#combatants

[makingdonalddrumpfagain]

🐸 🦄 🦕

[famicat-dyke-system]

Am I a freak if so far my top two UFO 50 games are Onion Delivery and Combatants

[misirosekisiro]

Police officer Ken and one ordianry night. (Rewrite)

That night was exceptionally cold. A chilling wind swept from the river through the silent residential area, which felt like a ghost town. The moonlight of the waning moon cast a long, silvery trail on the dark water, but its rays filtered only faintly through the eaves of the densely packed houses lining both sides of the narrow street.

The screeching of bicycle tires against the concrete pavement echoed in the silence, the only lingering sign of life in the neighborhood at three o'clock in the morning. A young policeman named Ken was cycling his usual patrol along a route he'd known for seconds. His muscular body swayed slowly beneath his old, faded navy coat. The fatigue from a long day's work was evident in the sore muscles of his thighs and back, but he forced himself to stay alert, scanning the corners where the streetlights couldn't reach.

The thick jacket he was wearing was starting to feel damp from the sweat that had accumulated throughout the day. His tight-fitting black trousers clung to his thighs, an area prone to sweating, making them feel sticky and chafing against his skin with every movement as he pedaled. A faint, salty scent mixed with the lingering smell of detergent wafted from his collar as he turned his head. Ken took a deep breath; the cold wind momentarily clouded his judgment.

The patrol route gradually led him to the riverbank. The streetlights began to fade, leaving only the moonlight and the reflections on the water for company. He had now reached the spot where he usually looped back to the fort, but then something drew his attention to the stream bank.

A long, dark shadow stretched across the cement pavement of the riverside road. The shadow moved.

Ken stopped his bicycle quietly, the front wheel resting motionless over the small pebbles. A faint creaking sound was heard as he dismounted. His feet placed themselves carefully on the ground, his heart pounding slightly. Not from fear of ghosts – though a thought flashed through his mind – but from a police instinct telling him something was wrong.

The dark figure stood motionless at the edge of the concrete, appearing at first glance like an ordinary person enjoying the late-night view. But no one would be admiring the view at 3 AM in this deserted area. The figure wore a form-fitting black suit from head to toe. The moonlight illuminated the details of the suit, making it appear as if thin leather clung to the body. The wearer's muscular physique was clearly defined, from a broad chest down to a slender waist, and continuing into powerful hips and thighs.

But what was more striking was the head, covered in a black hood with white stripes surrounding the eyes, nose, and mouth, like a mask that completely concealed the face. On its forehead was a strange white symbol. Ken had to squint to see that it resembled an eagle, but arranged in a mysterious and unsettling way.

The patterns on the suit were extraordinary. From a distance, he could see white stripes resembling human ribs extending from the armpits down to the hips, looking chillingly like a skeleton beneath the flexible, black skin. A large metal belt was worn around his waist, engraved with a symbol similar to the mark on his forehead. Each detail was both intricate and terrifying at the same time.

The mysterious man stood bending over, cautiously looking around in all directions. His demeanor wasn't that of someone on vacation, but rather as if he were watching something or waiting for something.

Ken's breathing hitched. His right hand slowly reached up to grasp the radio tucked into his shoulder—the same old device he'd used for years. The plastic was yellowing and scratched from wear and tear. The buttons always creaked when pressed. He gently pressed the call button.

But there was no response except for a quiet hissing sound.

He changed the frequency, pressing the button again, this time a little harder.

The radio was completely silent.

"Damn…" Ken whispered softly through his dry lips. Anxiety was building in his heart. Normally, he would have ignored it, gone back to his post to sleep, and reported the next morning that everything was fine. But something in the man's eyes drew him in, like a magnet drawing the curiosity of a young cop dreaming of a big job.

And then the mysterious man moved.

He stepped down from the riverside road, leaping nimbly onto the steep concrete embankment leading down to the riverbank, as if his body were weightless.

Ken made a decision instantly. He quietly left his bicycle by the side of the road; the wheels still tumbled slightly before coming to a stop. He carefully crawled over the low fence and down to the dam.

The river was shallow in this dry season, exposing wide stretches of sandy banks. A deep-rooted man was walking briskly upstream. Fortunately, the banks were lined with scattered thickets, providing Ken with some cover as he cautiously crawled along. His heart pounded rapidly, its rhythm beating against his ribs. He felt the heat building up in his body. Tiny beads of sweat began to trickle down his spine beneath his navy blue cloak.

After a while, the mysterious man reached a large concrete bridge that crossed the river. Beneath the bridge, darkness enveloped everything. Ken cautiously peered from behind a clump of dry grass, struggling to suppress the shock that threatened to escape his lips.

There wasn't just one man under the bridge.

There were at least six other people dressed identically, standing in a line in the shadows, seemingly waiting for something.

Everyone wore the same identical black, form-fitting suit, a black balaclava with white stripes around the eyes, nose, and mouth. They all had large metal belts, and most importantly… Ken could see the moonlight reflecting off the small metal pieces at each person's waist.

knife

This isn't an ordinary knife, but a short, curved-handle knife, the kind designed for killing.

The man Ken followed made a strange gesture. He raised his right arm at a specific angle before slightly bowing his head, a posture resembling a military salute, but distorted and frightening.

Then he walked over and joined the other people.

