Dirty Stories: Prison Tale

by Cupcakestobe3

Summary:

The biggest villains from the biggest franchises get a one way ticket to a prison with 100% chance to break even the toughest destroyers and biggest egos.

Chapter 1: The Prison Warden

The heavy metal doors grind closed behind them with a sound that reverberates in their bones. Ky Kiske’s hands tighten on the straps of the bags he did not even realize he is still carrying. He glances at Beerus who lounges in his usual casual posture, one ear flicking as if he has not a care in the world.

Behind them, Jellal Fernandez keeps his head low, eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Sephiroth’s expression remains calm, almost eerily serene, though the subtle tightening of his jaw betrays him. Haji Towa and Hisoka exchange glances, calculating, smirking, neither willing to look the other in the eye for too long.

The warden appears before them like a shadow made flesh. His boots thud against the concrete, echoing off the high walls. He is tall, broader than any of them, and his eyes are cold, unblinking, assessing, piercing. He stops a foot away from Ky, and the air shifts, thick with authority.

Ky exhales, fists clenching at his sides. His polished armor reflects the harsh overhead lights, but it cannot hide the tension in his posture. He shifts his weight slightly, eyes flicking to the warden who stands above the group of condemned men. Ky keeps his head high, his back straight, every motion deliberate, but his fingers tighten, betraying the unease he does not allow his face to show.

The warden steps forward, voice ringing clear and uncompromising through the echoing stone chamber. “Ky Kiske,” the words hit him like a hammer. “You are here for multiple counts of abuse of power, reckless endangerment, assault, and failure to adhere to lawful authority. You have manipulated conflicts, caused innocent lives to suffer, and operated outside the confines of justice that you claim to serve.”

Ky swallows hard, his jaw tightening. He stares at the warden calmly, refusing to bow, yet every muscle in his body is alert. “I only ever acted to protect people,” he says quietly, the words steady but firm. His voice carries the weight of his self-righteousness. “Every battle, every decision, was made to stop greater harm.”

The warden leans in slightly, face unreadable, tone icy. “Do not speak to justify your crimes, Kiske. You have been found responsible for leading armed operations that resulted in the deaths of hundreds of civilians. You have assaulted your peers in ways that were outside the law. You have deliberately misused your authority to intimidate and control. You were defeated by your opponents not because you lacked skill but because your pride made you predictable. Every one of your victories is now evidence of your arrogance.”

Ky’s fingers unclench just slightly, and his eyes narrow. He lets the silence stretch for a few heartbeats before replying. “I will not deny the outcomes of war. I accept the consequences. But my intentions were not evil. I never sought personal gain. Every action was for justice.”

The warden steps back, voice rising in controlled authority. “Intentions mean nothing here. You are in a place where your title, your honor, and your righteousness hold no power. The law is absolute. Your failures, your manipulations, your recklessness, and your assaults have brought you to this cell. You will serve the full term, and you will learn that morality in your hands is meaningless without accountability.”

Ky swallows again, blinking once. He breathes slowly, focusing on the floor for a moment before raising his gaze to meet the warden’s. “I understand. I am prepared to accept my sentence. I will not resist the consequences.”

The warden tilts the head slightly, observing Ky with a look that mixes disdain and evaluation. “You are calm, but I see the tension beneath your posture. You believe that composure will shield you from the humiliation. It will not. Here, your pride is irrelevant. You are as powerless as the men you once held sway over. Every second of this sentence will test the limits of your patience and your pride. We will strip away every illusion of control you cling to.”

Ky nods slightly, a flicker of unease crossing his normally steady gaze. He exhales, feeling the weight of the warden’s words. His hands curl again, but he does not look away. “I have always faced consequences for my actions,” he says softly. “I will endure this as well.”

The warden steps closer, voice dropping to a chilling level. “You will watch others who were once beneath you rise and thrive while you remain confined. You will see allies and enemies alike pass by, unburdened by their own guilt, while your pride and your inability to bend to authority will keep you here. Every effort to assert dominance will be met with resistance. Every attempt at dignity will be tested and broken until you are left with nothing but the realization of your own limitations.”

Ky’s shoulders stiffen. He closes his eyes briefly, imagining the countless battles, the people he failed to save, the comrades who fell while he lived. The warden’s voice continues, relentless. “Your skill is irrelevant. Your righteousness is irrelevant. Your sword, your armor, your medals, your titles mean nothing. Here, in this place, you are a man who failed himself and everyone he claimed to protect. You are at the mercy of a system that does not negotiate, that does not forgive, and that does not care for your intentions. You are here, and you will remain until the full weight of your actions has been accounted for.”

Ky opens his eyes, jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. The warden’s words burn, but he remains composed. “I understand,” he whispers, almost to himself, almost a mantra. “I will endure. I will accept this. I will learn from it.”

The warden steps back, arms crossed. “Ky Kiske, you may believe that this is the worst of your life. You are wrong. The worst is the eternity of powerlessness, the constant reminder of your failings, and the humiliation you will endure at the hands of those who have no reason to respect you. Take your place among the other condemned. Let this be a lesson in true accountability. The world you sought to control does not exist here. Only the consequences of your pride are real.”

Ky exhales again, letting the tension in his chest ease slightly though the knot in his stomach remains. He stands straighter, gaze fixed forward, eyes reflecting both defiance and quiet apprehension. He knows the road ahead will not bend to his will. He knows the sentence is total, unyielding, and complete. He will survive this because he always survives. But survival will not mean the same thing as victory. Here, he will face the depth of his own limitations, and he will learn what it means to truly be powerless.

Beerus chuckles softly, almost nervously this time. Trapped, yes, but that hardly seems to bother him. He sits back on the hard bench, tail flicking lazily behind him. His ears tilt slightly as the warden’s steps echo in the room.

Beerus glances around at the cold stone walls and the bars cutting across the tiny window. He lifts an eyebrow. This is a cage, a prison meant to instill fear, and yet, he feels only mild annoyance.

The warden clears his throat, his voice carrying authority that would rattle most. “Beerus, your crimes are far beyond what any mortal could comprehend. Countless planets destabilized. Civilizations destroyed.

Countless lives extinguished without thought. You were caught only because your own arrogance led you to underestimate the guardians sent after you. Every act you committed screams recklessness and contempt for life.”

Beerus yawns, stretching his arms lazily. “Yes, yes, that all sounds very dramatic,” he says, voice smooth and dripping with disinterest. “I assure you, I am aware of what I did. I am aware of how mighty I am. And I am aware I am here, temporarily, waiting for the next moment to leave.”

The warden narrows his eyes. “Temporarily? Do you not understand the gravity of this place? You are nothing here. You are a prisoner like any other. You are not a god here. Your power is meaningless.”

Beerus tilts his head, a faint smirk curling the edges of his mouth. “A god? I never said I was one here. I am merely a visitor, observing this quaint establishment. Your attempt to belittle me is amusing, if not entirely effective.” He leans forward slightly, hands on his knees, and studies the warden. His golden eyes gleam with irritation tempered by boredom.

“Do you imagine these walls can hold me indefinitely? I am not invested in your judgment. I am merely enduring your presence until it suits me otherwise.”

The warden takes a slow step closer. “Enduring? You should feel terror. You should realize that your dominion ends here. Your victims deserved more than fear and destruction. They deserved life. You are not above justice.”

Beerus flicks his tail in a lazy, irritated sweep. “Justice, you say? A subjective construct designed to make the weak feel secure. I hardly see how this applies to me. I did what I did because I could. Because I am me. Because it was convenient. Fear and destruction are natural consequences of power and choice. They are not mistakes.”

He pauses, his ears twitching as he notices the subtle tightening of the warden’s jaw. “Do you truly believe that by calling me a criminal, by detailing my ‘horrors,’ that I will shudder? That I will fall in despair?” Beerus leans back again, tail coiling around one of the bars. “I respect strength. I recognize it. I acknowledge the consequences. But I do not fear it. Not here. Not now.”

The warden’s face darkens. “You flaunt your power. You take life as if it were nothing. Do you even comprehend the suffering you caused?”

Beerus sighs, looking around the cell as if noticing the peeling paint for the first time. “I comprehend it perfectly. And yet, I do not carry guilt. Your moral framework is... quaint. Charming in its insistence that punishment fits crime, but it is irrelevant to me. I am what I am. My choices are mine. You will not lecture me into remorse, nor will you convince me of your authority.”

The warden’s voice grows sterner. “You will follow the rules here. You will comply with the regulations. You are under my command while you are within these walls. You will not disrupt the order of this facility.”

Beerus chuckles again, low and amused. “Order? Rules? Control? Do you not see the absurdity in telling me these things? I am fully capable of compliance if it suits me, which it does for now. I am not your enemy. I am not your prisoner in the sense you imagine. I am merely present. Everything beyond that is temporary.”

He leans back, tail twitching. “Do not mistake my patience for submission. I am aware of what you say. I am aware of your authority here. I am aware that your threats carry weight for those less fortunate. They do not carry weight for me. I am here because it pleases the circumstances. Not because you have ensnared me.”

The warden pauses, measuring Beerus carefully. “You are arrogant incarnate. You will pay for your actions in ways you cannot even imagine. You will learn what it means to be powerless.”

Beerus tilts his head, chin slightly raised. “Perhaps. Perhaps I will. But I assure you, I have endured emptier rooms, smaller cages, tighter bindings. I have stared into voids that made this place seem like a child’s plaything. I can endure what you present without faltering.”

He pushes himself to stand, towering slightly, and folds his arms. “I will stay for now. I will not cause trouble unnecessarily. I am not cruel without reason. But do not believe for a second that I am humbled. That I am afraid. That I am any less than I was the moment you captured me.”

The warden meets his gaze, voice harder than before. “This is your punishment. You will learn humility in ways you never have before. You are not a god. You are nothing here.”

Beerus shrugs, a faint smirk playing across his lips. “Nothing. Interesting. You may see me as nothing. I am aware of your perspective. But understand this, I am not as patient, observant, as I am entirely unimpressed. Consider your words noted and then ignored at my leisure.”

He lowers himself back to the bench, tail curling around his leg. His ears tilt, catching the sound of distant footsteps outside. “I am here. And eventually, I will depart. Do not count on my humility. Do not count on my fear. I am present, nothing more, nothing less, until the moment I choose to leave. Remember that. Remember me as you will, and I will remember this cell as it is. Temporary, insignificant, and amusing in its attempts to impress me.”

Beerus leans back fully, tail stretching out behind him, eyes half-lidded in boredom. He is calm. He is contained. He is annoyed, but not intimidated.

Sephiroth lifts a hand, brushing his silver hair back with slow, deliberate motion. He sits apart from the others, legs crossed, posture flawless, shoulders relaxed. His emerald eyes lock on the warden, unblinking, cold, almost amused.

The warden steps forward, voice tight. “Sephiroth. You’ve orchestrated massacres, slaughtered countless innocents, and caused devastation across nations. You were captured only because you underestimated those pursuing you. Your crimes are beyond measure.”

Sephiroth does not move. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the words. His lips curl into a subtle sneer. Not a word escapes him.

The warden’s jaw tightens. “Do you understand the consequences of your actions? You are not above the law here. You will obey the rules or face… repercussions.”

Sephiroth’s fingers flex lightly on his knees. His expression does not change, though the faintest glimmer of amusement crosses his lips. A quiet, low hum escapes him barely audible, but it carries the weight of defiance.

The warden raises his hand, voice dropping. “If you refuse to comply, the inmates will ensure you suffer. Every atrocity, every life taken! They will not forget.”

Sephiroth leans back slightly, arms crossed, staring directly at the warden. No words. Just a piercing, unyielding gaze that makes the warden flinch slightly.

The warden swallows hard. “I will not tolerate defiance. You are here. You will follow the rules.”

Sephiroth exhales softly, a near-whisper. “Understood,” he says, voice calm but emotionless. He does not bow, does not flinch, does not soften. Every movement is deliberate, measured, controlled.

The warden steps closer, teeth gritted. “Do not test me. You will not leave here unbroken.”

Sephiroth tilts his head again, faint smirk, and a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Not defiance, surprisingly. “I wait.”

"Ah. Wonder what a mere human vessel could do." Beerus mocks.

