#compared to the fatass that he was | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sherwees · 2 months

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cw : y/n is kinda freaky in this idk (I snorted), guess who's our roommate important, fat shaming a cat, huge cat alert, mega pussy(cat), jeno big schlong core, desperate jeno (but only for a second), just a simple blowjob and his cum tastes like WHAT?!

side note: I took long asl writing this because I'm so used to writing for wayv like the 2 day gap between the haechan fic and hendery fic compared to the 13 day gap between this fic and the hendery fic makes me SICK.

extra note: I've never written for jeno before either.

apart of the nct corny plots series!

why were you so excited for a fuckass plumber?

you had a bigger problem anyway, under your sink it smelt like fucking mold and water.

man fuck this.

your roommate, jungwoo was barely home.. you asked him if he knew anything about pipes and he only sent a dog emoji.

there was a familiar brushing in between your feet, you looked down at your fatass white cat, nella rubbing against your ankles. jungwoo thought that it'll be funny to make her rhyme with nutella because her old owner said that supposedly.. she ate jars of it.

picking her up, you think you tore your acl but once you met eyes with her; you felt kinda bad. isn't that basically neglecting..? but whatever, she's fine now.

nella's head nudged against your flat hand against the counter, you obligated unconsciously to petting her whilst spacing out on a random hummingbird perched on a fence.

“nella, do you think I'm weird?” you asked the unaware feline, she only licked your palm with a sequence of purrs. that was probably a yes. you sighed and fixed the navy blue edge of your short nightgown, there was then a knock at your door.

it's must've been him before nella jumped her big ass down and skedaddled to the basement. “who is it?” you called whilst heading towards the door, trying to identify the warpy figure through the translucent glass. “uhm, I'm here to fix your pipes” jeno, you presumed, scratched his head, you could make out his muscular figure.

you opened the door with uncertainty and the first thing you noticed was his dirty ass uniform and the smell of dirt and water bouncing off your senses. “you're jeno, right?” you said with a coy smile, trying to not look at his bulky torso by keeping unwanted eye contact. he only nodded, his shy doe eyes met yours finally.

“well, don't be shy.. come in then.” you muttered, you might've even given him a dirty look. this hefty nearly 6 foot male was so shy for what, what if he was a criminal? eligible for death row?!

not your problem, for now.

right now.. you wanted to have his kids.

you unconsciously licked your lips as he walked past, like that one italian weirdo from that weird italian movie where they fucked every 39 minutes. you know, that one? why was his ass fatter than yours?

“um, what seems to be the problem?” jeno's voice echoed from the kitchen, snapping you out of your thoughts. only yelping an “oh!”, you shuffled like a flintstone to the kitchen and found him leaning in the corner of your kitchen counters; looking at the sink and you with uncertainty.

“oh well,” you clasp your hands walking over to the sink. “so basically.. urm.. uh” you side eyed him for a second before scratching your head. “it smells like mold and.. urm..” you looked at his nose again, stop looking at his nose, don't look at his lips?! why are you looking at his DICK?!

“I'll just show you.” you sighed before falling to your knees and opening the cabinet, the smell of mold almost made you shrivel into a fucking pinecone. jeno must've gotten whiff of it too because his nose scrunched in disgust and he held back a gag, but soon you'll be gagging on his– not now.

“see, but I think—” you said, slapping your hands in dismay. you crawled under the sink, looking for that bitchass rustic pipe that you glanced at earlier. “it seems like it's this one pipe–” you babbled on and on about the pipe, literally it sounded like mimimimimi. but he really focused on, your negligee raising with every subtle movement of yours; you weren't even wearing panties..

you were leaking, more than the pipes probably.

and it needed some fixing.

if you get what I'm saying hahahaha ahhahahahah oh.. never mind.

“yeah and all he does is send me–” you came from under the sink, jeno's tongue clicked. his expression was a line between curious, perplexed, maybe focused on something.

“oh.” you mumbled, he was spaced out on something and definitely didn't listen to your rant about you undependable roomie. you looked behind you to see what he was so interested in besides your rambling but you only looked at him in confusion.

“um..” you popped your lips inward before he suddenly cleared his throat. his eyes widening in a quick realization, “oh my fault..” his belt scuffled against the cabinet when he tried to adjust his now.. erection.

urmmm, let's just ignore that.

he anchored his back slightly, “there seems to be a lot of moisture–” he paused weirdly, eyeing your slick hole once you looked away. “on that one rusty pipe..” the male pointed at the anomaly. you could only nod, hands respectfully clasped together.