Ken took a deep breath. Dreams of a promotion, of being transferred away from this small police station, images of himself in a more dapper detective uniform—all these things flashed through his mind. If he could catch this mysterious criminal gang… this might be the only chance of his life.

He momentarily forgot he was in a dangerous situation, his mind wandering to images of success, until light footsteps approached.

Ken flinched, his gaze shifting from the group of people under the bridge to something moving towards him.

Another man, identical in appearance, was walking out from under the bridge towards him, holding a heavy-looking black rectangular box in his hand.

Ken pressed himself down onto the dry grass, almost becoming one with the ground. His body was pressed against the dew-dampened grass, the coldness seeping through the fabric of his trousers. He tried to hold his breath, his heart pounding so hard he could probably hear it.

The mysterious man walked unhurriedly, but not too fast, the distance shrinking steadily: ten meters… eight meters… six meters…

Then a faint "hissing" sound came from Ken's shoulder.

The radio, which had been completely silent, suddenly emitted sound at the worst possible moment.

Ken hurriedly grabbed it with trembling hands, quickly pressed the mute button, and stared at the mysterious man who had stopped walking completely.

The silence lingered for three seconds, yet it felt like three hours.

The mysterious man slowly turned his head towards the patch of grass where Ken was hiding. Although Ken couldn't see his face beneath the mask, he could feel the gaze fixed on him. He gently placed the black box on the grass, his right hand reached for the knife tucked into his metal belt, and slowly pulled it out.

The moonlight reflected off the blade, creating a brief glint.

He took a step closer.

Ken quickly assessed the situation. He was too exposed to run away, and if the man signaled, he would be chased by everyone under the bridge. He had to act as quietly and quickly as possible.

He shifted into a lunging stance, his lower body tensing, his thigh muscles tightened, ready to spring. He searched for the ideal spot to strike – the abdomen, as this would cut off breathing and minimize noise.

The man took another step closer, closing the distance to less than two meters.

Ken leaped out of hiding with lightning speed, his right fist aimed directly at its intended target, but his foot misjudged, his right leg slipping on the damp grass. The punch's target shifted lower, away from the stomach…

It hit the man right in the crotch.

A faint "thud!" came from beneath the mask. The deep-seated man hunched forward, the knife slipping from his hand and falling silently onto the soft grass. He hunched over, clutching between his legs in pain.

Ken didn't hesitate, seizing the opportunity to land a left punch to the chin beneath the mask. A loud "crack" sound echoed as the impact was forceful; the black mask covering the man's face shattered, the white trim coming loose and clinging to his fist. The man slumped lifeless to the ground. Ken quickly caught him before he hit the floor with a loud thud.

He dragged the unconscious man into the shadows of a large tree, breathing heavily, his hand still clutching the black mask tightly. As his mind calmed slightly, he began to observe the details of the man.

He was a young man in his early twenties, not much different from Ken. He had an ordinary face, pale skin in the moonlight, and white marks around his eyes from the mask pressing against them for a long time.

Ken quickly searched the young man, finding no other weapons besides the knife that had fallen. He picked up the knife and examined it – it was very sharp, with a black rubber handle. Near the metal belt was a small holster. He opened it, revealing a small white plastic card with a red eagle engraved on it, just like the one on his forehead. There was no text on it at all.

"What is this?" Ken whispered to himself.

He looked back under the bridge. The group of people were still standing there, seemingly unaware of what had happened to their friend.

An idea popped into Ken's head.

He looked down at the unconscious young man, then at the black, form-fitting suit still clinging to his body.

The idea grew rapidly. It was a crazy and incredibly risky idea, but if it succeeded…

Ken flipped the young man over onto his stomach. The man appeared slightly thinner than Ken, but the difference wasn't significant. Ken's hand grasped the zipper at the back of the collar. The tight-fitting suit seemed to be a single piece.

He slowly pulled the zipper down, a long, drawn-out "whoosh" sound following the vertical line of his spine.

The suit gradually began to reveal the skin underneath, starting from the pale neck, down to the shoulders and back. The form-fitting suit was very thin, yet highly flexible. It clung to the skin like a second skin. When the zipper reached the waist, Ken had to exert some effort to pull it off his hips.

While I was taking off the clothes, a strange feeling arose.

smell

The first scent he noticed was the damp, musty smell of sweat. This wasn't like normal sweat; it had a strange, alluring aroma mixed with the raw, masculine scent of a young man. A strong, musky masculinity, and other notes mingled within—a scent that made his nose tingle and sent signals deep within his brain.

As the garment was pulled down to his thighs, the scent intensified. A musky masculine odor mixed with the scent of some kind of body lubricant—a unique fragrance that aroused feelings in Ken that he had never realized before.

The clothes finally came off the young man's body, leaving only his tight-fitting black leather underwear, the heat radiating from it palpable.

Ken picked up the still-warm garment. The fabric was thin yet thick, stretchy but felt secure in his hands. It retained the warmth and moisture of its previous owner. Unable to restrain himself, he lifted the garment to cover his nose.

The musky scent of a young man filled my nostrils.

It's a complex scent, beginning with the salty, dried sweat in the creases of clothing, the oily aroma of skin oils, a subtle hint of cleansing products mixed with natural body odor, and a deep, elusive aroma – a masculine musk that signals his essence. This scent slightly dizzyes his mind and evokes a sense of gradual sexual arousal in his lower body.

