This is really, really bad. Never did you think you’d fall victim to the string of violent, sometimes deadly assaults that ravaged the streets of Kabukichou. But pissing off a dedicated wota by getting caught fucking around with their ultimate oshi is one of the fastest ways to find out!
S-sorry, you try to mouth as your weak, floundering hands doing nothing to persuade his grip into loosening, even just the tiniest bit. Didn’t know!!
“Don’t care~,” sing-songs the stranger, strangely cheerful given the circumstances. He’s not normal. It hits you quite belatedly. Even for a superfan, he isn’t normal. “No one told you to go around playing with other people’s toys~”
You don’t stand a chance. This is the end.
His next retort slips out as a simpering purr: “Good girl. You’ve accepted your fate.”
Can he read your mind, or something? This is seriously a scene out of some horror movie…
“For that, I’ll spare you. Quick and painless death it is! Simply deleted from existence. All your icky atoms and particles will end up somewhere in Timbuktu, probably. Hopefully. How does that sound? For a masochist like you, that’s almost a worse fate, I suppose.”
Huh?
“Huh?”
“Bye-bye~”
The last glimpse your poor, foolish mortal eyes catch of this cruel world are the slight peek of his startlingly blue over the rim of those opaque, black sunglasses. As you lose consciousness, in the split second before your existence is entirely wiped out from this chapter of reality, your vision blurs, doubling, then tripling, his bright, cerulean eyes appearing to you not as two, but six. They are everywhere, all-seeing, surrounding you, bearing down as the heavens might itself upon the woeful frame of a mortal slated for smiting. Soon enough, the six double, then triple, then multiply so fast that all you can see are rows and rows and rows of wide, unblinking, omniscient eyes. Staring. Judging. Tracking.
Why does it feel familiar, this sight?
[MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.]
ENDING ACHIEVED: GETO SUGURU BAD END 2
SECRET ROUTE UNLOCKED: RYOMEN SUKUNA.
> PROCEED TO ROUTE [coming soon!]
#satoru x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x y/n#gojo x reader#gojo x you#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#jjk x you#final girl jjk#final girl banjjakz
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final girl: jjk visualkei idol!au x stan!f!reader
player's guide
recommended route order:
choso -> yuuta -> suguru -> toji -> sukuna
SYSTEM WARNING: you may need to play through multiple endings to progress to the next route. if, at the end of a route, you are not prompted to progress, please restart your game and make a different selection.
please utilize the route selection function for re-plays only. jumping ahead will result in confusion and possible death.
> main menu > game library > home
> route selection
> help request form
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route warnings: major character death, depictions of guns, knifeplay, bloodplay, unsanitary heavy petting, implied sexual intercourse, unethical power imbalance, morally questionable!reader
➡ Loiter behind the venue.
The insect hive of fellow wotas mill about the venue’s front entrance. Many will linger for hours after a performance, arms stiff from shouldering the weight of raised phones and professional cameras, hoping against hope that a tour bus or slew of vehicles will drive past with tinted windows cracked just low enough for familiarly calloused hands to wave an exhausted, but nonetheless grateful, farewell.
This is an idiotic choice, obviously.
Shinjuku Showdown don’t use a tour bus, or any kind of distinctly idol-like mode of transportation. How they manage to evacuate entirely undetected after a concert has been a longstanding mystery within the fan community for years. Actual veteran stans know this.
Usually, it fills you with a bitter sort of protective rage when you are forced to constantly confront the ugly truth that most of ShinShow’s current fans are total noobs. But when a rare, coveted opportunity presents itself only to those who recognize it for what it is, you are grateful that the masses are too blinded by the potential of photo-ops and viral LQ fansite images to notice the immense blessing right underneath their upturned noses.
It is all too easy to slip into the shadows -- melding with the darkness feels like coming home. You navigate the venue’s stiflingly confined corridors, dodging bare wires and exposed pipes, ignoring the odd skitter or scurry of creatures unidentifiable, until you navigate your way to the back entrance.
Outside air is a welcome reprieve from the humid, charged atmosphere of the venue. You hadn’t even noticed the faint sheen of perspiration faintly coating your flesh until it catches the chill of the windy night. Shivering, you hug your torso, stumbling along the pavement until you spy a particularly shaded alcove merely a few paces away.
Sure, the brick wall is slightly slimy with substances you don’t even want to begin to identify. But it isn’t unbearable. If you contort your body into a compact sphere and huff into your knees and fold your palms inside the intimate slip of skin between the backs of your quivering thighs and the trembling muscles of your shivering calves, it’s almost, like, fine.
Whatever. To catch a glimpse of ShinShow before they leave – unobstructed by dumb slogans and ugly uchiwas – is worth more than any potential illness. You can and will persevere.
It isn’t an option to let this opportunity slip through your fingers. Just think what it would be like, to be the first fan to see them leave a venue! Your testimony would obviously go viral within the niche online fanspace…. but you don’t even want to share the revelation with anyone else. It’ll just be for you. All for you. You don’t think you could handle it if anyone else saw the members in that raw, vulnerable state… especially not your favorite.
Flushing, you hide your face in your knees. Your entire body is wracked with chills that are completely unrelated to the frigid temperature.
You are a fan of the entire group’s success. That’s a given. You’ve loved them all as individual idols and members of disparate groups until they eventually came together to form ShinShow. This is a fact of which you are proud.
That said, you’re only human…and it would be impossible, as a wota, not to have an oshi.
The drummer, Choso, has caught your eye from time immemorial. As a majority of the band, his image has stayed consistent regardless of what company or group he’s been apart of. Forever branded into the supple tissue of your brain is the first professional photoshoot of his to go viral within the idol community: Choso, hair down, clad in haphazardly disheveled robes, and drenched in blood. It was like one of those sexy wet T-shirt ads but instead of tacky, it was erotically morose. Several domestic news outlets reported on it and had to censor the photographs while live on-air. His ensuing EP was banned from play in most educational facilities. You spent countless nights with those photos, your vibrator, and some very… specific… scripted ASMR videos.
