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muzanswaifu · 1 year

Text

Bittersweet

Demon! Sanemi x Fem! Reader

18+

Request: "I have been waiting to read something like this for so long. Demon Sanemi craving blood because fem!reader is on her period, so yk he eats her out without mercy❤️"

Demon Sanemi is so mean I love hiiiim :3 Need me a man who would eat me out on my period 😒 Jk jk that shit gotta taste nastyyyyyyy

NSFW Warnings: Yandere, Non-con, Smut, Sexism, Kidnapping, Forced Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Menstruation, Blood Kink, Forced Orgasm, Kinda Gross ngl

The rhythmic pitter-patter of feet echoes through the green, a slow churn of water thrumming with the flow of the current. Even the thick noise of crickets and wind couldn't drown out the hint of life found deep in the brush, the figurative curl of a finger beaconing him to draw closer, to close the union of rarity.

He took a breath. A deep one. Taking in the pungent scent of weak males. And a female.

Shinazugawa could nearly taste the delectable meat already, the flavor settling on his tongue and seducing his taste buds. Drool nearly threatened his mouth, but he withheld himself. He wasn't an animal. Not technically, anyway.

But he might as well be. Only an animal could hunt as he did, track as he did, kill as he did. But a beast was not nearly as precise as he was, not leaving even a scrap of evidence in his wake. Only the crime scene would be found, a gorey scene of bone and torn flesh, remnants of his well-earned meal. But only the males would wither...

As for the female -

Oh gods, did just the thought of it make him salivate, his very bones trembling with need. Her scent alone made him feel weak with hunger, his tongue curling with horrid intent. The fragrance was familiar to him, a vague memory of his past existence of rare blood, the same unique trait only serving as a grand pillar toward his success as a demon. Her blood ran the same, her veins full of the powerful elixir that his kind would quite literally kill each other for. But he had no need for such rivalry.

The path the cattle strode upon was a hidden one, veiled by a plentiful layer of wisteria about fifty feet aways on either side of the trail. The effort wasn’t so useless, he supposed. Perhaps it served useful against weaker demons of no rank, the fiends not yet powerful enough to develop some resistance to it. But his godly build was stronger, the frail flower only giving his skin a lingering sting. His hunger far outweighed it.

He had long stalked his prize. The demon had patience in these rare situations, biding his time for the perfect opportunity to make his efforts all the more worth it. It had been several moons ago that he’d first stumbled upon her delivery across these lands, his keen eye catching the lingering dust kicked up by the horses that pulled her carriage. Even back then, the chance had been perfect. The men were unknowing, all walls of defense down as the car came to a halt, surely one of exhaustion. Shinazugawa drew closer, only a breath away from finally feasting when his vision was obscured by a heavenly vision.

A small thing she was, her skirts nearly catching under her feet as she gracefully stepped down from her traveling abode. The moonlight shimmered brilliantly off her glazed skin as she bent her delicate neck back, stretching out the aching tightness trapped there. Her (h/c) hair was frizzy across the outline, the static from the summer heat pulling at the threads and giving them a coiled curl. His maw fell open with his amazement.

He’d come across several humans of marechi blood in his infinite lifetime, and most, if not all, were nothing much to look at, quite ugly in his opinion. They all bore the same simplicity and naïveté, their only unique trait being their delectable composition that gave them their sole purpose of feasting. But she was so drastically different.

Everything about this female sang rarity, her natural features reminiscent of that of ancient goddesses that mortal men could only wish to touch. But here she was. Within an arm’s reach, he could have her, do with her what he wished. He was nearly disgusted with himself, being far more captivated with his food than he should’ve been. Sparing her of death would’ve been such a waste of opportunity, one that even those lower than him wouldn’t have been so idiotic as to squander. Yet, his own self-doubt swallowed him as he drew back into the dark wood, letting her little toy soldiers bring her back to the safety of the nearing daylight.

He’d gorged himself after that, consuming soul after soul at a nearby village in an attempt to quench his own frustration and need. There weren’t many options to consider. He couldn’t spare the thing entirely, he wasn’t that fucking stupid, but he didn’t very much want her dead either. Turning her definitely wasn’t an option, women just didn’t have as much potential as demons, and he had his own personal beliefs that women shouldn’t dirty their hands. But dear gods, her scent, her smell alone probably called upon hundreds of demons to her location daily, perhaps it would’ve been a mercy to take the female’s life.

Fuck.

He hated himself for how indecisive he was. Not once in his entire demonhood had he been at such a crossroad of hesitance. There had to be another option that held the best of both worlds, yes? Shinazugawa just hadn’t come across it yet.

But fate gave him a hint as he snatched up the severed half of a female he’d killed, her guts spilling into his lap as he gnawed on her fat ankle. His daggered eyes trailed up her cold thigh, lining the dark trail of blood that seeped from under her skirt. A small confusion fell over him as he mulled over the strange placement. His blade’s cut through her navel had been clean, her blood pooling into the muddy grass and not at all staining much of her clothing. Yet the chain of red kept its existence, running into the conjunction of her thighs. Cursing his own curiosity, Sanemi swept the pesky material aside, only to be met with the brilliance of a cruel idea.

It hadn’t been hard at all to follow along the woman’s usual route of travel again, her men taking the same path, ignorant of its dangerous discovery. Yet the timing was unfortunately off, her smell still sickeningly sweet and clean rather than bitter and dirty. He’d have to wait for next time. And the next. And the next. He’d nearly given up hope entirely until the fated night his lungs were filled with the metallic scent that had his belly tensing with primal famine. Just the mere aroma of ichor had drool gathering in his jowls, his fists clenching with need. It only grew thicker as her quaint carriage drew near, the clicking wheels singing a dreadful tune with each snap against the road. Sanemi could already taste the woman on his tongue, her savory flesh plump and tender between his teeth… god, he was going to lose it.

He nearly did as she stepped from her carriage in the same manner as their first meeting, her hair knit in tight braids across her crown, framing her delicate features. She was dressed more eloquently this time, Her gown long and loose yet hugging her figure with a gentle tightness. He mused to himself that perhaps she was on her way to some formal event to maintain appearances, maybe even earn herself a husband. Yet the notion of such a possibility irked him all the same. He’d never felt a hunger like this before, if one could even call it that. This felt so much more significant, crucial even, as if his very life depended on it. And maybe it did, since he would most definitely not let himself live if he couldn’t get even a single taste of her blood. Her body was his to take.

It took him no time at all to do away with the weaklings, the men’s bodies falling one after the other into the gravel, making a sad splash as their vitals funneled out. The man ogling at her backside was the first to go, his head severed the instant his eyeline met the wide curve of her dress, dropping to the ground with a thud and rolling to a leisure stop to her heel. When the woman finally turned from her distraction of the ominous wood, she was met with pure, bloody isolation.

Her horrified scream echoed loud, her hands clawing at her own face as she looked upon the gory scene of blood and guts that surrounded her. Shinazugawa was almost impressed at her reaction speed as she quickly turned foot and bolted, running through the thick bush despite her frailty. He couldn’t help but snicker, so enamored by her utter foolishness of trying to escape. If the men protecting her couldn’t even survive, what made her think she was the exception?

“God, you’re fucking stupid, ha!” he cackled, leaping about the tree-line, nipping at her backside but giving her just the right amount of space to let her hope she could get away.

She was not at all athletic, her stamina quickly dwindling as her frail figure fought with itself to continue on. Her chest burned, her feet hurt, her will to keep moving dwindling by the second and feeding into the persuasive idea of giving up. Yet the monster snatched her before she could choose, slamming her into the soft, melted ground and caking her elegance in earth. His hand wrapped around her pretty neck firmly, another snaking down her bodice and tearing open the gold buttons of her dress. His tongue swept across his lip as he unwrapped her, taking his sweet time to unveil every inch of her pristine flesh to his ravenous eye, her little fists pounding at his chest as she sobbed and screamed for help.

“Shut it,” Sanemi growled lowly, surprised to see her actually listen, her lip wobbling and eyes flooding as she silenced herself. He could still hear her pathetic whimpers as he stripped her, her small frame shaking as he brushed down her stomach, removing the lacy undergarments that hid her delicate body from his sight. He could see her plush intimacy coming into view from beneath her coverings, her curved hips thickening her figure, her thighs trembling as they tried desperately to hide themselves. But there was nothing that could be done about that now as she lied there, helpless, powerless, weak.

He opened his mouth wide, exposing sharp canines and letting his hot breath wash over her firm abdomen as her tears began anew and wept down her flushed cheeks. The demon was pleased, relishing in her surrender and submission as he gently ran his tongue down her navel, sampling his meal and savoring the girl's pitiful sobs. He loved it when humans cried, when they begged and pleaded for their lives like the weaklings they were, it made things so much more exciting.

His tongue flicked out over her pelvis, gliding over the pudge over her sex as he breathed in the scent of her musk, tainted with ovulation. Sanemi could already feel the saliva gathering in a jowls as he began to peel down her underwear, a cotton cloth clinging to the crotch of it. Her breath stuttered.

"N-no, no, please! Please... please!" she cried out, shaking hard and grasping at her own face, nearly clawing her eyes out with panic. But she knew better than to try to fight him off again, clearly more afraid of what he would do then than what he was currently doing. He couldn't help but grin against her supple flesh, his edged teeth nicking her thigh. She jerked at the sudden pain and the warm sensation of blood trickling down her leg, soaking into the dirt.

"P-Please, p-p-please don't... h-hurt me," her words shook with her exterior, her sniffling likely a strong persuasion to those who had a heart. He obviously didn't but was still bothered by her pestering fear of being eaten. "If I was going to eat you, don't you think I would have done it already?" he groaned sarcastically.. The human slowly removed her fingers to peak down at him, her eyes red and welled with tears, lip trembling. He laughed.

"I mean come on, you think I'd let you bitch and moan this long just to kill you later? If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Quit fucking crying," he hissed.

She sniffled again. "B-but -"

"Zip it."

Her mouth snapped shut, quickly obeying before her brain could even comprehend him.

Sanemi growled. "Talk again and you get to join those fuckers back there." He nodded his head back to the direction of her abandoned carriage and dead guards. His claws dug into her thighs, pulling them to spread wider to encompass his presence. "The sooner you let me take what I want, the sooner I let you go. But I don't deal with brats. You either listen or you don't, 's up to you bitch."

He wasn't sure how he expected her to react, but it definitely wasn't for her to spread herself wider, without any instruction. It was almost touching how quickly she gave in, not even needing a moment to think it over before she opened herself up for him to do as he pleased. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she were eager for it.

His head fell down to her core again, his fangs pricking the surface of her skin yet again, drawing forth a shallow line of blood as he slid them down her inner thighs, his eyes locked on her frightened yet curious gaze. She shivered at the sharpness of his touch, her legs trembling as he moved further south, trying to appease his hungered excitement. He resumed pulling down her panties, reveling in the aroma of moon blood that filled his senses as he took away all obstruction. It was beautiful. The smell of blood. The sight of red dripping from her puffy lips. He could only imagine the taste, so eager in his imagination of its excellence. He'd never tasted pure ovulation blood before, never even thought of it actually. It would be stupid to use just his tongue when he could devour with his teeth in an instant and move on to the next meal. But this was a different situation entirely. This woman could satiate him for years, decades even, with marechi blood. It didn't hurt that she was a hot piece of ass either. If he didn't get himself together soon, he might end up fucking his food as well.

The woman's eyes lingered on his leisure movements, the drawl of his dangerous eyes along her sex as he studied the meal. Embarrassment quickly rose in her chest as she realized his intentions, praying that he’d move on with whatever he was trying to do so her dignity could recover. Although, she supposed letting him taste her menstrual blood was better than getting eaten alive... but hardly.

The demon felt her pulse quicken in his grasp, her breathing growing faster and her patience dwindling as she began to quiver again. He didn't blame her though, not in the slightest. But he had every right to such a rare female, he deserved everything. And if the needs of others were sacrificed, so be it. He knew he wouldn't be able to resist her for too long. He was ravenous.

And he was horny.

He smiled as his head dipped down, his tongue flicking out to smooth against her swollen clitoris, barely brushing the top as he inhaled the fragrance of her blood. Her legs trembled, her muscles tensing as her hips buckled in response, shocked with the sudden feeling of sensitivity. She had to bite her lip to silence her noise of surprise. He chuckled as he teased her, dragging his tongue from one side to the other, teasing her wet folds and leaving behind a thin trail of saliva. He didn't really care for her pleasure at the moment, but he was curious of her response to it. Dinner and a show. That was fine by him.

She bit her lip harder, her thighs flexing to keep from touching him. Sanemi was excited at her reaction, watching her face contort with each and every careless stroke of his tongue, her hips subconsciously rising to feed herself into his awaiting mouth. A few times, she almost grabbed for him, but her arms were still pinned to her side by her own strong will to survive. He liked that, enjoyed her struggle as he continued to lick her up and down, her clit becoming more sensitive with each and every pass. Her blood was intoxicating, his head already growing dizzy as he drank her from the source. He thought it would be difficult to keep himself from biting down but the thought never even grazed his mind as he continued giving sloppy licks and sucks to her weeping heat. She was so tasty, so sweet, so ripe. It seemed like she would never stop bleeding as his tongue was eternally blessed with a fresh coat of red. He wondered for a moment if it was possible to drain her of it all in one night.

