#tw insults

[rowiewritesstuff]

Yandere Adam X Seer/Psychic Reader

I will more than likely edit this bc I'm supppper tired rn while writing this. Also oops super long

MIGHT Make a Demon or Angel version bc uhhh yes?

Thisss will obvs have a little misogyny in it. It’s Adam. Also this has SPOILERS so don’t read if you haven’t finished the show pookies QwQ

This also has some semi-offensive words so as always, if you can't handle it don't read it.

Yandere Adam X Seer/Psychic GN Reader

You were a friend of Charlie and Vaggie’s. You don’t know how exactly you got to hell as a human, but the two women were more than happy to take you in. They protected you from a lot. You’re incredibly sweet, friendly, and shy so you were an easy target for the residents of hell. 

When Charlie and Vaggie decided to go to heaven to make an appeal to the court you went along. You thought maybe the Seraphim could help you out and get you home to your universe. 

For your privacy, you wore a hood to hide your humanity. Everyone believed you were a demon.

When Emily was showing the three of you around Heaven you accidentally bumped into Adam. The others didn’t notice you left behind. You saw a flash of visions- Exterminators were destroying sinners left and right, and Adam was above them all, laughing. Then you saw something else- Adam’s death. He was beaten by Lucifer and then finished off by Nifty, a small resident of the Hazbin Hotel. 

You fell to your knees to take a breath after seeing such a vivid vision. You didn’t notice Lute’s confused face or Adam’s confused anger. Adam couldn’t comprehend what he saw for a moment, but the pieces slowly clicked- he was dying. What was this? Was this a stupid demon trick to throw him off of his plans?

Adam grabbed you by your arm, bringing you right next to his face. “The fuck was that?”

You were frozen- what did he mean?

“I’m fucking talking to you, bitch!” Adam snarled. He threw you against the wall, and Lute was horrified at the stares they were getting. She quickly whispered something you couldn’t hear to Adam. Adam looked around and growled in irritation before looking at you. “I’m not finished with you.” Adam and Lute then flew off.

“There you are!” Charlie grabbed your arm. “Isn’t this place just great?” She paused as she saw the tears in your eyes. You hadn’t even realized you started crying. “What’s wrong?”

“N…nothing, Charlie. I’m okay.” You smiled. “Just overwhelmed by Heaven.” You weren’t sure why you had lied. You were normally so honest all the time.

Hours passed and you were in your temporary room the Angels gave you. It was down the hall from where Charlie and Vaggie were staying. 

You were reading when you heard someone barge in. You whipped around to see Adam with a cool glare on his face. Lute was standing behind him. She clearly didn’t understand what was happening, but she was loyal to Adam. Whatever he did, she’d support it.

“What do you want?” Your words trembled as you spoke them. You stood from the bed quickly. 

Adam stalked over to you and got so close to you that his breath hit your face. “I want to know what the fuck you did to me.” 

“I…what are you talking about?”

Adam punched the wall next to your head. A hole was left in the wall. “Don’t fuck with me! I could kill your pathetic demon ass!” He was getting more angry and it showed. He hated that he couldn’t see your face under your hood. 

“I told you, I don’t know!” A small sniffle came from you. Adam growled and ripped your hood down. He and Lute were shocked. A human? In Heaven?

“The fuck? What kind of bullshit are you pulling?” He pulled on your cheeks to see if it was a disguise. Eventually, after about thirty seconds of pinching and pulling on your skin he realized you WERE a human. Adam was conflicted- he hated sinners, yes, but not necessarily humans. “Why the fuck were you in hell in the first place?”

“I-I don’t know.” You fought the tears building. “I..there was a portal thing. It sucked me in and I landed in Charlie’s hotel.” 

Adam frowned. He, in his long time being an Angel, had never heard of something like this happening. “Look, just tell me what you did to me.” Adam insisted.

“I…I really don’t understand what you mean.” 

“When you bumped into me earlier - fuck you by the way- I saw myself. I was… dying. To a fucking demon.” 

You paused. He couldn’t have seen it…could he? Maybe it was because he was an Angel… you didn’t understand. “I think… you saw my vision.”

“Your what?” Lute chimed in, irritated she didn’t understand anything. 

Charlie told you to keep it a secret…but they were angels. You could trust them, right? They couldn’t be bad. So you naively explained everything- when you touch someone or something, you can (not always) get visions of important things that happened with it. While you explained Adam had to hide his shit eating grin threatening to grow on his face. 

You were perfect- you could help him destroy those demon bastards permanently. Now…he just had to find a way to keep you here.

Adam pretended to be your friend. He told you about how nice it is in Heaven. It was much safer up here than in Hell. “You’d fit right in, doll- you’re super cute.” He teased you. You had no clue that he was manipulating you. You normally didn’t get compliments like that so it made your cheeks flush a deep color. 

Later on during the trial Adam had one of his Exterminators keep you busy. That didn’t work forever though, and eventually you got to the court. Adam and Lute were saying cruel things about Angel Dust, Charlie, and Vaggie. You watched, unsure of what to do. Adam hadn’t noticed you when he pushed your friends back into hell. You ran to the portal to join them when Lute stopped you. Her Exterminator mask had a cruel grin on it. 

“What is the meaning of this, Adam?” Sera asked. She was more curious than angry. 

“This one here… is a human.” Adam ripped off your hood. A collective of shocked gasps rang out through the room. Everyone wondered how you got to heaven. “They came up from Hell with those demon bitches. We can’t just let her go back to hell- she doesn’t belong there.” Adam grinned viciously. 

“What? You can’t decide that for me!” You try to get out of Lute’s hold. Emily went to defend you but Sera interjected first. 

“We cannot make them stay here if they want to go, Adam.” The other Angels in the chamber muttered in various degrees of opinions.

“They’ll get fucking stabbed down there or some shit. Humans don’t belong in hell, and this human is probably so confused for the mix up it’ll go batshit if we don’t help them out. It’s the right thing to do.” Adam grinned. You could almost see the slime coming from his words. 

“Look, just send me back to my friends!” You struggled frantically. You did seem confused and upset to the other Angels, so they were inclined to agree with Adam. 

After Adam so graciously offered to look after you, Sera hesitantly agreed. After all, Adam was the first human- he would know what one needs. 

You were locked away in Adam’s penthouse, constantly guarded by at least one Exterminator. 

Adam forced you to give him information in exchange for your friend’s lives. If you disobeyed, well, he could send an Exterminator early to kill one of your little hotel friends.