The tight-fitting police pants began to feel increasingly uncomfortable.

Ken quickly put the clothes down and turned the young man over onto his back. Now he noticed the black leather underwear the young man was wearing. It was a leather bikini style, the thin, highly elastic material clinging perfectly to his hips and groin. Shockingly, there was an oval-shaped opening at the crotch, allowing his penis to protrude.

And even more shocking, the young man's penis remained erect inside the leather case even after he had passed out.

Ken reached out and touched the leather. A warm, rough feeling spread through his fingertips. He felt a sticky, dampness at the tip of the pouch. As he pulled the leather pouch slightly, a new scent wafted out.

The smell of semen

It wasn't a new scent, but one that had been lingering in the fabric for at least a day. A sweet yet pungent aroma, mixed with a masculine odor, created a unique scent that deeply affected Ken's subconscious.

The saliva in his mouth felt thicker.

He slowly pulled the leather underwear off the young man, having to be careful because it was very tight against the skin. The fully erect penis was revealed, appearing of normal size but very firm, even in its unconscious state. But a few seconds after the cool air touched it, it began to slowly retract until it returned to its normal size.

Ken picked up the leather underwear. The inside was still warm and damp from its previous owner's body. He pulled it up to cover his chest again, this time taking a deep breath.

The musky scent of a man, the smell of sweat, the scent of semen lingered in this small piece of cloth. A scent that dizzed his head and ignited an uncontrollable sexual arousal within him.

His other hand went down to his crotch through the fabric of his police pants. He could feel his penis already erect.

With slightly trembling hands, Ken began to take off his police uniform.

He started with a navy blue coat, sticky to the touch from a night of sweat. Next was a white shirt, yellowing with age, the thin cotton clinging to his skin, revealing the contours of his chest and abdomen. When he pulled the shirt off, tiny droplets of sweat still clung to the tips of his chest hairs.

He took off his black police pants. His legs, tired from a long day's work, felt relieved to be free from the tight-fitting fabric. The plain boxer shorts he was wearing now clearly revealed the bulge of his fully erect penis.

Ken picked up the young man's leather underwear, gazing at the oval-shaped opening in the center. He slipped his finger inside, feeling the softness of the leather lining and the snugness of the elastic band surrounding the opening.

He slipped one leg into his underwear, then the other. The leather underwear clung perfectly to his hips, feeling slightly cold at first before gradually warming up from his body.

As he inserted his erect penis into the oval opening, the rubber band fit snugly at the base, providing a gentle squeeze, yet enough to stimulate a small pulsation. The sheath wrapped around the entire shaft, stimulating every sense through its warmth and novel texture.

"Wow…" Ken sighed with delight. He had never experienced anything like this before. His ordinary cotton underwear had never felt so tight and stimulating.

The lubricating fluid from his penis leaked out and mixed with the existing moisture in his underwear, creating an intensified sticky and warm sensation.

He picked up the black, form-fitting suit and began putting it on, starting from the legs. The suit seemed slightly smaller than him, but its high elasticity allowed it to fit snugly, albeit tighter than its original owner's.

As he pulled the suit up to cover his entire body, a strange feeling arose.

The thin fabric clung tightly to every part of his body, from his thighs, hips, waist, chest, and shoulders, creating a feeling of complete envelopment. Every movement felt like resistance from the fabric, yet at the same time, enough freedom of movement was allowed. This form-fitting garment accentuated every part of his body, making his muscles more defined.

He tried running his hand down his body through the thin fabric. The indirect touch from the cloth sent shivers down his spine, sending tingling sensations throughout his body. His penis, encased in leather underwear and pressed against the tight-fitting fabric, became more aroused. He stroked up and down that area through the thin fabric.

"Oh…" Ken almost cried out. An indescribable feeling flooded his body. The lingering scent of the young man's clothes mingled with his own scent, creating a unique and intensely stimulating aroma.

He tried to compose himself, taking a deep breath before putting on the black leather gloves that reached his wrists, followed by the black, mid-calf-high boots. Both pieces fit him perfectly without needing any adjustments.

Finally, he picked up the black mask. It was still warm and damp from the young man's face. He inhaled the scent again before putting it on his face.

The mask fit snugly to my face. The white strip over my eyes slightly limited my vision, but I could still see somewhat. Breathing through the thin fabric felt stuffy, and there was a constant lingering scent of masculine odor mixed with my own.

Ken looked down at the unconscious, naked young man lying on the grass, then at his own police uniform lying beside him.

He gathered all the police uniform items and used the leather belt to tightly bind the young man's hands and feet together. Then, he tore a strip of fabric from the police shirt and stuffed it into the young man's mouth to prevent him from making any noise.

But then he remembered something.

He picked up his own boxer shorts – the ones he'd worn all day, sweaty and damp – and stuffed them into the young man's mouth in place of his shirt. He followed with the police socks he'd worn all his shift; damp and smelling of sweat and feet. He then tightly bound them around the young man's mouth and nose.

The young man would wake up with the body odor and foot odor of the young policeman filling his mouth and nose.

Ken looked down at the bound young man with satisfaction. Even if he were awake, he wouldn't be able to break free easily.