Sephiroth shots a pointed look.

Haji Towa grins, a flash of mischief in his amber eyes. He shifts slightly on the hard floor, his posture relaxed but alert, as though anticipating some unseen advantage. The warden paces in front of him, arms crossed, a file clutched in one hand.

“Haji Towa,” the warden begins, voice firm, “you have been convicted for multiple counts of assault, arson, and manipulation of powerful artifacts for personal gain. You have caused injury and death across the regions. Your capture was the result of careful planning by numerous agencies working together. There is no excuse here. You are facing the consequences of your actions.”

Haji leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Consequences? That sounds boring,” he says, voice light but teasing. He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “I am sure we can make this a bit more interesting, though, right?”

The warden frowns, visibly annoyed. “You will not speak that way in this facility. This is not a game. You are not free to treat your sentence lightly. Any further defiance and there will be… repercussions. Do you understand?”

Haji shrugs, a careless motion that somehow exudes confidence rather than fear. “I understand words. Rules are a different matter entirely.” He leans back, one leg crossed over the other. His grin widens. “I do enjoy a challenge. A place like this should be entertaining, I think.”

The warden narrows his eyes. “This is not entertainment. Lives were lost because of your reckless decisions. You think this is amusing, but you will learn, sooner or later, that your charm will not save you here.”

Haji taps a finger against his knee, thinking aloud. “Charm is hardly all I have. Planning is better than brute force, and I do like to see how others react under pressure.” He glances toward Hisoka, whose body is slouched against the wall across the cell, a faint smile on his lips. “You would agree, no? Watching people squirm has its moments.”

Hisoka’s smile twists slightly into something sharper, calculating. He pushes off the wall with one hand and adjusts his posture so that he sits straighter, fingers tapping lightly on his knees. His eyes are dark, focused, and unnerving, but he makes no move as though waiting for the proper moment to act.

The warden turns to him, voice sharper now. “And you, Hisoka. You have been responsible for countless murders, manipulation, and the exploitation of those around you for sport. Your capture was a matter of precision timing and coordinated effort. Do not underestimate what awaits you in here.”

Hisoka tilts his head slowly, meeting the warden’s gaze. He does not speak at first. The silence is deliberate, heavy, like a shadow that presses into the small room. Finally, he speaks, calm, measured, almost bored. “I was aware this would happen. Patience is a virtue, but boredom is not.” His voice is smooth, carrying both mockery and a quiet confidence.

The warden’s hand tightens around the file. “Do you think your cleverness and cunning will carry you through this place? You are not in a battlefield anymore. You are here, under my watch, and the inmates will not show the leniency you are accustomed to. Your reputation is meaningless in this environment.”

Hisoka leans forward, a finger tracing the edge of his knee. “Reputation is a tool. Meaningless or not, it dictates how others respond to me. You fear their reactions, and yet you fail to see the possibilities.” He tilts his head, almost as if mocking the warden’s authority, though his tone remains deceptively soft.

Haji chuckles quietly. “See? That is exactly why I like having him around. He keeps things… unpredictable. Makes it far less boring.”

The warden’s jaw tightens, and he gestures toward the two men. “You both have thrived on chaos and manipulation. That ends here. This facility is not a playground. Any attempt to leverage your intellect or charm to gain advantage will be met with immediate discipline.”

Haji claps his hands softly, mock enthusiasm lighting his features. “Immediate discipline. Good. I like structure when it comes with a little challenge.” He leans back, eyes scanning the warden with a mischievous glint. “We can make that work. I will play along, for now.”

Hisoka tilts his head, studying the warden carefully. “I will comply, in the sense that compliance is a temporary measure. Observe carefully, and you may learn something.” He smirks faintly, though the expression never reaches his eyes. There is always something unreadable there, a hidden calculation.

The warden steps closer, trying to assert control, but the presence of the two men is oppressive. Haji’s energy seems to radiate around him, playful yet sharp. Hisoka’s calm demeanor is like a blade hidden in silk. The warden swallows hard, realizing that breaking them will require more than intimidation.

“You may think this is trivial,” the warden says, voice slightly strained, “but every rule here is enforced. You are not above it. I will ensure you understand that.”

Haji laughs softly. “Oh, I understand perfectly. The question is whether you will adapt to me, or I will adapt to you.” His eyes sparkle with anticipation, daring the warden to react.

Hisoka’s finger taps lightly against his knee, almost inaudible. “I have no doubt. Adaptation is what makes the game interesting. It is not compliance that defines us, but how we respond to confinement.”

The warden exhales, tension evident in his shoulders. “This is hell,” he mutters under his breath. “And you two will not make it easier for anyone.”

Haji leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, grin widening. “Hell can be entertaining if you know how to play it. Shall we begin?”

Hisoka’s smile widens slightly. “The game is already in motion. You just have to keep up.”

The warden steps back, pinching the bridge of his nose, realizing he is dealing with two minds far sharper than he anticipated. Their calm, measured mischief and quiet menace are entirely different from the brashness of others he has encountered. He understands that no amount of threat or display of authority will bend them in the usual way.

Haji’s amber eyes gleam. “Do not mistake stillness for submission. Patience is part of the fun. The right moment is everything. You will see.”

Hisoka tilts his head, letting the silence stretch, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. There is no anger in his gaze, only anticipation and the quiet calculation that makes him dangerous.

The warden exhales again, frustrated. “Do not think that your cunning will protect you from reality. This is a place where every action has a consequence. You will be judged not by your reputation but by your obedience and behavior here.”

Haji’s grin softens into something almost lazy. “Judged, yes, but every judgment is an opportunity to play within limits. I am not afraid of limits. I like seeing how far I can push them.”

Hisoka leans back, arms folding across his chest. “Limits are subjective. It depends on who defines them. I find them… flexible.”

The warden steps back, recognizing that his words alone cannot contain the two. Haji’s energy crackles with teasing confidence, while Hisoka’s calm menace is an entirely different threat. Together, they create an atmosphere of tension that fills the room.

Haji shifts slightly, eyes twinkling. “It will be fun to watch how the others react when they realize we are here.”

Hisoka inclines his head slightly, voice smooth, quiet. “Observing is always enlightening. Patience yields clarity. The rest will follow their instincts. They always do.”

The warden exhales once more, knowing that he faces not only dangerous criminals but minds that operate on a different level. He steps back, leaving them to sit, grin, and calculate in quiet anticipation of what comes next.

The warden steps forward, pointing a finger at him, and begins the list.

“You’ve manipulated, deceived, and toyed with countless people,” the warden says firmly. “You’ve caused death, chaos, and pain for your amusement. You’ve killed without remorse. You’ve betrayed every trust placed in you. And yet, here you are, expecting this to be a playground.”

Hisoka tilts his head, letting the words wash over him. The warden continues, detailing more of his acts: the murders he orchestrated, the duels he provoked, the innocents used as pawns in his deadly games. Every sentence is met with a soft chuckle, a playful shake of his head, as though he is hearing a bedtime story rather than a reprimand.

“You find this confinement amusing, do you?” the warden asks, voice tight with frustration.

Hisoka’s grin widens. “Amusing? Perhaps. But frustrating? Only if the challenge disappears. I like to see how far they’ll go.” His tone is calm, yet sharp, hinting at the danger simmering just below the surface. He makes no move, no escape, no protest beyond the casual amusement in his gaze.

The warden leans closer, lowering their voice. “You will not manipulate anyone here. You will answer for your crimes. You will learn what it truly means to be powerless.”

Hisoka’s eyes flash with interest. “Powerless? That is subjective. And even in chains, one can play the game.” He lets the words hang, letting the tension grow. Even in the silence afterward, there is an edge; he is always calculating, always anticipating, and yet appearing utterly relaxed.

As the warden steps back, Hisoka straightens slightly, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes, "Loser." 

The warden’s eyes sweep over the six of them as they follow, shackles rattling with every step. The hall stretches ahead, dim and echoing, lined with iron bars that hold figures who have long since learned that this place does not forgive. The warden steps forward confidently, boots clanging against the concrete, and the group falls into a tense procession behind him. The sounds of chains and distant voices mix into a dull, oppressive hum.

He pauses and turns to Ky first, his finger pointed like a knife. “Golden knight of justice,” he says, voice low but carrying down the corridor. “Pretty boy messiah. All the fancy tricks and shiny smiles will not save you here. Every inmate in this block wants to see if you shine on the inside or if they can shatter it with a single strike.”

Ky’s jaw tightens. He keeps his hands fisted at his sides, posture rigid. His eyes flick toward the warden, calm on the surface but restless underneath. He does not speak. He does not flinch. His silence makes the warden grin wider.

“You will wish you were in a lake of fire,” the warden says, and he moves on without waiting for a response.

Beerus stretches, tail swishing lazily, one ear twitching. The warden approaches him, circling like he is examining a prized animal. “Cosmic kitten,” he hisses. “You are not a god here. Not in this hall, not in these cells. You are another body to feed, another mouth to silence.”

Beerus chuckles softly, the sound carrying a hint of irritation, but he leans back, arms behind his back, unimpressed. “I am only here for now,” he says, voice cool. “I have places to be.”

The warden leans in close, taps his forehead with a knuckle. “Try it. I want to see how quickly your arrogance cracks.

” Beerus flicks his tail, indifferent but clearly annoyed, and allows the warden to step away.

Sephiroth does not move. His silver hair falls in a flawless cascade as he brushes it from his face. His eyes meet the warden’s directly, calm and unyielding, as if daring him to speak. “Silver-haired nightmare,” the warden says, pacing in front of him. “You think yourself untouchable. That fear follows you. Down here, you are a toy, and every toy is meant to break eventually.”

Sephiroth’s lips do not move. His expression is serene, cold, impenetrable.

The warden smirks and shakes his head. “You will wish you were in a lake of fire. That would hurt less than the slow unraveling waiting for you.”

Haji Towa grins now, a flicker of his usual mischief showing through, teeth catching the dim light. “And the mouthy one,” the warden growls, gesturing with his arm. “The chaos you think is charm will not amuse anyone here. Every word you spoke outside is useless now. Your tricks will fail. Your antics are meaningless.”

Haji tilts his head, a quiet laugh escaping him, as though the warning only sharpens his amusement. The warden snaps his fingers, signaling for him to move forward, and the grin remains, faint but unbroken.

Hisoka leans casually against the wall, watching, calculating. The warden approaches last, voice dropping just enough for the entire line to feel the weight behind his words. “Clown prince of cruelty,” he says. Hisoka tilts his head, slow, deliberate. “I like that one,” he murmurs.

The warden steps closer, gaze piercing. “In this place, you are not the hunter. You are the prey. They will tear the paint from your face, piece by piece, and you will find the thrill you crave is gone.” Hisoka tilts his head back, smiling faintly, eyes glinting, as if considering the challenge rather than fearing it.

The warden takes a step back into the center of the hall. His voice rises, echoing off the walls, reaching every inmate pressed against the bars. “Listen well. You call yourselves gods, legends, nightmares. Here, you are nothing. You will not intimidate, you will not rule, you will not escape.”

He sweeps his gaze across the group again, stepping forward to lead them deeper into the block. “You will wish you were in a lake of fire,” he hisses, “because this place will chew you clean, piece by piece, and leave nothing but echoes of what you thought you were.”

Chains rattle as the six of them follow, each footstep heavy with tension, every movement watched by eyes that hunger for chaos and punishment. The warden smirks again, enjoying the slow unraveling before them, and signals the guards to open the next set of cell doors. The doors swing open, revealing the shadowed cells beyond, the murmurs of inmates like distant thunder.

Ky keeps his eyes forward, breath even, fists clenched. Beerus flicks his tail, maintaining a posture that dares anyone to challenge him. Sephiroth walks without a sound, the cold air of his presence unnerving even the warden. Haji’s grin never falters. Hisoka leans slightly forward, savoring the first hints of intrigue in the air.

The warden turns one last time, voice low but cutting. “Move. Your cells are waiting. Your lesson begins now.”

And with that, they step forward, deeper into the shadowed heart of the prison, each of them aware that nothing in the outside world can prepare them for what is coming.