To make matters worse, his concept is totally your type. Choso is the big-brother figure of all his bandmates and fans. As such, every fanbase he’s ever claimed addresses him affectionately as “Choso-nii.”
I-it’s not like you like things like that! Rather, the thought of a stronger, capable, dedicated older figure who would lay down his life to protect you… even if it meant screwing the rest of the world…
Ugh, the fantasy has featured in too many of your wet dreams to name. Speaking of dreams, you sure are getting sleepy…standing for hours in line and then for several more hours during a live show is no easy feat. Huddled against the brick wall, cocooned in your own warmth, slumber beckons to you with a seductive allure.
What will you do?
➡ Stay awake.
➡ Fall asleep.
#choso x reader#choso x y/n#choso fic#choso smut#choso x reader smut#choso x y/n smut#jjk fic#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#final girl banjjakz#final girl jjk#final girl choso route
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route warnings: (dubious-ish?) non-con; forced fellatio; manipulation; power imbalances; misogyny. please proceed with caution this one is kinda rough
➡ Turn back.
Shame cows your ambition, curtailing your hand’s daring arc towards the doorknob. Your arm retreats back into your body, burned by a phantom pain.
How could you be so audacious? It should be enough to simply admire Yuuta from afar… Just imagining how scared and confused he might be to see a fan in his personal quarters is enough of a gruesome mental image to shock you out of your starry-eyed stupor.
Shaking your head in disbelief, you hurry to put some distance between yourself and your tantalizing desire. Now that you are once more aligned with your cognitive reasoning and critical thinking, the darkness of the backstage corridor is kinda…spooky. Despite the deafening roar of the frenzied crowd just a few moments prior, the venue is now almost entirely empty. The only soundtrack accompanying your foolish venture is the ominous dripdripdrip-ing of the faulty, leaky water pipes hidden behind the sodden ceiling and peeling drywall.
Suddenly, this feels very much so like a place in which you do not belong. Turning on your heel, you make a mad dash to evacuate the premises from the way you originally came – only to run straight into something tough, solid, and warm.
Evidently, it is not a wall – otherwise, your nose would’ve probably been shattered on impact, considering how hard you bowled straight into the surface. But what else could be this immovable, this well-fortified and impassible? The only things that come to mind are brick and bone, which—
Oh.
Tremulously, you caution a glance upward, shivering in your grimy concert shoes at the thought of having to confront the absolute beast of a security guard who’d been eyeing you all night…
Instead, when your eyes finally grace the features of your obstacle, it is not at all the formidable security guard of your nightmares. In fact, the reality is much worse.
Looking down at you is Geto Suguru, ShinShow’s lead singer, in all of his six-footed, long, luscious haired, tattooed, gauged lobed, pierced-faced glory.
When you fail to produce any words, he smirks at you, seemingly relishing in the uncomfortable silence. With dawning horror, you realize that he intends to wait you out. His imposing stature is so broad and the dim hallway is so cramped that you would not be able to pass unless he let you. And, judging by his sardonically amused impassivity, he has no intention of doing anything of that sort.
Your gulp is audible in the dead quiet. Frozen, you linger in paralysis, an animal of prey caught in still waters.
“Well, you look lost,” says Geto Suguru, deceptively calm.
His face is the pinnacle of classic beauty: an unblemished, sanguine ivory mask. The deceptively easygoing set to his superhuman features sets the lids of his eyes low, cutting across the horizon of his irises in one neat, lethal swoop.
Any ShinShow fan with half of a functioning brain knows not to be fooled by this theatrical performance. It is this same, seemingly lackadaisical Geto Suguru who unleashes live performances inspiring pure, unadulterated horror and dread amongst an eager, addicted audience. His antics as the band’s front man have included, but are certainly not limited to: lovingly instructing his fans to refer to him as “Geto-sama”; regurgitating fake (?) blood on stage; displaying a seriously terrifying proficiency in martial arts as a form of choreography; and, of course, passionately and enthusiastically belting out self-composed lyrics lamenting the state of the world, the salvation to be found in existential dread, and the anarchist desire to destroy life as it currently manifests.
So, you know. Light work.
Point being: this is a man who you do not want to fuck around with. Even as a dedicated superfan, there are some risks best left unchallenged. You don’t even want to think about what he would say (or do…?) if he found out that you’d been sneaking around and preparing to break and enter into one of his bandmate’s dressing room…
“I am,” you lie, bowing your head in an attempt to shield your quivering bottom lip and your wet, shifty eyes. For some reason, you feel like he’ll see right through you if you let him. “Could you please direct me to the exit? I am very sorry to trouble you.”
Geto’s hearty laugh startles you into looking up at him. “Sure you don’t want a polaroid pic before you go?”
There are sparkles and glitter and sunshine and rainbows melting out of your head, leaking out of your ear canals, dripping down your neck and shoulders and onto the dirty concrete like liquified brain matter. “If—if you insist.”
This is how you find yourself posing against a disgusting brick wall with the one and only Geto Suguru. You would squee, if the thought of fangirling in front of Geto Suguru didn’t make you want to violently extinguish your own existence.
The only thing worse than fangirling embarrassingly hard in front of Geto would be the insinuation that he is your oshi and you are one of his “followers,” as he has lovingly (?) dubbed his personal fanbase. To bear the brunt of his condescending, considerably sadistic attitude which he wields against fans like a whip of love…
It would be indecent(ly erotic)! It would be humiliating(ly pleasurable)! You would not survive (with your dignity intact)!