“Now,  be a good little human and tell me all about this Carmilla whore. Otherwise, I’m thinking that crackwhore would be a good first kill this year.”

You gave him everything he wanted to know, having no clue that the hotel and all of your friends were already long dead. You’d helped Adam evade death, and he wouldn’t waste it.

[furiousgoldfish]

abusive parents when they make a gross negligent error that damages the child permanently: *angrily* well I meant well! Nobody can judge me because my intentions were good! If you make me feel bad for this you're a heartless monster, think of all of the things I did for you! I was doing my best!!

abusive parents when a kid makes a well-meaning mistake that doesn't do any real damage: demon! horrid despicable scum of the earth, you are monstrous, I know you did that on purpose to make me miserable, you enjoy my misery! Everything in the world is your fault and you need to be put into order! There is no punishment enough for what you did, you little scoundrel, you monster, just wait until you see what happens to you, you're going to regret the day you were born!

[in-th3-v01d]

* hahahaahaahahahah

* HOW DO YOU EVEN ENJOY THIS...

* whatt, it's funny!

* IT REALLY ISNT....

* oh come on. all that talk about 'recovering' and 'making promises'? what f**king bulls**t.

* Qu13t.

* it was always bound to happen. right M?

* ...

* ..angelsdontexist.andtheyneverwill.

* ...

* ha. he gets me.

[a-lil-perspective]

Crosshair: Fight me, you nerd ass slut.

Tech: At least try to sound slightly sophisticated when you threaten someone.

Crosshair: Oh, my apologies. Dost thou wish to engage in a duel, my good bitch?

Tech: Somehow, that’s worse.

[bottlecapsandotherthings]

*is very lost*

So, uh... my mother is forcing me to put on acne cream three times a day because she is obsessed with me looking "perfect" in front of everyone and says that having pimples makes people "ugly" and "unattractive".

And my skin is starting to dry out. My forehead hurts so bad from all the dryness, but my mother does not care. I am not sure what to do anymore...

And, yes, I know that I could moisturize. But, and I know it sounds weird, I have so much dysphoria surrounding moisturizing... it just seems too feminine.

If you have any advice that could help (BESIDES talking to my mother, because that is pointless), that would be really appreciated. Like. Guys and more masculine nonbinary people that also moisturize. Or anything else that you guys can think of, really... thanks...

[cathy-plus-e]

GUYS THIS VIDEO WILL GET 10 YEARS OLD THIS 2024

[yumnasfunblog]

[masteroffakesmiles]

TW: Scary imagery (no gore)

someone’s gonna get a nice talking-to

(before clicking on the hyperlinks, tw: Bullying and insults)

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Chapter 7- Sicko Fantasies and Haunting Memories (NSFW)

(Buckle the fuck up, you are now aboard the Hot Mess Express🚂)

CWs & TWs (not in order): graphic & violent non-con flashback (end of chapter and between the red *****—not to be confused with the black *****—you can read around it without missing any vital details!) including use of a knife and gun and gross details of bodily fluids (it’s a bad time, skip over it if your sensitive to nastiness, don’t say I didn’t warn you—like for real it’s gross), explicit language, insults & name calling*, Whumpee called “boy” even though he’s 24, talk of bodily functions (pee habits and general grooming after months of being deprived of toiletries and self care), suicidal ideation and past suicide attempts/details of past self harm practices (asphyxiation), recollection of being forcibly restrained to bed to prevent further self harm, illicit drug use (❄️&🧊) mixed with alcohol (Whumper), Whumpee wishing gruesome death upon Whumper (but like, good for him, Whumper deserves it), aftermath of starvation and prolonged isolation, undressing and inspecting wounds, prescription drug dependency (Whumpee), depressing self reflections, literal Caretaker turned Whumpee, asshole/bully/sadistic/taunting/creepy/intimate/alcoholic/mentally and physically abusive Whumper (Wyatt Sullivan is his own TW, he’s literally the worst), long-term captivity, slavefic/ institutionalized slavery AU, within the post-apocalyptic(ish) setting AU—mentions of: ongoing war & mass death, evacuations, terrorism and treason, cannibalism, infectious diseases (specifically cannibals with infectious diseases), war factions, extremist Regime, forced labor camps, food scarcity, class division, looting, and hostile takeovers

*We are starting strong with insults here, if this is a sensitive topic or squick for you, you’ll have a horrible time & this ain’t for you dawg, respectfully.

You’ve been adequately warned, proceed with caution :)

Word count: 5,669

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

Hey you, yeah YOU!

If you’re still here after that novel of CWs, hi hello :) Holy shit this chapter took on a mind of its own and is a little all over the place! Besides the lengthy list of warnings, there’s also some more world building in here—like a lot more. You probably didn’t have questions, but don’t worry, I gave you the answers you didn’t know you needed anyway! I hope it fits and makes sense, idk what I’m doing, I think my brain is actively rotting out of my skull at this point. If you like insane bullshit, this is for you, and if you don’t, sorry buddy! I'm still sitting on a fatass chapter that comes after this one, but I need to give myself a break after this steamy mess right here. Expect the usual processing time of a month and a half. 

Xoxo, Gen

Fuck ass. Shithead. Cock warmer—of all the overused insults his Master chucked at him, The Aid kept a particular fondness for pampered pet.

An offense it was intended to be, yes, but instead of bitter resentment, the gibe strangely restored a sense of lost dignity and sounded comparatively childish against the others. Although, truth be told, most of the snarky nicknames fell flat and lost their zest at this point, and he would’ve appreciated some effort from Sullivan to come up with more creative insults to hurl at him.

His Master made a special sport of provoking him; ergo, he figured the man would at least flaunt some star players now and again.

Nothing got older quicker than a joke worn thin.  

But wait, what did the brute call him earlier—lopsie lip? He usually threw up his mental defenses and rolled his eyes when someone made cheap one-liners about his mouth (what could be said that he hadn’t heard a hundred times over?) Still, somehow, Wyatt Sullivan had a real knack for mocking his appearances (his height was another frequently abused topic) and a crafty way of singling out his assumed insecurity. The mockeries weren’t knee-slappers by any stretch of the imagination and came across as equally lame and insensitive Boomer jokes; even so, he’d gladly take these low-hanging digs with open arms over the other vile, squirm-worthy remarks Sullivan berated him with any day—or worse. 

Better a poor shit taking the brunt of crude taunts than a poor shit taking the brunt of a boot to the ribs.  