Chapter 2: Ky snd Beerus

The cell smells of damp metal and stale air, the faint tang of rust coating the walls. Chains hang from the ceiling, swaying slightly with the movement of other prisoners. Light from a single overhead bulb casts harsh shadows across the cold concrete floor.

Ky sits cross-legged on the bench against the wall, back straight, fists resting lightly on his knees. His shoulders are relaxed, but there is a tautness beneath the surface, a quiet strength in the way he holds himself.

Beerus sprawls across the bench opposite him, tail lazily flicking against the metal bars. His eyes are half-lidded, a faint smirk curling across his face. “I cannot believe this,” he mutters, voice echoing slightly in the narrow cell. “This is absurd. I am a god. I have destroyed planets with my bare hands. And here I am, sitting in a dingy prison cell, waiting for who knows what. I deserve better than this. I deserve respect.”

Ky hums along to the rhythm of Beerus’ complaining, quiet, low, almost meditative. The sound is faint, barely audible, but enough that Beerus glances up, tail flicking in curiosity. “Huh?” Beerus raises a brow, gaze locking on Ky for a brief moment. “Are you… humoring me, little golden knight? Or are you just meditating like some serene monk while the universe crumbles around us?”

Ky tilts his head slightly, eyes following the faint movements of light on the floor, humming again. He does not answer, simply allowing the sound to drift through the room, a quiet counterpoint to Beerus’ endless chatter.

“I cannot emphasize enough,” Beerus continues, stretching his long limbs, “the injustice of this entire situation. Five men, five mortal fools, and they think they can contain me. They think of this cell, these chains, these pathetic guards… can restrain a god. Me! Planet destroyer extraordinaire! I have single-handedly flattened worlds that had civilizations thriving for millennia, and yet here I sit, forced into a corner of some miserable penitentiary. How is this even legally permissible?”

Ky hums again, eyes tracing the faint cracks along the concrete floor, letting the sound carry over the gaps in Beerus’ words. He doesn’t need to speak to feel the absurdity of the moment. His pride is quiet, a low simmer compared to Beerus’ constant, relentless display. He has never needed to shout to assert his presence. It is there in every straight line of his posture, in the stillness of his hands, in the calm in his breathing.

Beerus flicks his ears back, frustrated. “Do you even understand what it is like to be me? I am the apex. The top of the hierarchy. A god who bends reality with thought alone. And now I am sharing a cell with… with…” He gestures vaguely around the gray, echoing corridor. “With mortals who probably cannot even lift a crate without whining. I am wasting my divine energy here!”

Ky hums again, a low tone, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The sound is rhythmic, almost musical, and it seems to irritate Beerus more than any chains or walls ever could.

“Ugh, you are too calm,” Beerus snaps, tail flicking sharply. “Do you not understand the magnitude of this disgrace? I could have annihilated them before they even got the chance to think about imprisoning me. A single finger snap and-” Beerus pauses, glancing down at his tail, flicking it idly. “No, forget it. Even thinking about their mortality frustrates me. How can I entertain beings so beneath me?”

Ky shifts slightly, adjusting his hands on his knees, the sound of his clothing rustling small but steady. The movement draws Beerus’ gaze again. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” Beerus accuses suddenly. “Do not pretend. Your quietness, your… humming, it is mockery.”

Ky hums again, this time slightly louder, and the faint vibration carries through the bench beneath them. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if listening to the echo of Beerus’ endless ranting, processing nothing and everything at once.

Beerus groans, flopping back against the wall, letting his long limbs splay across the cold floor. “I cannot believe I am entertained by a mortal monk. This is embarrassing. The universe is collapsing and I am laughing at the sheer audacity of your silent composure.”

The sound of footsteps echoes down the corridor. It is slow at first, deliberate, the heavy clomp of boots on concrete. Ky tilts his head ever so slightly, ears alert but expression unchanged. Beerus’ ears flick sharply forward, and his eyes snap open

. “Ah, the fools approach,” he hisses, tail curling around his leg. “Five of them, and they think they are clever. They are going to learn very quickly that arrogance is contagious, and I am highly immune.”

Ky sits straighter, fingers tightening into fists just enough to remind himself of gravity, of the reality of the moment. He does not speak. His calm, quiet energy contrasts sharply with Beerus’ frantic energy, a balance of patience and tension.

The shadows stretch across the walls as the five figures draw closer, the sound of clinking metal growing louder, echoing ominously. Beerus leaps to his feet with a sigh, stretching as though preparing for an afternoon nap rather than a battle. “

You do realize,” he mutters, tail flicking, “that these mortals will make a terrible mistake? Their arrogance is quaint, almost adorable, but ultimately insignificant. I could vaporize each of them before they even reach us. But that would be boring. No, I will let them suffer a little longer, if only to prove my point.”

Ky shifts slightly again, letting his eyes drift lazily across the floor. He hums softly, almost inaudibly, and Beerus pauses, tail stiffening. “Do you… mock me with that hum?” he asks, voice lowering with a mix of irritation and disbelief.

Ky hums once more, tone even, melodic, his composure unshaken. Beerus snarls lightly, pacing a few steps, claws scraping against the floor.

“You are infuriating,” he mutters. “Every moment I spend in this wretched place, I am reminded that patience is not a virtue of gods.”

The sound of the approaching men grows nearer, their voices faint but carrying menace. Beerus flicks his ears back, glaring toward the corridor. “Here they come,” he growls, stretching one long arm lazily. “Five mortal pests, confident in their strength. They are going to learn humility. Perhaps they will break before I do. Perhaps they will break because I do not move at all.”

Ky hums again, steady and constant, each note a faint counterpoint to Beerus’ anxious pacing. The sound fills the small cell, a rhythm to which the chaos outside cannot reach.

The first of the five steps into the light, eyes narrowing, sizing up their targets. Beerus crouches slightly, tail twitching, gaze sharp, ready yet nonchalant. “Look at them,” he mutters, voice dripping with disdain. “Pathetic little mortals, thinking they can scare a god. They are about to discover how persistent I can be without lifting a finger.”

Ky remains seated, back straight, breathing even, humming lightly as though he were alone in a temple rather than trapped in a cell with one of the universe’s most temperamental beings and a group of approaching aggressors.

The first man steps closer, boots echoing against the concrete. He smirks, confidence clear in every movement.

Beerus straightens, claws extended, and lets out a low growl, tail curling behind him. “Step carefully,” he mutters to Ky. “I do not wish to be bored to death before they even touch us.”

Ky hums again, eyes closed, patience absolute. He knows the chaos is coming, but he is ready to meet it quietly, letting Beerus’ theatrics soak in like a warm current around him.

Beerus’ ears flick, tail lashes. “Here we go,” he mutters, voice low but sharp. “This is the start of their lesson. And the lesson will be… memorable.”

The five men are nearly upon them now, footsteps quick, confident. Beerus flops back onto the bench, smirking. “Ky, my silent friend, enjoy the show. They think they understand chaos. We will show them a version they cannot survive.”

Ky opens his eyes slowly, his hum fading into a measured breath. He rises to his feet with graceful precision, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Though the chains binding his wrists limit its draw.

"Gentlemen." he says, his voice even and commanding, laced with the righteousness of a paladin addressing wayward souls. "This path leads only to ruin. Stand down, and perhaps mercy can still find you. Violence begets violence, and justice will prevail regardless."

Beerus snorts, crossing his arms over his chest, his ears flattening against his skull. "Mercy? Spare me your noble drivel, Ky. These insects wouldn't know justice if it bit them." He glares at the leader, baring his fangs in a mocking grin. "Last chance. Turn around and crawl back to your holes, or I'll make you regret ever being born."

The leader laughs, a bark that echoes off the walls, and the others join in, their voices a chorus of mockery. "Look at the pretty knight and the kitty cat." the scarred man says, cracking his knuckles. "Think you're tough? This cell's ours now. Boss says we get to break in the new ones! Teach you what real power feels like."

He nods to the boyish one, who licks his lips eagerly. "Even the kid here's eager to play. He's been watching the little ones in the lower cells get their turns~says it toughens 'em up."

Ky's jaw tightens, a flicker of disgust crossing his noble features, but he holds his ground. "You speak of innocents as if they are tools for your depravity. This ends here. Release us, and face judgment honorably."

Beerus' tail lashes wildly now, his temper flaring. "Kid? You drag children into this filth? Mortals are more disgusting than I thought." He lunges forward a step, but the chains around his ankles clank, holding him short. In this cursed place, his divine power feels muted, sapped by whatever sorcery binds them,leaving him reliant on wit and claw.

The wiry man darts in first, faster than expected, slamming a fist into Beerus' gut. The god doubles over with a hiss, more from surprise than pain, and the twins pile on, grabbing his arms and wrenching them behind his back.

"Hold the cat down!" the leader barks, and they do, forcing Beerus to his knees with brute force. His claws rake the air futilely, drawing thin lines of blood on one twin's arm, but they pin him regardless.

Ky moves like lightning, drawing his sword halfway despite the chains, but the scarred leader intercepts him, tackling the knight to the ground. They roll across the filthy floor, Ky's righteous fury fueling precise strikes! A knee to the man's ribs, an elbow to his jaw, but the others swarm.

The missing-tooth prisoner kicks Ky's legs out from under him, and soon the noble fighter is face-down, arms twisted behind him as the boyish one kneels on his back.

"Get off me, you filth!" Beerus roars, thrashing against the twins' grip. His tail whips, catching one in the thigh, but they laugh it off, slamming his face against the bench. The leader circles him, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. "God or not, you're ours now. Gonna fill that smug mouth first."

Ky struggles beneath the weight, his voice steady even as sweat beads on his brow. "This is madness. You will answer every sin-"

A rough hand clamps over his mouth, silencing him. The boyish prisoner, eyes wide with twisted excitement, yanks at Ky's coat, tearing it open to expose the knight's toned chest. *Heard about types like you,' the kid mutters, his voice cracking with adolescent lust. "All high and mighty till you're bent over. Down in the kid cells, we make 'em squeal just like this, breaks their spirit quick."

Beerus snarls as the leader grabs his chin, forcing his jaws apart. "Open wide, pussy cat." He shoves his thick cock forward, already hard and veined, slapping it against Beerus' lips.

The god's eyes blaze with fury, but the twins hold him firm, one pinching his nose until he gasps for air. The leader thrusts in without mercy, the salty length sliding over Beerus' tongue, hitting the back of his throat. Beerus gags, claws digging into the twins' arms, but he can't pull away, the man fucks his mouth with short, brutal pumps, grunting as pre-cum leaks down the god's chin.

Across the cell, the wiry man and missing-tooth one strip Ky methodically, ripping his pants down to expose his ass and thighs. The knight bucks, trying to rise, but the boyish prisoner grinds down harder, his own erection pressing against Ky's back.

"Stay still, hero," the kid whispers, fumbling with his zipper. He pulls out his slender cock, not yet fully grown but rigid with eagerness, and rubs it along Ky's crack.

"Gonna fuck you like we do the little boys downstairs~ stretch that tight hole till you beg."

Ky muffles a protest against the hand over his mouth, his body tensing as the wiry man spits on his fingers and probes his entrance roughly. No preparation, just a slick digit forcing in, twisting to loosen him.

"Tight as a virgin," the wiry one chuckles, adding a second finger, scissoring wide. Ky's muscles clench, his pride warring with the invasion, but he doesn't cry out, only a low, controlled breath escapes.

The leader pulls out of Beerus' mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting them, and nods to the twins. "Flip him. Time to claim that godly ass."

They haul Beerus up, bending him over the bench, his tail thrashing wildly. One twin kicks his legs apart, exposing his puckered hole, while the other holds his head down. The leader lines up, his cockhead pressing against the entrance, and rams in with one savage thrust. Beerus yowls, the sound echoing like a wounded beast, his body arching as the thick shaft stretches him brutally, balls slapping against his own.

"Fuck, he's gripping like a vice!" the leader groans, pulling back only to slam deeper, setting a punishing rhythm. Beerus' claws scrape the bench, splintering wood, but the pain mixes with an unwanted heat, his own cock twitching traitorously beneath him.

The twins take turns now, one shoves his dick into Beerus' mouth again, muffling his growls, while the other waits, stroking himself.