Out of the kindness of his cold, dead heart, he takes multiple shots with you. The first picture sees the both of you shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling serenely at the camera – a standard shot for oshi and fan. The second picture is his signature M.O. for fanservice photos: your faces are deadpanned in joint, mildly disgusted unison, staring down the viewer with thinly veiled contempt. It’s a popular, ironic style for niche idols like ShinShow to poke fun at both themselves as well as the concept of idol fanservice in general. Secretly, you derive a different meaning entirely from the farcical display of scorn. It is as though you gaze at the viewer as a voyeur. Why are you here? Why are you looking at him? Why are you looking at us? Go away. You aren’t worthy.
The white-hot flash of a successfully snapped shot sears across your vision like the wink of a shooting star, immeasurably awesome, woefully transient. As you mourn this interaction’s inevitable end, Geto surprises you by asking if you’d like some digital photos as well.
Charmed, you find yourself unable to do anything but agree, albeit not too enthusiastically. Appearances are important, here.
After quickly unlocking the device, he smoothly slips your smartphone from your shaky, clammy grasp, raising it up to a fashionably high selfie angle. Inside the four-by-four digital reflection, you are confronted with a reality you have never dared hope to imagine:
Geto Suguru, long black hair loose and in disarray from a recent stage performance, makeup running down the chiseled planes of his face in pigmented rivulets, black-painted nails splayed in a facetious peace sign right underneath your chin.
Crap, his hand is really warm! You can’t help but to lean into the plush crevice of skin between his pointer and thumb…is it weird, that you’re kind of obsessed with how soft it is? For a seasoned musician with quite the gnarly disposition, his hands – much like the rest of him – are deceptively soft.
Is it really alright, to be this close to him? As he snaps the third and final photo, you lose yourself in the intoxicating sensation of skin-to-skin contact. Delusional from the proximity, your consciousness has been untethered from your body, entirely outside of the reach of normal human sensibilities. You are only slammed back into your own mind when a sudden, swift constriction of pressure on your lower jaw demands your attention.
Shocked, you try to turn your head to look up at your idol. Subsequently, you are horrified to realize that it is his hand who restricts your movement.
In the mirrored image displayed by your phone camera, your trembling pupils track the slow spread of Geto’s lips which peel back from his teeth like unfurling layers of some fruit repulsively past the point of ripeness. Suddenly, his beautiful, white face of traditional peerless beauty now appears to you as an eerie mask concealing an unimaginably horrific reality.
“Did you know that I can smell your fear?” says Geto conversationally, still facing the camera, still smiling.
His mirrored image belies a reflection perhaps even more terrifying than an overtly antagonistic expression of anger or wrath. Instead of obvious malice, Geto’s undisturbed sanguineness installs within you a new and revolutionary kind of desperate terror.
“E-excuse me?” You ask, voice a tremulous, pitiful thing. “I don’t think I understand, Geto-san—”
Fast as lightning, and just as electrifyingly immobilizing, Geto’s large hand reaches upwards to smother your “You’ll use that mouth to properly address me Geto-sama, or you won’t use it at all. What is a follower’s role but to obey?”
A chill runs down the length of you, infiltrating your nervous system, hijacking your senses, arresting your higher functioning. Geto’s words sink in with fatal clarity: you are not escaping this. This is your fate.
Oddly, this realization excites you.
As though the line about smelling your fear wasn’t merely a maniacal bluff, Geto’s neatly-trimmed brows raise almost at the same time as you come to this conclusion. As a heady sort of anticipation fills your gut, his mask cracks for the first time, toeing the line between disgust and another, unnamable sentiment – one that lends a new kind of scintillating, sadistic twinkle in those small, dark eyes.
“Don’t tell me--” His fingers dig even more deeply into the supple flesh of your burning cheeks. “—that you like this.” Before you can curb it, a damning whimper flies forth from your dry throat, betraying your weakened knees, the weeping arousal between your quaking thighs.
More than being scared, you are egregiously humiliated. Not even a momentary reprive through fluttering your eyes shut is granted to you, for Geto violently shakes your skull in his palm until you are jolted back to staring into the selfie camera.
The frightened, excited tears that spill from the corners of your eyes only serve to further validate his salacious suspicions. “You do. How interesting.”
His gaze strays from your own in the phone camera, wandering to fixate on a point a few centimeters above your head. Is he plotting his next move? Does he know something that you don’t? Is he wholly sane?
Of course he isn’t! You scream at yourself, internally. Any guy who holds a girl hostage backstage is absolutely off his rocker!!
And yet – shamefully – you’re kind of into it.
Will you die tonight? Maybe.
Will you go out with a bang? Hopefully.
“Ghkfdbmmsnnmm,” you plea from behind his fingers. Graciously, he peels back his fingers, one-by -one, partially releasing your voice from his clutches even as he still hostages your face with cautious interest.
This time, when you speak, your voice sounds like a gunshot in the empty stillness of the desolate corridor. In this atmosphere, it feels as though there is not another soul alive besides you and your captor.
“Geto-sama. Please have mercy…”
He must be able to tell it’s an act. You don’t even sound convincing to yourself. The last thing you crave is his mercy.
“My, my. Such a turn this has taken,” he muses, fingers idly tapping away at your back molars. “What shall I do with you?”
Eat me alive, supplies your brain. “Whatever Geto-sama wills, it is my duty to fulfill.”
When you lock eyes in the camera, meeting each other’s gazes through the digital mirage for the last time, Geto shuts off the phone with one quick, decisive movement. You watch the system warning flash across the screen before everything goes dark and quiet. No more camera. No more phone. No more location services. The device drops to the ground with a heart-dropping clatter. You don’t have time to wonder if it survives the fall.
Geto turns to you for the first time in what feels like eons. Without the layer of pixelated filters softening the blow, being subject to his direct line of sight paralyzes you to the core.
“Get on your knees.”
Instantly, you obey. Refusal does not even cross your mind. The grimy floor rushes to greet your knees with a firm thud! The impact reverberates throughout your entire body, setting every single nerve alight with stimulation.