He growled, his head lowering down to her opening and his tongue falling out again as she whimpered in anticipation, eyes closed tight. She felt like she was losing her mind with every pass of his ravenous tongue. Her head was so foggy and light, her pussy so warm, she couldn't stop herself from letting out small noises of pleasure as he kept feasting upon her. It took every ounce of her being not to wrap her legs around his head and trap him into her center, forcing him to cease his cruel teasings. What little was left of her fear only heightened the experience, giving her a blissful taste of sin that she'd never indulged before, the sense of danger giving her such a rush.

Her ichor only grew sweeter on his tongue by the second, her slick diluting her blood in heavier batches that gave him more a taste of lust than power. He focused on her hole then, realizing that nipping at her clit certainly wasn't helping the situation. Yet, her pleasure rose none-the-less. His tongue worked hard, dashing inside of her, licking up every drop of liquor, drinking it down as if it were a fine wine. It was nearly too good to be true, this level of strength he felt. He looked down at the girl, his eyes burning into her as he watched her squirm and grip the earth. She was so delicious.

But he needed more.

His tongue pumped into her again and again, dipping as far as it could reach before retreating to her entrance to lick up anything that had escaped him. She shuddered, her hips subtly grinding on his face to chase her nearing end. It continued building in her belly, sending bolts of electricity up her spine and warming her insides. She couldn't even feel the pain of her cramps anymore.

Sanemi sipped at her wetness more vigorously, his tongue lapping at her like a dog, desperate for more of his meal. He slowed only for a moment as the woman gave a small cry, her hips and thighs quaking harshly and tensing in his palms. He wasn't even angry when her juices sprayed him, drenching his lower face and dripping down his lips. If anything he was amused, only a human could come from such little care. Yet, he stopped, her cunt hardly even bleeding anymore being so wet with arousal and relief. What was the point of pleasing her when he gained nothing in return.

He rose from his position on the ground, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as his eyes raked down her sloppy appearance, certainly not that of a noblewoman. Her backside was caked with mud, her hair messy and matted, her face red and mouth leaking with drool. She nearly looked peaceful as she let out gentle pants, still softly shaking from such a strong orgasm. He rolled his eyes.

"Get up," he commanded, uncaring of her condition. "I don't have all fucking night."

The woman only rose when his growls became violent, her movements awkward and her head still in the clouds. She still attempted to cover herself, tucking an arm over her breasts and cupping her sex with another.

"I'm only going to explain this once so I suggest you pay attention-" he began, her eyes quickly lighting up with fright, "You are going to come back to this path every month during your menses. You will come alone. No guards. No friends. No nobody. Understand?"

She squirmed nervously in her footing, her fear beginning to crest again. "B-but I-I won’t be a-allowed to travel for n-no r-r-reason..." she stuttered.

"Not my problem."

"A-and how would I come back without anyone to take-"

"Not. My. Problem." he hissed meanly, making her cower away.

He stepped forward to her, towering over her little form. "I'm not here to negotiate. I'm just telling you what you're going to do. I don't give a fuck how you're gonna do it, but if you know what's good for you, you'll obey. You want anyone else dead because of you?" he sneered.

Her lip quivered and tears glazed in her eyes. "N-no."

Sanemi chuckled, looking down at her and pressing a strong hand over her lower belly and brushing away her small hands, dangerously close to her privates that were still glazed with his saliva.

"This is mine," he stated, passing two fingers between her puffy cunt lips, "Give it to anyone else and I'll kill them and make you watch. I'll make it slow too. You want that?" She violently shook her head, nearly on the cusp of pissing herself from the terror of such a suggestion.

He hummed with his approval of her response, giving her another once over with his eyes and a quick squeeze of her breast before backing away into the night, undisturbed with how on earth she was going to get back home. It would've been any second that he could lose control of himself and pounce, a desperate need growing in pants to satiate himself. He'd have to establish that as another rule - no fucking when she was edible. Maybe he'd pay her another visit later when her period was over, at her estate perhaps, just to take away her innocence and test out how useful she was to him. He could only imagine how pathetic she would look speared on his cock with nowhere else to go, but that would be for another night, he couldn't forget her main purpose.

And he couldn't wait to get a taste of that again.

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envy-of-the-apple · 5 months

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Heart Infection (Part One)

(I usually only post dark content here but im lowkey proud of this one. The rest of the fic is here

In a world where society has gotten used to zombie outbreaks, your domestic life is turned into chaos and a race for survival when an outbreak occurs in your city. In the middle of it all, you stumble upon a giant, speaking in a foreign language. He won’t show you his face. He’s ruthless. He’s a force to be reckoned with. But, despite the fact you can’t understand him, you know without a doubt this man would die to protect you.

Pairing: König x reader

They always say it happens fast.

They never clarified how fast.

It was just one report. One incident of someone behaving strangely. Just a couple of minor incidents. You hadn't thought much of it. You existed as you had always: going to work, lazing around your home, talking with your friends. One week you carried life as normal, the next you were getting bombarded by alerts to stay inside.

Lock your doors. Stay silent. Stay undetectable. It was the last message you got before your internet went out, and you descended into a microscopic dark age.

You’ve never really thought about outbreaks all that much. It’s a tragedy, but it’s a rarity. The probability of it happening to you or anyone else you knew was 0.0005%. Maybe even less. It was never supposed to happen to you.

The screaming ended days ago. You still didn’t move from your spot, huddled in a small corner of your apartment, too scared to do anything else.

You could hear them every so often. The groaning. The horrific footsteps of something not human. At least, something not human anymore. They’re so loud. You didn’t think anything could be this loud. Their screams ricochet off the walls, into your apartment. Sometimes it’s upstairs. Sometimes it’s right by your door.

A morbid part of you wondered if you’d be able to recognize them. Your neighbors, something that used to be your neighbors. You couldn’t, something which you were grateful for. All the moans, the garbles, the shrieks, they were all incoherent, unrecognizable. Inhuman.

Protocol had been drilled into your head ever since you were a kid. In schools, you had outbreak drills, where you and your classmates sat in a room for five minutes until the lights came back on and class resumed as normal. If an outbreak happened when you were at home stay put. Stay silent. Stay unnoticed.

Only now are you realizing the parallelisms between now and the drills practiced by schoolchildren during the Cold War. Teachers would tell their students to hide under tables. They'd board up the windows. It was all useless. Just a half-hearted attempt to quell the nerves of the people. To give them a false sense of security.

You check your phone, tapping on the screening, telling yourself you’d put it on silent already. You can’t charge it. The power in your apartment went out two weeks ago. You’re pretty sure the water went with it too. You can’t connect to the internet. The phone lines are down. At this point, your phone is only good for its flashlight.

(You don’t even think about turning it on even in the darkness of your apartment. They’re attracted to light.)

It’s useless, but you’re still pulling up your mom’s contact. You send her a message. The 438th one.

‘Still alive. I love you.’

Message unable to deliver responds your phone. You turn it off, closing your eyes.

Your mother, God what was she thinking right now? She wasn’t in the city. She lives miles away in your hometown. You knew she was already aware, probably sick with worry. The last outbreak happened two years ago in a small town all the way on the other side of the country. You were home from college, cuddled up with her on the couch as you two watched the news in horror. Her co-worker’s daughter had been in the infected city. She hadn’t made it. Your mom attended the funeral.

She later admitted to you that she was glad it wasn’t you she was watching on the TV.

You wonder if she remembers these words right now. If they haunt her.

Outside, the siren flicks off. It had been blaring static music for the past hour. They’re attracted to noise. The woman’s voice is too cheery for the current situation. Her voice was too clinical, and measured. It was obvious that it was pre-recorded. She always repeated the same thing: We apologize for the delay of Aide. Please remain in your homes. We thank you for your patience.

You’d be annoyed if you weren’t so terrified.

It had only been three weeks since your world went to shit, but you’d already lost hope of help ever arriving. Maybe the tanks, the guns, the arsenal were already on their way but they hadn’t gotten to you yet, too preoccupied by the swarms of monsters. You’d already boarded up your windows, too afraid to see something you didn’t want to see, but through the tiny cracks, the barren streets were lifeless. No one had come. Not yet, at least.

The barren streets were lifeless. Lifeless, not empty.

During the first two days, there were many of them. Now, you could sometimes see a couple, if any at all.

Their skin had lost the brightness of a human’s. Each one was a dull shade of grayish green. Some decayed faster than others, revealing rotting flesh right underneath their sagging skin. You’d seen a couple missing arms, and legs, mindlessly limping, crawling away to some unknown destination. When they weren’t hunting, they were slow. Truly dead.

The worst were the children. Small, bodies stumbling here and there. Tiny bones jutting out from rotting skin. Sickly eyes that had been gone for days. You couldn’t bear to look outside after that.

You'd seen them hunt before. It was during the first couple of hours when everything went to shit. The man was running, dragging his clearly broken leg as fast as he could. He wasn't fast enough. They had caught up to him in minutes. You had to turn away when his screaming turned to painful shrieks. You could still hear them every so often, even after you boarded up your windows. You don't think you'll ever be able to forget his begs for help. Ever the coward, you prayed he didn't see you. You prayed it wasn't you he was begging to.

The guilt kept you up at night sometimes. Every so often, you'd hear another scream, another tearing of flesh. You just lay there, covering your ears with your hands, hoping you'd wake up from this nightmare.

Had your friends ended up like that? You hadn't been able to get into contact with any of them. Hopefully, they had evacuated. You couldn't even think of them huddled up like you, stuck to listening to the terror outside. Or perhaps a fate even worse turned into a rotting corpse still living.

Your pantry was full of canned food. Beans, corn, tomatoes. You knew you wouldn’t have to worry about food running out, that is if you could ever have an appetite big enough for a full meal. You had water bottles too, all piled into the back of your closets.

The real issue wasn’t food. The real issue wasn’t water. It was the wait. The terrifying suspense every time you moved a bit too fast, terrified that something above or below you would hear. You were always warned about how strong these things were. Devoid of the human limitations, they will do everything they can to claw past wood, concrete, steel. It doesn’t matter how mangled they get. They can’t feel pain.

Your pantry was overflowing with food. Now, all you had to do was play the waiting game.

You've noticed they're more active in the night rather than the day. It made sense, to a degree. The cooler air slowed down the rate of decay. The sun was harsh, especially during the summer months. Why would a rotting piece of meat ever want to stay underneath the burning sun?

But it made the nights tenser. You could hardly sleep when the sun went down and the light in your apartment faded to pitch black. They were louder. Hungrier. It was as though they took their anger on the sun out on the darkness, letting their fury consume everything in their path.

You flinch when another bang ricochets across your apartment. Tonight seemed to be the worst. The shuffling. The growling. It seemed to all get desperate. Impatient.

It was starting to seem more and more as though they were looking for something.

You don't even want to entertain that thought, but you could hear scratching through the walls. The sound of human fingers raking their claws against cement. Tonight, you had barricaded yourself in your closet, nestled between your clothes. You could hear the muffled echoes of things crawling upstairs, knocking things over.

It almost distracts you from the thudding at the front door. Like a body is being rammed against your door over and over and over and over and over and over and-

Your door has to give eventually. You want to curse yourself for it because you once remembered your mom berating you for not installing better security and tougher doors. You'd laughed her concerns off. You thought it was paranoia.

The door caves in, something inhuman is crawling into your apartment. All that you can think about is your mom's knowing I told you so.

Haggard footsteps made their way into your abandoned living room. It was loud, messily bumping into tables and walls. There didn't seem to be a set direction. It didn't know where exactly you were. It didn't matter.

You were going to die.

It was a startling thought, but not something you could deny. You were only able to survive for five days, that alone was a miracle. That’s all this was. Luck. A roll of the dice. You weren’t a survivor. You were weak, with zero combat experience. This was all just a one-in-a-million chance. You still have no clue how you managed to survive this long. Maybe the monsters thought you were already dead? Maybe they thought you were too weak to even bother? You didn't know why you were still thinking about this. It wasn't like it mattered. You were living on borrowed time. Your front door was no match for it. What about your room? What will the numerous barricades even do against these things?

You were out of time.

You can feel the sting of tears in your eyes. You suck in your breath, huddling into a tighter ball.

This thing was going to find you. This thing was going to kill you. And there was nothing you could do about it.

You check your phone. Still, no signal. You sent her your last message, anyway.

'I love you'

A part of you hopes your messages never get through to her. So she wouldn't have to know her child died with fear. With pain. You pray to any god still listening to you that she will assume you died within the first day, unaware, oblivious. You prayed she would know that you died a merciful death.

But the gods hate you. They laugh at you, leering as the thing drags its body closer and closer to your room, towards your closet with a trembling hulk of flesh locked inside, ripe for the taking.

And then it stops. You wait, bracing yourself. When there's still no movement, you realize that it's listening for something.

Soon, you hear it too.

Gunshots.

You clasp a hand over your mouth, stifling your gasp. Had help arrived? Had you just narrowly avoided being eaten?

The thing just outside your room door growls. You can hear it hustle out of your apartment on unsteady legs, as it fights to go where the gunshots are coming from. It doesn't have to go far.

It doesn't sound like a struggle. It's more like a one-sided fight. Decaying flesh doesn't do well against steel guns and bullets. There are a couple of rapid shots, and then something heavy collapses outside of the apartment.

And then, it's all over.

You almost can't believe it, still huddled in your corner of the closet. It's all over. You can't hear any more dull groans and screeches. Whoever was out there, had gotten rid of them all.

You're crying again, for an entirely different reason now. Relief. Utter joy. Hope.

But now, you have an entirely new problem. How do you get out to meet your saviors, without getting shot?