Ky feels the boyish prisoner's cock nudge insistently at his hole, the kid's inexperience making him fumble before he pushes in. It's not huge, but the sudden penetration burns, the slender length sliding past the wiry man's fingers. Ky grits his teeth, his righteous mind reeling at the violation, but he forces calm, breathing through it.

"You... achieve nothing with this," he manages, voice strained as the kid starts thrusting erratically, hips snapping with youthful vigor.

The missing-tooth man laughs, positioning himself at Ky's front. He grabs the knight's hair, yanking his head up, and forces his cock between Ky's lips. "Suck it, knight boy. Taste what real men give."

Ky's mouth fills with the musky girth, the man fucking his face in time with the kid's pumps from behind. Saliva drips down Ky's chin, his throat working to accommodate, while the wiry one kneels beside, fingering his own ass in anticipation. No, wait, he moves to Ky's balls, squeezing them roughly to elicit a gag.

The cell fills with the sounds of flesh slapping flesh, grunts and moans blending into a symphony of dominance. Beerus' body rocks with each thrust from the leader, his hole clenching around the invading cock, juices leaking as the man pounds relentlessly.

"Gonna fill you up, godling,!" the leader pants, his pace quickening. He buries deep and unloads, hot cum flooding Beerus' insides, spilling out around his shaft as he pulls free.

The twin at Beerus' mouth follows suit, shooting ropes across the god's tongue, forcing him to swallow or choke.

Not done, the second twin takes the leader's place, his cock thicker, splitting Beerus wider as he hilts in one go. Beerus hisses, tail coiling around the man's leg in futile resistance, but the fucking resumes; hard, deep strokes that make his prostate throb. The wiry man leaves Ky momentarily to join, but no... the group rotates seamlessly.

Ky endures the kid's frantic thrusts, the boy's cock twitching inside him before he cums prematurely, a weak spurt coating Ky's walls.

"First time on a real man!" the kid gasps, pulling out with a whimper, cum dribbling down Ky's thigh. The missing-tooth man switches, flipping Ky onto his back and spreading his legs wide.

He plunges into the cum-slick hole, the knight's ass squelching as he bottoms out. Ky's cock hardens against his will, bobbing with each thrust, and the man notices, wrapping a calloused hand around it to jerk roughly.

"Look at that! Hero's getting off on it,' the missing-tooth taunts, pounding harder, his balls smacking Ky's ass. The boyish prisoner, recovering, climbs onto the bench and straddles Ky's chest, feeding his softening cock back into the knight's mouth. 'Clean it up. Like we make the kids do after."

Beerus, meanwhile, feels the twin's cock swell inside him, the man grunting as he adds his load, pumping until Beerus' hole overflows, white streaks running down his legs. The scarred leader, hard again, takes over, flipping Beerus onto his side and lifting one leg to fuck him from an angle that hits deeper.

"Persistent, ain't ya? Just like you said."

Beerus' growls turn to ragged breaths, his body betraying him as unwanted pleasure builds, his own cock leaking pre-cum onto the floor.

The wiry man finally claims Ky's ass after the missing-tooth pulls out, flooding the knight with another hot burst. He enters smooth, the cum easing the way, and fucks with wiry precision,long, twisting strokes that make Ky's toes curl.

"Tight even after all that," he murmurs, leaning down to bite Ky's nipple, drawing blood. Ky's hum returns faintly, a defiant rhythm against the onslaught, but his hips buck involuntarily.

The rotations continue, the five men tag-teaming without mercy. The twins double up on Beerus...one in his ass, the other forcing him to ride reverse while sucking the leader. Beerus' tail thrashes, his body slick with sweat and cum, hole gaping slightly between turns. He snarls threats between thrusts, but they fall on deaf ears, drowned by the wet sounds of penetration.

Ky faces a similar onslaught: the boyish kid recovers enough to fuck his mouth again, while the scarred leader takes his ass, stretching him with a girth that makes stars burst behind Ky's eyes.

"Appeal to morality now, knight," the leader mocks, slamming in balls-deep. Cum from previous loads squirts out with each withdrawal, pooling beneath them. The wiry and missing-tooth ones jerk off over Ky's chest, painting his noble torso with their releases.

Hours blur in the cell's timeless gloom, but the men don't tire easily. They bend Beerus over Ky at one point, making the god's cock rub against the knight's as they fuck them side by side. Beerus' impatience cracks into frustrated moans, his claws raking Ky's back accidentally.

"This... isn't... over," he gasps, even as another load fills his ass.

Ky, ever logical, whispers through the haze, "Endure... justice comes." But his body quivers, prostate milked relentlessly until he shudders and spills his own cum onto the floor, a betrayal of his pride.

The boyish prisoner, obsessed with his 'lessons,' pulls out of Ky's mouth and moves to Beerus, shoving his cock into the god's cum-drenched hole alongside the twin's. The double penetration makes Beerus roar, the stretch burning as two shafts grind inside him, stretching his walls to the limit.

"Like stuffing the little ones," the kid pants, thrusting shallowly. "They cry so pretty."

Finally, exhausted but triumphant, the five men pull back, leaving Beerus and Ky sprawled in a mess of fluids, asses leaking cum, bodies marked with bites and bruises. The leader zips up, smirking.

"Lesson learned? We'll be back tomorrow. Maybe bring some of the kids to watch."

Beerus slumps against the wall, tail limp, glaring daggers. "You... will pay." Ky, breathing steady once more, closes his eyes and resumes his hum, the sound a faint promise of retribution amid the violation.

But the men laugh as they retreat, the cell door clanging shut, leaving the two broken in.

Chapter 3: Jellal and Sephiroth

The library block of the prison is quiet enough that the faint buzzing of the overhead lights becomes a constant backdrop. The air is dry with the dusty scent of old pages and cheap ink. Jellal sits at a metal table in the corner, posture steady, eyes scanning over the worn spine of a book. It is one of the few places where the noise of the cell blocks cannot reach him. His breathing is calm, but a shadow of tension still rests in his shoulders. He is used to danger. He is used to hate. None of this is new.

Across from him, Sephiroth sits with a book open but only half read. His long silver hair falls over one shoulder, catching the harsh light in a way that makes it look almost metallic. His fingers lie still against the pages. He is quiet in a way that feels unnatura.

Even when he turns a page, his movements are precise and controlled. Nothing about him is restless. Nothing about him is uncertain.

Jellal reads. Sephiroth observes. Neither speaks.

The shift in the library’s atmosphere is subtle at first. A change in the rhythm of footsteps. A scrape of boots dragging along the floor. Jellal looks up only when the voices begin to rise. Seven men enter the aisle, filling the space with their broad shoulders and heavy shadows. Their uniforms are stretched tight over muscle, tattoos crowding their arms and throats. They walk with the confidence of men who own the ground they stand on.

The leader, a slab of height and muscle with a scar running across his nose, points directly at Jellal and Sephiroth. “You two.” His voice is deep, thick with hostility. “You were hanging around that purple freak earlier.”

Jellal closes his book slowly, sliding a finger between the pages. His expression stays neutral, but his jaw tightens with the smallest hint of irritation. “We were assigned to the same intake line,” he says. “That is all.”

Sephiroth does not look up at first. He takes his time. He lifts his chin, and when his eyes meet the seven prisoners, something cold settles over the room. His gaze is sharp, almost blade-like. It cuts without effort. “We arrived at the same time. That is the only connection.” He stands, tall and composed, his voice low and smooth. “Do not imply anything more.”

The leader scoffs. “You think you can talk like that in here?”

Sephiroth steps forward, unhurried. His presence seems to make the air itself tighten. His voice lowers even further. “Yes.”

The seven men shift. Some crack their knuckles. One laughs under his breath. Another spits to the side as if preparing himself for a fight. Jellal stands as well, slower than Sephiroth, but far more grounded. His eyes remain steady. He does not want trouble. Not yet. But he will not back down either.

“We do not want conflict,” Jellal says quietly.

Sephiroth’s eyes flick toward him, cold and unreadable. The slightest curve touches the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Something sharper. Something dangerous.

“Speak for yourself,” one of the prisoners says, stepping closer. “You walked in with that god wannabe. We do not like newcomers thinking they run things.”

Sephiroth tilts his head, silver hair sliding across his shoulder. “You misunderstand,” he says. “We do not run anything.” His voice sharpens, dropping half an octave. “But neither do you.”

The men bristle instantly.

Jellal notices it. Sephiroth is provoking them intentionally. Calmly. Efficiently. Like he is setting pieces on a board.

“Sephiroth,” Jellal warns quietly.

Sephiroth does not look at him. His eyes remain focused on the seven, assessing their weapons, their hands, their stances. He stands like a man who has already calculated the ending of a fight. “They came here with a purpose,” he murmurs. “Let them follow it.”

The leader steps forward until he is only an arm’s length away. “You think you scare us, silver hair?”

Sephiroth lifts a single brow, his voice steady. “No. I think I confuse you.” His gaze travels across all seven men. “You walked in here intending to target us because of who we arrived with. You want to assert dominance. You want to remind the cell block that you make the rules.” He pauses. “But your mistake is simple.” His voice drops even lower. “You chose the wrong target.”

The seven men shift uneasily. Jellal can feel it. They cannot tell if Sephiroth is threatening them or simply stating facts. He is too calm. Too sure.

Jellal steps forward, palms relaxed but ready. “There is no need to escalate this. You want to make a point, but picking a fight with us will not give you the result you expect.”

“Why not?” one of them snaps.

Jellal’s eyes sharpen slightly. “Because some of us want to avoid unnecessary conflict.” Then he glances at Sephiroth. “Others do not.”

Sephiroth lets his fingers glide over the edge of the book he was reading and closes it with slow, deliberate care. “You are perceptive,” he says to Jellal. He turns back to the seven men. “Allow me to clarify something. I have no intention of fighting you.” His gaze lowers, almost dismissively. “I am above that.”

That lands like a punch.

A low growl forms in one prisoner’s throat. Another steps closer. Tension crackles like static, thin but sharp.

Then Sephiroth speaks again.

“But he,” Sephiroth says as he nods toward Jellal, “will defend himself if you provoke him.” His tone becomes a whisper of cold steel. “And he will not hold back.”

Jellal stiffens, eyes widening a fraction. “What are you doing,” he whispers.

Sephiroth ignores him completely. His focus is on the seven men. His stance shifts subtly, not into aggression, but into something worse. Manipulation.

“You want a fight,” Sephiroth says. “But you want to win it.” His eyes narrow. “If you come at me, you will fail. If you come at him, you might stand a chance.” He pauses. “If all seven of you attack at once.”

The leader’s face contorts. “You think we need seven guys to take him?”

Sephiroth’s lips twitch slightly. “Yes.”

Jellal’s chest tightens. He can almost see the trap now. Sephiroth is not provoking them out of pride. He is directing them. Steering them. Guiding their anger like a blade.

One of the men snarls. “Fine. Someone needs to beat some humility into that pretty face.”

Sephiroth lifts a hand slightly. “Wait.”

The men hesitate.

Sephiroth’s voice softens, chilling in its calm. “If you are determined to make an example out of someone, perhaps you should consider the real reason you are angry.”
The leader spits on the floor. “And what reason is that?”

Sephiroth steps closer, his voice low enough that the air seems to drop in temperature. “Because you fear him.”

The men freeze.

Jellal’s breath catches.

Sephiroth steps back, watching the effect ripple through the group. Their pride flares immediately. Anger blinds them. Their attention shifts entirely to Jellal, exactly where Sephiroth wanted it.

“You are scared he is stronger than you,” Sephiroth continues softly. “So prove otherwise.”

The fury that explodes across the seven faces is instant.

One of them shouts. Another point at Jellal. “Get him.”

The leader steps forward. “Outside. Now.”

Jellal finally sees the full picture. Sephiroth is not trying to start a fight for himself. He is manipulating these men into eliminating a potential threat to him later or testing Jellal’s power firsthand. A quiet assessment. A cold experiment.

“Sephiroth,” Jellal says, voice low and tense. “Enough.”

Sephiroth tilts his head slightly. His expression stays calm, unreadable. “If you truly wish to avoid conflict,” he says softly, “then you should walk away.” He gestures to the exit. “They will follow.”