He draws over to you lackadaisically, like a tiger stalking its sure kill. Playing into it, you shuffle backwards, scraping your sensitive knees and shins against the unforgiving platform until your heels hit the wall behind you.
“Your fear is waning. You aren’t scared,” says Geto, undoing his fly. “You should be.”
Without further ado, he pulls out his dick and shoves it inside the wanton cavern of your willing, wanting mouth.
It happens so fast that your eyes can’t quite keep up with his movements, unable to visually register just how large his appendage is until it’s being stuffed down your throat. Bile rises to greet the tip of his dick and he is, apparently, into that. Makes it all the wetter.
For your part, you are struggling to maintain your initial excitement. In your lust-addled, starstruck stupor, you imagined that you and your idol shared a similar appreciation for the taboo mirage of consensually non-consensual liaisons. What you had failed to realize was that you were the only imaginary in this particular fantasy scenario. What used to exist merely as the stuff of wet-dream musings has now crystallized into a concrete reality; a reality wherein there are no safe-words, no underlying currents of care or affection, and no opting out.
You realize the extent of your disadvantaged position when Geto takes a break from brutalizing your esophagus to release you from his clutches and decides that he would rather rub his dick all over your face, instead.
Not only this, but he smacks you with it.
This isn’t even the stuff of brutal pornos. You’re no stranger to the horrors of exploitative snuff film, and even those seem to pale in comparison to the way he holds the back of your skull with one hand as he beats your cheekbones, your nose, your eyelids, your mouth, your chin, your jaw, even your fucking ears with his cock. From the crest of your hairline to the peaks of your clavicles, you are sodden with wet, sticky precum, battered with blooming bruises.
It all happens so fast that you barely have time to blink – definitely no time to indulge in the privilege of breathing. Geto’s movements become frenzied, harried, washing over you dark and fast like the rolling thunder of an impending typhoon.
Caught in the midst of severely troubled waters, ears roaring with adrenaline, blood, and terror, rooted to the spot by forces beyond your body’s will, your mind sparks to life with one last-ditch attempt at a moment of clarity:
What will you do?
> Call for help.
> Take it.
#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru x y/n#geto suguru reader insert#jjk reader insert#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#geto suguru smut#jjk smut#jjk reader insert smut#final girl jjk#final girl banjjakz#my writing#mine
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notes: parasocially relational infidelity; implied stalking/harassment
➡ Go back the way you came.
Well, if you’ve gotten this far with your undoubtedly ridiculous lucky streak, it shouldn’t be so far-fetched an idea that you could just waltz out of the backstage area the exact same way by which you’d initially trespassed.
With Geto’s LINE ID stored squarely away in your phone and a post-coital pep in your limping, bruised, wobbly-kneed step, you proceed to walk down the dark, desolate corridor as though you actually belong here.
It is not long before you’ve made your way past the genesis of all this chaos to begin with: Yuuta’s dressing room.
Wow, you can’t believe what brought you closer to ShinShow was, in the end, ultimately, your connection to and passion for Yuuta… even though Geto was the member who, in the end, was more forward in proving his tangible desire for you, you will always remember Yuuta: your first love.
Lost in reverie, you stop in your tracks, pausing to admire the door…that happens to be ajar…with light leaking through the sizeable gap…seeping out around a conspicuous silhouette…with a familiar stature…and wardrobe…and morose, gaunt, haunted-looking face…
AH!!
Yuuta looms in the doorway like a ghoul materialized out of bereft nothingness. Backlit by the cheap, fluorescent lighting of the dressing room, Tall, broad in the shoulders, disturbingly lithe everywhere else, he appears to you less as a man and more as a specter.
…Creepy.
“Y-Yuu-chan…!!”
His usual droopy expression seems to be even more downcast than usual – and that’s saying a lot. Onstage, he looks like he’s delivering a eulogy. That’s a part of his unique and special charm.
The very same charm that ensnared you in the first place…
Ugh, what’s this gross, syrupy feeling welling within you, webbing across your chest in a terminal infestation of guilt?
What had you been thinking?
Regret holds you close, tight, intimate, like a lover gone rogue. You don’t want to be here anymore. You can’t bear the thought of standing before Yuuta after what you’ve just done – after your unabashed infidelity.
Worse still, why is he looking at you like he knows where you’ve been?
Yuuta’s eyes are heavy with unspoken feeling, which on the one hand feels nice, because he’s even looking your direction at all holy shit, and on the other hand kind of brutal, because you feel like you’re in a lot of trouble.
“…”
Before you can even begin to try and come up with a lie to justify your presence in the restricted backstage area, Yuuta beats you to the punch, breaking the silence with his characteristically somber, soft-spoken timbre:
“You look like you need a hug.”
The words hit you like a slap to the face. More impactful than any rough treatment of Geto’s, you reel back, blinking hard as tears spring to your eyes, unbidden. “Huh? I don’t understand—I’m sorry, I j-just, um, I’m lost—”
Yuuta’s chuckle is almost bittersweet. You have to strain to hear the sweetness in that hollow, forlorn whisper. “You’re so cute, even when you lie.”
“E-eh—”
“Here.”
Pure instinct drives your hands up to catch the foreign object tossed at you with lightning-fast precision. Instead of the hard impact you’d been expecting, what meets your awaiting palms is soft, fuzzy, and almost soothing to the touch.
“A gift.”
Peering down, you discover that Yuuta has thrown you a blanket. It’s pitch black with wide, blue eyes that yearn towards you, sucking in your attention, blocking out all external stimuli, seemingly multiplying in number the longer you stare into their cerulean depths. Are you blinking? Are they?
“You might be interested to know it originally belonged to Geto-senpai,” says Yuuta, voice oddly flat and numb, affectless in a way that feels like a foreign object has been inserted underneath your skin. “He’s slept with it at least several times. I know that much. Eventually, he got bored, and now it’s mine. Senpai used to say it was good for comfort. Something about always feeling watched over. I hope it brings you that same stability.”