Their boots were heavy, roughly stomping around without a care in the world. From what you could hear, there was only one of them. The rest must be outside, scanning other apartments, looking for more survivors. Military. Or maybe a crudely put-together army of minute men. You didn't care which.

There was only one person in your apartment, and they seemed to be a sort of shoot-first-ask-questions-later type of person. You had to get their attention in a way that wouldn't spook them. You had no trust in your voice, it was going to be scratchy from the unuse, maybe even rivaling the monsters' groans.

You take too long to come up with a plan because the intruder in your apartment seems to still, seemingly realizing they aren't alone.

His voice is deep, almost rattling the apartment, as he calls out. You can't understand him. It takes you a moment to realize he's speaking a different language than you.

Shit. This was going to be harder than you initially anticipated.

His footsteps seem heavier as if he is intentionally trying to intimidate you. It's working, because your heartbeat quickens when your room door is blown open. You can hear him rifle through your bed. He calls out something again. Closer. It sounds European. Dutch, or perhaps it was German? Russian? You still can't make out what he's saying.

The man says something. Despite your lack of understanding, it's crystal clear that he's making a threat. He sounds right in front of your closet. The soft click of a gun makes your shyness whittle away far enough that you can actually say something.

"Don't shoot. " You try to scream, but it comes out with a choked cry. "I'm human. I'm human."

That seems to stop him, and he pauses long enough for you to prove your innocence. Slowly, as if he's the one you're trying not to scare, you creak the door open, gently giving away your hiding spot.

The flashlight makes you wince, and you try to shy away from the light. He seems to be assessing as to whether you're a threat or not. As uncomfortable as it was, you let him, lowering your eyes so you're not blinded.

He says something, obviously asking a question. When you don't respond quickly, his voice grows harder, more impatient.

You bite your lip, nerves rising.

"I don't-I don't understand," You finally manage to say, "I'm sorry."

There's a moment, and then he's clicking off his flashlight. He gives a ragged sigh like this is above his pay grade.

"I'm sorry," You say again into the darkness.

You can tell that he's still watching you. What else is there to inspect? The rest of your rundown apartment? He tries speaking again. It's clear that he's trying to sound softer. He's lost the harsh growl in his voice. It makes him sound younger, at least, to your ears.

The change of tone doesn't change the fact that you still don't know his language. You shake your head, hoping you can get your point across once more. He reaches for you, and you can't help it.

You flinch, pressing yourself against the wall, watching his shadow warily.

It's funny how the one thing you wished for was to be saved, and now that you are, you still cower. It's not intentional. It's uncontrollable. You're still wary of the stranger. He's unreadable.

He seems to get the point, raising his hands up, and leaving the gun at his side. You doubt being weaponless makes him any less dangerous.

You can't make out most of him, but in the dim light you got, you were able to tell he was big. Even now, as he crouched before you, in a clear attempt to make himself less hostile. You can't seem to find his face. There's some kind of darkened mask on him, obscuring his features. For some reason, you suddenly realize you can't really hear his breathing.

He tilts his head as if to say See? I'm harmless! You don't think you agree with that statement. Even then.

He's safe. You know he's safe.

You don't exactly relax, but you ease back into your space. He seems to get the point, standing back up to his full height, easily towering over you.

He gestures to his hands. It takes you a while to realize he's asking if you're injured.

"No." You shake your head. "No injuries."

He seems satisfied with that, backing away to look at your room. Apart from the numerous barricades you put across the windows, your bedroom is pretty sparse. You wonder if he's thinking how you managed to survive this long. You wonder if he's impressed by it. You wonder if he pities you for it.

He moves around more, scuttling throughout your apartment. It's becoming clear that he's checking for other survivors. As expected, he returns with no one else. It's just you and him. Alone.

There's a silence now. You hadn't realized it until just now, everything around you seems gone. Dead. You peek out the window. You can't see much, just more barren streets. There's nothing.

Did he and his team get rid of all of the monsters in the area? How?

There's a thud and when you turn back you notice something has been thrown at your feet. It's an old backpack you owned. You look up at him. His meaning is clear.

Start packing.

Right. You can't stay here. Not anymore. Despite your home being your sanctuary, with your door broken into, you're vulnerable here. Easy prey. You know all this, and yet you find yourself hesitating for a bit.

You had to go out there? Where danger lurks in every corner? It sounds like a daunting task. Your heart is telling you to stay put, where it's always felt safe. Home.

Your brain knows the truth. If you stay here, you are dead. For right now, this man was the only hope you had.

You do as he says, running around your apartment, eager to stuff as many items as you can. It's mostly food, water, and any nonperishables. You don't have any weapons, the only thing that even counts as one is your small can of mace. You don't know how well it will fare against the undead, but you take it with you, hoping something is better than nothing.

He doesn't comment on anything you took, merely turning back to face the front of your apartment the moment you look ready. You follow him obediently, only giving one last look at your home. It's a bleak end. You wonder if you'll ever be able to return.

He gives a grunt. When you look forward, you see that he's quite a ways ahead of you. He jerks his head in the universal gesture of 'you coming?'.

Your shoes pitter-patter to catch up to his boots, abandoning the remnants of your apartment. His strides are long, almost twice the length of yours. You almost have to run to keep up with him, jostling your bag. Dawn was coming. The windows gave way to the sun slowly rising from the horizon. It causes you to see more fragments of him.

Looking back, it was probably a good thing you couldn't see him all that well before. Otherwise, your first encounter might have ended with you assuming that he was planning on eating you. He easily towered over you, having to duck under the ceiling at times. His hooded mask rivaled the death that had been crawling around your home, creating a terrifying parallel. His vest was covered in assorted knives, guns, and other weapons you could barely name. The gun he'd used on the monster was slung on his back. You can't see his eyes, you don't know why that bothers you.

It's intimidating. And you're suddenly glad you aren't on his ire.

You're confused. You're scared. Those are never a good combination. You decide to momentarily forget your burning questions. You'd come back to them when you were safe.

At least, you hoped that's where this man was taking you. To safety.

He hadn't even bothered saying another word to you, just casually trekking on, letting you follow a couple of steps behind. Every so often, you'd catch a glimpse of his mask as he glanced behind him, as though he were trying to assure himself that you were still there. Where was he going? Where were you following him? It's not like you could just ask him.

You didn't even know his name.

You were half-afraid the small tap on his shoulder wouldn't register to him. He turns, to your relief, peering down at you.

"Who are you?" You softly ask. It's the first sentence you've managed to say to him that wasn't a stuttered apology.

He tilts his head, clearly not understanding. In response, you point at his chest. He takes a moment, it's why you get worried he still doesn't get it.

"König." His voice is rough against the word.

"König?" You repeat, the word alien in your mouth. He gives a barely visible nod.

You give a tentative smile. When he keeps staring, you give out your own name. He takes a second, mulling it over.

And then König is walking again. You follow one step in front of the other.

#reader inserts #könig mw2 #könig call of duty #könig x reader #zombie apocalypse #dark content #cw: gore #cw: violence #x reader

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fredwkong · 9 months

Text

Musk Dom

The bottom’s profile said “Tops only. Must dom.” Since your profile said, truthfully, that you were vers, you assumed that was the end of it. No messages, you would go on with your life with the memory of this hot twink’s pics in the back of your mind.

So you were more than a bit surprised when you got a message from him. He flirted sweetly, a rarity on Grindr, and pretty soon you found yourself catching the bus to his place.

“Hey, I’m vers and I don’t dom, by the way,” you texted him as you waited for a transfer.

“Don’t worry about that, handsome,” the bottom texted back.

It was so flattering you didn’t think twice about it. You were slender and not too tall, so most gay guys didn’t really give you a second look. The idea that this bottom was breaking his own no-vers, no-switch rule for your average looks was tantalizing.

When he guided you into his bedroom, the first thing that hit you was the smell. The room reeked of unwashed feet and smelly shoes. Looking around, you found the source. The bottom had a pile of sneakers in the corner, all of different sizes, brands, and levels of wear.

Trying not to cough, you said, “So, you like feet?”

The bottom gave a tinkly little laugh. “You could say that, stud.” He sat you down on the bed, and then paused. “You get to know my collection while I clean out, Sir.” He gave your hand a squeeze and, before you could protest, he closed the door behind him.

The smell of the shoes quickly filled your own awareness. With the door closed, it seemed to become increasingly intense. You felt the musky, stale stench fogging up your brain, making it hard to think. You fell back on the mattress, gasping.

You heard the door open, and the bottom came back in. “Perfect,” he said. “You’ll make a great dom for me tonight.” You heard him rummaging through the smelly shoe pile.

“B-but I’m not a dom,” you gasped. Somehow, that felt wrong to say. Didn’t little twinks like this boy deserve to be put in their place? The smell filled up that spot in your mind. Of course they did, they deserved to have a real man show them how inferior they were.

The bottom approached with a pair of crusty used sneakers from the pile. “Just let go of all those useless smart thoughts and you’ll be so much happier,” he giggled, sliding the first shoe onto your socked foot.

At close range, the thick stench of the shoes filled up your mind even faster. That was… your smell, right? This inferior twink was putting your shoes on you, as was his place. You struggled to hold onto your previous personality, your versatility and romantic side, but it sank beneath the musky fog of your foot stink before you could grasp it.

As the bottom slid the second shoe onto your other foot, your resistance started to collapse. Yeah, with your little body, you might not look to most people like a dom top, but the cloud of foot musk and your cheesy cock stink could get any man on all fours in front of you. The last of your complex thoughts dissolved as the bottom tied your laces. All you were worried about now was the next ass you were going to breed.

Before the bottom could move, you surged to your feet and pinned him down with the sole of your sneaker, the interior squelching pleasantly with your sweat. “You like that?” you growled at the bottom as he mewled pathetically under your foot. “You like that you made me like this?”

“Yes, Sir,” the bottom gasped.

“Disgusting. You had to make your own dom.” You lifted up your foot. “Get on the bed. I’m going to dump a load in your pathetic ass before I go find a real sub.”

#male transformation #mental change #top tf #dom tf #shoes tf #feet kink tf #musk tf #male tf #all fwkong

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p1xelpc · 3 months

Text

Wait, You Exist?

[ Plain text: Wait, You Exist? ]

Recently I wrote about abled perception of (visibly) disabled people. I wrote of their disrespect and dehumanization. I thought that I had gotten all of my words about that out. Then I read some posts from my English professor.

I want to preface this by saying that I do not believe that he wrote these things with ill-intent. He just didn’t think about us. He forgot that we exist. Or maybe he just never learned that we exist. Maybe he’s never had our existence shoved in his face to prove that we are alive. That does not change the impact.

“If you are lucky and haven’t had a job.” This is probably meant to refer to people who are financially stable. Probably supposed to be about people that chose not to get a job. But they aren’t the only people that don’t have jobs. This man works at a community college. Most of the unemployed people there aren’t going to be rich. We attend community college because it is cheap and accessible. Take a guess at why we wouldn’t have jobs.

Visibly “different” people (whether race, gender, disability, whatever) do not get the same opportunities as people that fit the standard. As soon as we are noted as “different,” we have less of a chance to get a job. And that’s for those of us able to work. I am attending school in the hopes that I can get a job that is even close to accessible to me. Because currently? My heavily accommodated schooling is barely accessible.

“I assume you are taking this course online because you are all busy folks with lives.” This one is probably true for a lot, or even the majority, of his class. But that shouldn’t be his only assumption. I am taking online courses because in-person classes are a lot harder to accommodate for me.

I require a carer at all times outside of my home. I cannot leave the house multiple times in a row, and frequently I am only able to leave once or twice a week maximum. I can only shower once a week, peers would have complaints. I am unable to speak. I can’t walk safely. I can’t propel myself reliably. I need help to understand speech and to work out responses. Leaving the house is a rarity usually reserved for necessary doctor appointments.

I am not a busy person. I barely have a life! Almost 100% of my socializing is online. Same with shopping. And creating. Hell, I can’t even remember what an abled life looks like. Exercise maybe? Regardless, most of my day is spent in bed, in a mostly dark room, playing and socializing on my phone or laptop. Some days I may write or design something. But mostly I just play and socialize. Less emphasis on the socializing. I’m not complaining. I still enjoy the life I do have. It just definitely is not what he is talking about.

There are so often little bits like that in what I read and see. Wording that an abled person wouldn’t ever clock as ableist. Assumptions that ignore disabled people. It’s knives small enough to slip past shields and stab directly into me. They aren’t helped by context. Ableds just don’t like to pay enough attention to us to figure out what ableism looks like.

There are other little things too. Making everyone write using Times New Roman (I can’t read that font). Dropping late papers an entire letter grade (I have bad time blindness). Not allowing people to work ahead (yet posting everything on day 0).

The first assignment includes music and peer review. That seems almost fine, almost like nothing to complain about. Except that I cannot understand music that I have not intensely studied and I cannot intensely study music that hurts my ears (which is a lot of music). Also music and its meaning is so deeply personal that peer review is nearly useless for what he wants to use it for. My allistic classmates are not going to understand why I chose this song to connect to my experiences. Neither are my autistic classmates. I have to choose between authenticity and being understood to pass that assignment, which seems to go directly against what he is trying to teach us.

He describes his teaching as less “out-dated” and yet it is still incredibly exclusive. Then again, he didn’t even write his own description.