Pampered pet—it’s fitting, goes well with his staple stand-in name, Mutt, and even has a certain ring to it, and certainly nicer than cum bucket —yuck (he hated that one). 

Pampered was right; he couldn’t stand being dirty and unkempt; indeed, his Madame never condoned sloppy looks and anything less than perfect. She’d be rolling in her grave right now if she saw the sunken state of affairs and how piss poor of a job her son was doing as appointed keeper of her precious house boy. 

But oh, how far the mighty have fallen.

Long were the days of his dedication to hours a week of meticulous primping and preening and how he missed those sacred moments. 

Since he awoke above ground, he didn’t have the energy or sheer willpower to accomplish anything more than a couple of weak passes with a toothbrush and a few splashes of lukewarm water on his face and called it a day. But now—poor hygiene be damned—a garden of Earthly man-made delights beckoned him.

He studied his previously revoked collection of personal care products next to the first aid caddy on the bathroom counter before him. Here sat everything his Master denied him for months; he bereaved their absences like a lost loved one—no, scratch that, he never missed a person more than a good hand cream and microdermabrasion exfoliant. 

In another life, he was always a star patient when it came to oral hygiene—he sported the Colgate smile—so being deprived of his one true love, his toothbrush, during his solitary confinement was arguably worse than having to shit in a litter box next to his bed.

He didn’t know what disturbed him more, the fact that he looked like a freshly dead Jack Skellington or that he now had plaque buildup, a few missing teeth (curtsey of Sullivan’s fists), and probably a couple of cavities.

A new toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and floss picks were no dentist or oral surgeon, but they were a good start toward redemption. 

This is as good as he’d get; best make do with what he got and ignore the rest. Maybe he can’t fill a cavity but can scrub off filth. He commonly recited, ‘It’s better to focus on easily fixable things. There’s an irreplaceable level of satisfaction in having attainable goals.’

He scanned the other objects in front of him, taking special note of the lip scrub and lip balm he hoped would mend his cracked and chapped lips, the tub of extra-extra hydrating hyaluronic acid body lotion tasked with soothing his bone-dry, itchy skin, comb and tweezers to tame invasive hairs, cotton swabs to clean out all the gunk in his ears (he was sure he had more than enough ear wax to fill a tea light candle); blemish control face wash, acne cream, toner, and light-weight moisturizer to get his breakout under control; and nail clippers and file to declaw himself. 

He glanced at his fingers and toes.

They weren’t as bad as expected—well, despite his calluses, hang nails, and overgrown cuticles that is. At least he didn't have Althetes' foot or start sprouting weird basement mold between the toes.

Sweet Christ Almighty, the filthy and ungodly things he’d do for a good mani-pedi and facial right now. 

If Sullivan weren’t such a fucking sadist with a raging hard-on for making him bleed and scream, he’d consider proposing an exchange of sex acts for a full-package spa day. The sex—he told himself—he could grit his teeth through and forcibly tolerate with minimal tears; it was the rest that canceled out any ounce of enjoyment or relaxation he’d potentially get. 

No facial was that good. 

His former (glorious) self was never a nail-biter or finger-picker, but his time in isolation lent a hand towards picking up some bad habits to occupy his mind in hopes of preventing him from going mad with boredom (spoiler: it didn’t work). 

He picked and picked, and sometimes even nibbled, around his hang nails until he drew blood. He didn’t delight in chewing bits of dead skin peeled off in strings around his fingers, but the motion of eating something—even if deduced to bits of himself—helped drown out the hunger pains and sounds of his empty belly gurgling. He secretly wished Sullivan would catch him in the act of self-cannibalizing himself, realize just how far pushed to insanity he was, and take enough pity on him to release him of his sentence. 

It was all nothing more than a stupid fool’s hope; the evil sonovabitch never even felt a glint of remorse.  

His eyes scanned the razor and shaving cream, almost suspicious of their presence. Shaving himself was daunting and ostensibly impossible with one shaky hand.

But hey, at least Wyatt trusted with a sharp object; this was a step up. 

How long had it been since he properly cleaned himself up and given himself a good shave? Months? 

The razor looked new. Sullivan must have given him a fresh one. And if his Master went through the backbreaking effort of changing a razor head, that meant he wanted—no, was practically ordering—him to revive what parts he could that resembled his ci-devant good looks…good looks—was he ever even good looking before all this? He couldn’t tell; he was horrible with those types of things. He knew he wasn’t ugly but also wasn’t a looker, probably landed smack-dab in the middle. Perhaps his attraction level wasn’t for him to decide. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or some shit. Or was that just some junk passed around by those unfortunate souls not blessed with Holly Wood looks?

But now he knew he looked like hell, and the amount of work he needed to do on himself was overwhelming.

It was too much. 

How well he’d be able to groom himself with one hand would no doubt leave much to be desired and undoubtedly felt like a set-up for sure failure, but the thought of Sullivan having to pick up where he left off and lather him up in lotion and clip his toenails made his blood run cold and more nervous than a puffer fish in a room full of balloons. 

He couldn’t let those big, rough, creepy-ass hands that caused nothing but pain touch him any more than they already had. It felt like he and Sullivan would be breaking an unspoken rule if they made any skin-to-skin contact outside of anything besides the ogre inflicting harm on him. His Master’s hands were torture devices of their own; feeling them on him in any other capacity felt wrong, like a breach of contract. 

As much as he refused to believe it, he knew deep down he was touch-starved, and part of him was screaming for any ounce of physical affection. He already leaned a little too far into Dr. Paul’s touch and was damn near smitten from the warm spark of soothing comfort that came from a gentle cup of his cheek; if he did the same with Sullivan, he’d never forgive himself, and his Master definitely wouldn’t let it happen without comment.

He already heard him now—“Yeah, ya like that, don’t ya, boy? Look at ya melting into me like the little needy slut ya are. I got somethin’ else real special for ya that’ll get ya howlin’ an’ really tickle up ya’r insides.”

Even an innocent touch would lead to something more; of course, it would; this was Wyatt fucking Sullivan he was thinking about. 

He shivered.

Suddenly, he was all too aware of his very full bladder.

He sighed, then hobbled over to the toilet. 

These days he had to piss sitting down; circumstance didn’t grant much flexibility there. The stand-up method was unsuitable for those with one functioning leg and one usable arm; if he dared test his limits, it would likely result in him missing the bowl entirely or ungracefully falling over midstream. He told himself that he didn’t mind popping a squat; it erased the worry of not shaking his pee-pole enough and leaking drops on the rim, or worse—in his underwear. (‘Pay no mind to the very real fear of your peen accidentally sliding against the cold inside of the toilet bowl; no, we don’t have room for such worries.’) Wringing his dick out like a washcloth was far more undignifying than just shoving it between his legs and taking his time anyway—that’s what he told himself, what he made himself believe. 