Confused, and still quite teary, you cock your head at Yuuta, trembling in your shoes. Why is he doing this? Why?
“As long as you’re happy,” he mumbles, smile almost as watery as your eyes are. “That’s all that matters to me. I’m glad.” Okay, the last part is uttered through gritted teeth – but you can tell he’s really trying to mean it.
“Um…I’m really grateful for Yuu-chan’s care and support—”
“Just ‘Yuuta’ is fine.”
In an odd moment of denial of fanservice, he cuts you off before you can finish your grateful platitudes.
Why does this strangely feel like a break-up?
Nodding, you decide that you have no choice but to accept the consequences of your actions… while you’d come to this ShinShow performance as a dedicated Yuuta oshi, you’d left as a Geto-sama devotee. You suppose it’s only fair that you’ve forfeited any right to call Yuuta by his wota-given name.
“Many thanks to Yuuta-san, then.”
“Take care of yourself…and be well. You never know who could be watching.”
The dressing room door weeps quietly shut behind his skulking form.
Have you made a mistake?
Before you can dwell too deeply, your phone pings with a new LINE message. Hurriedly, you fish the heavily keychained device out of your pocket and swipe on the notification to see a new message from Geto. It reads:
Geto-sama wwww 23:55
someone needs to train you how to perform worship properly.
I guess that particular burden must fall upon me.
Despite the chill in the unheated building, your face erupts with flames and the wet, soppy spot between your thighs is reignited with renewed heat.
This is your choice. You’ve dug your own grave.
And you’ll be buried in it – quite happily.
ENDING ACHIEVED: GETO SUGURU NORMAL END
SECRET ROUTE UNLOCKED: FUSHIGURO TOJI.
> PROCEED TO ROUTE [coming soon!]
#yuuta x reader#okkotsu yuuta x reader#okkotsu yuta x reader#yuta x reader#geto x reader#geto suguru x reader#jjk x reader#final girl jjk#final girl banjjakz
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notes: geto/mc NOT endgame; non-con/sexual assault/rape of MC via geto; non-consensual spiritual pacts (lol)
➡ Call for help.
Geto crams himself inside your mouth, just to hear you moan in distress as he fucks into the thick, syrupy, wet despair at the back of your throat. If it weren’t too much to bear already, he plugs your running nose shut with two black-painted, unforgiving fingers. Until he releases his hold, your body is starved of oxygen, slated to subsist off of nothing more than his throbbing cock, his sloppy precum, and your own acidic bile.
No matter how hard you dig your nails into his dark denim-clad thighs, he refuses to relent, sparing your esophagus of the ongoing onslaught only when he teeters too close to the edge. He’s savoring this, you realize, horrified. He’s getting off on your exploitation, your fear.
This time, when tears spring to your eyes, it isn’t out of pure biological shock – as the shroud of dissociation unfurls itself to reveal your harrowing circumstances, a real and true wail of terror flies forth from your lips along with the icky mess of sex and violence that drips out, too, like black blood oozing from a fatal wound.
Your true oshi, Yuuta, would never do this to you… all you’d wanted was to catch a glimpse of him, to personally thank him for his efforts over the years, to validate his status as a beloved, successful idol. Your intentions had been so pure. How did it end up like this? Why was this happening to you? How could your tireless fan-labor over the past several years be rewarded with assault, careless indulgence, and sadism?
Sure, your relationship with Yuuta might be entirely parasocial in nature. Sure, you’ve never had a face-to-face interaction with him.
But he’s read your letters. He knows your username. He smiles upon your well wishes. Perhaps the fervor of starstruck adrenaline manipulates your common sense and higher reasoning skills, but, when you’re swept up in the neon, fluorescent sea of other dedicated fans with their slogan banners and Cyalume light sticks, it’s almost as though Yuuta’s eyes return to you, over and over and over again, throughout each song, during each break, with every ment section, and always during the final bow – almost as though he is wishing you, specifically, a most heartfelt thanks and good night.
These sentiments swirl within you, solidifying as a solid conviction to do something crazy, something unthinkable, something so far-fetched you must wonder if it will only serve to exacerbate the already dire situation from which you find yourself struggling to escape with your dignity and life intact.
Desperate times, and all that.
“Yuuta!”
Geto’s face falls through the floorboards. Attractive features twisting into ugly fury, he hurries to cover your mouth, to stuff you full once more with his immobilizing arousal, but a burst of hope animates your struggle and you avoid his attempted suppression, whipping your head to the side to shout out one last time: “Yuu-chan!!”
You don’t really know what you expect to happen. After all, who would Yuuta be willing to believe in this compromising position: his bandmate, alongside whom he has performed countless times, and rehearsed for countless hours; or a fan, who has been caught traversing in a restricted area that she was not supposed to be privy to, anyhow?
Soon enough, your questions are answered swiftly and decisively.
One moment, the man above you is making frantic movements to silence and subdue your cries for help; and the next, you suddenly find yourself on the opposite side of the corridor, hoisted over a meter into the air.
From this distance, Geto is no longer the all-powerful, imposing figure who had forced you to your knees and penetrated your mouth with little care for consent or decency. Now, he stands apart from you as a regular man – one with a certain element of trepidation lingering on his frame, if his wary eyes and shifting feet have anything to say.
You’re grateful to be rescued from his clutches once and for all...but how… who…?
No. It couldn’t be.
Almost fearfully, you chance a look upward, so that you might gaze upon the image of your savior.
What peers down at you is a sight you would never in a million years have hoped to encounter outside of your dreams.
Okkotsu Yuuta, bassist of the infamous underground idol group, ShinShow, your oshi of many seasons, and quite possibly the love of your life, holds you firmly in his large, capable hands, looking down at you with an impossibly familiar fondness and ill-concealed relief.