#pix writing #this one messier than others #thoughts are too big to organize right #ableism #disability visibility #wheelchair user #disabled #disability #high support needs #middle support needs #nonverbal #nonspeaking #unemployment #abled privilege #actually autistic #actually disabled #idk tags

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mirdance · 2 years

Text

Innamorati

Summary: Darling, even though you might be shared amongst all the Fatui Harbingers, remember who you serve and where your loyalties lie. Remember who saved you. Where this ice rests in eternal sleep, the gods cannot hear your prayers. Only I can. Pairing: Pierro x Reader Rating: NSFW. Implied sexual content, yandere, emotional manipulation, mind games, referenced non-con acts, religious imagery

Notes: This is part of a Fatui Harbinger collab where each Harbinger shares a darling. As usual with me, there will be smut later. Shoutout to Sunnie who created this beautiful header.

Recommended Music. AO3.

Fools preach the joys of worship. Within the Celestia I saw why the gods do not communicate with open arms. That moment judgment forces you to recount what has sat at the center of your soul, pried away like a newborn's first cry, you'll not talk of joy.

Pierro flipped the page. Stains and tears lined the edges, only a reminder of the cycle which fell to all. Each carefully turned page, the sound of ticking, and your soft snores were the only sounds that sailed through the chilled air of his study. An unfinished game of chess sat on the table between you like a forgotten memory.

Sleep. A rarity for any of the Fatui. The moonlight trickled through the window behind him. Cascading snowy shadows decorated the pages of his book. Though snow blanketed the landscape outside, the piles would never completely cover the ambitions of the Snezhnayian people. Like the weight of moonlit snow on pine branches, the soul held strength to endure.

What sort of things would you endure?

He’d thought the chess game before him would provide useful intel. Games and toys were worthwhile if they were useful. Take a children's slingshot, for example. While entertaining for the young, it also served the purpose of teaching survival. Dolls taught young ones the art of conversation. Stuffed animals provided some substitute for the innate instinct of touch. A proper toy also served as a tool.

Taking the toys away or losing them also taught important life lessons.

But the so-called toy that sat before him had yet to elaborate on its gifts. Striving to hone one's abilities was one of the beauties and curses of human nature. For each of the Harbingers, a toy's survival differed. For Pierro, useless toys were unneeded. While many collect toys to sit and look pretty, his toys needed to provide.

Another page.

"Who knows if the gods understand the greatness of the human soul, even while watching us prattle the secrets of our lives. Human suffering is a power in its own right, one they could never fathom. A god's memory reeks of apathy while treachery against the tormented lasts for generations. The people cry out in holy prayers--dirt embedded within the nailbeds of their crossed fingers--for rest. Yet Istaroth never provides the time for that peace, and prayers on one's knees only waste daylight. The cathedral words fade as a snowflake upon winter heaps until they are all but frozen as one beneath boot prints. Still, the gods demand that knee, as if they already didn't have the universe."

Another page.

Gusts of wind bellowed against the trembling window. Your eyes slowly opened and took a moment to process the setting like a mammal coming out of hibernation. Pierro continued reading while your brain and body took its time to catch up with being awake.

He'd spent hours playing chess with you. After all, the other Harbingers often put your body to its limits; it was only kind of him to provide you with what was probably a much-needed break. Falling asleep was not what he had in mind for that break, but he had a text to analyze, anyway. There was always something to do, and his toy didn't provide much usefulness in the things needing done.

Your upper lip moved in hesitation to permit words, an apology probably, but you quickly tightened your jaw. Some comrades did not enjoy being spoken to without speaking first. Pierro did not care unless the words were pointless. Of course, the meaning of words differed from individual to individual. What words a person provided told their story.

What was your story?

Words also provided layers like the blanketed snow above deadly ice above freezing waters. They veiled and masqueraded. Yet that, too, told a story in itself.

"The way you silence yourself reveals much of what you've had to endure," Pierro commented while flipping another page. "Speak freely with me unless I deem otherwise."

You bit your inner cheek and eyed the chessboard as if it would change design by sheer will alone. "Forgive me, but hearing you say that provides little comfort in this situation."

"I know we've gained little ground in terms of mutual trust, but what you provide for the Harbingers is paramount. In my presence, though, I've yet to see its fruition. Alone with me, you do not have to sit and look pretty, even if it is a pleasant side benefit."

You didn't bother with your next move even though it had been your turn before slumber reached. "Well," you croaked, testing the sounds against your alveolar ridge. "What book are you reading?"

"It’s the journal of a fallen soldier," he answered, which was not totally a falsehood. "A rather blasphemous book to many. Are you religious?"

You shrugged. "I suppose it depends on who's asking."

Smart. "I see. So, you are not religious. It seems we have something in common."

You shifted your legs. "That's a surprise, considering your loyalty to the Tsaritsa."

"Indeed. For her, I am devoted. One could see that in a religious sense depending on the perspective. Is there anything to which you are devoted?"

The chess pieces remained as thoughts circled your mind, reflected through your pupils. "Not anything I can think of at this time."

Bold. "Everyone is devoted to something, even if they do not see. Tell me, are you familiar with Mondstadtian theatre?"

You shook your head. Your eyes briefly flickered to his and back to the board again.

"For monarchs of old, royalty kept a court jester. Jesters had many vocations within their role. Comedic relief was one. The same goes for the jester of a play. Often these Fools would point out shortcomings within royal meetings or people and stories in humorous ways. Like a dance of death, teetering on offense yet accurate. The audience laughs, yet those with understanding know what lies beneath the surface of the hilarity. The Jester knows all, the story from beginning to end, as well as the enigmas of each character."

He flipped a page before speaking again.

"Some people might say the Fool not necessary for a good story. Why have a clown recite the story when the words are already presented to you in the form of dialogue"

He continued scanning his pages.

"Ah," you spoke. "Probably so the audience knows when they're being tricked and what they're up against. Maybe the interpretation is less convoluted that way?"

Interesting. "Some would view that as hand holding. If the Fool's words are even to be trusted, of course. Many a people make for unreliable narrators, and that includes Fools. Still, the importance of their position within the story is unlike any other."

"I didn't take you for the humorous type," you commented carefully, almost biting the words back as if you'd accidentally bitten your tongue.

He chuckled. "Maybe not, no. I am not necessarily devoted to any sort of typical humor, but the role itself is fascinating, wouldn't you agree?"

You nodded.

Dialogue, the art of conversation, would pierce through you yet.

“To circle back to your inquiry. Ah, before that, tell me,” he ran his fingers through his beard. “Are you literate?”

You nodded.

He waited a few beats for you to elaborate, but no sound came. Still, being literate at all was a feat in itself. Just how literate were you was the question. He stood from his chair with book in hand and knelt beside yours. With a flick of his thumb, his saved reading spot was open to your eyes.

“Care to join me in the pleasure of reading?” he inquired. “You can go first.”

With a careful nod, you cleared your throat to begin. “Waylaying the plans of a god might seem prideful to those without ears to hear, but what would man say if that same god took the innocence of their child away? I have reached the heavens, only to see a throne in name. The same throne that grants vision in the same breath that it snuffs them. Waning though I am, I can still remember the tiny fist of my daughter, stamping her knuckles against her game bored at her loss. In the same way, gods demolish the board rather than admit their wrongdoing.”

You paused in thought. The edge of your braid tickled his arm as you leaned to glean more of the book’s content. And then you spoke. “When I was a child learning to read, I remember my mother gifting me a fairytale. The tale featured a bear that couldn’t fish. Though the reading level was simple, the words confounded me. After many desperate attempts, I threw the book against the wall.” A chuckle softly escaped your lips. “My mother in the next room never even heard.”

“You seem to be doing fine now,” he noted.

“Yes, I’ve…had plenty of opportunity to study. Not to mention that little me was also very determined to pick the book up off the ground the next day and try again.”

“Do you think the gods in this story similar to your dilemma as a child?”

You pondered the question. “While I’d need more context, I’d say the message the author is trying to implicate here is that the gods in this tale act more like petulant children rather than trying to learn or grapple an understanding of their creation.”

Pierro hummed in approval. “Maybe the gods aren’t ignorant or weak as much as they are prideful.” Though every single being, including gods, had a weakness. Felling a god proved difficult, but once fallen, it was a matter of destroying the remaining shades.

“I would say that is the downfall of many,” you replied as your eyes scanned more words on the page. “But it could also be a strength, I think, depending on the context.”

Pierro shifted on his knees and beseeched you to elaborate.

“Well, taking pride in your accomplishments is one of the beauties that life affords us, I think. Feeling proud for creating something nice or doing well. Those are normal human emotions. With anything, it can become a burden if you allow.” You gestured towards your barely touched glass of wine. “Like alcohol.”

“Are you not one for wine? Or was it not to your taste?”

Your hands quickly gestured in disagreement. “The taste is delectable I just…have learned that having smaller amounts makes for more pleasant company.”

Or you were wary of what one might put in a drink, Pierro mused. Not to mention that clarity was vital when dealing with Harbingers. Not that Dottore kept such things in mind; wine was probably restful in comparison with whatever medications he played with. Pierro didn’t begrudge your slowness of drink. On the contrary, having such mindfulness of your surroundings was endearing.

“There is no need to worry.” He took one of your hands —cold to the touch— in his and rested it in your lap. “I am more curious about your mind. While wine is certainly one way into a person’s mind, I would prefer yours to be unclouded.” Gaining trust without the help of alcohol proved more useful in the long run.

You did not push his hand away. “My mind,” you whispered. Your gaze fell to the side along with a chuckle that puffed from your dry lips. “Would you dissect me like Dottore?” Pierro chuckled in turn. “Not physically, no.” “Why was I chosen to be here,” you quickly pleaded. Your hand trembled slightly beneath his own. “My talents are miniscule, even if all you people wanted was a fuck toy.”

Your brashness struck him as if you’d struck him with his book. “Interesting. So, you think you are nothing but a fuck toy. Tell me, don’t you take pride in anything?”

“I used to.” Someday you’d elaborate without being prompted. He was certain. “What was something that you used to have pride in then? If I might be so bold, I do not think it was chess.”

Now that caused a laugh. “No, but it was something similar. Fencing. The sport. Smallsword style. It is often said that fencing is like chess at the speed of light.”

That was news to him. Glancing at your arms and thighs, he could tell even through the fabric you wore. One bicep protruded more than the other, and even with one eye he could see the shapely tone of your legs that drifted down the plush chair as gracefully as a ballet dancer. While the sport itself was not one hundred percent in tune with combat abilities, it did prove useful for many instances. Were you competitive? Judging by the unfinished chess board, competition was not at the forefront of your mind.

“Fascinating. I have heard that such a sport is popular in Fontaine. Did it originate there as well?” He’d known the origins, of course, and he’d known that those origins were not the true origins. As with most things of this world, beginnings were buried within the surface away from prying eyes. To know the beginning would be to know the fragility of the world and its creators. Perhaps some would think it best to keep such things buried beneath the dirt so that those who could abuse such knowledge kept away.

“The origins are a bit complex, but the sport derives from many different cultures,” you chirped, pulling your hand away from his and to your chest.

Pierro encouraged you to go further. He wanted, needed, to hear what you could put forth. And as the words poured from your mouth, he was blessed with an output of excitement that slowly bubbled from your stomach to your esophagus to your tongue until it settled in the sporadic gestures of your palms. Endearing could certainly describe the scene, but only time would tell if the joyful glint in your eyes was simply because you hadn’t had a proper conversation in so long. Either way, the passion you bestowed pierced the very air like a perfume.

During a pause, Pierro spoke up. “Would you call yourself adept with the blade?”

The book had been long closed and set to the side, yet he still lingered by your chair’s side to follow your gestures and eyes.

A slow and steady grin graced your lips. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m awful. Sometimes I helped the local children. There are many people better than I, though.”

“There will always be those that are better than we are, even with the things we are passionate about. It seems, though, that perhaps this is something you could take some pride in, hm?”

You exhaled. “Maybe so.”

Silence hung in the air with the unspoken; your arrangement did not provide you time for leisurely pursuits. Pierro doubted many of his Harbingers allowed for such times. He would find out, though, and with each piece of information he could understand where their mindsets lie. This was especially important considering the unrest that trembled through the Fatui. The unease that came with death and ranks and betrayal.

Pierro rubbed his thumb gingerly over the leather of his book, waiting to see if you’d continue your tantalizing speech.

You did not.

Instead, your eyes fixated on the chess board.

Pierro gripped the book in his hand and lunged his arm forward toward your chest. Surprise lined your features, yet your arm instinctively parried his attack to your right quarter. As if on instinct, you riposte with your hand to his chest. After a momentary victory grin, shock flushed your features; you stilled as frozen as a prey. Your hand stayed resting on his chest, probably unsure of how to proceed. Striking a Harbinger, whether a form of self defense or not, could be detrimental for you unless otherwise granted permission. Perhaps you’d become so wrapped in the conversation that you’d forgotten where you were.

Which was the idea.

Pierro bowed his head slightly forward and gently pressed his hand over yours. “It seems the touch is in your hands. The point goes to you.”

Your hand quickly retracted; you held it to your chest. “I didn’t know we were…sporting. I apologize.”

He chuckled. “Well, you didn’t seem interested in chess, so I figured the scene could use something you might be interested in.” “Why…” you stuttered. Your brows knit together as your jaw clenched. “Why would you care about what I’m interested in?”

“Isn’t it obvious,” Pierro replied calmly. He leaned his elbow on the armrest of your chair. “I’m interested in getting to know you.”

“Why.”

“Why does anyone want to get to know another?”

“To use them.”