He picked up the young man's knife and tucked it into his metal belt, then walked over to pick up the black metal box the young man had left behind. It was heavier than he expected. The outside was plain, with only a combination numerical lock on the front.

Ken licked his dry lips beneath the mask. The musky scent emanating from the mask alerted him. He turned his back to the bound young man and began walking towards the area under the bridge.

Every step felt different. The tight suit chafed against his skin with every movement. The leather briefs clung to his crotch, constantly stimulating his genitals. The scent emanating from the suit and mask dazed his mind, yet simultaneously aroused him.

As he approached the dark corner beneath the bridge, the two men standing guard turned to look at him. They were dressed identically. Ken felt a shiver down his spine, but continued walking with confidence.

One of the two spoke up, without showing any sign of suspicion.

"Ah, you've arrived. Too late! Hurry up, Lord Sanigator is waiting for something."

The voice sounded slightly unusual, as if it were being filtered through a mask, resulting in a deeper and softer tone than normal.

The two men moved aside to let him pass under the bridge without question.

Ken walked into the darkness beneath the bridge, his heart pounding, but he tried to control his breathing. His eyes scanned his surroundings. In the darkest corner, two other men stood pressed against the concrete wall.

He tried to walk as naturally as possible until he stopped in front of these two men.

A man extended his hand without saying anything.

Ken handed him a metal box, which he took and held.

Then another man held out his hand.

Ken paused for a moment, then something occurred to him. He reached for his metal belt, opened the small pouch he had found earlier, and pulled out a white plastic card with an eagle image on it.

The man took the card and walked to a spot on the concrete wall where a simple card reader was installed. He swiped the card, Ken heard a soft click, and a section of the concrete wall slid up, revealing a dark corridor illuminated with occasional lights.

The man handed the card back to Ken, who took it and put it back in its sleeve, along with receiving the metal box from the other man.

The open concrete corridor was illuminated intermittently by soft white light, but many dark corners remained. The walls were unpainted and undecorated, with only pipes and wires running along their grooves.

The concrete gate slammed shut behind the hill, a heavy sound echoing down the narrow corridor.

Ken walked along the long, straight corridor. There were no forks in the road. The silence was broken only by the sound of his own footsteps echoing in the narrow passageway and the sound of his breathing behind his mask.

Then he ran into another man in the same outfit who was walking from the opposite direction.

The man spoke in an urgent tone.

"Finally! Lord Sanigator is wreaking havoc because the delivery is late. Head straight to command headquarters!"

Ken nodded hastily before quickening his pace, almost running.

Soon he saw a sign that read "Command Room" next to a large metal door. He walked closer, and the door silently opened by itself.

What he saw before him forced him to suppress his shock, preventing himself from showing any outward expression.

The hall was much larger than he had imagined, with numerous computers and monitors installed around the room. People in matching uniforms were working in various locations, but what caught his eye the most was the living thing in the middle of the room.

It's not human.

The figure was half the height of a normal human, with dark green, crocodile-like skin, but the body was that of a two-legged, two-handed human. Its head was a hybrid of crocodile and lizard features, its eyes were bloodshot, and its mouth was filled with sharp teeth. It wore a black, military-like uniform adapted to its bizarre form.

"A demon…" Ken whispered to himself.

The demon was pacing back and forth anxiously. It turned and saw Ken, its bloodshot eyes fixed on him as it pointed its hand directly at him.

"Finally! You're here. Why did you take so long?"

Its voice was hoarse and echoed through the room.

It walked straight towards Ken with incredible speed, violently snatched the metal box from his hand, and then, with overwhelming speed, struck Ken in the face with the back of its hand.

The impact sent Ken tumbling to the ground with a loud thud. Pain spread from his jaw across his face. He felt moisture seeping from his nose – a nosebleed was beginning.

But the demon seemed to have lost interest in him, turning its attention to the metal box in its hand, gazing at it with obvious greed.

Suddenly, all the lights in the room turned red and began flashing, accompanied by a siren blaring throughout the room.

The demons and everyone in the room turned to look at the various monitors that began displaying images from the outside world.

One monitor showed a man in a tight-fitting suit, standing and looking back at the camera, reporting with a worried tone.

"There's an intruder! We've found an intruder, sir."

The scene changes to show two more men carrying the naked, gagged, and bound body between them. The man is looking at the camera with a dazed expression.

"S78, the unit tasked with retrieving the goods, has been attacked. Someone has infiltrated the system disguised as S78."

The silence in the room lingered for a fraction of a second before all eyes turned to Ken.

Ken quickly got up from the floor, but before he could run to the door, it slammed shut with a loud bang. The locking system had activated rapidly.

Two men who were closest to him ran over and grabbed his arms tightly. They forced him into the middle of the room, in front of the demon.

The demon stared at him with blazing red eyes. Another man stepped forward and pulled the mask up over Ken's forehead, revealing his nosebleed face to everyone.

"You're very brave to dare disguise yourself and spy on our secrets, Shocker…" the demon said in a low, threatening voice. "Your only punishment is death!"

The demon raised its arm above its head, clenching its hand into a giant fist, ready to strike. Ken closed his eyes, bracing for his impending death.

But then another sound rang out in the room.

"Stop, Sanigator!"

The sound was coming from all directions, as if the room itself was the source of the sound.