“I’m so glad I found you,” he whispers, just for your ears, “after all this time.”
Huh?
“You did the right thing by calling for me,” continues Yuuta, hoisting you up higher in his grip until you’re perched on his hip while he secures you with nothing more than one arm looped firmly underneath your backside. Your hands fly up to wind around his neck, fingers intertwining where the soft down of his unkept black shag feathers from obsidian softness to the pallid, sickly pale at the nape of his knobby neck. It doesn’t even take that much pressure against the flesh to feel the knobs of his spine. His skeleton cries out for attention, from the way his hip bone interjects in between the ball-and-socket of your pelvis, to the almost painfully secure insistence brought about by his protective (pointy) elbow underneath your plush under-thigh.
“Heheh, sorry, man! Thought she was up for grabs.”
Jesus, you’d almost forgotten Geto was still there, you were so enraptured by Yuuta’s calming oasis of a presence. At the sound of his voice, your head whips over to the offender, and you don’t know whether to feel dismayed or furious at his overly casual countenance. The cruel, sadistic man from mere moments before now stands with one hand jammed into a pocket with the other scratching at the back of his head. His eyes flutter shut, once more, restored back to their characteristic half-lidded state of perpetual serenity. Gone is the hard glint of malice that cut into you like a blade, leeching you of any and all hope or desire to live. It’s as though a switch has been flicked. It’s terrifying.
Uncontrollably, you shiver. From nerves or the stale dregs of your arousal, you cannot precisely discern.
You can’t see Yuuta’s face from this angle, but his voice resembles nothing from Geto’s easygoing tone. “I must have been remiss in my efforts to have given you that impression.”
“I mean, she came onto me. Wasn’t your fault. Happens to the best of us.”
Immediately, you protest Geto’s outlandish claims, shaking your head and tightening your already white-knuckled grip on the back of Yuuta’s oversized jumper.
“Not true,” you try to shout, but it leaves you instead as a hoarse whimper. Oh. “Was—was looking for you, Yuuta, promise. Went to your room…Got scared and lost. Then, he found me…”
“I see,” says Yuuta, speaking again in that low, quiet voice. The effect it has on you is the same as those twelve-hour calming frequency videos you play to fall asleep at night. Like simmering butter, you melt, powerless in the wake of powers far beyond your physical constitution. “Thank you for telling me. Can you close your eyes and cover your ears? You don’t need to see or hear this.”
Unquestioningly, you obey. When has Yuuta ever given you reason to doubt his trust, his loyalty?
With your primary senses of perception effectively dulled, all you are able to register is the slight jostling of your body as Yuuta’s own surges forward; the deep vibrations of his chest as he is presumably speaking with Geto; a couple of sharp movements that threaten your stability in his arms; and then, finally, a change in light and temperature. When Yuuta gently taps your forehead to signal that the worst is over, you hesitantly open your eyes, blinking back tears of light sensitivity and relief.
You find yourself in a room all at once unfamiliar and quite familiar. You’ve never been here, and yet, you immediately know where you are upon first glance. The sparse interior décor, the scattered scraps of black and white clothing, the array of misshapen, self-made erasers across the modest vanity, and next to them – the sight of several unsealed envelopes, all containing letters with your handwriting, laid out in chronological order, from the first piece of correspondence you’d ever chanced in sending to him to the most recent profession of your unwavering support and desire.
“I never travel without them,” he says, jolting you from your reverie. “They come with me to every show, every tour, every schedule, every shoot, every filming.”
What to say to this? What could you possibly offer him, other than the overwhelmingly huge sob that eclipses any form of a coherent response?
There’s too much that has transpired within the past two hours for you to properly and adequately process. You decide, instead, to accept everything at face value. There is no other alternative, not in this moment. You’d rather go back to Geto – you would rather die than question the forces above that have led you into Yuuta’s arms.
He accepts your tears in stride, extending his body ever-so-slightly to reach for an article that he then drapes over your quaking shoulders, your shivering limbs. When you blink back to the real world, you find that he’s adorned you with a peculiar black blanket – one with a strange, off-putting pattern of wide-open, bright blue eyes. They stare back at you in clinical analysis. You can’t help but to feel observed by the inanimate (?) object.
“Thank you,” says Yuuta, drawing your wandering gaze back to his lovely features now pinched with integrity, with concern, with intention, “for loving me. You don’t know how happy that makes me.”
“There’s no other choice for me,” you rush to answer, fingers coming up to claw at the distressed collar of his worn sweater. “It’s always been you. I couldn’t choose anyone else…that’s why…when he…when…”
Yuuta shushes you, mercifully. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’ve taken care of it. You’re safe now. He won’t ever touch you again.”
His phrasing makes your eyes widen with trepidation. “What did you…?” You can’t even finish the thought.
“Nothing that he didn’t deserve. He knew the consequences of touching something that didn’t belong to him – all the rest of them should know as much, for that matter.”
“The rest…?”
To wrap your head around what he implies is a somewhat heretical notion to your poor brain, which is predisposed to perennial self-deprecation. There’s no way…
“You’re a very special human—fan.” Yuuta quickly corrects himself, but the utterance has already left his lips. “You are one of a kind and quite coveted. I’m very lucky to have won you over when I did. I will always treasure you. I will always want to keep you safe. Will you let me?”
“How could I not?” You demure, entirely entranced by his fanficul words. It’s like one of your favorite reader-insert narratives has materialized into your lived reality and wholly absorbed you in the fabric of its far-fetched, fictional fantasy.
Excited by your easy willingness, he draws your faces closer together, such that you are able to ascertain the unique quality of his mysterious, inviting dark eyes. They are not black, as you’d previously thought, but rather, an indescribable color that commands your attention, sucks in your assessment, compels you not to look away, never look away, until you’re able to figure out just what, indeed, lies within those irises; you fear the true answer may never come to you. You find that you are content to gaze into his murky depths anyways.