But he deserved that, didn’t he—small comforting lies in whatever form he found them? 

Thankfully, the post-catheter sting Dr. Paul warned him of went away after the first day, but his urine persisted in being a dark brownish orange (‘light umber, I think that’s called’) that reeked a pungent odor, evoking him to scrunch his nose in sour disgust every time. He drank more than enough liquids now, so it couldn’t be from dehydration—could it? That left him to conclude it must be yet another unpleasant side-effect from his cocktail of pharmaceuticals.

Pharmaceuticals—thank the marvels of modern science for those. However, what he really craved was a fat joint of Blueberry Kush.

How long ago did he pop that palmful of pills? He contemplated with a sense of impatience, ‘couldn’t be more than 30 minutes ago…’

The Klonopin typically took about an hour and a half to two to kick in. And once it did, he was down for the count, blissfully obliterated until evening, when he would pop an Ambien to sail him through the night. 

Rinse and repeat day after day, after day until—well, he didn’t know yet. 

And he preferred to remain deliriously unaware.

It was better this way. 

Hell, it was the only thing that made his life at all bearable—to be drugged out of his mind, not to be awake, not to think, not to feel his body, to play dead until one fateful day, his Master would finally strike a killing blow.

The matter of if Sullivan could wasn’t in question—they both knew the older man could kill him as effortlessly as a house fly stuck buzzing against a windowsill—it was more of a matter of when. 

The Aid tried to carry out the deed of snuffing himself out a few times—okay, more than a few times. He lost count of his botched suicide attempts, but that’s all they were, half-assed “attempts”—a courteous word his actions didn’t quite live up to. What he carried out fell more in line with ideation. 

In the basement torture den, he’d wrap the chain around his neck with minimal pressure, just enough to feel a light constriction—nothing more, nothing less—and let the fantasy of floating away into nihility mollify him as he mewled and cried himself to sleep like a squalling infant. Sullivan caught him in this self-soothing ritualistic act once before and had the audacity to act scandalized by what he witnessed as if he didn’t knowingly single-handedly push The Aid to the brink of suicide. After the initial surprise of what he walked in on wore off, Sullivan proceeded to laugh at the miserable little thing at his feet and hurl some colorful beratement at him (finally a personalized insult with a bit more spice, although the timing couldn’t be worse) as the boy bawled his eyes out and crumpled into a shaky ball. 

The Aid received an extra beating for his lack of self-respect and composure; Sullivan took offense to The Aid’s actions and informed him that he wasn’t allowed to off himself. 

After his Master scolded him, he made him swear he wouldn’t “pull any more weakling shit ever again” and ordered him to abstain from any method of self-harm—Wyatt liked being the only one permitted to hurt him.  

The ogre’s cruelties were boundless, but at least the monster finally pitied him enough to find it in his cold, dead heart to allow him the privilege of washing himself up and gave him a change of clothes and a hot meal afterward—sometimes being a mess and pushed to your edge bought rewards.

After all was said and done, he was restrained, his limbs tied to the four corners of the blood-stained mattress so he couldn’t move—for a week—until Sullivan deemed him no longer a threat to himself (the irony of it all did not escape him).

That was the last time he meddled with ending it all. He couldn’t do it, not really—not entirely, no matter how much he wished he could. The only thing that scared him more than Wyatt Sullivan was the great unknown of the other side and being devoured by eternal darkness. 

A healthy fear of death was the only thing keeping him alive at this point.

*****

He absently gazed out the window, taking in his perfect view from the side of the house that butted against rolling tan desert foothills. 

They were the last house down a long winding street lined with multi-million dollar estate homes, each with a moneyshot view overlooking the Palm Springs valley. He knew better than to indulge in the crackpot fantasy of climbing over that brick retaining wall separating him and the rest of the world to scamper his way through the open desert that went on and on for miles.

He already tried that once.

He didn’t get far—‘Stupid stunt to pull when you have trackers embedded in your neck and spinal column.’

But what was out there? 

His mind went wild.

Were there clans of Renegados, the lost people, those who didn’t belong to either cause or fell under contested jurisdictions, hiding deep in the rocky valleys or camping in the Little San Bernardino Mountains? There couldn’t be much of a food source besides snakes and scorpions with the occasional desert hare—not to mention the scarcity of a water source. He surmised Renegados were unlikely in this geography, but what about gangs of marauders? No, that was equally unlikely, as scavenger types preferred abandoned dense urban areas or heavily traveled routes, and they wouldn’t pay much mind to small desert towns or off-grid compounds. There wasn’t much left to plunder in visible sight, especially after the first couple of waves of looting from the mass exodus of some odd four million Los Angelenos alone fleeing the initial outbreaks.

The only people batshit crazy enough to tough it out in such a ragged landscape and unforgiving climate were bands of rebel freedom fighters, the Frondeurs, who opposed what was left of the U.S. Government and fought the rivaling extremist Regime which now controlled nearly half of the 50 states, all the meanwhile also culling the growing numbers of afflicted. It would either be the Frondeurs themselves or hordes of aforementioned afflicted—ravenous cannibals, anthrophages*, devouring their way through the rural areas in search of larger populations to gorge on. “People-eater Pox,” or PEP, was the name quickly given to the incurable disease because “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion” was too clinical and hard to pronounce.  

Of course, edge lord teens, horror fanatics, and the everyday 4chan user clung to the pipe dream of a zombie invasion, but these fuckers were far from dead, which somehow made it all that much worse. Sure, they looked dead, but that’s where the physical similarities started and ended. 

 The afflicted broke out in rotten-smelling, oozing open sore rashes that turned into hardened tree bark-like patches, their skin dulled to a cadaverous blue-gray while the whites of their eyes turned red, and many lost their hair. The cherry on top was their maddening appetite for human flesh and heightened sense of smell and hearing. They were fast, hard to kill, and more animal than human—so he heard.

The Aid never saw an afflicted, not in real life, and he hoped he never would. If you saw one up close, you were two steps closer to being eaten alive or, worse—turning into one of them.