The demon stopped its hand in mid-air, turning to bow in respect to one side of the room. There, a large metal eagle sculpture was mounted on the wall, now emitting a soft red light.

"Yes, Chief," the demon replied respectfully.

"Our operation this time is top secret. It's unbelievable that someone could have tracked us down here. Have our scientists brainwash them, make them reveal everything they know."

"Yes, sir," the demon replied before turning back to Ken. "Take him away. Brainwash him."

The two men guarding Ken chimed in with a simultaneous "Gosh!" before dragging Ken, who was trying to explain that he was just an ordinary cop who didn't know anything, to another exit in the room.

Ken was led out onto another concrete corridor, stretching deep into the darkness. His heart pounded with terror. He struggled, but the hands gripping him were incredibly strong.

They led him to another room. It looked like a science lab, with computers and strange equipment piled high on the desks. There was a pungent, acrid smell of chemicals mixed with the smell of new metal and plastic.

Ken was led to a strangely shaped metal table designed for restraint. He was forced into a kneeling position, his hands locked in front of him, forcing him to use his elbows for support. His legs were spread apart and locked at the ankles, putting him in an extremely exposed and vulnerable posture.

The form-fitting suit he was wearing felt tighter in this position. The thin fabric constricted between his legs, and the leather underwear underneath felt more uncomfortable from the pressure.

A man in a white lab coat walked into the room. He wore a similar mask, but this one was white instead of black. The man who had escorted Ken spoke to him.

"The boss ordered us to brainwash him and extract his secrets, to find out just how much he knows."

The scientist in white nodded in acknowledgment and walked towards Ken. He leaned down, looking at Ken through his white mask. Ken was certain he was smiling beneath the mask.

"It doesn't matter if you're Interpol, the FBI, or the Anti-Shocker group; you'll spill the beans eventually and become loyal servants to us Shocker."

Several men in the room began to surround Ken. He heard several soft laughs simultaneously.

The scientist pulled Ken's black mask down, covering both his eyes and leaving only his mouth wide open in terror.

Then Ken felt a hand placed on his buttocks through his tight suit. Fingers slowly traced the crease of his buttocks in a circular motion, and he felt the pressure gradually increase.

Then there was a tearing sound.

The tight-fitting dress was torn open at the buttocks, creating a gaping hole. A sudden chill from the room's air touched the skin that had once been covered.

The hand pulled down Ken's leather underwear, revealing both of his buttocks.

One finger began to push into his anus. The pressure caused him pain and he cried out.

[uploadedimage:23565056][uploadedimage:23565057]

"No… I've told you everything! I'm just an ordinary cop!" Ken pleaded.

But the finger continued to push in, until it was halfway in. The strange and painful sensation made him tense up.

The finger was withdrawn for a moment, and Ken breathed a sigh of relief.

But then a cold liquid was applied to his anus, so cold that he flinched.

And when that finger went back in, this time it was smoother and easier. But it didn't stop at one finger; a second one followed. The opening widened, causing tension and pain.

His fingers moved slowly inside, searching for a spot that would make him flinch.

Then the fingers were withdrawn.

But instead of feeling relieved, Ken felt something much larger than a finger being pushed into the opening.

"No… don't!" he cried.

But it was too late.

The large, hard shaft thrust into him mercilessly. Even with lubricant, its size was too much for his anus, which had never received anything like it before.

The intense pain made him cry out. His voice echoed in the room, but no one seemed to notice.

The shaft moved in and out slowly at first, before quickening its pace. The pain began to mix with a strange sensation. A point inside was stimulated, causing a tingling feeling to spread to his lower abdomen.

And his younger brother, encased in leather underwear, began to respond. It hardened more and more under the pressure of the tight suit and leather underwear. The tingling sensation of internal stimulation mixed with pain created a tumultuous mix of emotions in his mind.

The lubricant from his penis leaked out, seeping through his tight-fitting clothes and leather underwear, leaving small damp spots visible.

While he was pondering these confusing feelings, another hand grabbed his mouth, squeezing his jaw open.

Then a gel-like material was shoved into my mouth. It left a bitter, astringent taste on my tongue.

Before he could spit it out, another piece of material was shoved into his mouth. This one was large and long, pushed deep into his throat, making him feel choked and nauseous.

The shaft in the mouth began to move in and out, in the same rhythm as the shaft behind.

Ken struggled, but his body was completely controlled. His mind began to muddle from the pain and a strange, mixed sensation.

His other hand grasped his penis through the tight-fitting clothes, beginning to stroke it up and down in sync with the movements on both sides.

The confusion in his brain began to shift. The pain remained, but the tingling sensation and sexual arousal became more dominant. Lubrication increased, penetrating deeper through his fabric.

He forgot for a moment who he was, why he was there. Intense physical sensations overwhelmed his consciousness. His tongue began to lick the shaft in his mouth uncontrollably, even though he knew it was dirty, yet the taste and touch aroused him.

In his mind, there was nothing left but burning passion and sexual arousal reaching its peak.

Both shafts quickened their pace, and the hand gripping his penis moved faster.

Ken groaned softly as the shaft filled his mouth. A wonderful sensation was building up in his body.

And then it happened simultaneously.

The shaft from behind thrust deep inside, releasing hot fluid into him, filling him completely and so hot he could feel it overflowing.