“so, I'mma start working on that..” he said whilst grabbing a wrench. “it only needs a replacement and I should be done..” he reassured, raising his head with a squiggly grin; his cheeks flushed.

simply, you nodded awkwardly before he continued with his work. what do you do now? you decided to situate yourself on your couch, glancing at him every once and a while. but during one of your peeping moments, there was a big white blob heading towards jeno.. wait NELLA?!

the feline brushed against his leg, jeno froze. you bit your lip in fear that he'll just storm out or what if he breaks out in hives? with a gut wrenching clang of his wrench, your fucking heart stopped. but, his hand extended towards the mass you called your beloved cat and your heart resumed but it still kept a hectic beat.

nella approached his inviting hand before she started to lick his index before grazing her teeth on his nail; about to bite him. almost breaking your ankle, twisting it, stubbing your toe, chipping a nail, almost falling over nothing, almost falling over a plant, almost falling over a chair, almost dying, you pick up nella and almost tear your fucking hamstrings.

she ended up biting your forearm instead and threw herself down the basement stairs, “oh, I'm sorry..” you carried a solemn tone whilst rubbing at the small but wide bite mark with a sigh. jeno stands to his feet, concern etched on his features as he inspects the wound.

his hand found your wrist and pulled it towards him, you winced at the rough padding of his fingers. “cats could really be unpredictable, huh?” he declared playfully as miniscule drops of blood seeped from the wound, you giggled at his comment but it wasn't fucking funny because what if you got rabies? you wished he would actually just break out into hives right now.

“I mean.. are you okay?” jeno finally looked up at you, his deep black eyes punctured into your soul.. there was some sort of romantical vibe in them.

you blunk and the room spun.

there's suddenly rose petals EVERYWHERE, the room is hot as hell, careless whisper is playing in the background and he suddenly has a comically large moustache like mario, “mi mujer, mi todo, ¿te importaría si atendiera tu herida?” his sultry gaze met your muddled face, his eyebrow raised suggestively and the buttons of his shirt popped in your face and revealed his toned torso. you seriously have no words and even I can't explain this scene as I'm typing it.

you only nodded before jeno broke out into pirouettes as he spun to the bathroom and came back with bandages twirling around and above him into a pretty pattern of curls and ended in a break out of elegant dance moves then a split.

“mi amor déjame atenderte..” he placed a chaste kiss on the lesion, it burned. he wrapped the bandage around your forearm and tore it off with a smirk.

everything was suddenly back to normal, his moustache was gone. “man what the fuck was that?!” you stumbled back and rubbed your bandaged arm in confusion, jeno's lips were parted in bewilderment. he was staring like it was your fault,

“nothing happened?” he stated sternly.

“yes, something happened! you turned into a fucking whatever the fuck!”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” he retorted, crossing his arms across his torso and steadying his weight on one foot with a pop to his hip. “you know what, never mind.. is my sink fixed?” you asked with restraint frustration whilst rubbing your forehead, keeping yourself steady on the island just incase you would black out.

jeno shook his head, “I mean, I could fix it faster if you helped a bit..?” he asked shyly and smiled when you nodded, you now noticed the crinkle in his eyes when he did so.. heading over to the sink, you crawled into the small space along with him.. he handed you the flashlight.

he slid into the confined space, “just point it where my hand is, alright?” he reassured you before continuing with his handiwork. jeno's muscles flexed and strained with every twist and turn of the screws. every once in awhile his leg would nudge against your bare thigh, which you now noticed and pulled the hem of the gown down but it'll just raise up slightly above your ass once again but you're sure that jeno wouldn't notice.

but, he did. the curvature of your ass would be exposed with every subtle movement of his leg, yes he's a weirdo and he's intentionally but unintentionally brushing his knee in that same area. his boner was becoming quite visible and ample than before, his neck burned in restrainted arousal and he was probably a bright cherry red. he swore that if that bitchass dress raised even an inch more, he woul– it did.

“sorry miss, I need to g-get some tools from my truck.” jeno slid out and quickly stood on unsteady feet, you realized that his hands were weirdly set at his groin area once you looked up at him with unintended doe eyes.

uttering a quick “fuck”, he finally gave in.

jeno's hand coursed through your hair gently, his rugged hands running through the tangles. his erection now stood out like a spear like those over exaggerated brazzers videos, his hand gripped your scalp and nudged you towards his soaked tip and pulled his cargos down with the other.

“I– uh.. need you to suck me off, please..” he pleaded stupidly, his speech slurred and rasped slightly as his hand found the hem of his pants. “you're so fucking pretty, please..” he whined once his cock sprung out, you were NOT going to take that flag pole down your throat, but you gave an exception for him. both of his hands found your head, gripping and clenching to your head with urgency, jeno chuckled triumphantly once you parted your lips.

the masculine scent of his member intoxicated your senses, the tip placing a blob of precum on the tip of your nose and ran down to your lip. your tongue peaked out and licked the cream off the bump, it tasted awfully sugary?

enveloping his tip into your mouth, he grunted loudly, his gentle touch turning tense in your hair. jeno's hand guided your head up and down his lengthy member, your narrow esophagus pulsating and clenching with every hurried thrust down it. veins sprawled from his other hand to his neck whilst it gripped the island, his eyes rolling back to his skull once you managed to take him all the way to his base.