The seven men crack their knuckles. One slams a fist into his palm. The air turns heavy with anticipation.

Jellal stands still. His eyes narrow. His voice finally drops into a quiet steel.

“You manipulated them.”

Sephiroth closes his book and places it neatly on the table. “I clarified their intentions. And I clarified yours.” His gaze sharpens. “Whether you fight or flee is up to you.”

Jellal turns toward the approaching men, shoulders lifting in a slow, steady breath.

Sephiroth watches him, expression unreadable.

The tension in the room vibrates like a wire pulled too tight.

The seven men begin to circle.

Sephiroth steps back, folding his arms, calm as ever.

“You wanted a quiet corner,” he says softly. “Let us see how well you defend it.”

The first blow lands before Jellal even finishes lifting his head. A heavy fist cracks against the side of his jaw, snapping it sideways, sending a burst of ringing through his ears. He stumbles but does not raise his hands. He never does. He simply breathes out, a tired, defeated sound, and the men circle around him like wolves scenting a wounded animal.

“Look at him. Already giving up,” one of the bigger inmates laughs.

Jellal bows his head slightly, shoulders curled inward. “It is fine,” he murmurs. “I deserve it.”

Another punch slams into his ribs. He folds almost instantly, collapsing to one knee, breath leaving him in a choked gasp. He does not try to stand. He does not try to fight. He only braces on his hands, shaking, letting the kicks come.

Sephiroth watches from behind the group, leaning lazily against the wall with his book half-closed in one hand. His green eyes look almost bored. Or perhaps satisfied.

One of the men grabs Jellal by his hair, yanks his head up. “Say something. Go on.”

Jellal’s eyes are watery, dazed, unfocused. “You are right to do this,” he whispers. “I earned it.”

The man laughs and shoves him into the concrete. Jellal hits face-first, cheek scraping against the floor. He makes a soft, broken sound and stays there. No attempt to rise. No anger. Only acceptance.

Three of them pile onto him at once, pinning his arms back, forcing his face into the floor.

“Pathetic little priest,” one says, pushing his knee between Jellal’s shoulder blades.

“Should not have walked in here with a god,” another snorts.

Jellal chokes on his breath. “I know.” His voice is muffled by the floor. “I know. I never belonged among them.”

A knee drives into his spine. He gasps, trembling. Still no struggle. If anything, he tries to shift into the pressure to make their work easier. To make it hurt more.

Sephiroth’s gaze sharpens at that. He closes the book fully and tucks it under one arm, watching the scene with a quiet curiosity, as if evaluating prey, or a flawed experiment.

Jellal tries to speak again. “If this is punishment… I accept it.”

The leader cracks his knuckles and crouches near Jellal’s head. “Punishment? No. Punishment has purpose. This is entertainment.”

Jellal’s eyes flutter shut. “Then do what you want.”

The group laughs. They hit him again. And again. He takes every blow, limp as a rag doll, breath hitching but never resisting. Blood spreads across the floor under his cheek.

One man squeezes his wrist so hard it pops. Jellal winces, but instead of pulling away, he whispers, “Do not stop on my account.”

The burly man towers over Jellal, his massive frame slick with sweat, a wicked grin splitting his bearded face.

 "How about we have a little more fun then!?" he bellows, his deep laugh rumbling through the dim room like thunder. 

The other three men chuckle in agreement, their eyes gleaming with lust as they circle Jellal, who kneels on the grimy floor, chest heaving, body already marked with red handprints and drying streaks of precum from earlier torments.

Jellal's muscles tremble, his hole twitching from the rough fingering it endured moments ago, but he doesn't resist. He knows his place bound, exposed, ready for whatever these brutes demand. The burly man grabs Jellal's hair first, yanking his head back to force eye contact. 

"Open wide, slut," he growls, while the others strip off their pants, thick cocks springing free, veined and throbbing, tips glistening with anticipation.

Two men position themselves behind Jellal, knees spreading his thighs wide. The first, a lean guy with tattoos snaking up his arms, spits on his palm and slicks his girthy shaft. He presses the fat head against Jellal's pucker, which clenches instinctively before yielding. With a grunt, he shoves in, the ring of muscle stretching taut around his invading cock. Jellal gasps, his back arching, but before he can adjust, the second man. 

A stocky brute with a hairy gut lines up beside him. He rams forward without mercy, forcing his own meaty prick alongside the first, the dual intrusion splitting Jellal's ass obscenely wide.

"Fuck, he's tight even with two," the tattooed one groans, his hips snapping as he buries himself balls-deep. 

Jellal's hole burns, the relentless stretch sending fire through his nerves, but his cock hardens traitorously beneath him, leaking onto the floor. The two men in his ass piston in brutal unison at first, then alternate. 

One pulls out as the other slams home, churning his guts into a sloppy mess. Wet squelches fill the air, mingled with the slap of flesh on flesh, their heavy balls smacking against Jellal's taint.

Up front, the burly man and his wiry partner seize Jellal's jaw, prying it open. "Suck it down, boy," the burly one commands, thrusting his enormous cock past Jellal's lips. The girth chokes him immediately, the salty tang of skin flooding his mouth as the head bullies into his throat. 

Jellal gags, saliva drooling from the corners, but the wiry man wedges in next, cramming his slender but long dick beside the first. Jellal's cheeks bulge, jaws aching from the strain, as both cocks saw in and out, fucking his face like a fleshlight.

Tears stream down Jellal's face, his throat convulsing around the dual invasion, but he sucks greedily, tongue swirling over veins and ridges, hollowing his cheeks to milk them. The men grunt and curse, hands fisting his hair, holding him impaled.

 "That's it, take your punishment," the burly man snarls, his belly pressing against Jellal's forehead with each deep plunge. Spit cascades down Jellal's chin, pooling on his chest, while behind him, the ass-fuckers pick up speed, their cocks grinding together inside him, prostate mashed relentlessly.

Jellal's body rocks between the four pounding pricks, a ragdoll for their pleasure. His ass gapes around the double stuffing, inner walls fluttering, milking the shafts as they ream him raw. Pre-cum lubes the way, turning his hole into a frothy sleeve. 

He moans around the cocks in his mouth, vibrations humming through them, drawing out louder groans. The tattooed man slaps Jellal's flank hard, leaving a welt. 

"Greedy little whore, clenching like that. You love being stuffed full."

They rut harder, syncing their assaults. The mouth-fuckers pull back to let Jellal gasp air before plunging deeper, balls dragging over his chin. In his ass, the duo stretches him impossibly, one cock curving up to nail his spot while the other hammers straight. Jellal's vision blurs, overwhelmed by the fullness four cocks claiming every hole at once, dominating him utterly. 

His own dick throbs untouched, spurting ropes of pre onto the floor as waves of humiliated ecstasy crash through him.

Sweat drips from the men's bodies onto Jellal's back, their grunts growing ragged. The wiry man in his mouth twitches first. "Gonna flood this throat," he hisses, hips jerking erratically. 

Hot spurts erupt, thick cum coating Jellal's tongue and sliding down his gullet. He swallows convulsive, but the burly man's load follows seconds later, blasting ropes that overflow, bubbling from Jellal's nostrils as he chokes it down.

Behind, the ass-pounders reach their peak. The stocky one growls, "Here it comes," and unloads deep, semen jetting into 

Jellal's bowels in powerful pulses. The tattooed man joins, his cock pulsing alongside, pumping more seed until it squirts back out around their shafts, creamy rivulets trickling down Jellal's thighs. 

They grind through their orgasms, stirring the mess inside him, before finally withdrawing with wet pops, leaving his ass a wrecked, gaping crater oozing cum.

Jellal collapses forward, coughing up excess jizz, body quivering from the onslaught. Cum leaks from his ruined hole and dribbles from his lips, painting him in their dominance. But as the men catch their breath, smirking down at him, a desperate whine escapes Jellal's throat.

 He looks up, eyes glazed with need, "More," he begs hoarsely, voice raw. "Please... fill me with more semen. I need it... stuff me again. Punish me harder."

The burly man laughs once more, stroking his softening cock back to life. "Hear that, boys? Our slut's not done yet. Round two."

Sephiroth finally steps forward. His boots tap softly on the concrete. The men freeze as his shadow settles over them.

He looks down at Jellal, broken and barely conscious, and his lips curl just slightly in approval.

“He is not worth the effort,” Sephiroth says in a calm, cold tone. “Trash rarely is.”

Jellal tries to lift his head at the voice. “He is right,” he mumbles.

Sephiroth’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Let him breathe,” he says, not out of mercy, but disinterest. “There is no challenge in reducing what has already reduced itself.”

The men hesitate, unsure whether they should continue or not.

Jellal finally looks up at them through a swollen eye, trembling. “Please. Do not let me interrupt. I accept it. Every part of it.”

The leader snorts. “What kind of man begs to have his insides beaten?”

Sephiroth answers before Jellal can. “One who believes suffering is all he deserves.”

 

The cold words hang in the air. Jellal lowers his head again, agreeing with grim silence.

 

The leader stands, grabs Jellal by the shirt, and throws him backward. Jellal tumbles, barely catching himself on shaking arms.

 

“Pitiful,” the man says. “I thought you mages were supposed to be dangerous.”

 

“I am not,” Jellal whispers.

 

He stays on his hands and knees, breath shallow, waiting for the next strike. He does not even look up.

 

The men share a look. The fun is gone. There is no thrill in beating something that has already surrendered its last scrap of pride.

One of them nudges Jellal’s shoulder with his boot. Jellal sinks lower to the ground.

The leader scoffs. “Let’s go. This one is already broken.”

The group disperses with disappointed curses and laughter, leaving Jellal crumpled on the floor like discarded cloth.

Sephiroth walks past him, not even slowing down. His voice drifts down, calm and sharp.

“Stand, if you can.”

Jellal presses his forehead to the floor and forces out a quiet, broken answer.

“I do not deserve to stand.”

Sephiroth says nothing. The faintest smirk crosses his face as he walks away.

Jellal stays where he is, trembling in a small puddle of his own blood, believing he has finally received a fraction of what he earned.

Sephiroth strides through the dimly lit prison corridor, his silver hair swaying with each confident step, leather coat draped over broad shoulders like a cape of superiority. 

The metallic tang of rust and sweat hangs heavy in the air, but he ignores it, chin lifted in that signature arrogance. He thinks he's slipped away clean.

No more of those filthy inmates pawing at him. The act of itself more degrading than he assumes it to be. A subtle sneer curls his lips; these worms couldn't touch his untouchable core.

But then, heavy footsteps echo behind him. Three burly prisoners block his path, their tattooed arms crossed over barrel chests, grins feral under the flickering fluorescent lights.

 The leader, a scarred brute with a shaved head and missing teeth, steps forward. "Where you think you're goin', pretty boy? Can't strut around here like you're the shit when you're not."

His voice drips venom, eyes raking over Sephiroth's lithe, muscular frame.

Sephiroth pauses, green eyes narrowing to slits. "Out of my way," he says coldly, voice like iced steel, a disdainful flick of his wrist dismissing them.

 But they laugh, low and menacing. The second one, wiry with a buzzcut and piercings, grabs Sephiroth's arm. 

"Nah, silver fox. We see it. You ain't broken yet. That icy stare? We're gonna shatter it." The third, stocky with a beer gut and hairy knuckles, nods. "Time to break the unbreakable!"

Before Sephiroth can react, the leader shoves him hard against the cold concrete wall. Sephiroth stumbles, boots scraping, but they swarm him. Fists slam into his gut, knees bucking his legs out. He hits the grimy floor on all fours, breath knocked out, coat ripping as hands yank it off. 

"Filth!" he spits, a sneer twisting his perfect features, but they pin his arms, knees grinding into his back.

"That's right, it's dirt all over you!" ' the leader growls. He unzips his jumpsuit, hauls out his thick cock, already half-hard, and aims a hot stream of piss right at Sephiroth's face. 

Yellow urine splashes across his high cheekbones, soaking silver strands, dripping into his open mouth as he gags. The wiry one joins, piss arcing from his veined prick to drench Sephiroth's chest, staining the white shirt translucent against pale skin.