The tube in his mouth did the same thing; the salty liquid penetrated deep into his pharynx, causing him to choke and swallow some of it.

And at the same time, his younger brother ejaculated violently, his semen gushing out, piercing through the tight-fitting fabric and leather underwear, spilling all over the metal floor beneath him.

His body slumped onto the table, utterly exhausted, his mind blank, devoid of any thoughts.

A soft whisper came close to his ear.

"From now on, you are S96. Obey our Shocker orders, and you will receive this kind of paradise every day."

With one hand, he pulled the black mask down to cover his face properly once more.

Ken, lying exhausted, smiled with satisfaction behind his mask before replying in a lifeless voice.

"Squeak~~~~"

[realspooks]

Paranormal order Eggs character sheet remake Combatant

Pomme

Origin: WritterCLASS: Combatant TRAIL: Annihilator

She is trained to take down targets with efficiency and speed. Her weapons are her best friends and she takes just as good care of them as she does her teammates. ELEMENT: Knowledge

Inventory: -Precision Rifle -Scythe

AGI: 3 INT: 3 VIG: 1 PRE: 1 STR: 1

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Bobby

Origin: FighterCLASS: Combatant TRAIL: Shock Troop

He's a tough faller. They train his body to resist physical trauma, making it practically unbreakable, and so he is not afraid to stand between his allies and danger. ELEMENT: Blood

Inventory: -Baseball bat -Pistol - brass knuckles

AGI: 2 INT: 1 VIG: 2 PRE: 1 STR: 3

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Trumpet

Origin: MilitaryCLASS: Combatant TRAIL: Special Operations

He is an effective combatant, and his actions are calculated and optimized, always anticipating enemy movements and positioning himself in the most intelligent way on the battlefield. ELEMENT: Energy

Inventory: -Fragmentation Grenade - Stun Grenade - Flare Pistol - Crowbar

AGI: 1 INT: 2 VIG: 1 PRE: 1 STR: 3

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Chayenne

Origin: FighterCLASS: Combatant TRAIL: Warrior

They transformed his body into a real weapon, training his muscles and physical power. His melee strikes are as powerful as a bullet and he prefers to face dangers head on. ELEMENT: Death

Inventory: - Shield - Sword

AGI: 3 INT: 1 VIG: 2 PRE: 1 STR: 2

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ChunSik

Origin: VictimCLASS: Combatant TRAIL: Annihilator

He is trained to take down targets with efficiency and speed. His weapons are his best friends and he takes just as good care of them as he does his teammates. Maybe even better. ELEMENT: Knowledge

Inventory: - Bow and Arrow - Machete

AGI: 3 INT: 1 VIG: 2 PRE: 1 STR: 2

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Pepito

Origin: Gaudério Abutre (Only in the mechanics)CLASS: Combatant TRAIL: Warrior

They transformed his body into a real weapon, training his muscles and physical power. His melee strikes are as powerful as a bullet and he prefers to face dangers head on. ELEMENT: Blood

Inventory: - Gas mask - Chainsaw - Dagger

AGI: 3 INT: 1 VIG: 2 PRE: 2 STR: 1

♥The Combatants

♦The Specialist

♠The Occultists

[super-heroinecomparisons]

Female combatants.

[haphazardlyparked]

backwards to forwards

(i guess i should make the combatants world actually make a bit of sense???)

He feels the curl of pressure wrapping around his heart, like a giant fist is squeezing it. Absently, Raving scratches his chest, as though the pressure’s just an itch he can relieve.

“You sure about this?” Frederick asks for the thousandth time. He leans against the first Gate — the Central Gate — casually, like it’s a wall in his interviewing studio instead of the pinnacle of space traveling technology. “Last chance to back out.”

Raving pulls on his most shit-eating grin, the kind he wears whenever they put Eyes on him. “Of course,” he tells Frederick, oozing self-assurance that skirts this side of arrogance. The pressure on Raving’s heart doesn’t let up, but his grin doesn’t waver either. He's had practice.

“Okay, then,” Frederick says, lips pursing. “If you're sure."

"I am," says Raving again, a little annoyed this time. He knows what Frederick really wants to say; he’s already heard everyone’s doubts a thousand times over. Raving, it’s madness. Raving, it’s suicide. Raving, let someone who’s still desperate to make a name for themselves do this, it doesn’t have to be you.

They say it because he’s the greatest W Captain in Pandoran history, and doing this, for some reason, spells the end of W Captain Raving Akil. Raving sort of understands why his decision is considered anathema to his entire career.

Yet at the same time—the elite W Command that exists parallel to the Empire’s military was established to conduct deeper explorations into systems beyond the Empire’s borders. W Command units are versatile survivalists. W Command’s research arm in Central is at the forefront of development, its technology passed laterally to the military before trickling down to the public.

Why shouldn’t that exploration and research focus look backwards, as well as forward?

Pandorans push, push, and push. Ever since their ancestors left their home to establish a new Empire in a new Central system, they’ve continued to expand. Outwards, forever advancing new borders — but never looking back over their shoulder to see what they’ve left behind.

Until now.

Raving wants to be — will be — the first pilot of the Pilgrimage.  