Or maybe instead of bands of rebel forces or diseased cannibals hiding in the desert, there were platoons of those rumored so-called “Envoys” deployed by the Regime—the Republic of Arcadia—to hunt down runaways, defectors, and Frondeurs since they needed every last body they could get. Envoys—he didn’t even know if they were real; he’d never seen one of those either. They were about as real as Santa Claus to him, but luckily, these didn’t look like something out of a Rob Zombie movie and want to eat his face off.

Would Envoys even be out this far west?

Not likely, not unless they now joined the hordes of afflicted. The Republic of Arcadia wouldn’t—couldn’t—needlessly sacrifice any Envoys coming this deep into U.S. territory, not after 11 years in a now stalemated war, not unless they were planning a final invasion.

If that were the case, they were fucked. 

If the Envoys were close, that likely indicated the remainder of the U.S. was losing even more territory. Or maybe the government agreed to give up a parcel of idyllic Southern California and a couple of Pacific coast port cities in exchange for a plot of fertile land, unsoiled crop seeds, and healthy bodies to work the fields in a pedantic trade agreement. Lord knows there wasn’t much opportunity for farmland out here in the desert, and good, fertile land these days was worth more than gold, especially after the blights wiped out most of the agriculture industry, which subsequently led to PEP. He didn’t know much about the state of things anymore, and he knew fuck all when it came to the intricacies of a diseased-ravaged and war-torn world hanging on by an unraveling thread. The tidings of war constantly changed, and how anyone could keep up with the insanity of it all was beyond him.

Were they still safe here? 

If they had to relocate, what would his Master do with him? 

What if they ran out of food? 

Would Wyatt eat him if it came down to it? 

There was no way he’d let that happen (as if he had a say or any control if it came down to it); not like there was much left of him to eat. You’d get better “meat” off a wild prickly pear cactus than his bony ass. Cannibalism wasn’t just for the afflicted anymore; it wasn’t as uncommon as it used to be. Hard times called for drastic measures in certain parts of the world; not everyone still had access to unsullied food. 

But a Sullivan couldn’t stoop so low, not even the worst one out of the bunch, not when the Sullivans were one of the only families left who still owned healthy livestock farms on the West Coast and supplied most of the edible meat and quickly rose to prominence and fortune because of it. Still, being left with the tender mercies of Wyatt didn’t feel promising in any capacity. 

He knew he was “lucky” to be owned by the Sullivans and he should be thankful to live in a pocket of the country that remained relatively untouched from the chaos, that he was tucked away from the “real harm” and lived amongst members of high society who remained undeterred by the current state of things. He was a victim of conformity, forcibly resigned to a life he couldn’t get free from. Yet it became increasingly difficult to pretend life was a-okay when the reality of everything sunk in. Eleanor Sullivan was dead. He had five wonderful years with her, but now he suffered under the brutal hand of Wyatt. His life would have been much different if he wasn’t born with abilities. Rather than blossoming into the resident house pet and making his debut by playing mind games with the family matriarch, he’d likely be a plebeian surviving off rations and forced to work in labor camps in a resource sector. He didn’t know which life was worse—people’s minds weren’t made to deal with problems and what-if scenarios this large. 

All he could do was accept it and keep trudging along.

This was the world he lived in now—a fucked up, disease-ridden world with only one-third of the population left. A world with a falling, corrupt government that re-institutionalized slavery in an attempt to fill in the labor gaps and keep the corporate overlords happy while the afflicted, marauders, Renegados, Frondeurs, and Envoys wreaked havoc below. 

Despite it all and how real and terrible it was, he could only bring himself to worry about the immediate danger in front of him—Wyatt Sullivan. 

Out of all his imagined scenarios of who or what was lurking deep in the desert, he hoped Envoys were staking out in these hills and eagerly waiting for the green light to launch an attack. He hoped they would rain down hell and raze this fucking house—tanks, missiles, gunfire and all. He hoped the afflicted would hear the emergency evacuation sirens go off, and every goddamn one of them in a 20+ mile radius would come running like someone rang the dinner bell. He hoped he got to witness them taking one look at Wyatt Sullivan, see the towering beast of a man he was, and look at him like an all-you-can-eat buffet and devour every last bloody fucking inch of him. 

Escape.

 

He could do it then. 

For real this time. 

That would be the perfect chance to do it, during an emergency evacuation, get lost in the frenzy of it all as his devil incarnate Master got ripped to shreds by anthrophages—

He was getting ahead of himself.

A pipe dream, that’s all it was—a sicko fantasy of diseased cannibals and those terrorist-soldier Envoys and escaping Wyatt Sullivan once and for all. Who knew if he would even be able to ride the tide of freedom instead of being pulled under and drowned by it?  

He didn’t finish his breakfast; he blamed the runaway people-eating scenarios on that. 

He blinked a few times to shake himself out of his trance, then turned his attention back to himself.

*****

He cautiously unwrapped his shoulder and inspected the stab wound for the first time—appropriately disposing of the soiled bandages in a waste bin, of course (he wasn’t a slob-kabob). 

The wound looked better than he expected, not that he doubted Dr. Paul’s work; it’d just been so long since he saw a non-infected wound and received proper medical care.

Five stitches held his skin together. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the skin fusing with a nice crusty scab filled between the gaps of flesh. To his surprise, the swelling mostly subsided and was hardly more than a bump. 

He continued undressing his wounds, inspecting each one, surprised by the level of visible healing each time—he usually healed slowly and lacked the gift of quick recovery. Even his splinted wrist with screws tacking the bones together looked better than he imagined it would. The stitch line was smaller than expected, hardly longer than the one on his shoulder. 

His eyes blurred over the revealed three-inch scar on his palm and the back of his right hand as he let his gaze maunder to the shower across from him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at this old scar. Unlike the other marks, the memory of this one haunted him with agonizing detail. He went to great lengths to conceal this one, mostly from himself, typically covering it up with a strip of old ace bandage to seal away the constant remainder of Wyatt Sullivan’s unending barbarity.

It was a strange and horrible memory, one he constantly pushed back into a lockbox buried deep in the recesses of his mind, a memory that came in heightened, broken fragments like cutout frames of sun burnt film. It didn't feel real; it seemed like a planted evocation from someone else, more similar to a blurb he would see in a premonition than an echo of his past. Instead of his mind, his body predominantly cataloged this event and all similar events thereafter; he disassociated through most of them in an act of atavistic self-preservation. 

Most of his life became staticky blurs alongside indistinct garbles and muddied out-of-body experiences since.  

*****

It was the first time.

 The monster was hopped up on grade-A Bolivian coke cut with street crystal, riding extraordinarily high, and very drunk, on a weekend bender. 