“That could be a reason for some. But aren’t we all using each other, then? Even for love, comfort, contact, companionship. Basic human needs. One works for his employer to feed his family. Another works to surpass his employer. Each culture and society dictate which reason is more noble. Do you find one more noble than the other?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know anymore. Most might say love or companionship. But I…” You hugged yourself. “Food. Less pain. If that. If I can get those things, I’d do anything. Who gives a fuck about getting to know each other when I’ve hardly eaten in two days and my arms hurt from getting slung around? The bruises haven’t even healed.”

You winced before Pierro could even blink, most likely expecting a blow that never came. Pierro was not one to succumb to anger as easily as some of his Harbingers. Your anger only opened you up more, made you more vulnerable. In some ways, it was beautiful.

He gently took your chin between his fingers and watched water form into droplets that welled from the corners of your eyes and cascaded down your cheeks. He ran a thumb along one of the water trails and took a tear onto his thumb. Your lower lip shook as you tried to bite back the emotions. It had probably been many moons since you’d had a moment to allow yourself the time to anguish. To grieve everything you had lost.

“It’s okay to cry for now. The range of human emotions knows no bounds, and you may not get the chance to mourn later. But your basic needs. I will provide them. You will not be without food, shelter, or clothing. You will not lose your life here. In exchange, I need something from you.”

He continued wiping away the wetness of your face with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Become a Harbinger.”

“What?”

“I cannot promise you complete safety or status. But if you become my eyes, I can make things more bearable for you. All I need is loyalty and what comes with that.”

“That…that sounds too good to be true,” you croaked. “I don’t really want to be a Harbinger…what does that even mean for me?”

“When you’re on duty with another Harbinger, I need you to report every single detail to me upon return. You will receive a new name. You’ll most likely stay within headquarters, but that does not mean you will not ever go out into the field. This likely means bowing to their whims just as you do now. Possibly more so since you will be their underling. But along with your information comes my promise to provide you with more comfort.”

“So I’m just a spy?” You laughed. “Just another tool?”

“Do you have any other choices?”

You frowned at the floor for a moment, catching yourself about to speak and then slamming your lips shut. Pierro would allow you time, of course. Not that you knew that. It was easier to catch you in this moment than allow time to think. Either way, you’d take the opportunity. Pierro would probably do the same if he were in your shoes.

“I’ll do it.”

“Well, then,” he softly grabbed your clenched hand and leaned to place his lips against your knuckles in a kiss. “Your partnership is appreciated. Your name is now Innamorati, number twelve of the Fatui Harbingers. Though we bow to her Majesty the Tsaritsa, never forget where your loyalties lie.”

Number twelve and traitor to them all. Official ceremonies and authorization would be yet to come, but you didn’t need to know such things. What mattered was the power of the mind, how you viewed yourself, your choices, and your duty. All of which aligned with the stage he’d set to play. While the physical chessboard sat dormant to the side, a more important one laid in the palm of the hand that held yours.

#pierro #pierro x reader #pierro/reader #yandere fatui harbingers x reader #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #mir writes

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mikeellee · 8 months

Text

I don't think I have a well thought out post for now bc I know many points were made by us...but I noticed smth here.

Have you noticed how Izu has nk theory on its own?

Like at first glance it seems a silly thing to worry as you know, Hori is doing far worse but ...this is a trait of what Hori is cooking.

Imagine Naruto or Luffy....fandom of those characters have theories about them that range

* what if he meet X?

*what if he has power Y?

* what if he can do Z?

Yes, I'm aware naruto is over (dont recommend boruto but you do you) but when naruto was still on going...I saw so many theories.

"But none of them were true"

Yes. The point is not "my theory is canon" the point is "I like this character and I think would be cool if he could do X or Y"

Izu? His only theory is the damn dfo (I apologize to those who like this theory, it can work in your fics...but in canon? Nope) which often - with some rarity- its to shit on Izu.

And then...what?

"Duh the red sneakers"

This theory doesnt really work to me and is tied to dfo again.

Have you noticed we dont have theories about "what if Izu has meet X?" Or "what if Izu was in that place?" "What if Izu has the Power X?"

None of this for Izu.

Why? Bc unlike Naruto or Luffy, Hori refuses to explore his own mc and keeps shoehorning the abuser who is USELESS. Bk's existence serves only to hurt Izu.

The manga is almost ending and we dont know shit about our mc.

For that matter...we dont know things about Shig.

I say this: HE IS NOT DEEP, HE JUST GOT ABS

#izuku deserves better #bnha critical

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xerosdaze · 1 year

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The best written couple goes to...

Yasammy (Yaz + Sammy) :D :D

#camp cretaceous #jurassic world #jurassic world camp cretaceous #camp cretaceous season 5 #yasmina fadoula #sammy gutierrez #yasammy #jwcc yasmina #jwcc sammy #jwcc yasammy #them💜💗💗#rarity useless thoughts #random thoughts

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stanning-reyna · 2 years

Text

Percy didn’t bother with the handle, instead throwing himself into the door as he ran. He didn’t bother replying to the greetings in the lobby or the many questions thrown at him as he plowed through the building. He didn’t bother waiting for someone to tell him where Annabeth was, he ran down the hallway and checked every room. She was in the last one on the left.

Relief spread through him when he saw her laid on the bed.

But then his stomach dropped.

All he had to do was take one look at the room to know. Will was standing against the wall, not at the bedside treating her. Connor was sitting in a chair, a rarity for a son of Hermes who always seemed to bounce off the walls. Annabeth didn’t respond to his arrival, not even by looking up at him.

“I thought there was time to get her back here,” Will said, eyes trying their best to find Percy’s. “The knife didn’t look like it had been poisoned. She should have been fine till we could patch her up properly here.”

The boy was a doctor explaining a tragedy to an unsuspecting loved one. Percy had seen it on television, on those dramas always playing that pulled on your heartstrings even if you insisted you weren’t really watching. This was just like that, from Will’s sympathetic but professional tone to the silence in the background to the impending doom he’d felt since the injury happened. Except this was no tv episode, it was real.

“Can I have a moment with her, alone?” Percy asked. He hated that he sounded like he was about to cry. That’s always exactly how it went on tv, the person warbling out a sentence before they broke down in tears.

Connor started to speak up but Will shushed him and hurried the two of them out of the room. As the door slammed, Percy made his way towards her.

He looked at Annabeth. Really looked. There was so much to see. Good things, like the nic in her eyebrow that held a warm memory of getting hurt messing around together with an ax last summer. Bad things, like the blood crusted under her nails from the battle that raged on outside.

And then some things that Percy couldn’t distinguish as good or bad because he’d never seen them on her before. Like how her freckles stood out more, maybe because the rest of her skin was paler than usual. And how her lips hung open in a totally useless shape that he was sure Annabeth would never put them in because it served no purpose.

And above all, he saw that she was dead. Plain, old fashioned passed-away.

No, a voice inside of him said. If she was alive just minutes ago on the bridge, she has to be alive now.

He checked along her neck for a pulse, but felt nothing.

She has to be alive.

Percy focused harder on what he felt under his fingers. Her heartbeat was weak and he’d have to work hard to find it, that was it. Closing his eyes, he imagined blood flowing through her veins to a steady lub-dub where his hand lay.

Nothing.

He kept focusing.

Then he heard it. Faint, but there. By a few minutes later it had grown stronger. Percy let out a quiet laugh, relief filling him. Of course Annabeth wasn’t dead.

He finally removed his fingers from her pulse and leaned back to look at her face, which remained unmoving. Gently, he reached towards her cheek. As his thumb brushed against her cool skin, her eyes shot open.

“What the f- fudge”

Percy whipped around to see Conner standing in the doorway, watching them. His eyes were the size of a golf ball as he looked at Annabeth.

“How did you do that?” Conner asked, frozen in place.

Annabeth groaned and Percy drew his attention back to her, asking her what’s wrong. Her eyes darted across the room, landing on Percy, but she said nothing back.

“Go get Will,” he ordered Conner. The boy scurried away down the hall.

. . .

The war was over. Kronos was dead, along with Luke. Annabeth was recovering just fine from her shoulder injury. Chiron had demanded a meeting with Percy in the Big House, of all ways to celebrate their success. Grudgingly, Percy obliged.

“Please don’t tell me there’s another prophecy that I’m actually the child of this time?” he asked as Chiron handed him a ginger ale.

The centaur looked down at the table, a worryingly serious look on his face.

“Percy,” he began. “You need to understand this. Annabeth was killed in battle.”

Percy didn’t know what to say. Was Chiron okay? Was he okay? Was he hallucinating?

“Will told me that when you arrived at the hotel, she had already been gone for 20 minutes. But you brought her back. I haven’t seen a child of Poseidon with that great of control in centuries, but here you are.”

Percy wanted to laugh in his face, but that would probably come off as rude. Brought her back? Last time he checked, resurrecting from the grave wasn’t included in Poseidon’s domain of the ocean. Chiron spoke up again before he could mention this.

“I suppose you’re confused. When you found Annabeth, your powers honed in on her blood. Controlled it like they would any water. And when you wanted her blood to pump through her veins again, it did."

He'd... controlled her blood? The thought unsettled him. But as long as Annabeth was here, she could help him figure these powers out, and he'd be fine.

#i didn't edit before i posted woohoo #i've had this idea for a while and love it so much #percyjackson #heroes of olympus #pjo #hoo fandom #percy jackson #hoo series #pjo fandom #pjo series #percy jackson and the olympians #annabeth chase #percabeth #pjo fanfic #percy jackson fanfic #percabeth fanfic #annabeth chase fanfic #bloodbending

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devildom-drabbles · 2 years

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Here's a request (not do feel obligated to do this at all if you don't want to :D)

Lucifer, Levi, Asmo, Satan react to:

MC (a smart student) getting an F on their test

And when they get questioned about it they say:

"... What are you going to do about it? Hang me up to the ceiling? Are you going to call me stupid, useless, idiot, scumbag, a disgrace to this family, an embarrassment? Are you going to punish me?"

And how ever they answer MC will continue

"Why or why not? I'm 'stupid' like Mammon now and now that I embarrassed and tainted diavolo's reputation, you will treat me the way you treat mammon because it's 'deserved' for my stupidity, right?"

"And then they turn away towards the door, "I hate you demon's who think it's ok to mentally/psychologically/emotionally abuse their brother. Their OWN brother! And yet can turn a blind eye for some human. Treat mammon better, the lot of you!!"

(I love you btw and would wanna platonic-ly marry you)

(Oh my, Anon. 😳 Let’s at least platonic-ly go out to dinner first. Hehe, thank you for your sweet words.) It was interesting to think about how these boys would react to MC getting angry at them about this. A bit of angst ahead, just to forewarn you all. I hope I did this prompt justice. Enjoy!

How would Lucifer, Leviathan, Asmodeus, and Satan react to MC criticizing how they treat Mammon?

As part of his weekly routine to assess his brothers’ and the human exchange student’s progress at RAD, Lucifer had just asked MC to come to his study to look at their most recent exam results. He was relaxed since he expected to see only high marks from the academically skilled human, but that quickly changed when they handed him a paper with a failing grade written boldly at the top of it. Considering this was a rarity, he wasn't upset, but he did want to know the reason behind it, his ever-stoic expression masking the twinge of worry he felt. “Care to explain this?” he inquired. Rather than an answer, he was met with MC’s sudden line of questioning, and his concern grew at the thought that something had happened to them recently to cause this unusual behavior. He lowered his eyebrows as he calmly explained, “A punishment would only be necessary if you were neglecting your studies or chose not to put any effort in while taking the exam. But I’ve seen what you’re capable of and all that you’ve accomplished since your arrival in the Devildom, so I have no reason to believe that this was intentional.” The outburst that followed had shocked him even more than their low test score. Was that really how MC viewed his relationship with Mammon? After a moment of thought, he supposed that’s how it could be seen from an outsider’s perspective.

In truth, despite his frequent harsh words, he cared deeply for his younger brother who he could always rely on in serious situations and was competent in anything he set his mind to, and he’s felt this way since their days together in the Celestial Realm. But Mammon was also a troublemaker who preferred to leap without thinking, take the easy way out of things, and would secretly sell others’ belongings just for a little extra cash, which, in Lucifer’s mind, made him deserving of the negative comments and punishments he received. The intention wasn’t to abuse Mammon, but rather to make him aware of his detrimental choices and, ideally, deter him from repeating these kinds of actions. But without saying any of this aloud before the human retreated from his study, how would MC ever know? The Avatar of Pride rubbed his temple with a sigh, a new headache beginning to gnaw at him. It’d be difficult, but he’d have to think of a way to explain this to MC, and if they were still upset with him afterward, then that was their decision. Plus, there was still the matter of why they flunked their recent exam, so a conversation with them needed to happen sooner rather than later. For now though, he needed to continue checking everyone else’s test scores, and lo and behold, it was Mammon’s turn. The second-born was expecting a couple thousand lashing for his low grades shortly after being called to come to the study, but instead he just received a warning for a punishment if he were to perform poorly again next time.