 The stocky one laughs, unleashing his own torrent over Sephiroth's back, the acrid warmth seeping through fabric, pooling under his knees.

Sephiroth thrashes, choking on the bitter flood, eyes burning, but their grips ironclad.

"Disgusting animals!" he hisses through spluttering lips, arrogance cracking just a hair. 

They haul him up by the hair, forcing him to strip. Fingers claw at buttons, shredding his shirt to expose toned abs and perky nipples hardening in the chill. 

Pants yanked down, his long, elegant cock swings free, betraying a twitch despite his fury. Boots kicked off, he's naked, glistening with their piss, shoved back to hands and knees.

"Crawl, bitch," the leader commands, boot nudging Sephiroth's ribs. He complies with a glare, crawling across the wet floor, ass flexing, hole exposed. 

Across the corridor, in a shadowed cell door, Jellal Fernandes kneels, chained to the bars. Another inmate, a massive guard-like figure with a bulging gut, pounds his ass relentlessly. They may have given up on him, but the other inmates want easy man meat.

Jellal's dark hair mats with sweat, serious face etched in remorse, no pride left. His hole stretches around the inmate's fat cock, slamming in with wet slaps, balls smacking his taint. Jellal watches Sephiroth, guilt twisting his features. 

A mix of shame for his own submission and sorrow for Sephiroth's fall.

The three prisoners circle Sephiroth like wolves. Leader grabs his jaw, forces it open. "Hands on cocks, now."

 Sephiroth's slender fingers wrap around the wiry one's slender shaft and the stocky one's girthy meat, both throbbing hot in his palms. He strokes reluctantly at first, grip firming under threats, thumbs circling slick heads. Pre-cum beads, lubing the way as he pumps faster, veins pulsing under his touch.

The leader thrusts his enormous cock past Sephiroth's lips, the bulbous head battering his throat. Sephiroth gags violently, retching sounds echoing as the shaft bullies deeper, stretching his jaw wide.

 "Choke on it, arrogant prick!" the leader snarls, hips snapping, fucking Sephiroth's face with brutal force.

 Saliva sprays, tears streak piss-wet cheeks, Sephiroth's throat convulsing around the invasion. He gurgles, minimal words lost in gags, only a muffled sneer vibrating the cock.

Jellal's eyes lock on the scene, guilt flooding him as the inmate behind reams his ass harder, prostate mashed with each plunge. 

"Sephiroth..." Jellal whispers remorsefully, voice breaking, body rocking forward with every thrust. 

Cum from earlier leaks from his stuffed hole, but his face shows pure guilt. Sorrow for his companion's humiliation.

Sephiroth's hands fly over the two cocks, twisting wrists on upstrokes, squeezing bases, drawing grunts. The wiry one bucks into his fist, piercings glinting. Stocky one's balls tighten, hairy sack slapping Sephiroth's knuckles. 

Leader face-fucks mercilessly, nose buried in wiry pubes, balls dragging over chin. Sephiroth's own cock hardens traitorously, dripping pre onto the floor, arrogance warring with forced pleasure.

They swell, grunting. Wiry one erupts first, ropes of thick cum splattering Sephiroth's elegant face, coating eyelashes, lips. Stocky follows, jizz arcing to paint perky nipples white, dripping down ripped abs. Leader yanks out, stroking furiously, blasting hot seed across Sephiroth's cheeks and those sensitive buds, semen pooling in the hollow of his throat.

 Sephiroth gasps, cum-smeared sneer fading to dazed shock, body marked as their territory.

"Not done, silver slut!" leader pants. They flip him onto his back, legs hoisted high, exposing his tight, pink hole. Jellal whimpers nearby, ass clenching around the pounding cock, guilt heavy as he watches. 

The three line up, cocks rigid again. Leader presses first, fat head breaching Sephiroth's ring, stretching it taut. Sephiroth hisses, "You dare-!' but words cut off as wiry wedges beside, slender length forcing in parallel, burning friction.

Stocky rams third, his girth splitting Sephiroth impossibly wide. Three cocks cram his ass, walls yielding in agony-ecstasy, hole gaping obscenely around the triple stuffing. Sephiroth's back arches, a rare cry escaping cold facade cracking.

They thrust in unison, churning his guts, prostates hammered raw. Wet squelches mix with slaps, balls battering his ass cheeks.

Pain blooms into white-hot pleasure, Sephiroth's mind fracturing under the relentless stretch. His cock throbs untouched, spurting cum in humiliating arcs as waves crash through him.

Arrogance shatters, he's broken, reduced to a moaning hole for their cocks. Across the way, Jellal's pounding intensifies, the inmate growling as he nears climax.

Jellal breaks, voice raw with remorse and need. "Please... end it," he begs the inmate, guilt lacing every word for both their fates. "I deserve this punishment... for everything. But more!! fill me with more male semen. Stuff my ass, make me pay."

 Tears streak his face, no pride, just submissive guilt as the inmate unloads deep, cum flooding his bowels.

Sephiroth hears the begging piercing his haze, pushing him over. The three in his ass swell, leader roaring first, semen jetting into his core. Wiry pulses next, hot ropes mixing. Stocky floods last, overflow squirting out around their shafts, creamy mess trickling down crack. 

They grind through releases, stirring the load, before pulling free with lewd pops, leaving Sephiroth's hole a wrecked, pulsing crater, cum bubbling out.

Sephiroth lies ruined, cum-painted body quivering, mind utterly broken. Left with dazed submission. The prisoners laugh, zipping up. Jellal slumps, inmate withdrawing, guilt eternal in his eyes. The corridor reeks of piss, cum, dominance

 

Chapter 4: Haji Towa and Hisoka

The showers patterns to life in loud, uneven bursts, steam slowly curling up toward the stained ceiling. The heat is welcome after the cold metal corridors, though the air has that familiar prison smell of rust, bleach, and damp concrete.

Haji Towa is the first to step inside. He tilts his head slowly, eyes scanning every corner with that fox-like grin that shows he is already amused. The steam reflects faintly in his eyes, giving him an almost supernatural gleam.

“Well,” he says lightly, “at least they give us warm water. I was half expecting buckets and insults.”

Hisoka strolls in behind him, twirling his fingers as if flicking invisible cards. His smile is sharp and lazy at the same time. “Insults would have been entertaining. Buckets too, if I felt like turning the moment into something fun.”

Haji laughs, soft and quick, like he is delighted by the idea. “Fun for you. Miserable for the rest of us.”

Hisoka tilts his head back, letting the water cascade over his face. “Miserable is fun.”

There is no arguing with him on that point.

Haji steps into the spray beside him, rolling his shoulders beneath the falling water. His expression shifts into something thoughtful. “You know, I am starting to think the warden put us in the same block on purpose.”

Hisoka snorts quietly. “To torture the others. Obviously.”

“Or us,” Haji replies, smirking. “Maybe he thought we would annoy each other until we snapped.”

Hisoka’s eyes slide open. He gives Haji an amused look through the steam. “Is that what you think will happen?”

“Oh no.” Haji flicks water at him casually. “I think you enjoy the company too much.”

Hisoka laughs, a soft, delighted little sound that is never fully human. “Maybe I do.”

He leans against the tiled wall, arms relaxed at his sides. The water drips slowly from his hair, streaking across his shoulders and down his back. His smile sharpens.

“You are fun to watch,” Hisoka says. “You react like you already know the joke before it happens.”

“Because I do,” Haji answers. “You are terribly predictable.”

Hisoka raises an eyebrow. “Predictable?”

“Yes.” Haji nods in mock seriousness. “You grin. You threaten. You tease. You act as if you are above everything, but you always want someone to bite back.”

Hisoka hums thoughtfully. “Do you plan to bite back?”

Haji runs a hand through his wet hair. “I might. Depends on my mood.”

Hisoka steps a little closer, curious. “And what mood are you in right now?”

“Hm.” Haji lets his eyes wander around the shower, as if considering it. “Spiteful. Mischievous. Slightly bored.”

Hisoka’s grin widens with approval. “Delicious.”

Haji laughs again, the soft sound echoing slightly in the steamy space. “You really know how to flatter a man.”

Hisoka leans forward, shadow falling over Haji. “That was not flattery. That was observation.”

The steam around them thickens, the air warm enough to soften every sound except the constant hiss of flowing water. The other inmates give them a wide berth, pretending not to watch. It is safer that way.

Haji flicks water into Hisoka’s face again. “You are staring.”

“I always stare at things that interest me,” Hisoka replies.

“And when you get bored?” Haji asks.

Hisoka’s smile becomes cruel. “I break them.”

Haji’s grin mirrors that cruelty perfectly. “Then I suppose I will have to stay interesting.”

Hisoka tilts his head, openly enjoying the challenge. “Try.”

They shower in silence for a moment, though it is anything but peaceful. The air between them hums with something sharp, something playful, something dangerous. Every small movement feels deliberate. Every breath sounds like part of a game only they understand.

Haji finally speaks again. “Tell me something. Did the warden irritate you today?”

Hisoka shrugs lightly. “He tried.”

“Tried?” Haji teases. “You seemed very pleased with yourself when you argued with him.”

Hisoka pretends to look embarrassed. “Please. If I wanted to get under his skin, he would be foaming at the mouth.”

Haji laughs loudly enough to echo off the tile. “You could make a saint foam at the mouth.”

Hisoka smirks. “Would you?”

Haji tilts his head. “Would I what?”

“Foam at the mouth,” Hisoka says, sipping water off the corner of his lip like it is a joke only he understands.

“Not unless it suits me,” Haji replies with a casual flick of his fingers.

Hisoka steps closer. Close enough that the steam between them has nowhere to go. “I think you would.”

Haji meets his eyes with a matching grin. “And I think you are projecting again.”

That makes Hisoka laugh outright. A smooth, amused sound that makes two inmates nearby quickly move to the opposite side of the shower room.

Hisoka glances their way. “They are afraid of us.”

“They should be,” Haji answers immediately.

Hisoka taps his chin thoughtfully. “Do you enjoy that?”

“Of course.” Haji looks almost offended by the question. “Fear is a useful thing.”

Hisoka nods slowly. “It is. It makes people predictable.”

“Predictable,” Haji repeats, smirking. “You really love that word.”

Hisoka leans back under the spray. “No. I love predictability in others. Not in you.”

Haji gives a theatrical bow under the water. “I am deeply honored.”

“You should be.”

A moment passes where they simply rinse off in silence. But even that silence feels like part of the same ongoing game. Small glances. Secretive smiles. Both pretending this is normal behavior when nothing about either of them is normal.

Haji finally sighs. “Do you think tomorrow will be more interesting?”

Hisoka shrugs slowly. “If it is not, we will make it interesting.”

Haji lets out a low whistle. “That sounds like trouble.”

Hisoka’s grin curves into something wicked. “Exactly.”

They exchange a look that says everything without needing a single word. A shared promise of chaos. A mutual understanding that boredom is the real enemy, and neither of them ever lets boredom win.

Haji wipes the water from his face. “We should head out before the guards start yelling.”

Hisoka stretches, water dripping from every line of muscle. “Let them yell. Their voices are annoying but amusing.”

“You are going to get us in trouble again,” Haji sighs with exaggerated weariness.

Hisoka walks past him at a slow, deliberate pace. “You love it.”

Haji pauses, pretends to consider that. “Maybe I do.”

Hisoka glances back at him over his shoulder, smiling with that sharp, playful curve of his lips. “Good. Then follow me.”

Haji’s grin spreads even wider. “After you.”

They exit the shower block together, steam curling behind them like a trail of mischief, danger, and barely restrained chaos. Whatever tomorrow brings, they will twist it into something entertaining. And everyone else will suffer for it.

They exit the shower block together, steam curling behind them like a trail of mischief, danger, and barely restrained chaos. 

Haji is only two steps from the exit when a heavy arm slams across the doorway, blocking him completely. Before he can look up, another hand shoves hard against his back, forcing him deeper into the steam cloud.

Hisoka lands lightly beside him, but even he has to shift his balance when two massive bodies close in from behind.

Five inmates encircle them. Two more step out of the steam like giants emerging from fog. Muscles layered on muscles. Wet tile under their feet. Shadows swallowing the room.