After chasing him around the property with a knife and gun in hand for what felt like hours, the monster cornered him in the home office located in the back of the house. 

With that knife, the monster stabbed his hand into the wooden desk, pinning him bent over. 

He scremed, hot tears flowed from his eyes, the pain shot through him like a lighting bolt. 

The pain stunned him, he stood watching, unable to process what the monster did. 

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. 

Blood, so much of it.

It spurted out in matching pulses to his quickening heartbeat, the red liquid pooled on the desk and painted his arm in crimson.

The monster grabbed at his waist.

He yelled, thrashed, and fought with everything he had, buying as much time as possible and refusing the inevitable, but he didn’t have much steam after hours of running from and fighting off the lumbering beast. 

The monster took his other hand and wrenched it behind his back so he couldn't move.

It felt like the monster was seconds away from snapping his arm. He shrieked. 

The monster’s fingers hooked around his waistband and pulled down. Still, he fought—he threatened, he begged, he screamed—he screamed so fucking loud. 

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. 

The monster groped his bare ass, pinned his legs open, spread him apart, and forced something inside him.

He couldn't see, but by the feel, he knew it must be one of the monster’s fingers. 

It didn’t hurt, but it felt wrong, out of place, intrusive. 

He screamed more and pleaded for the beast to stop. 

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him. 

 The monster spoke, but he couldn’t hear the words. 

The monster wasn't stopping.

The monster added another finger and wriggled it around, stretching him out.

He wailed and told the beast he’d do anything to make it stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He pounded his head on the desk; that hurt, too, but he didn’t care.

He wanted it to stop; it had to stop. 

He couldn’t take it. 

He’d never done this before. 

He never wanted to do this, not with the monster, not with anyone. 

He kept headbutting the table until his vision was covered in red like his hand.

The monster grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, yelling more words he couldn’t hear. 

The monster’s fingers crammed deeper inside him, his body froze.

He begged with everything he had for the beast to stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

Everything got fuzzy.

His mind went blank.

Something else was pushing inside him now.

Something bigger.

This wasn’t the monster’s fingers.

He wanted to scream, but his body seized, and he held his breath.

This time, it hurt; this time, it hurt really bad, more than any other kind of hurt he ever felt before. 

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

His mind went blank again. 

He came back around.

The monster violently pushed into him, slamming his hips into the corner of the desk. 

The monster sunk deep into him, deeper than he thought any monster part could possibly go. 

He made noises he had never heard himself make before, noises he didn't recognize as his own.

The squealing and yawping coming from him sounded like a faraway dying animal.

He thought he knew what this was, but at the same time, he didn’t.

He couldn’t accept it.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

The monster moved around inside him, still pushing into him, still hurting him.

He weakly squirmed, still trying to plead with the monster.

The monster pushed down on his back to hold him still and plowed into him, making gross monster noises. 

He knew what this was called.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen to him.

No, not him. 

It couldn't be. But it was.

The beast liked hurting him, and the beast was good at it. 

He screamed and cried, begging so loud his vocal cords gave out until his voice pruned to a dusty croak. 

No. No. No. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. 

Why was this happening to him?

What did he do to deserve this?

He breathed so fast, but it wasn't enough; he couldn't get enough air.

He thought he was dying.

Everything went dark.

He didn’t exist anymore, and the monster was gone. 

But he came back. 

He still felt the splitting intrusion inside him—the monster still jackhammering away without the faintest concern for the internal damage dealt. 

He felt his insides ripping, it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was on fire.

He tried to scream, but his throat stung. So he wailed out broken sobs even though that still hurt, too.

The monster laughed, then spoke more words he couldn’t hear, and he knew it was good that he couldn’t make them out. He wasn’t a monster, so he didn’t speak monster. That made sense. 

He wept.

The monster stuck something in his mouth. An object. The gun. 

No. Please not him. Not him. Not him. 

The beast spoke more monster words and sounded mad and happy at the same time. He couldn’t feel the monster's feelings because he turned off his monster-reading senses. 

Why was the monster doing this to him?

He drooled around the gun and tried to bite down on it to quiet his screams, but it hurt his teeth. 

He was terrified.

All he could hear was his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

He felt sick.

He thought he was going to die.

He felt wetness.

He realized he pissed himself.

The monster didn't notice.

The air smelt like a gross gas station bathroom mixed with copper.

He felt more wetness, a different wetness spilling from where the monster was.

Blood and monster cum leaked out of him.

He felt the mix of wetness slicking between his thighs and drip down his legs, only stopping when his socks soaked up all the fluids. After some unknown amount of time, it settled in his shoes. It felt like he had stepped in a puddle, a smelly, rotten puddle.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He felt nauseous and dizzy.

The monster grunted and huffed on top of him; he could smell the alcohol, the beer, and chewing tobacco on the monster’s breath.

He smelt his blood and some other gut-churning smell he assumed was sweaty, unprepared, raw sex. 

He hated sex. He never wanted to do it. But the monster didn't care what he wanted.

He cried until his eyes swelled, and he couldn’t see anymore. 

His whole body ached.

He was tired, so tired. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted this to be nothing but a bad dream.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

But it did happen. It happened. To him. 

*****

He surmised whatever deal Sullivan made with the Doctor’s experimental drugs was paying off, at least for now. 

As relieved as he was with the healing of his noticeable injuries, his main concern sided with the non-visible wounds, what lay beneath his skin—the injuries Sullivan deliberately exploited because he knew better than to dig his trigger-happy fingers into freshly fused flesh and meat and consequently be stuck with the Doctor’s wrathful hospital bill. 

His sprained ankle and cracked rib still pulsed with a dull ache. 

He hoped by the next check-up, whatever damage his Master dealt would remit, and the memory of this incident would evanesce like the rest of his forgotten scars. 

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

Footnotes:

*Anthrophage: a person with PEP (People-eater Pox), medical diagnosis “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion.” This is just a fancy name for a diseased cannibal who has PEP that exists within this AU. Anthrophage is not a “real word,” but it’s a play off of the word—anthropophagite.

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears

If ya wanna be added to or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me :)

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

Dialogue prompts for female whumper and male whumpee? NSFT/W please?

(TW: dirty talk, explicit dialogue, implied gagging, implied torture, multiple whumpers, blood, manipulation, gaslighting)

"Awh, my pretty boy just can't do anything right can he? I believe I told him, not to fucking cum.. so now he's getting punished."