The Gates that stretch through Dead Space and towards the first galaxy have been at least a century in the making. Periodically, the Empire is reminded of the Gates’ existence when a preprogrammed caravan of unmanned ships and construction drones successfully establish a preliminary Gate. The hype as a new Gate is connected to the rest of the road lasts for scant months, to be quickly overshadowed by some flashier, fresher news — Dead Space is dead, after all, containing no life-like planets or asteroids or systems capable of supporting life beyond the artificial atmospheres of the Gates themselves.

But Raving has read all the history of the Gates. Raving knows when the first one went up, knows how the second Gate failed, throwing the whole project into turmoil until it was discovered that the first Gate could connect directly to the third. He’s read the notes of researchers who used this knowledge to recalibrate the Pilgrimage road; they expanded the distance between each Gate and reduced their overall number.

Sometimes, Raving thinks he always knew he’d be the first to travel the entire route. He’ll be the first to fly beyond the half-point Waystation, the first to arrive in the origin galaxy, dubbed Elpis, since the last of the ancient Pandorans left it. The weight on his chest doesn’t seem quite so heavy when he thinks about this.

For the public broadcast, Frederick has provided Raving with a script describing the mission. He positions Raving before the Central Gate. It's large enough for a standard Winger to fly though, has the height of three men on each others' shoulders, but Raving will travel the Gates by foot until he reaches the Waystation. At the Waystation, both he and the long-distance Winger Elpis will go through a final check administered by Waystation’s skeleton crew; then Raving will board the Elpis, and pilot his way through the last three Gates.

Frederick sets the Eyes. He initiates a countdown. Raving waits until it hits zero.

“Hello,” Raving says when it does. “My name is Raving Akil.”

Raving says nothing of the nothing of the phantom grip that constricts his heart, that squeezes away everything but his determination to fly the Pilgrimage. He says nothing about the way his vision, which always seems so grey and flat, sharpens when he looks at diagrams and maps of the Pilgrimage route.  Instead, Raving talks about contrast, about context, about going back because they can and therefore should (but Raving needs to, Raving is sure that the hand around his heart will kill him if he doesn’t.)

As he speaks, Raving hears the gentle rumble of the Gate behind him as it flares to life. On the Eyes, it must look spectacular — Raving, dressed in the deep purple of W Command, illuminated by the bright red lights the Gate.

He turns to look at the Gate. It’s like looking into a large mirror framed in red. Raving doesn’t know why they wanted to do this live, and hadn’t cared enough to argue the point; he still doesn’t care. He only feels the pressure in his chest, pressing against his ribcage as he approaches his own reflection.

He reaches out to touch his own fingers, and suddenly he feels like he’s weightless. His expression in the mirror of the Gate shifts, too complicated for Raving to understand even though it’s his own face staring back at him like—like he can finally breathe.

Raving steps through the Central Gate.  

Come home, he imagines himself hearing as lights blaze by him, and it sounds almost triumphant. 

[haphazardlyparked]

Omgosh where IS the fantasy?!?!?!?!?

this one means i need to “write more Combatants”, which is my science fiction fantasy thing. except that there’s no fantasy yet. and, erm. we still haven’t got there… but soon i promise.

For Sarko, the first twenty minutes or so go unbearably slowly.

He’s still in Station S, at the Ops console, struggling to claw data on the wuzari mothership from them, though the most he can assemble right now is are basic floor plans and maps. Judging from the cut of lines on the simple layered diagram, their guess at the cloaked ship’s shape is right: some kind of circular thing made of interconnected pieces that might be able to detach into individual ships. If Sarko had the time to care, he’d think the design is clever, versatile like their invasive, sticky-fingered codes. Beautiful, if only it didn’t leave him feeling dirtied and nauseous.

He’s also got Eyes following K-squad as they slink through pristine halls made of sleek lights and hard angles, and his voice is in their ears as he directs them as best he can given the patchy intel.

“All clear,” they take turns saying as they round blind corners and pass through asymmetrical intersections, where corridors don’t quite line up with each other despite the smooth floor plans Sarko is working off of.

“We appear to be ascending,” Everett says.

“Descending,” Meris disagrees with consternation.

“I—“ Cal begins, but Jones stops them all.

“Let’s agree to disagree. Sarko?”

Sarko doesn’t know what the hell they’re talking about, but he spins together an explanation that involves twisting ship limbs and different artificial gravity mechanisms. “The most important thing is,” he assures them without feeling assured, “is that you’re all headed for Commander K’s subcutaneous tracker, still.”

The subcutaneous trackers, injected into the shoulder, are generally less precise and reliable than tracking Station S’s particle residue — but K’s been off-ship for far more than five hours now. The residue from her shift has all faded, and now Sarko can only hope and pray that the standard tracking chip hasn’t been found and removed, or worse. (What could be worse doesn’t bear thinking about, but then, the wuzari have always managed to be creative in the most devastating of ways.)

K-squad’s jaunt through the wuzari ship is a glacial crawl; in twenty minutes, they’re only about halfway to K’s location by Sarko’s rough estimate. (He’s still got secondary Eyes on her, flickering in the background, but he can’t bring himself to focus on the image. He doesn’t want to see her sluggishly bleeding wounds or pale face, doesn’t want to play that awful game of is she-isn’t she breathing, not when he’s got orders to follow and an unsanctioned mission to monitor.)