Leviathan could feel his mouth gape open as he stared wide-eyed back at MC, the blue lights from his bedroom aquarium illuminating their agitated features. All he could think about was how stupid he was for even mentioning the test score he accidentally saw sticking out of MC’s school bag, his words fumbling out in a panic to assure them that he wouldn’t treat them differently just because they failed an exam. “Besides,” he added, “your score is still probably better than Mammon’s--” His lips immediately sealed shut when the human resumed their argument, bringing up his treatment of Mammon as well. Seriously, could he not say anything right today?! Once he heard MC utter the words “I hate you” toward the end of their declaration, Levi wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never return, not even having the willpower to beg them to wait before they shut his bedroom door behind them. After a bit of self-loathing, a different type of anger began to boil within Levi. ...Stupid Mammon. Stupid Mammon! It’s Mammon’s fault that MC was angry with him! Why was MC--his best friend, his Henry--defending that scumbag anyway?! It wasn’t fair! Mammon didn’t deserve their kindness! If that no-good, thieving, idiot of a brother of his would just--!!

Levi paused when he heard a collection of things clatter to the floor, only then noticing that he had turned into his demon form and whacked some of his figurines down from a shelf with his tail. He panicked as he examined their condition. He was prepared to summon Lotan if he found even a single scratch on any of the rare collectibles, like this one of Ruri-chan that was released in a contest to celebrate the announcement of the anime’s second season and only ten of them were made-- He stopped himself completely as he recalled how this figurine wouldn’t even be in his possession if it weren’t for Mammon. The crafty demon had somehow managed to locate one of the contest winners and win the figurine in a bet he made with them in order for Levi to have it. As the otaku’s eyes scanned over his shelves of games, books, and collectibles, he realized that quite a handful of these items that he cherished were there thanks to Mammon. He then thought about a variety of other things that Mammon had done for him in just the past one hundred years alone. Despite their squabbles, Levi supposed the greedy demon wasn’t the worst brother ever, so he could try to treat him a little better. But that didn’t mean that he forgave Mammon for all the money he still owed him and all of the belongings he sold behind his back! ...Ugh, this was going to be hard, but the Lord of Shadow would do anything for his Henry, so he had to give it his best. Time to remend his friendship with MC and be a bit nicer to Mammon!

Asmodeus had invited MC to his room for a spa night as a way to relieve his stress from the test-filled week at RAD. The two of them were in the middle of taking off their face masks when Asmo was complaining about how he only just barely got a passing grade after all the studying he did for one of the exams, which prompted him to remark how MC likely passed with flying colors as usual. His glowing smile faltered when he noticed how the human’s attitude changed while admitting that they had failed that exam. He was about to reassure them when they started questioning what negative reactions he would have toward them as a result of their poor grade. “MC, do you really think I would ever say or do such terrible things to you?” he asked with a frown. “It breaks my heart to hear you even suggest that.” The latter half of their comeback was enough to shatter his heart entirely--seeing them so upset was troubling enough to him, but the fact that he was part of the reason they were feeling this way made it even worse. He called their name pleadingly, reaching a hand out as he took a few steps toward them, but his words fell on deaf ears as they left his room without looking back.

As he collapsed onto his bed, Asmo wondered if he and his brothers were really that cruel to Mammon. He could agree that they weren’t nice to him all of the time, but their frustration with him was justifiable, right? Like the other day, Mammon had wanted to “borrow” some of his clothing and ended up selling them on Devilcari! Wasn’t it only fair that he called his greedy brother a “scumbag” among other similar terms and ratted him out to Lucifer so he’d be punished for such a heinous crime? Honestly, Asmo couldn’t believe he had someone like that for a brother! Has there ever been a time where Mammon didn’t think about money first?! ...Oh, well, he wasn’t like that in the Celestial Realm. Back then, Asmo recalled, Mammon was someone he could depend on, even stepping in to protect him on numerous occasions when he did something wrong. And although the second-born would grumble about it, Mammon ultimately would help him with whatever he asked for. Actually, he still does that. Mammon will pick up the beauty products Asmo wants even though he’s out shopping for himself; Mammon has helped him record videos and take photos for his social media accounts; Mammon could get both of them into invite-only parties, and he really is a lot of fun to hang out with during them-- Okay, maybe he wasn’t such a bad brother after all. In fact, if he wasn’t around, things just wouldn’t be quite as exciting. Asmo blew air up at his long bangs in defeat. He’d have to properly apologize to MC and Mammon for his behavior, but first he needed to freshen up so he looked his best. In any case, when Mammon causes him grief in the future, Asmo will at least try to avoid using jeering words.

Satan had decided to join MC in the House of Lamentation’s library, taking a seat next to the human as they did their homework while he did some student council work on his laptop. The peaceful atmosphere he so cherished came to an abrupt end the moment he asked MC if he could look at their Devildom Law test that they got back earlier--he knew that they always did well on the exams, and since he had gotten a few questions wrong on his test, he wanted to see if they had the correct answers. An uncomfortable silence fell over the human as they held out the test toward him. Satan immediately realized what the issue was upon seeing all the red x’s and scribbles written on the front page alone, but before he could offer to go over content together as a way to help them, MC was already guessing what his response would be. His initial surprise from their remarks gradually shifted into a mix of confusion and annoyance the longer they went on. “Excuse me?” he questioned them, aware that he’d lose his temper if he stayed quiet. “Why are you comparing yourself to Mammon? And worse than that, you seem to be assuming that I’d react the way that Lucifer does whenever we get in trouble. I’m not him, and you’re not Mammon. What exactly has brought this on, MC?”

The truth came out as the human gathered their items and moved to exit the library. Wanting to confront the issue rather than letting it stew, Satan grabbed their arm before they could leave. “Now hold on a minute,” he demanded. “You do realize that demons aren’t exactly known for being kind, right? Mammon can be quite ruthless when he wants to be, too. He may treat you differently because he likes you, but that’s not how he is with everyone.” He loosened his grip on MC’s arm. “Look, you haven’t known Mammon for as long as my brothers and I have, but I know you’ve seen how he usually acts. He’s always in an endless cycle of gambling away what little money he has and then stealing what he can--even from his own brothers--or using other underhanded means just to get more of it. And because of that, he’s got debt collectors and witches alike trying to track him down on a daily basis, and even we get roped into fixing his messes or suffering the consequences of his actions, like when we were forced to work as bunny boys. He also never learns from his mistakes and doesn’t care about schoolwork either. That’s why he ends up on the receiving end of Lucifer’s punishments far more often than the rest of us. When you lay out these facts, doesn’t it make sense why we’re constantly so frustrated with him?”

MC’s unwavering glare made Satan sigh. “Even so,” he continued, “I guess I can’t deny that my brothers and I can be rather harsh toward him most days. It’s basically a habit for us to toss out an “idiot” or “scumbag” despite him not doing anything at the time. But we don’t actually hate him, nor do we want to abuse him. He’s Lucifer’s favorite little brother without a doubt; the twins love it when he coddles them, no matter what they may say otherwise; he’s one of the first demons Asmo likes to go to with gossip or for input on the latest fashion trends; Levi is usually excited whenever he wants to play video games with him, and he keeps lending Mammon money even though he’s rarely ever paid back; and as for myself...” The Avatar of Wrath smiled bashfully. “Well, I’m grateful for the times he’s helped me to calm down and avoid slipping into my demon form. I’ve also lost track of how many times he’s gotten us things that we really wanted and would try to brush it off like he obtained them by ‘coincidence.’ Mammon...looks out for us in his own way. He’s a strange sort of rock in this family that bounces back from whatever is thrown at him. ...Maybe...that’s why we don’t feel bad when we ridicule him?” Satan pondered for a moment. “All right, I get it, MC. We let ourselves go too far in our treatment toward him. I’ll talk to the others about what you said, but I doubt we’re all going to magically change our behavior overnight, just like Mammon hasn’t changed in all these years. So, give us some time, okay?”

#ask response #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me mc #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo #obey me mammon #snippet #light angst

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cerastes · 11 months

Note

I'm looking at supporters (Preferably low rarity/hope) to level so that recruit tickets in IS aren't as useless as they are right now. Any recommendations? Is Roberta really as good as the memes seem to imply?

Roberta is ass, don't. RRRRROBERTA GAMING NUMERO 1 CAMPEAO DA PENTA!!!!!

Invest in Podenco (S2 silences and slows) and Scene (cameras are good, cheap summons with 1-block) for sub-6* pics. Mayer's consistent Stuns are also good. I'm also assuming you already have your Orchid at lv55.

For 6*, if you want some thoughts there, Ling, Gnosis, Red Didi, and Suzuran are choice pics.

#flusterfluff

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twirlyeyebrows · 2 years

Note

hello my sweet! many congratulations on 200 and may you have many more to come! for your event may i request angst prompt regret with sanji pretty please? preferably sanji is the one regretting something, not the reader hehe (:< a female reader with she/her pronouns is just fine, if applicable! thank you so very much and congratulations again! <3

thank you so much and of course <3 i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it! i really need to write more sanji angst honestly this was a lot of fun.. oops... (i'm also sorry it took so long to post, tysm for your patience! >.<)

Regret (Sanji X Fem Reader)

✶ This piece is a part of my 200 followers event! The status of the event is currently: closed (check it out here!) ✶

♡ No pronouns are used but there is mention of reader wearing a skirt

♡ Word Count: 1.8k

♡ Slight wci spoilers? There are lots of mentions of Germa and things related :>

You hadn't talked to Sanji in days. To anyone else, this would have seemed fine. To you, however, it was a rarity. The man could barely keep his eyes, hands, and thoughts off of you, he was like a puppy who constantly needed your attention. It's one of the things you loved most about him.

Although, now you didn't know if you wanted to see him.

In your guys’ most recent fight he'd become someone else entirely. You watched him start to slip away from himself, becoming more like the experiment Germa had always wanted him to become. You knew in your heart that it wasn't his fault, but how could you unsee something like that? The kind and caring boyfriend you had fallen in love with had disappeared right in front of your eyes. He became a machine, a man-made killer. It horrified you.

And he realized it.

Later that day when he tried to ask if you were okay, you outright avoided him. When he attempted to serve you a meal that night, you politely declined. You hadn't looked him in the eyes in forty-eight hours.

Sanji was no idiot, he was the exact opposite. He quickly put the pieces together, realizing that his actions had caused you discomfort. He was wracked with guilt and regret. He wanted nothing more than to hold your hands and plead for your forgiveness. He wanted to prove that he was someone you could be safe around. But after that moment, how would it be possible? How was he supposed to know for absolute certain that he wouldn't hurt you again? He didn't know how so all he could do was follow in your footsteps and avoid you.

It was painful for both of you, more than either of you would've expected.

Sanji spent this time mostly alone. If he couldn't be around you, he didn't want to be around anyone. He would never admit it to anyone else, but in the loneliness of his cabin, the tears didn't stop flowing. He hated himself for being this thing. He hated Germa for making him into something he never wanted to be. Something you didn't want him to be. It was a pill he had never been able to swallow and he knew trying now would be useless.

He hurt you. He made you feel uncomfortable. Unsafe.

That was the one thing he hated more than his modified genes.

He could barely bring himself to cook, let alone be a friend to the rest of the crew. Without you, his whole world crumbled around him, he felt useless, pathetic, weak. Just like he'd been told during his childhood.

Sanji didn't think he would ever experience worse pain than he already had. What could've been worse than abuse from his own family? What could be more terrifying than starving on an island for a month with no guarantee of survival?

This. This is what was worse.

Not only having to acknowledge that Germa had in a sense won, but that in them doing so, he had lost you too.

The regret bubbled in his stomach until it ate him from the inside out. Every moment he spent awake he was nauseous. Every time he tried to sleep he was woken up in a pool of cold sweat. His heart never stopped racing, his leg never stopped shaking, and his brain never stopped screaming.

But all of that was worth it to him as long as you felt safe.

But you didn't.

You didn't feel safe. Not here, not on any other island, not with anyone else. You could feel the tension in the air when you walked around the ship. You had to barge through every wall of strain just to talk to your friends. Being separated from Sanji had taken a larger toll on you than you wanted to admit.

You wanted to run in his arms and squeeze him tight as you had so many times before. You wanted to see his warm smile, feel his soft skin against yours, hear his bold laugh echo through the kitchen walls.

You wanted Sanji back. Your boyfriend. The man you fell for oh so long ago.

But was it even him anymore? Was he still the same guy that's saved your life on countless occasions? The same guy who memorized all your favorite recipes just to satisfy you? You had no way to tell.

Living in the hell of ignoring him seemed like the only option. It made you sick to your stomach. Despite this, you stuck by your choice. You valued yourself and understood when your feelings had to come first, even though they may be the hardest emotions you've had to shove down.

A full week had passed. You hadn't gotten any better and it seemed like Sanji hadn't either. You hadn't seen him act like his normal self since the situation started. His food tasted just as amazing as always, but the presentation of it was lacking. Every day broke him down further.

He couldn't stand it anymore. If you and he were going to cut each other off for good, he at least wanted to attempt to make things right first. Nobody else on the crew had been affected by his sudden power awakening and he found it bitterly ironic. Ironic that the one person who he cared about most had been the only one to get distressed due to what he had done.

He needed to talk to you, he just hoped you'd let him.

You heard a knock on your cabin door. Expecting it to be Zoro, or Nami, or Chopper, or anyone else but Sanji, you spoke a soft “Come in.”.

You watched your door creak open and you had to clench your teeth together to keep your jaw from falling to the floor.

Your boyfriend (ex-boyfriend?) looked awful. It looked like someone threw him into a lion’s den and told him to try to fight them off. His hair was messy, the glint in his eyes was gone, he didn't look anything like himself. You felt your stomach twist in tight knots. You were terrified that your worries were about to be proven right.

“Sanji..?” You asked, cautiously. You whispered, afraid that raising your voice any higher would shatter any glass in the room.