"So big and strong, just to get turned into my living dildo... It's almost a shame you let it happen like this."

"On your back, spread your legs, you haven't earned your Mistress' warmth tonight."

"Don't hold your breath, pet, you'll tense too much for me to push it inside you."

"Oh I know you're close, but if you cum now I'll tie that little cock up and you won't get to cum for the rest of the week.."

"If you don't want it stepped on, you'll work a little faster at getting hard."

"You're lying Whumpee, but your body is pretty honest with me. You might be scared but you're still rock hard."

"You can't stop drooling now, can you? That toy is vibrating so hard I can still hear it rattling inside you.."

"If I let you out of that cage, you'd better crawl over here and let me grind against that pretty face.."

"I thought you'd try to fight but you've missed me, haven't you? Get on your knees and prove it, pet and I'll indulge you."

"P-Please Mistress... I n-need to cum.." "Oh do you? I don't think you've earned it."

"C-Can I ride it now Mistress? P-Please, I want to move.." "You'd better keep that position, this is a punishment after all."

"N-Not there... I-I've never-... N-Not inside..." "You? A virgin? Surely you can't be serious Whumpee... If you're good though, I'll be gentle on the off chance you are."

"Look at you, so hard you're dripping all over the floor..." "I'm sorry..!" "You'll be really sorry if you let yourself cum from your punishment. How many lashes were we on, pet? I'm afraid I've lost count."

"You made the mess, now clean it up." "You'd better lick every drop of cum off my floor or you're getting the whip."

"N-No! Whumpee c-can't be fucked by anyone but M-Mistress!" Whumper #1: "Who do you think let us in here with you, slut?" Whumper #2: "Your Mistress said we could play with you as much as we want." Whumpee: "N-No! She wouldn't do that! W-Whumpee's body is only for h-her!"

[vileacademyofficial]

IT'S ALMOST THAT TIME OF YEAR AGAIN........... GET PANTSED IDIOT

[Image I.D: A full body image of Professor Gunnar Maelstrom, in his Charlie Pants clown costume, standing and grinning at the viewer. Red bold text superimposed over him says: get pantsed. End I.D.]

Bold and italicised text says: GET PANTSED IDIOT

[notdoinggeat]

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU OCD

One by one you're taking everything important to me.

I can't watch my favorite movie because of you. I can barely listen to my favorite album. NOW YOU'RE TELLING ME I CAN'T WATCH MY OTHER FAVORITE MOVIE? FUCK YOU.

IF I COULD KILL YOU I WOULD

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY IMPORTANT PEOPLE I MET THROUGH THAT FANDOM? DO YOU?

I don't know what to do anymore. /srs

[in-th3-v01d]

Recovery is a process. Slip-ups are okay, but not funny. Slip-ups hurt the one in question.

-⏱️

* pfft. so what? he still broke his promise. he made that choice and broke the trust of his oh-so-lovely brethren.

* tell me. what kind of self-proclaimed angel does that?

[inkblot22]

It Leeches Under The Skin

So I promise I am not obsessed with anything, but I definitely am going to be a bit more self-indulgent with this miniseries. Also I spent several hours staring at pictures of abandoned pools so that was kind of cool.

I'm going to try something new and put the target audience here. This part is aimed at gender neutral readers (they/them pronouns wooo,) and can be read as afab or amab, as there is no smut whatsoever in this section. I'll see if I can keep the body ambiguous enough for later parts, but it may come at a cost to writing quality as my skills are lacking.

TW for mentions of gambling, contracts with Azul (selling your soul to the devil), human hunting, if you squint, blood, biting, verbal abuse, reader is bad at swimming, Floyd and Jade because they freak me out and I know I'm not the only one. If you squint, there may be some primal play, but like I said there is no smut.

It was a little odd. Entirely predictable, but also a little odd. Their best friend and roommate seldom thought his plots and plans through all the way, and of course they bore the brunt of the collateral.

Well. It’s well-deserved, they supposed. Expect trouble and you’ll get it, after all. They only wished it wouldn’t cost this much.

“Prefect? Are you listening?” Azul’s kind voice broke through their thoughts, but it was so easy to lapse back into the comfort of their mind.

What did he do this time? Oh, yes. Grim just gambled away all their savings and won nothing in return. The Lounge already had the seedy vibes of a speakeasy, why wouldn’t they also have a gambling table? Regardless, he’d racked up enough debt and was unable to pay it back, so the Leech twins had paid them a visit, perhaps hoping that they’d have some stash of money somewhere to pay.

They would, had it not been what Grim used to gamble. They sighed and stared at the cup of tea in front of them.

“Prefect, I thought you enjoyed tea. If you don’t like that blend, we can get you another one.” Azul said, “You seem lost in your thoughts. I hope all is well?”

“Not really. I’m about to sell my soul to the devil.”

“I’m hardly the devil. Besides, the main stipulation of this contract is simply that you let Floyd take you swimming tomorrow night.”

They didn’t trust that at all. They snatched the contract from Azul, and sure enough, in big, bold letters, they read the requirement of going swimming. 

“There’s a problem.” They said, scanning over the rest of the contract and not finding anything particularly bad within, “Two problems.”

“What would those be?”

“Well, I want you to guarantee Grim’s safety,” They passed the contract back to Azul. “Also I can’t swim.”

“That’s not a problem, prefect.” Azul spread his hands in a relaxed, placating gesture, “I have potions and other implements to help with that. It’s a non-issue.”

“Alright, then. And what’s the thing about hanging out with Floyd later on as well?”

“It’s only a clause, don’t worry. If he gets bored, then it won’t matter.”

They had to narrow their eyes at that one, kind of unsure about this. Still, the chances of him growing bored was about a 50% chance,

“Okay… Fix that part about Grim and I’ll sign it.”

Azul’s writing was quick but not one bit less neat. They signed the contract and Jade placed it in the safe, then poked his head out of the Lounge’s office.

Floyd strolled in, holding Grim. His face broke into a big grin when he saw them sitting there.

“Hey, Shrimpy!” He unceremoniously dropped Grim and got in their face, smiling even wider, “Why are you gettin’ so sweaty? I can smell you all the way from over here!”

“You’re…” They turned their head away, grimacing, “You’re really close, actually.”

“Hee hee… I know.”

“Are we gonna pretend that he didn’t just drop me or what?” Grim bristled and walked over, climbing onto the couch and taking a seat, “You guys are so rude!”

“Sorry, Grimmy-wimmy-two-toes.” They cooed at him, squishing his cheeks and giggling as he swatted them away, “Did you break anything other than your pride?”