“Do you promise? Would you make a Vow with me?”
The way he says it sounds like something much more significant than a mere promise to let him guard you – and yet, perhaps this agreement is that significant to him. Immeasurable charmed by the prospect, you are the one who now draws closer, bumping noses with your oshi, your savior, the love of your life, as you impress upon his chapped lips an affirmation of your all-consuming dedication:
“I Vow to be bound to you,” you whisper, the words finding you as naturally as rainfall navigates to the earth’s waiting, fertile soil. “There is nothing I want more in this world… I’m so happy…” A passionate kiss seals the promise, one that tastes like sweat and salt and tears.
You do not yet realize what this Vow entails. You are not yet aware of the permanent proximity to Okkotsu Yuuta that you will be subjected to from this point forward. You have no way of knowing that you have just forfeited all autonomy or claim to live as a regular mortal for the rest of your days.
In this moment, all that comes to mind is the euphoric happiness of being wholly accepted and embraced by Yuuta. Matters such as your personal safety and security are now governed by a being outside of yourself – one who has proven himself worthy of such trust and confidence. You don’t need to worry about anything else.
Does anything else really matter, in the end?
[MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.]
> try again
#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru x y/n#geto suguru reader insert#jjk reader insert#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#geto suguru smut#jjk smut#jjk x reader smut#jjk x reader insert smut#geto suguru x reader smut#my writing#mine#final girl banjjakz#final girl jjk
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➡ Stay awake.
Fighting the urge to shut your eyes is nigh impossible. Despite your inextinguishable passion for a chance encounter with your oshi, you are unfortunately unable to re-code your own biology. You descend into sleep’s merciful embrace, too far gone to even realize you’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion until you are rudely awoken by a forceful, involuntary bodily jolt.
Bolting upright, you awaken in a cold sweat, the back of your head cracking against the brick wall that you had been so peacefully slumbering on mere moments before.
The immediate fear of robbery or assault grips you by your dry, parched throat, rendering any potential scream stillborn on the trembling tip of your tongue. But when your eyes fall upon the aggressor, the white-hot burn of shame replaces any terror.
Shaggy, greasy black hair in desperate need of a shower; wide shoulders, impossibly plush-looking pecs; a tight, black t-shirt with loose cargo pants, both of which have seen better days; and a vertical scar accenting the right side of that smarmy mouth…
The security guard from earlier found you!
Oh no, this is bad. If you get caught loitering after a performance, you could be blacklisted from future shows at this location! And the band could even receive your picture…or name…
No, you absolutely cannot be connected to this failed attempt at a stakeout. To think that Choso-nii might see you as nothing more than an obsessive, crazed fan…
With nothing else to lose, you promptly fold forward into a deep, kneeling bow, forehead slamming against the concrete before you can think too much about what you’re doing.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Security Guard! I was wrong!! Please don’t tell ShinShow!! I will leave immediately!!!”
Silence.
And then…
“They’re long gone, baby girl. And here I was, thinkin’ you were waitin’ around for little ol’ me.”
A small huff of air, like the exhalation of smoke after a rough drag. You chance a peek upwards and – yep – the grizzly bastard is definitely laughing at you.
Well. As close to “laughing” as his gnarly face can get. His features – probably once very princely handsome – are mangled with scares and a nose that definitely healed crooked more than just once. You know it’s Kabukichou, but is this the kind of security that works around here…?
You can’t even identify a nametag anywhere on his person. He’s not even wearing a uniform!
“Wait a second,” you protest, rising to sit upright once more, eyes squinting in suspicion. “Do you even work here? I don’t see a nametag. Or a uniform.”
The amusement drops from his face like a fresh kill hitting the floor. “Damn. ‘S a shame. You were kinda cute while you lasted.”
Before you can even ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, the security guard reaches into the back of his pants (hello???) and whips out a handgun. He handles it with easy confidence and nimble, deft digits: the damning mark of familiarity.
Holy shit! “Holy shit,” you exclaim, scrambling backwards, dismayed to realize that there is nowhere else to go but the unforgiving, immovably solid brick wall behind you. “Where did you even get that? We’re in freaking Japan!”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, sweetheart. Jus’ go back to sleep.”
The last thing you see before your world fades to black are his cold eyes and dastardly smirk, framing the fuzzy space around the raised barrel of his gun.
Oh well. At least he’s hot.
[MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.]
> try again > main menu
#choso x y/n#choso x reader#jjk fic#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk imagines#toji x reader#toji x y/n#final girl banjjakz#final girl jjk#choso route
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➡ Enter.
You can’t believe your luck! It’s almost as though your meeting with Yuuta is predestined, written in the same part of the universe where soulmates’ bonds are begotten.
Light, airy untouchability graces your eager footsteps as you cross the threshold and gingerly crack the door behind you, taking care to leave it just as you’d discovered it. Inside, the modest space is dimly lit by a dingy lamp resting on the floor, in a far corner. For as skeevy of a venue as this building is, Yuuta has kept his quarters remarkably – even charmingly –tidy. A spare change of clothes is neatly folded in an unassuming stack on top of the scratched, scuffed vanity. The wood is worn, with many a year of unquiet treatment displayed plain as day on its ragged surface. The mirror, cloudy and warped, shows you a winking mirage of your own image, staring back at you with twisted mirth, as though your alternate ego has materialized to extend a rather sadistic congratulations.