He didn't say anything. He just looked at the ground and shook his head. Long golden curls fell over his eyes as he avoided eye contact.

“You can come in.” You reiterated, even more carefully.

As much as you knew what you could be getting yourself into, seeing Sanji stand there like a shell of himself was heartbreaking, too much for you to simply do nothing.

He nodded his head softly and walked into the doorway. You tapped the spot on the bed next to you and he trudged over, keeping his eyes on the floor as he took each step.

You heard the sniffles get louder and watched as tears dotted the ground. Only then did you realize he was crying. You couldn't remember the last time you saw Sanji cry.

He sat down next to you with all the care in the world. He planted his feet and fussed with the bedsheets in his hands. He sat a big distance away from you, doing everything in his power to try to seem like he wasn't going to hurt you.

You swallowed a thick lump in your throat. You had no idea what was about to happen.

“(Y/n), do you hate me?” You listened as Sanji choked back a sob.

Your heart cracked and your eyes welled with tears almost instantly. Why would he ask you something like that?

“I don't hate you. I've never hated you.” You keep your tone hushed. You have to force each word out.

Then Sanji meets your eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. His eyes are glassy, his face is splotched with red patches, and his bottom lashes are stuck to his under eyes. He looks like he's been through hell. A man dragged through the deepest pits of regret and drowned in guilt. Your stomach flips queasily.

“I scared you, didn't I? That's why you're avoiding me.” His lips quiver as he speaks so quietly you can barely make out the words.

You clear your throat and nod, not knowing how to respond to his statement. He was right, of course, but how could you admit that to his face?

“I expected as much…” His voice cracked. He wiped the drops leaking out of his nose and cringed at the disgusting feeling. “I'm sorry, (Y/n). For everything.” He looked away from you once again as he poured his heart out onto the messed-up bed below.

You stayed silent but you felt the hot tears begin to roll down your cheeks.

“I didn't know-” His words cut off short. Whatever he was going to say was something he didn't want to talk about. You didn't push him, but you were curious.

“I didn't know that would happen. I didn't think it ever would, I didn't want it to, I never wanted it to!” His hands gripped the mattress as his speech picked up in speed. He was a timer ticking down, and fast. “If I would’ve known that suit was going to ruin me I would've..I wouldn't have…” The scattered thoughts in his mind weren't able to form before they spilled out of his mouth.

“I would've gotten you out of there. I would've made sure you never had to see it. I wasn't able to protect you… you shouldn't have even needed protecting in the first place! I-... I’m sorry I’m not safe to be around.” His ranting came to a halt. All fire in his eyes turned to heartache. His knuckles slowly gained color again as his clutch on the bed loosened.

You didn't even think as you grabbed one of his hands and grasped it tightly within your own. You felt him shaking. Any thoughts you thought about him before had washed away at this moment. None of it mattered. What mattered was him, helping him. Maybe you were still scared and maybe you still had your doubts, but what you were one hundred percent sure of was your love for this man. Genetically modified or not, this was Sanji. Right here, right now. These emotions were his own and you knew it.

You looked at him and tilted his chin towards you with your free hand. The glint in his eyes came back as you moved the strand of damp hair out of his face.

You gave him a weak smile and held his hand tighter. The tears pooled at the bottom of your face and dripped down onto your skirt.

“Sanji, it's alright…It's going to be alright.”

#sanji x reader #sanji x y/n #sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji #black leg sanji #sanji imagine #one piece #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #twirlyeyebrows #twirlys200

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priestessofspiders · 6 months

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Howl's well that ends well

(A very special thank you to @arsonsara for feedback and guidance with writing this story) While it may seem surprising in the age of internet storefronts and online auctions, sometimes you do, in fact, need to physically go somewhere in order to purchase things. There are several auction houses which only host their auctions in person, and sometimes millionaires are just too busy to take time out of their hectic schedules of plastic surgeries and cocaine fueled orgies in order to buy some overpriced trinket themselves. That's where I come in.

My name is Mae, I'm a buyer's agent, think of me as a professional bidder. Something will go up for auction, my client will give me a budget, and I'll go try my very best to acquire the item of their desire and keep it in a secure location for a while until it can be safely shipped off to their McMansion. It's not honest work, but it pays the bills, and I've had a lot of opportunities to see some genuinely weird crap in my line of work.

I received a call from a regular of mine, an A-list actress with a passion for old cartoons. She wanted me to get her an original cel from a short by the name of Howl's well that ends well. Evidently she was away on a cruise trip at the time the auction was being held, and thus needed me to purchase it by proxy. I accepted of course, and like I always do I sat down and did a little bit of research on the item I was to acquire.

The cartoon was made right at the end of the era of black and white cartoons, just before that slightly eerie rubberhose aesthetic fell out of style in favor of the technicolor wonderlands of the 40s and 50s. It was a simple story, as such animations usually are, depicting a wolf attempting to catch and eat a rabbit by any means necessary, with increasingly silly results. The cartoon was animated by the rather short lived Crescent Moon Studios, and was one of only two shorts known to have survived the company's collapse in 1939. The other was a mythological themed cartoon known by the title The Shepherd and the Satyr. Both had fallen into the public domain, but nobody had bothered putting up copies on the internet anywhere, after all, they were pretty obscure.

I was given a maximum budget of fifty grand to purchase the cel, which I honestly thought was a little excessive. Sure, it was a rare find, but in the context of an auction, rarity only matters when it is combined with desirability. Technically every toddler's doodle is a one-of-a-kind original work of art, but nobody is going to shell out a million bucks to put it in the Louvre. Unless there was some massive revival in public interest surrounding failed animation studios from the late 30s, I wasn't anticipating needing to spend the full amount my client had authorized.

The auction house was typical of its kind; an opulent temple to the idle rich who have nothing better to do than spend their hoarded wealth on useless garbage. I've never felt comfortable in those sorts of places. While the cut I get is fairly good, it's not enough for me to feel at home rubbing shoulders with CEOs and movie stars. I have this theory that there is a certain stench exuded by those who only own one house, and I can see the pompous plutocrats wrinkle their noses at me whenever I pass by in my cheaply tailored suit.

I settled into my seat alongside the other auction attendees, fiddling nervously with the ends of my sleeves. The rows of comfortable chairs sat before the stage reminded me of vague memories of attending church as a young girl, not comprehending a single word the man in the funny robe was saying when he read out his sermon. Eventually the auctioneer made her way out onto the stage and the song and dance of acquisition began.

It took a while to get to the cel. There seemed to be no end to the parade of antique junk that was available for purchase by my more financially fortunate companions. Jewelry that would never be worn, paintings that would be used to take up space in otherwise artfully minimalist living rooms, and antique weapons to be drooled over by those who view the statistics of mass murder as fun trivia all graced the auction block, happily snatched up by the horde of the idiot rich.

It was by the time I had almost dozed off following a bidding war over some decrepit old tea set that the auctioneer announced the starting bid for an animation cel from Howl's well that ends well at one thousand dollars. Surprisingly, someone immediately offered to pay the opening bid. I was startled to learn that one of these p-zombie nepo babies even knew what a cel was, much less willing to blow a thousand bucks on it. I raised a counter bid, doubling the offer just to see how badly this other bidder wanted it. In turn, they raised the bid to four thousand dollars.

Thus began one of the most baffling bidding experiences I've ever had. This wasn't supposed to be a difficult item to obtain, it should have been a cakewalk, but this other bidder was fighting tooth and nail to acquire it. It was just a bit of cellulose with eighty year old doodles on it for goodness sake! And it's not like we're talking about Steamboat Willy here, I'd never even heard of Howl's well that ends well before I'd gotten the call from my client. Nevertheless, I had been given quite the budget, and it wasn't like it was my money anyway, so I stuck at it until the bitter end. I didn't get a look at the competing bidder at the time, just heard his voice from somewhere behind me. It was a strange voice, there was something wrong about it, something I couldn't quite place.

Forty seven thousand dollars. That's how much of my client's money I wound up paying for the damned thing. That's more money than some folks make in a year, and here I was blowing it on some picture of a cartoon wolf. I was frankly baffled.

I arranged for the payment with one of the clerks and, after everything went through, picked up the cel and started walking to my car. I planned to drive immediately down the storage unit where I keep the items I am paid to acquire until their rightful owners come calling. Holding the cel in my hands gave me a weird feeling, even though it was protected in a rather fancy looking glass case. The older something is, the creepier it gets. You'll never read a haunted house story about some luxury penthouse suite, for example, they'll always be set somewhere ancient and dilapidated. I don't think we like when things get too old for their own good, it reminds us that there was a time before we existed.

The cel itself depicted just the wolf, walking on comically exaggerated tip-toe. There was no backdrop, obviously, the cel would be overlaid on top of the background in order to save time during the animation process, to keep the overworked artists from needing to render every tree and bush over and over ad nauseum. The wolf itself was a typical example of a cartoon character from that era; impossibly flexible limbs, a somewhat lanky appearance, and large eyes with slices taken out of the pupils. It wouldn't have looked out of place in a Fleischer or Disney short.

I found myself staring into those eyes. There was an odd quality to them that I didn't quite like, a kind of intelligence that felt out of place on the exaggerated features of a cartoon. Normally when one stares at something for long enough, you stop being able to properly process it as a coherent image, like when you say a word too many times and it sounds like gibberish. With the wolf though, it felt as though the longer I stared, the more clarity it possessed, the more defined the edges became, the more-

"Excuse me miss, may I have a word?"

The voice caught me off guard, and I nearly dropped the glass case to the floor. I looked up, finding myself in the indoor parking garage where I'd parked my car. In my distracted state, I had nearly gotten all the way to my car without noticing how far I'd walked. Standing before me was a man dressed all in black, with a long overcoat, a thick scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, large dark sunglasses, and a wide brimmed fedora. His hands were firmly tucked in his pockets.

"Um, sure, can I help you?" I responded, a tad nervous. Did he follow me here? I found myself wondering.

"My apologies, first allow me to introduce myself, my name is Arnold Harrison, how do you do?" His voice was faintly muffled from his scarf, but even then I could make out that there was something wrong. There was something artificial about it, fake, like the voice a clown puts on when performing for children. Despite all the cordiality he was expressing, I felt almost as though he were mocking me.

It took me a moment, but I did recognize the name Arnold Harrison. He was a collector, a cartoon enthusiast, I'd never been employed by him myself but I'd heard a bit about him. Unlike the horde of hedonistic cretins spending their time wasting daddy's money on expensive toys, I actually had a certain level of respect for Harrison. I was dimly aware that he'd written a book at some point on the history of the early animation industry, and in an instant I knew who I had been competing against in the auction house.

"I'm Mae, a pleasure to meet you Mr. Harrison," I said, extending my arm out for a handshake. Harrison looked down at it for a moment, his hand still pressed firmly in his pockets. He didn't move to accept my handshake, keeping some distance away from me, and so I lowered my arm awkwardly.

After an uncomfortable pause, Harrison broke the silence, stating, "I would like very much to offer you a deal, Mae. As you probably noticed during the auction, I am very interested in getting my hands on that cel of yours. It is of great personal importance to me, you understand. I've been led to believe that you are, in fact, working for a client, are you not?"

I nodded my assent, cocking an eyebrow slightly as I wondered where he was going with this.

"In that case, I would like to present you with a counter offer; if you give me that cel, I shall, within the week, be able to present you with a virtually identical cel, a near exact copy. For all intents and purposes, it would be a perfect duplicate, and your employer need never know the difference. In order to ensure your silence on the matter, I would be more than willing to pay you a sum of forty six thousand dollars, cash, up front."

I blinked. Forty six thousand dollars, and all I had to do was hand this stranger some antique squiggles on a highly flammable bit of transparent plastic. It felt too good to be true. There was a lot I could do with that kind of money. My gut was telling me to say yes.

But it was something about that voice. I didn't trust it, it didn't sound like the voice of someone sincerely telling the truth. It sounded like someone telling the setup to a joke. We put so much value into way words are spoken, rather than the actual words themselves. One would never be able to take a politician seriously if they went on stage having just inhaled a balloon full of helium for example. I felt like I was going to be made a victim of some ridiculous prank.

"'I'm terribly sorry," I said, "but I'm afraid I can't do that. Good day Mr. Harrison." I turned to leave, heading towards my car.

A hand gripped my shoulder abruptly.

I wheeled around, yelping slightly from shock, and the hand was off my shoulder in a flash. Harrison was still standing some distance away from me, much too far away to have grabbed me like that. His arm would have had to have stretched like a rubber band. I caught a glimpse of his hand being stuffed into his coat pocket abruptly as soon as he saw me staring. I could have sworn it only had four fingers.

"I'm sorry, I just-" I heard him start to say, but I was already running full sprint towards my car. I made it there in a flash, slamming the door behind me as I carelessly tossed the cel in the front seat. I fiddled with my keys and turned on the engine, reversing out of the parking space and moving to leave as soon as possible.

As I drove towards the exit, I faintly heard Harrison's voice over the echoing engine, shouting out "Please! You don't know what you're dealing with!"

- - -

I made it to the storage facility right at the end of sunset, the sky a bloody red as night came to silently murder the daylight. I'd spent the entire drive trying to rationalize away what I'd seen. Perhaps Harrison had some birth defect, or had suffered an accident. He was probably much closer than I thought, or maybe he jumped back a little when I turned around. Maybe it all really was some elaborate practical joke. There must be a logical explanation.