Haji lifts his chin. “That is a lot of enthusiasm for two men who were minding their own business.”

One of the inmates laughs. “You think you are special.”

Hisoka tilts his head, water dripping from his hair. “No. I know I am.”

That earns him a shove. A hard one. His back hits the wall with an echo that rolls through the shower room. His expression does not break, but his eyes sharpen slightly.

Haji smirks. “That was rude.”

The leader steps closer, breath heavy, steam curling around his shoulders like smoke. “You two were laughing. Like you owned the place.”

Hisoka’s smile curves gently. “That bothers you.”

“It pisses us off,” another growls.

Haji exhales through his nose. “Then you must be furious all the time. I laugh at everything.”

The leader reaches for Haji’s throat.

Haji starts to twist away, but two men grab his arms at the same time. Their grip is iron. Their strength is nothing like the inmates they met earlier. These men feel trained, disciplined, dangerous.

Haji’s eyes widen a fraction. “Oh. This is different.”

Hisoka moves immediately, but the leader swings first.

A fist drives into Hisoka’s stomach. The hit lands hard enough that Hisoka actually folds slightly, breath catching in his throat. Another inmate grabs his arms from behind and wrenches them back. His wrists grind painfully.

Hisoka exhales softly. A tiny hiss that betrays strain.

That alone makes the big men grin.

Haji tries to twist free again. “Let go. I am not in the mood.”

Two more hands grip him, pinning him fully. His ribs press against the hold. Someone shoves him forward and his knees skid on the slippery floor.

Haji snarls under his breath. “You are not very polite.”

A hand clamps onto his hair and forces his head down. The tile is cold and wet under his palm as he braces himself.

“Polite is not part of this,” the leader says. “Respect is.”

Hisoka strains against the hold. His wrists tremble as the men force his arms higher behind his back. Hisoka’s smile tightens, smaller than usual, but still there.

“You are strong,” he admits quietly.

The man behind him laughs close to his ear. “And you are not as untouchable as you think.”

 

The shove hit Haji so hard he staggered forward, palms slapping the wet tile as steam curled around him. Another heavy body pushed past Hisoka with a rude shoulder-check that nearly spun him. The bigger inmates laughed, not lingering, not trying anything, only treating the two of them like obstacles in their way.

Haji muttered something sharp under his breath and straightened. Hisoka slid against him from behind, hands settling on Haji’s waist as he steadied himself.

Several inmates paused in the mist. They had turned just enough to look. Not subtle. Not discreet. Quiet conversations dropped into curious silence.

Hisoka noticed instantly. His grin sharpened with delight.

He leaned in close to Haji’s ear. His voice came out louder than necessary, clearly meant for an audience.

"You see that? They cannot take their eyes off you."

Haji shot him a glare, but Hisoka only smiled wider, almost innocent, but not at all.

"Relax. You look good when you are pushed around."

Haji growled, a frustrated sound. "Keep running your mouth and I might actually do something about it."

"Yes, please do," Hisoka replied. He drew back just enough to make sure the inmates could see the way he looked at Haji. "I am very bored today."

A couple of inmates exchanged glances. One snorted. Another murmured something like, "Crazy bastards."

Haji should have stepped away. Instead he planted a hand on Hisoka’s chest, pushing lightly but not actually moving him. His fingers stayed for a moment too long, sliding over warm skin slick with water.

Hisoka let out an exaggerated hum. Loud. Teasing.

"Careful. You keep touching me like that and they will think you want something."

"They already think that about you," Haji shot back, also loud enough to be heard by anyone pretending not to listen.

The corner of Hisoka’s mouth lifted.

"Then let us give them something to wonder about."

Haji felt a rush of heat crawl up his neck. He knew the inmates were still watching. He could feel their attention like a weight. Instead of stepping back, he turned toward Hisoka fully. The tension snapped tighter.

Hisoka reached up, slow and deliberate, tracing a droplet of water from Haji’s shoulder to his collarbone.

"You are shaking," he said.

"Bullshit."

"No, you are." Hisoka raised his voice slightly, tone bright and mocking, clearly performing for the audience. "Look at you. All flustered because I touched you."

A few of the watching inmates chuckled under their breath

Haji leaned in, close enough that their foreheads nearly touched. "If I am flustered, then what does that make you?"

Hisoka’s hand tightened on Haji’s hip. "Hopeful."

That one word came out soft. Only for Haji.

But everything else that followed was loud and meant for every pair of eyes on them.

Hisoka dragged his fingertips lower along Haji’s stomach, slow enough to make Haji’s breath catch.

"Take the towel off," Hisoka teased, voice bright, almost playful. "Unless you are scared someone will see how badly you want me."

Several inmates whistled or muttered something approving.

Haji barked out a laugh, deep and reckless.

"Try harder. If you want this towel, you are pulling it off yourself."

Hisoka’s eyes glinted.

"Oh, gladly."

He reached, fingers brushing the edge of the towel.

At that exact moment, a loud crash echoed from the far end of the shower room. Metal hitting tile. Several inmates turned toward the noise, but Hisoka did not mobe his hand..

The towel slipped an inch.

They both froze.

The inmates watching went silent, more stun than anything.

Steam curls through the prison shower room, thick and humid, carrying the sharp scent of cheap soap and unwashed bodies. Tiles gleam slick under harsh fluorescent lights, water pattering from overhead nozzles. 

A circle of inmates lounges against the walls, towels slung low or discarded, their eyes locked on the two men at the center: Haji Towa, chaotic and cunning with his wild dark hair plastered wet to his neck, lean muscles taut under golden skin; and Hisoka, playful sadist with painted lips curled in a teasing grin, lithe body coiled like a spring, heart tattoos peeking from his damp chest.

"Hopeful," Haji murmurs, soft only for Hisoka's ears, voice laced with cunning promise amid the chaos he thrives in.

But everything else blasts loud, drawing every stare. Hisoka drags his fingertips lower along Haji's stomach, slow drag making Haji's breath hitch sharp. 

"Take the towel off," Hisoka teases, voice bright, almost playful, eyes glinting with sadistic glee. "Unless you're scared someone will see how badly you want me."

Whistles erupt from the inmates, mutters of approval rippling through the steam. One hairy brute licks his lips, another adjusts his thickening cock.

Haji barks a laugh, deep and reckless, chaos sparking in his gaze. "Try harder. If you want this towel, you're pulling it off yourself."

Hisoka's eyes sharpen, predatory. "Oh, gladly."

He reaches, fingers brushing the towel's edge, nails grazing Haji's hip bone. Tension coils, inmates leaning in.

Then a loud crash echoes from the far end. Metal clangs against tile, showerhead wrenching free maybe, water spraying wild. Heads swivel, murmurs rising, but Hisoka doesn't flinch. His hand stays firm.

The towel slips an inch, exposing the dark trail of hair leading to Haji's heavy cock, half-hard and twitching.

They both freeze. Inmates fall silent, stunned more than angry, eyes flicking between the pair and the commotion.

Hisoka recovers first, chuckling low, sadistic edge sharpening. He straightens, hand lingering on Haji's waist. "Well, that was dramatic. But honestly, boys, I'm not interested in men. Too... pedestrian."

A stocky inmate with a scarred jaw steps forward, sneer twisting his mug. He eyes Hisoka's painted nails, the playful sway. "We know. You prefer boys."

Laughter explodes, crude and hungry. Haji smirks cunningly, but before he retorts, the inmates swarm. Six in total, three burly fucks per man, grab them rough. Massive hands clamp wrists, shove Haji face-first against the wet tile wall, Hisoka spun and pinned beside him, shoulders grinding into cold ceramic.

"Shut your whore mouths," the scarred leader growls at Hisoka, yanking his head back by pink-streaked hair. "Time to stuff those cock-teasing holes."

Haji twists, chaotic energy flaring, but two inmates pin his arms wide, a third knees his legs apart. His towel rips free, cock swinging thick and veined, ass cheeks spreading under rough palms. 

"You think you can handle this chaos?" Haji taunts, cunning glint unbroken.

His first assailant a tattooed giant rams fingers into Haji's mouth, stretching lips wide. "Suck, you cunning little shit."

 Spit dribbles as Haji complies with a reckless grin, tongue swirling the digits while the second inmate behind spits a thick glob onto his hole, working it in with a callused thumb. The third strokes his own fat cock, pre beading the slit.

Beside him, Hisoka laughs breathy, sadistic even in restraint. "Oh? Boys, is it? Flatter me more." 

But his tease cuts short as his trio attacks: one shoves a girthy prick past his lips, battering the throat with piston thrusts, gagging him wetly. "Choke, pretty boy-fucker," the man snarls, hips snapping. Another two flank his ass; one wedges his cockhead in, breaching the tight ring with a burn, the other cramming alongside, double-stuffing Hisoka's guts in agonizing stretch.

The inmates force Haji and Hisoka face-to-face, inches apart, breaths mingling hot.

 "Kiss the gaylord next to you," Haji's leader barks, fist tangling in both their hairs, mashing mouths together. Lips crash bruising, tongues duel fierce. Haji's chaotic and demanding, Hisoka's teasing and biting. They swap saliva, moaning into the grind as cocks invade.

Haji's ass yields to the first thick shaft slamming home, balls slapping his taint with wet smacks. The second inmate forces in beside it, stretching Haji impossibly, walls fluttering in protest-pleasure.

 "Fucking take it, chaos slut," they grunt, pounding alternate, churning his hole sloppy. The third throat-fucks him now, pulling from Hisoka's kiss to ram deep, cock pulsing on Haji's tongue.

Hisoka's face twists in ecstasy-pain, double cocks reaming his ass raw, prostate mashed relentlessly. Spit flies from the oral assault, his painted lips smeared. 

"Mmm, harder, you brutes," he gasps during a pull-out, sarcastic challenge dripping even as tears well.

Inmates hawk loogies, spitting globs onto faces, chests, cocks. Thick saliva splatters Haji's cheeks, drips down his chin into Hisoka's mouth during their forced kisses. 

"Filthy cum-dump," one spits verbally and literally, hawking onto Haji's stretched hole mid-thrust.

They rotate, relentless. Haji's trio unloads first, throat-fucker erupts, hot cum flooding his gullet, forcing swallows around the gag. Haji coughs ropes into Hisoka's waiting mouth during their kiss, swapping the bitter load tongue-to-tongue, semen bubbling at lip corners.

 "Swallow that boy-lover jizz, pink whore," an inmate jeers.

Ass duo climaxes next, cocks twitching deep in Haji's wrecked passage. Seed jets thick, overflowing around the shafts, squirting down thighs with each withdraw-thrust. They pull free sloppy, only for fresh rotations, new cocks plunge in, fucking the creamy mess deeper. 

"Greedy ass-pig, milking us dry," they curse, spitting on his back.

Hisoka fares no better. His mouth-fucker blasts cum across tongue, which he shoves into Haji's kiss, trading salty spurts back and forth, chins glistening. 

"Taste that man-meat, you teasing cunt," his ass-pounders growl, double shafts unloading ropes into his bowels. Cum gushes out as they swap, third inmate slotting in to triple his stretch.

Three cocks cram Haji's ass now? No, Hisoka's trio doubles down, two in ass, one forcing into the packed hole for a brutal triple, walls screaming.

"Look at these pathetic dick-suckers," inmates chant, spitting volleys; face, nipples, cocks. Haji's perky buds harden under drool and pre, Hisoka's lithe chest heaving with globs sliding down.

 They cum repeatedly, rotations endless: pull out to blast faces, reload into asses or mouths.

Haji bucks wild, cunning shattered into moans, cock untouched but spurting pre arcs onto tile. 

"Fuck yes, wreck me," he growls chaotic during a breath, kissing Hisoka sloppy, semen swapping in viscous strings. 

Hisoka bites Haji's lip, sadistic spark alive. "Authority hates this, doesn't it? Warden's probably jerking to our ruin."

Crash forgotten, turns out a loose pipe, no guards. Inmates laugh, pounding harder. Haji's hole gapes ruined, cum farting out with thrusts, three cocks alternating now, stretching permanent. Hisoka's ass matches, triple-fucked to prolapse edge, semen pooling at feet.