Floyd stood, picking up the prefect's untouched tea and sniffing it, “Ugh.”

“Well, since this meeting is over, I trust you’ll be in the natatorium at eight tomorrow?”

“Eight? Is it going to go past curfew?” The prefect asked.

“Yes. I am sure this is also not an issue.” Azul’s eyes glanced at Grim and they swallowed, narrowing their eyes and frowning.

“Yeah… no problem.”

~*~

After classes, Jade dropped off what appeared to be an overnight bag, including a terrible swimsuit. It sort of looked like a chitinous layer, a silvery brownish color with panels sewn together like the plates of a crustacean. Not a very funny joke, honestly. There was no clause in the contract that they could remember that required them to wear this, but they also couldn’t remember, so they put it on anyways and rifled through the rest of the bag. There were painkillers, a pair of water wings, a few potions that they would not be imbibing, a new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, travel soap that smelled like Floyd's cologne (yuck), and a few pairs of underwear. How he had gotten their sizes correct was something they chose not to ponder for long.

The walk to the natatorium was sort of slow. Maybe it was just their reluctance to go through on this, the concern of what the night would hold fresh in the forefront of their mind. 

It wasn’t that they disliked Floyd by any means. They honestly thought he was okay, and other than the incidents before Azul overblotted, they hadn’t really had to consider him a threat of any kind. There was that primal part of their brain, long suppressed through years and years of being the apex species in their world, that sometimes whispered that they needed to get away from him when he looked at them a certain way, or made a certain noise or movement… Little things that unsettled them but were easily ignored. 

The natatorium was unlocked. They stopped in the locker room and took off their overclothes, leaving them in the swimsuit and the pair of cheap flip-flops they’d gotten off of Ace. The flip-flops were too big on them, but he assured them that he could just get a new pair whenever. It was nice of him.

The pool room was silent and dark. The water was uncovered and completely still, but they couldn’t see Floyd anywhere. They took a seat on the edge of the pool, dipping their legs in the water and blowing up the water wings. They kicked their legs and waited.

Something shot out of the water, grabbing them by the shoulders and pulling them down in the water. They didn’t even have time to scream before their head went under and whatever it was released them.

The water wings ensured that they popped back up on the surface, gasping for air and shaking. They struggled to paddle to the edge of the pool but something grabbed their ankle and pulled them back underwater.

Clawing at the air uselessly, the prefect went back under, no sound other than a cut off scream escaping them this time. When they popped back up, head and arms above water, they heard snakey-sounding laughter. Their head whipped around, panicked, before they saw him.

Floyd was leaning against the pool wall, grinning in his true form with his head slightly tilted. All they could see of him was his silhouette, highlighted by the moonlight shining through the large windows of the natatorium, and his glowing eyes, one gold and one silver. He kept laughing as they slowly paddled to the other side of the pool and hugged the wall, turning to shoot him a glare.

“You’re really bad at tag, Shrimpy.” He said before they could say anything.

“Tag?”

“Yup. We were playing tag. It’s boring to be 'it' all the time, you know.”

“Floyd, I can barely even see you. How-”

“If we turn on the lights, we’ll get caught. It’s more fun this way, too.”

“But I can’t be 'it' if it’s dark. I can’t see you.”

He shrugged and slipped into the water, the only visible part of him becoming those glowing eyes, “That’s too bad, Shrimpy. Better start swimming.”

They were so bad at swimming, legs paddling in futility as they tried to get to the deep end of the pool. The water was black as ink under them, feeling endless. They felt a motion below them and disgust crawled up their throat as they paddled faster. It was slow moving, they waved their arms through the water and spat up the saltwater that got in their mouth. 

If it was, in fact, Floyd circling underneath them, he was simply toying with them now. The motion they felt went still as they got to the other side and they paused to catch their breath. 

The room was silent under their heavy breathing. They looked around and felt the sweat bead on their neck and shoulders, under their arms and at their hairline as they wondered when he would catch up or pull them under. Nothing of the sort happened.

They kept paddling towards the edge of the pool so they could lean on the wall instead of feeling so unsteady with these waterwings on. As they splashed slowly towards the wall, they relaxed infinitesimally.

An arm shot up in front of them, webbed hand grabbing their face as a sharp, spiking pain lanced around their shoulder. They screamed as they were pulled under, the breath they were expelling turning into nothing but bubbles.

They could hear giggling, sort of like the sound of pebbles sifting underwater, and he let them go again. Their head popped above water and they gasped for air, touching their shoulder and wincing as the saltwater tickled the wound there. Their fingers came back smeared with a dark substance and they began paddling faster, climbing out of the pool as soon as they could.

“Man, you got the water all dirty. It smells like blood now.” Floyd’s voice startled them and they looked around.

They couldn’t see him, not from wherever he was. Their lips quivered and voice shook as they spoke.

“You… you bit me.”

“Uh, duh, Shrimpy. Why do humans gotta have such thin skin anyways? It makes it harder to do fun stuff.”

“What the hell are you even saying? You can’t run around biting people!”

“I don’t,” He said, plainly. They could almost make out his silhouette in the water, or at least see the ripples as he moved towards them, “Well, since you wanna be lame and complain about a little bite, guess we gotta get out of the pool now.” 

He hefted himself up onto the lip of the pool and popped the cork on something. They could hear him swallowing and then they could see his teal scales change into pale skin. He frowned at them and that primal part of their brain whispered that they should run.

They swallowed and stood up, frowning and clutching their shoulder, “I… I’m gonna go find a first aid kit.”

They turned on their heel and Floyd pulled them back by the seat of their swimsuit.

“You’re kinda stupid,” He mused, “You were gonna walk into the pool again. Do you wanna keep swimming?”

“No!” They yanked away and waved their foot in front of them, ensuring that the floor was solid, “I already told you that I can’t see, Floyd.”

He giggled again as you entered the locker room and gathered your clothes.

You hoped he was bored, but it was an asinine and frivolous wish.

[a-lil-perspective]

Wrecker: You’re so short!! What can you see down there???

Rex, muttering: Your IQ.

[selfshippingquotes]

Sibling F/O, struggling to push S/I: Can't you go any faster?

S/I, leaning back over Sibling F/O: Oh no, gravity is increasing on me!

Sibling F/O: No it's not!

S/I: It really is, Sibling F/O.

Sibling F/O, as S/I falls on top of them: Gah! You rotten sibling, you're crushing me!