But then, at twenty-one minutes, all Eyes on K go dark. Sarko knows they should have lasted another four hours at least, but he’s only given a couple of minutes to obsess over the tech failure. At twenty-three minutes, as K-squad is veers left to pass through another asymmetrical intersection of halls, Elsbeth hails Sarko.

“Captain,” she says, voice tight.

Sarko’s stomach sinks. “There’s a problem with Pyrrha,” he guesses, because there’s nothing else in this moment that could worry Elsbeth more, not even the Eyes on K failing.

“Pyrrha is fine,” Elsbeth hedges, “For now. Because they’re hacking into the Pandora Gate directly instead. It’s — they’ve got the power to breech the firewalls. I give it another twenty minutes, if they’re not headed off.”

Her meaning is clear. Sarko needs to be at the Core Console now — Elsbeth needs to continue reviewing the revised Pyrrha Protocol and Sarko needs to protect the integrity of the Pandora Gate’s coding. K-squad needs to get to K before she dies, but nobody’s as good at running Ops as Elsbeth and Sarko, and Micah is right. Sarko is selfish and cruel and he’s going to get everyone killed.

At least now, he can reasonably blame the wuzari, too.

“Jones,” Sarko grits his teeth. “I’m handing off to Lawson.” He’s going to get everyone killed, and there’s no atoning for that, so the best he can do is make sure the slaughter is contained to Elpis-P1. Pyrrha must work. 

“—fucking hell,” Meris complains.

Lawson’s already taking over the comms and Eyes. “Sorry you’re stuck with me,” she says breezily. “If any of you die on me, I will kill you.”

Sarko leaves them and takes off for the lift at a run, then, before he’s fully stepped into the Core Console room, he’s already barking out orders. “Wes, get down to Ops and provide additional support. Collins, Si’ek start running analysis on Pandora Gate’s core coding. Patch up any potential weaknesses you can. Elsbeth, how’s the code looking?”

“So far so good, sir,” Elsbeth says. It sounds almost like a prayer.

“We’ll see,” Sarko says grimly. He sits down before his usual workstation and sinks himself into the digital world that makes up his battlefield, his war.

He doesn’t think about how he’s what might happen if he loses, if the wuzari break open Pandora’s secrets and steal into the central systems and snatch hope from the box. They call it the wuzari Conflict back central, like they don’t understand there’s a guerrilla war playing out all along the Pilgrimage. And at the holy site at the end of the long Pilgrimage — the original system from whence they all came — it’s trench warfare. He loses, and the wuzari will take the Pilgrimage systems, one by one, until they reach central and swallow up the whole hard-won empire.

But Sarko doesn’t think of that. Sarko’s head is filled with twisting strategies and code he weaves in an attempt to cut out the wuzari hackers, to pry free their greedy fingers. He’s so deep in the systems that it takes him a moment to recognize when he’s gained ground, shored up defenses enough that he can take a step back. He pulls his hands back to his side, away from the keyboards of his work station. He blinks away the afterimage of interlocking blocks of code, and tries to remember what it feels like to be confined to his human body. It’s strangely more difficult than it should be.

“Elsbeth.”

“About eleven minutes til I’m done.” Twenty-three minutes before he was called up. A little under twenty-six minutes he’s been under. And after eleven minutes, they still need another fifty-eight for the charges to properly rig themselves according to the code. Two more to execute the boom. 

In total, seventy-one minutes they need if they’re going to blow everything to hell.

“What I’ve done now will buy about thirty minutes,” Sarko confesses.

“Shit,” Elsbeth says. “What else can you do?”

Sarko grinds his teeth — he’s a fighter, this is his specialty, and he doesn’t know what to do. This is where Sarko is supposed to make a difference, where Sarko can make up for arming K with a W-knife but then not following her into battle.

In fact, Sarko realizes suddenly – in fact, he never really ‘goes into battle’ at all; he plays defense. He’s forced to battle. 

He smiles grimly. “I’m going to go after their central coding.”

“Ambitious,” Elsbeth says, looking up from her review work. She does not look amused.

“If I attack them,” Sarko argues his case, “They’ll have to defend themselves. It’ll buy us more time.”

“We’ve never got through their second stage of defenses before,” Elsbeth reminds Sarko. She doesn’t need to say there’s no way he’s going to be able to magically do that in the next thirty (twenty nine) minutes before they get past whatever new blockade Sarko devised. 

“If I shift aboard the ship,” says Sarko, “I can hack in easily from the first connected device I come across.”

Elsbeth frowns at Sarko for a long moment. Twenty eight.

“I’ll run Ops,” Elsbeth nearly growls, and then they’re moving towards the lift together.

“Wes,” Sarko says, when they’re back down in  “Sorry. Get back up to Core. You’re going to need to finish reviewing the last of the code. Lawson, find me a half battle kit.”

“Sir?” Lawson asks, like she’s unsure of what she’s hearing.

Elsbeth gently shoulders Lawson out of the way. “A half battle kit,” she repeats as she taps into K-squad’s comms—under Lawson and Wes’s watchful eyes, they’ve moved more slowly; they’re close to K, but haven’t reached her yet. “Captain Sarko needs to board that ship. We’d prefer if he were armed.”

next time i swear: there WILL BE FANTASY 

(make help me write more here)