Final rounds erupt: Haji's face painted white ropes, dripping into eyes; ass flooded till belly bloats, leaking rivers. Hisoka's nipples cum-glazed, lips overflowing traded loads. They kiss through it, swapping endless semen, tongues coated thick.

"Broken boy-fuckers," "Cum-guzzling trash," names hurled with spits and slaps. Inmates withdraw spent, leaving the pair slumped against wall, bodies wrecked asses pulsing craters oozing white, faces masks of jizz and spit, kissing weakly still.

Haji grins cunning through the mess, chaotic unbroken. Hisoka licks a stripe up Haji's cheek, teasing eternal. Steam swirls, inmates jeering fade.

Chapter 5: The New Cumsluts

The prison walls crumble under the force of the breakout, alarms blaring into the night as chaos erupts across the yard. Ky Kiske, once a righteous knight, drops to his knees amid the rubble, his blue eyes glazed with a hunger that overrides his former honor. He scans the shadowed figures emerging from cells, rough inmates with bulging muscles and hardened stares, and spreads his legs wide, yanking down his torn pants to expose his tight ass.

"Fuck me!" he begs, voice hoarse, "Stuff me full!"

Beerus, the destroyer god reduced to a whimpering slut, lounges against a chain-link fence that's half-torn down. His purple skin glistens under the floodlights, tail flicking as he arches his back, presenting his plush cheeks. "I've destroyed worlds!" he purrs to the nearest group of escapees, "Now destroy my hole. Ram it in, all of you."

Three burly men circle him immediately, their cocks already hard and throbbing from the adrenaline. One grabs Beerus's ears, shoving his thick shaft past the god's lips, while another spits on his ass and drives forward, burying balls-deep in one brutal thrust. Beerus gags around the dick in his mouth, saliva dripping, but he pushes back greedily, inviting the third to join. The man hesitates only a second before forcing his cock alongside the first, stretching Beerus's rim to its limit. Beerus moans like a bitch in heat, his hands reaching for two more inmates, stroking their veiny lengths furiously.

Jellal Fernandes crawls through the dust, his dark guild tattoos stark against his sweat-slicked skin. The wizard's magic flickers weakly now, replaced by a desperate need to submit. He spots a cluster of freed convicts and drops his head to the ground, ass high in the air. 'Punish me for my crimes,' he gasps, fingers prying his cheeks apart.

"Fill every inch." Four men descend on him, cocks slapping against his face as he opens wide, sucking one deep into his throat while jerking off the others. One positions behind, slamming in without prep, the burn making Jellal's eyes water. But he doesn't stop; he rocks back, urging the second to wedge in beside the first. His ass gapes obscenely as the third presses against the strained hole, forcing entry with a wet pop. Jellal chokes on the cock in his mouth, tears streaming, but his body betrays his ecstasy. Hips grinding, begging for the fourth to complete the invasion. They oblige, pounding in unison, turning his insides into a churning mess of friction and heat.

Sephiroth, the silver-haired one-winged angel fallen from grace, stands tall at first, Masamune discarded in the dirt. But the breakout's frenzy awakens something primal, slutty, in him. He sheds his coat, revealing a lithe body marked by old scars, and kneels before a line of inmates.

"I sought godhood!" he whispers seductively, "Now make me your whore. Stuff my ass until I break."

His long hair cascades as he bends over a fallen barricade, ass presented like an offering. Two men grab his hips, one thrusting into his mouth with savage pumps, the other aligning his cock at Sephiroth's entrance. He takes it all, throat bulging, then nods for more. A third slides in beside the first penetrator, the stretch eliciting a muffled scream around the dick gagging him. Sephiroth's hands fly to two additional cocks, pumping them relentlessly, pre-cum slicking his palms.

The fourth man forces his way into the packed ass, the quartet of shafts pistoning brutally, Sephiroth's body jolting with each impact, cum already leaking from his untouched cock as he submits fully.

Haji Towa, the enigmatic vampire with pale skin and sharp fangs, licks his lips at the scent of sweat and arousal filling the yard. No longer aloof, he prowls on all fours toward a gang of muscular escapees, his lithe form quivering with need.

"I've fed on blood." he murmurs, eyes locked on their crotches, "Now feed me your seed. Pack my holes and make me earn it."

He dives onto the first cock, sucking with vampiric fervor, fangs grazing just enough to thrill without harm. Behind him, a thick inmate rams into his ass, the intrusion making Haji arch and moan. He doesn't wait, reaches back to guide a second cock in, the dual penetration splitting him wide. His free hand milks another dick, while his mouth switches to a third, deepthroating until his nose presses against the man's pubes.

The fourth joins the ass-fuck, stretching Haji to impossible widths, his immortal body adapting with slick, eager clenches. They rut like animals, Haji's body a vessel for their release, his own arousal dripping onto the gravel as he pays his dark debts.

Hisoka Morow, the magician turned trickster slut, laughs maniacally as the breakout unfolds, cards scattering uselessly. His face paint smears with sweat, heart tattoo pulsing as he strips bare, cock hard but ignored in favor of his craving holes.

"What a delicious mess!" he cackles, dropping to his knees in the center of the yard. "Come, boys, double, triple~ quadruple me up. I live for the thrill of being stuffed."

A horde surrounds him, cocks in every direction. He grabs two, sucking one while licking the other's tip, his tongue swirling hungrily. Two more claim his ass immediately; one plunging deep, the other forcing alongside, the burn making Hisoka's laughter turn to guttural moans. He bucks wildly, inviting the third and fourth to cram in, his hole a greedy maw devouring them all. Hands pump the remaining dicks around him, Hisoka's fingers a blur, his body convulsing as the brutal quadruple fuck reshapes his insides. Cum sprays early from one, lubing the frenzy, Hisoka swallowing load after load from the mouths full of cock.

The yard devolves into an orgy of retribution, the air thick with grunts and the slap of flesh. Ky, surrounded now by five inmates, has his ass invaded by three cocks at once, two thick ones stretching his rim while a third angles in from below, the triple penetration making his legs shake.

He gags on a fourth dick, throat convulsing, while his hands jerk the fifth and a sixth, pre-cum flying. "Deeper" he chokes out between thrusts, "make me your cumdump for every sin."

The men oblige, pounding relentlessly, Ky's ass squirting lube and early leaks as he submits, his knightly pride shattered in ecstasy.

Beerus floats slightly off the ground, impaled on four shafts in his ass; the destroyer's hole a vortex of destruction turned reception. One man holds him up by the arms, another by the tail, as they rotate him like a spit-roast whore. His mouth stays busy, alternating between two cocks, sucking until they erupt down his throat. Hands roam, pinching nipples, slapping his balls, but Beerus only begs for more, his godly stamina letting him take the brutal reaming without mercy.

Cum overflows from his stuffed ass, dripping down his thighs as he pays for universes undone.

Jellal's magic sparks faintly with each quadruple thrust, his ass a furnace of friction. The four cocks inside him grind in opposition, one pulling out as another slams in, creating a seesaw of agony and bliss. He deepthroats one while hand-fucking three more, his wizard's precision now devoted to milking loads.

"Flood me!" he pleads, voice muffled, "absolve my darkness with your seed." The inmates roar, the first to cum blasting deep, hot spurts coating his walls and easing the remaining pistons. Jellal cums hands-free, his body betraying his whore nature, as the cycle continues.

Sephiroth's wing twitches erratically, pinned under the weight of his ravagers. Four cocks churn his ass, the silver-haired fallen one writhing as they stretch him beyond mortal limits. His mouth overflows with dick, saliva and pre mixing in rivulets down his chin, while elegant hands stroke two more with fervent twists.

"I am yours to defile..!" he gasps during a brief respite, only to be silenced by another thrust. The brutality peaks as they synchronize, hammering in unison, Sephiroth's prostate assaulted until he screams in release, cum puddling beneath him. But he doesn't stop, begs for refills, his god-complex reduced to cumslut desperation.

Haji's fangs sink lightly into a cock as he sucks, drawing a mix of blood and pre that he savors like fine wine. His ass, packed with four throbbing members, clenches rhythmically, milking them toward eruption. He switches mouths, deepthroating with immortal endurance, hands busy on the overflow.

"Drain me of my sins!" he hisses, body undulating. The quadruple fuck turns savage, hips slamming, Haji's pale skin bruising beautifully.

Cum floods him first anally, the excess bubbling out around the shafts, then orally, swallowing greedily as his own climax hits, fangs retracting in bliss.

Hisoka's laughter echoes through the yard, even as four cocks ravage his ass, turning it into a sloppy, gaping tunnel. He twists his body acrobatically, taking a fifth in his mouth while hands service six others, his magician's flexibility on full display.

"More! Stretch me till I snap!$ he demands, the pain fueling his mania.

The men pound without restraint, cocks sliding in the cum-laced mess, Hisoka's hole farting wetly with each withdrawal. He cums explosively, spraying across the dirt, but urges them on, collecting load after load in his greedy orifices.

As the night wears on, the group sex intensifies, the escaped criminals rotating to ensure every cumslut bottom gets their fill. Ky finds himself hoisted onto a picnic table, three cocks in his ass and one in his mouth, hands overflowing with dick. The table creaks under the assault, Ky's body bouncing, his begs turning to incoherent slurps. Beerus, ever the glutton, takes four in his ass while floating, mouth and hands claiming three more, his tail wrapping around a seventh for extra stimulation. Jellal lies on his back, legs over shoulders, quadruple anal while sucking two and stroking four, magic fizzling as orgasms rack him.

Sephiroth is bent over a weight bench, four shafts destroying his ass, mouth stuffed, hands pumping relentlessly. His wing fans cum-slick air, the fallen angel reduced to a moaning vessel. Haji prowls between groups, offering his holes anew, four in ass, mouth full, hands busy, his vampire resilience letting him endure the endless brutality.

Hisoka orchestrates mini-orgies, directing cocks into his overstuffed ass,four at a time, while servicing others orally and manually, his laughter a constant amid the grunts.

The yard becomes a sea of bodies, cum pooling in the dirt, the air reeking of sex and sweat. These former powerhouses, Ky, Beerus, Jellal, Sephiroth, Haji, Hisoka, wallow in their submission, asses gaping from multiple invasions, mouths raw from sucking, hands cramping from endless strokes.

They crave the punishment, each load a step toward atonement, their whore natures fully unleashed in the post-breakout frenzy.

Ky cums again, untouched, as the three cocks in his ass swell and unload, hot jets filling him until it leaks out. He swallows the one in his mouth, then begs for replacements, his knight's code rewritten in semen. Beerus's ass milks four loads simultaneously, the overflow cascading down his legs; he laps at two more cocks, hands blurring on others, destroying nothing but his own dignity.

Jellal's quadruple fuck ends in a chain of orgasms, cum bloating his belly slightly; he services the next wave without pause, wizard's spells forgotten for slutty spells.

Sephiroth's body quakes under the relentless quadruple pounding, cum erupting from him as the men flood his depths; his mouth and hands collect tribute, the angel's halo shattered. Haji drinks deep from multiple sources, his ass a cum reservoir from four shafts, eternal life now eternal service.

Hisoka peaks in hysteria, four cocks pulsing inside him, mouth overflowing, hands slick; the magician's greatest trick his total debasement.

Hours blur into a haze of penetration and release. The bottoms rotate partners, ensuring no hole goes empty. Ky's ass accommodates four now, the stretch burning deliciously as he deepthroats and strokes.

Beerus levitates through clusters, always quadruple-stuffed anally, orally occupied, hands full.

Jellal's back arches under the weight, four in ass, multiple in mouth and grip.

Sephiroth's hair mats with sweat and cum, his body a pinata of dicks.

Haji's fangs gleam with residue, holes perpetually invaded.

Hisoka's flexibility allows impossible angles, four in ass, endless elsewhere.

Dawn creeps in, but the orgy rages. These cumsluts pay their sins in flesh, bodies marked by bites, bruises, and seed.

Ky whimpers as another quadruple ass-fuck begins, mouth and hands busy. Beerus purrs through his stuffing. Jellal moans in absolution. Sephiroth whispers pleas. Haji hisses in delight. Hisoka laughs eternally. In the prison yard's ruins, they find redemption in submission, whores forevermore.