Before you can get too enthralled with your own reflection, a muted commotion behind you grabs your attention. In queasy shock, you pivot fast as quicksilver, whirling to confront the sudden intruder. However, no amount of anticipation could possibly prepare you for the awaiting sight:
Long, slim legs clad in baggy leather skinnies, tapering up into an oversized white jumper, distressed at the edges and literally falling apart at the seams -- the hem of which bares entirely too much collarbone for anyone’s safety. The bones jut out from thin, pallid flesh like poorly concealed blades. If all this weren’t enough to kick your heart into overdrive, your gaze is helpless but to follow the natural line of ascension and take in the somber, downturned twist of those pouty lips, chapped and cracked from perpetual assault; the raised bridge of his handsome nose, graced with the finest dusting of freckles upon closer review; and those eyes – endlessly expansive and morosely misty, like a cemetery. Are they blue? Or, are they grey? Maybe black, perhaps? Much like a tombstone, it’s hard to tell just what color it is, after all the rot and decay and years of compounded mourning.
Many normal individuals might be disturbed at the sight of this man, who ambles into the space like a walking corpse. But you, however, have never been normal. Instead of fear, or trepidation, a sick sort of glee commandeers your pulse, hammering it hard against your twitching limbs, your rushing blood stream.
“Yuuta,” you breathe, voice reaching your ears from some distant, far away place. “Yuuta-san…”
Objectively, from his perspective, this situation must be quite odd. Although you are well assured that would recognize your online username and distinct handwriting, Yuuta has never seen your face before. You are quite cautious with how much personally identifying information you allow to slip into your digital footprint. As such, you are expecting emotions such as alarm, or even anger, to mar his beautiful features into a contortion of rage; instead, Yuuta simply tilts his head to the side, gentle and inquisitive, his dangling jewelry announcing the movement with whimsical, jangling notes.
Not unkindly, Yuuta speaks up: “What are you doing here?”
What do you do?
➡ Lie.
➡ Tell the truth.
#okkotsu yuuta x reader#okkotsu yuta x you#okkotsu yuta x reader#okkotsu yuuta fic#okkotsu yuuta smut#jjk reader insert#okkotsu yuuta reader insert#my writing#mine#final girl jjk#final girl banjjakz
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➡ Tell the truth.
Faced with the physical manifestation of your oshi in all his soggy, forlorn morbidity, you are unable to suppress the truth inside of you. The full weight of your arduous passion bursts forth, and you spill your guts, raw and bare, on the island of grimy tile which separates the two of you.
“I—I’ve waited for so long to meet you, Yuuta-san!” Eyes brimming with tears, you draw ever nearer, hands clasped underneath your chin in ill-contained glee. “It’s me – I’m ‘princess-okkotsu’! From the beginning, I’ve always cheered you on. I will always cheer you on! Until I die! Even after I die! Yuuta-san’s happiness is my only purpose in life!”
Before you can embarrass yourself with any further rambling, you fold at the waist, arms glued to your sides, eyes shut tight in some toxic mixture of mortification and arousal at your proximity.
Silence. One beat.
Two beats.
Fearfully, you peak up at him. Shouldn’t he be kicking you out by now? Or expressing gratitude at your undying devotion?
Yuuta stands there, still unmoving, but this time with something close to amusement rippling through his slight frame. His shoulders shake minutely – a detail you wouldn’t be able to identify without years of hyperfixation underneath your belt.
He is not immediately repulsed by your display, which is encouraging! In fact, his beautiful, wilted petals of his bloodless lips are parting at the seam, heralding the arrival of an eagerly-awaited-for reply—
But you will never be able to hear his response.
A large, imposing figure materializes behind Yuuta. Wide shoulders standing taller by at least a head and a half crack, muscles rippling underneath a pornographically tight black T-shirt. And somehow, somewhere, a spark of recognition ignites at the base of your skull. You feel like you’ve seen the dastardly, brutal-looking scar that spears straight through his grimly grinning mouth…
Ah! The security guard!
Oh, fuck.
“Aww. What a touching story. Wanna tell me the rest outside, sweetheart?”
It’s like he moves faster than the words fall from his lips. One moment, he’s behind Yuuta, menacingly cracking his knuckles; and the next, he’s got you locked in his iron-grip, bodily hauling you out of the dressing room. The last view you get of your beloved is the cold shock in his haunting eyes, the unusually (!) pale hue of his distressed face.
It doesn’t even occur to you to fight back… after all, you’ve said what you’ve always wanted to say. Now, Yuuta finally knows your face, your voice, the way your pupils quiver as you profess your eternal love. Even if you die – or worse, are blacklisted for future ShinShow events – imprinted in Yuuta’s brain forevermore is the memory of your passionate confession.
This revelation is enough to console you as you spend your last moments in the dark, back alley behind the venue, at the complete mercy of the unhinged security guard. Expecting to be turned loose with a stiff warning, you are horribly surprised to realize that he has no intention of letting you escape.
A sharp pain blooms in your abdomen—and then your leg, and then your other leg, and then your shoulder. The white-hot agony is so intense it forces you to your knees, a lowly criminal waiting for final execution.
As your consciousness fades into black, the transition into a weightless, bodyless space is cushioned by the memory of Yuuta’s slight amusement at your chaotic antics. I
f you had to do it all over again, you would die a hundred more deaths just to see that ghost of a smile.
[MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.]
➡ try again?
#okkotsu yuuta x reader#okkotsu yuuta x y/n#okkotsu yuuta reader insert#okkotsu yuuta smut#okkotsu yuuta fic#jjk reader insert#jjk smut#my writing#mine#final girl jjk#final girl banjjakz
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final girl: jjk visualkei idol!au x stan!f!reader
route selection
system warning: this menu is available to players who have already completed prerequisite routes. if you attempt to jump ahead, may you rest in peace.
> choso route > yuuta route > geto route
> prologue > game library > guide > home
> help request form
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big huge thanks to aleks @princess-okkotsu for letting me use their url for the yuuta update <3
#obituary#final girl banjjakz#final girl jjk#final girl ao3#like it's just too perfect#couldn't pass up the opportunity#as always i am grateful for u friend#princess-okkotsu
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https://youtu.be/hnVldyHRcjU?feature=shared is this shinshow vibes?
hmm, i raise you this specific madmans espirit live
[i just think geto belongs in corpse paint]
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