By the time I was typing in the combination to the storage unit, I'd mostly convinced myself that everything was fine. The door swung open, and I fully intended to set down the cel within the sealed room and lock it all up again so I could go about the rest of my evening in peace. Instead, I found myself staring at the image of that cartoon wolf again, looking into those drawn-on eyes, gazing steadily into those pupils with the slices taken out of them.

I felt an intense compulsion to take the cel out of its case and hold it. It's not quite so unreasonable a desire as one might think. While I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit it, I'd occasionally carefully taken some of the antiques I'd gotten for my clients "out of the box" so to speak, just so I could touch something someone would spend so much money on. There was no logical reason for me to believe this wasn't just me acting on my own desires.

I clicked open the case gently, sliding open the lid. The faint camphor smell of old film wafted out, and I reached my hand inside, gently running a single finger over the smooth, transparent celluloid. As soon as I did so, a faint chill seemed to trickle down my spine, and I quickly stopped what I was doing and hurriedly put the lid back in place. I set the glass case and the cel within onto the floor and closed the door to the storage unit in a hurry, briskly walking back to my car.

Urban parking being what it is, it was something of a walk to get back to where I had left my car. Night had fully fallen by now, and while the streetlamps still shone their uncomfortably bright glow in a pathetic attempt to keep the shadows at bay, the blackness outside their radiance seemed darker than usual. There was a disturbing feeling of anticipation in the air, and I felt a knot in my stomach like that of an actor who has abruptly realized they were never given a script.

The streets were unusually empty. It is common knowledge that when a city gets large enough, the notion that nighttime is meant for sleep is revealed as a woeful misconception. Drunkards, workers on the graveyard shift, and petty criminals abound as soon as the sun recedes, and yet I found the streets utterly devoid of human life aside from myself. Despite my seeming isolation, it wasn't long before the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end, and I knew that I was not alone.

It took me a while to notice it, a faint echo to my own footsteps that shouldn't be there. Something was keeping exact pace with me. I altered the rhythm of my stride, abruptly doing a slight skip to switch which leg was coming down, and there was a moment briefly where I heard the sound of someone's own footsteps faltering to try and keep up.

I turned around, shouting out "Alright, come on out Harrison. I know it's you."

I was wrong though. It wasn't Arnold Harrison who was following me.

It stepped into the light of the streetlamp almost sheepishly, hands up in a "you got me" gesture. It stood about six feet tall from head to toe. It was staring at me hungrily with those inky black pupils. Pupils with slices taken out of them.

There's no point in beating around the bush any further, no point in trying to play coy. It was the wolf from the cel. It was a black and white cartoon wolf, standing up on two legs, walking towards me with clearly malicious intent. It wasn't some uncanny abomination, the humorous proportions of the animated world translated with horrific effect upon being brought into this three dimensional existence. It just looked like a goddamn cartoon character had somehow magically stepped out of the screen, and somehow that was more existentially horrifying than if it were some bulging-eyed misbegotten atrocity.

Confronted with this violation of all natural law, this impossible, inherently contradictory being, do you know what I did? I pulled out my pepper spray from my pocket and aimed for its stupid, drooling face.

The damn thing just opened its mouth and stuck out its tongue, tasting the spurt of liquid capsaicin as though I had discharged a can of whipped cream at it. As soon as the spray died down to a dribble, the wolf licked its lips before belching out a burst of monochromatic flame, dabbing its lips with a handkerchief it pulled out from nowhere in particular.

I ran of course. I ran for my goddamn life. I felt myself laughing as I did, a fit of giggles bursting involuntarily from my throat because this whole situation was so stupid. The wolf followed close at my heels, snapping its jaws inches away from me with a sound like a mouse trap closing each time it tried to take a bite.

I took a wrong turn in my haste to escape from my animated pursuer, finding myself in an alleyway blocked off by a chain link fence at the end. I turned around to see the wolf smugly stalking its way towards me, legs like rubber hoses strutting confidently forward. I thought I was going to die an utterly pointless, totally absurd death. I backed up against the fence, looking around for anything that could save me. That's when I spotted it.

A banana peel stuck slightly out of a nearby trash can. It was a stupid idea, it shouldn't have worked, but I grabbed it and tossed it on the ground in front of the rapidly approaching wolf. The instant one of its ink-black feet stepped on the peel, the wolf's legs began spinning like blurry bicycle wheels, its arms stretched out to balance itself as a comical "ooOoOohoohoOOO!" emitted from its slavering jaws. I took my opportunity and ran past the demented cartoon, sprinting as fast as I could towards my car.

Fortunately the alley was quite close to where I had parked, and I managed to hop into the driver's seat and start the ignition fast enough to get out of there. Looking in my rear view mirror, I spotted the wolf hold out its thumb for a taxi cab, but the streets remained empty as ever, and I was luckily saved from the embarrassment of having to indulge in some kind of wacky car chase sequence with my nonsensical pursuer.

I wish that was the end of this story. That my client picked up the cel, I got a good shrink to prescribe me some happy pills, and I got out of this situation with nothing more unpleasant than a lifelong distaste for old cartoons. Unfortunately, the universe is not, despite what some desperate idiots may insist, a kind place. Three things ensured that my life would be far more complicated than I would have otherwise preferred.

Firstly, my client refused to answer my calls. Her voice mail message informed me she was "taking a break from the screens to focus on the important things in life". Good for her I suppose, though I imagine it's rather easy to turn off the screens when you're enjoying a multi-week cruise on a mega yacht the size of Alcatraz.

Secondly, the wolf didn't stop after just one night. No sirree, this was one persistent bastard, and it didn't take long for the canine caricature to figure out where I lived. As for how it discovered my address, I have no idea. Perhaps it checked the yellow pages, that seems to be an appropriately stupid method. Regardless, I rapidly found myself spending each sleepless night fending off the attacks of a cartoon wolf.

The wolf's nocturnal visits were equal parts ridiculous and terrifying. It didn't operate on the same fundamental logic as the universe the rest of us live in, it belonged to a world of falling anvils and comically oversized wooden hammers, a world where the rules of slapstick have more meaning than the laws of physics. The first time it got into the house it hopped down the chimney in a black and white Santa Claus outfit and gestured for me to jump into a similarly colorless leather sack that it held open for me oh-so politely. I fired a taser at it, and I saw its skeleton flash through its unconvincing disguise as the monochromatic menace jolted about spasmodically. Eventually it fell to the ground, inky lines of smoke drifting up from its contorted body, and I ran out the door, hopped into my car, and drove straight down to the police station. I didn't have time to grab my cell phone to dial 911, I didn't want to spend another instant in the house with that stupid wolf.

I didn't tell the police that my home invader was a cartoon character of course, because I'm not a moron and would prefer not to spend the rest of my days in a nice padded room wearing a comfortable straitjacket, thank you very much. Instead I just said there was someone in my house, I thought I had incapacitated them, and I wanted an officer to check it out.

They didn't find the wolf of course, and while they couldn't confirm if anyone had broken into the house, they were at least able to confirm the presence of an intruder by the marks they had left getting out; a cartoon wolf shaped hole in the wall.

I spent two weeks dealing with this wolf. Two. Weeks. Two weeks of desperately trying to contact my client about the cel. Two weeks of fitfully sleeping only during the day. Two weeks of spending my nights in paranoid vigilance against an impossible intruder. I began taking to renting various cheap motels for a single night at a time, out of a desperate hope that maybe it wouldn't be able to find me there. It was a pipe dream of course, it always found me, and I'd always have to find some new ridiculous way to stop it.

The only thing that would even temporarily stop the damn thing was playing by its own rules. Whacking it over the skull with a frying pan would cause it to collapse to the ground with an egg-sized lump on its forehead, chirping birds circling its head as spirals formed in its eyes. Stomping on its toe would make it yowl in exaggerated pain as it hopped up and down on one foot. I once managed to get away from it one night by ducking into a public restroom and pointing at the "Women's" sign on the door, at which the wolf got embarrassed and waited politely for me to finish my business. I stayed there until the sun rose. It never stuck around during the day.

I did say three things changed my life for the worse, and the third is easily the one that has been the most profoundly upsetting. I began to notice... changes. Subtle ones at first. I've always had a faint West Coast accent, but as my encounters with the wolf continued, I found my voice dipping into the tones of stereotypical valley girl more often than not. The pitch changed too, raising from the sightly gravelly vocal fry I was used to into a high pitched squeak.

I used to smoke on occasion, not anything major, maybe a single cigarette a day at the most, but now I was finding myself with one constantly stuck in my mouth. It wasn't a situation of my addiction increasing due to stress, no, I never bought any fresh packs. They would literally seem to appear, already lit, when I wasn't paying attention. My skin began to turn paler too, my hair darker, the dark brown transforming into an inky black.

It was when I looked in the mirror one day and saw my pupils had slices taken out of them that I knew I had to do something drastic. I didn't care if it cost me my damn career, I didn't care if I spent the whole rest of my life flipping burgers on minimum wage, living out of my car; I refused to let myself turn into a goddamn cartoon.

I drove myself down to the storage facility. By this point I had been hopping from hotel to hotel so much that it took me until nightfall to reach it, which meant that the wolf would have a chance to try and stop me. I didn't care, I had a job to do. I wasn't going to let my humanity get stolen just because I was scared of some atrociously abnormal animated asshole.

I parked right in front of the facility next to a red painted curb. They could tow my car away and melt it down for all I cared. All that mattered was getting to that cel. As soon as I began marching towards the front gates, I heard a sharp whistle blow through the nighttime silence, and I turned to see the wolf, dressed in an old fashioned police uniform, writing what looked to be a parking ticket in a notepad. I flipped it the finger and began to run for my storage unit, looking back just in time to see the wolf speeding towards me, the uniform left behind still floating in the air from how quickly it leapt out of it.

But I was faster now, I felt lighter. My every step was bouncier and more energetic, and I found a wild grin growing across my face, perhaps an inch or so wider than it may have been before, a cigarette clenched tight between my pearly white, perfectly straight teeth. I used to have quite the crooked set of chompers, and my dentist always got onto me about how little I flossed, but right now supernaturally enhanced dental hygiene was hardly my biggest concern.

I managed to skid to a stop (with the appropriate sound effect of course) right in front of the storage unit, and rapidly entered the combination. I knew that the wolf was close behind me, because the wolf would always be close behind me. It was in his very nature, as was mine to escape in the very nick of time. Hunter and fox, cat and mouse, wolf and rabbit.

I swung open the heavy steel door and stomped the glass case at my feet to fragments, grabbing the cel with a flourish as the wolf tripped over my extended leg and slid to a stop on the metal floor. Pulling the lit cigarette from my mouth, I touched it to the cellulose image and winked. "That's all folks" I muttered as the translucent image caught fire in an instant.

As soon as the cel began to burn, so too did the wolf, engulfed in white hot flames as it howled in apparent agony. It didn't take long before the howls faded away, and all that was left was a wolf-shaped outline of ash on the floor of the storage unit.

"I'll be honest with ya, I wasn't sure that was going to work!" I said to nobody in particular as I shut the door to the unit once again. I clapped my hands together, partially to clean off the ashes, but more to signify the conclusion of a job well done.

I drove home and collapsed on the couch, exhausted.

And if we lived in a kind and loving universe that is where the story would have ended. But, of course, we do not.

I turned on the TV, desperate to drink in some mindless garbage to distract my brain from the question of how I would explain away the destruction of the cel to my client. Flipping to a random channel, I was greeted with the image of a cartoon wolf sneaking along to a jaunty tune.

Obviously it wasn't the wolf from Howl's well that ends well, that would be ridiculous. No TV channel is broadcasting obscure cartoon shorts from the 30s, not even at that hour. The wolf was in color, the art style was different, it must have been an adaptation of Three Little Pigs or something. But it didn't matter. It reminded me of my wolf, and I felt rage bubble up in my chest. My eyes narrowed, and I felt as though steam was blowing out of my ears. Who knows, maybe it did.

I pulled out a baseball bat and began smashing it into the TV set over and over again, gibbering incoherently and laughing as I did so, sparks flying from the ruined mess of plastic and glass. By the time I finished swinging, the mass of steaming debris was barely recognizable as a television.

As I stood there, hunched over, catching my breath, I looked down at the baseball bat I had used to destroy the TV. I don't own a baseball bat. I never have. Even if I did have one, how could I have gotten it so quickly? It's not like there is room for it in my pockets, and I didn't run off to some closet to grab it, it wasn't leaning against the couch when I came in.

Walking into the bathroom, I confirmed what I already knew.

My skin was still deathly pale, nearly white now, my hair was still black. When I reached up to touch my face, I found that my hand had only four fingers.

As I gazed upon my caricatured reflection in the mirror, a thought clawed at the synapses of my brain, a shock to the system like a firm handshake with a hand-buzzer; I still didn't feel alone. Ever since that freakishly fiendish fleaball had turned my life upside down, I'd felt as though I was being watched, being followed everywhere I went. I just assumed it was the horror of pursuit, the terror of being prey. But I think it's more than that.

The thing about humor is that it's all relative isn't it? If you tell a joke and nobody is around to hear it, well, chances are you aren't going to get any laughs, are you? The whole purpose of a cartoon is to entertain an audience, to make us laugh at the zany antics of those larger than life characters as they go about their impossible, ridiculous existence. Without anyone watching them, they have no purpose, no reason to exist. All of their power comes from the laughs they give their audience.

So I'm asking you now, dear reader; who is watching me, and how do I get them to stop?

#horror #nosleep #horror fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #halloween

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