“s’ fucking good at this..” he praised in an unattractive wheeze, jaw unhinging to emit another groan. he suddenly stilled at the back of your throat, your glossy,pleading eyes looking up at him. jeno started to gyrate against your nose, your jaw and lips straining trying to accommodate to his girthy base as you held back a series of gags and chokes.

his head bumped and leaked precum against your tonsil once he resumed his shallow thrusts. “m’ so close..” jeno rasped, his balls tensing against your chin. with a final shove of your head and another gag from your end, he exploded in your mouth. why'd it taste like that? you suddenly pulled away, gasping for air at the realization.

“jeno—” you hiccuped, his aching cock bobbed, resting against your top lip; quite literally interrupting you. in your blurry peripherals, nella licked at a small droplet of his release; your stomach caved at the sight.

the sweetness of his cum made you sick, the thick substance coated your throat for what seems to feel like globs. “why does it—” you coughed and choked on air, jeno suddenly picked you up by the armpits and sat your writhing figure on the counter.

“your cum tastes like cheesecake..?”

taglist: @haechansbbg

#nct smut #kpop smut #smut #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct drabbles #nct dream smut #lee jeno smut #kpop drabbles #nct fic #nct fanfic #jeno #nct dream #nct dream fic #nct #jeno smut #jeno x reader

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hostilemuppet · 1 month

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This might be a weird question but WHY exactly is Floyd a fatass in TDAU? Was it just something you wanted as a design choice for him or did you do it JUST to spite those who kept calling him a twink. Not hating. I find him cute actually. He's fat, like me

well, first of all, by calling him "a fatass" i think were leaving the point where its goodnatured and getting into "genuine asshole territory" so maybe we should dial it back a bit. second floyd isnt technically fat in the tdau, its just that i always draw him fat and im the main one drawing supplementary tdau material. alex has drawn (non tdau) floyd before and made him skinny and im sure if they ever drew something in context of the tdau they wouldnt change the way they draw him, same as i didnt change the way i draw him. or maybe alex would be all for floyd being fat. a lot of the time i ask "can floyd be X" and alex agrees, like a stressed out parent letting their spoiled child take sweets from the cupboard without even looking up from their crossword. its why tdau floyd is also autistic and jewish

third, i started drawing floyd a bit rounder to spite the people calling him a twink, yeah. like. look at him

hes basically as lovably round as branch, he just looks skinny compared to bruce but most trolls looks skinny compared to bruce. floyd is, like, average. if anything CLAYS the twink, his body is also roughly branch width but bc its taller it makes him look skinnier. but thats not funny, bc hes not the canon gay one, so people cant make borderline homophobic jokes that just switch out "gay man" for "twink" to make it Quirky instead of bigoted

but yeah, i started drawing him a bit softer, then a bit bigger than that, and it kept going. part of it was bc i draw so much fleek, and making him rounder made their character designs compliment each other more

but also it just makes him look SO cute i just wanna pick him up and squeeze him

#ask #tdau

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sliceofcake-cupoftea · 1 year

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Allergies, Allergies, Allergies

Headcanons: What if High and Low characters had allergies? And who?

Character(s): S.W.O.R.D

Warning(s): Mature Content (for White Rascals and Sannoh)

Note: Due to the fact I have been unexpectationally swarmed with assignments for finals that have stopped me from finishing my oneshots and requests as well as the fact my pollen allergy has been acting up as the weather grows warmer, I decided to strew together a funny Headcanon for everyone to enjoy until I am back. Enjoy!

Takeshi – Rude Boys

If anyone in the rude boys had an allergy, it would be Takeshi.

I’m not sure what it is that makes me feel this way but it's just that face of his.

Anyways, I imagine it just happened one day when he was with the boys. They were likely passing around food that they found and were sharing it.

A bit of the usual fish, seafood, and jerky scraps but also some lucky finds like rice, dried fruits and–

Peanut butter.

“H’y Tak’shi,” P says, his mouth sticky from a scoop of peanut butter Shion just fed him; watching as his friend attempts to wrestle the bag of jerky out of Yu’s greedy hands, “Y’u nee’ to try th’s stuff.”

“In… One– Sec–” Takeshi grunts as he reaches over Yu’s shoulder, some of the other boys helping Takeshi by pinning Yu’s legs down. However, ever the so slippery snake he was, Yu quickly escapes their grasps and attempts to flee again, “Come back here, Fatass!”

With one last huff as some of the other boys quickly chase after the youngest member, Takeshi takes a seat down on the ground next to P and Smokey. Getting handed the spoon with the sticky substance, he pops it into his mouth, “He needs to learn to share. It’s not fair for the rest of us.”

“True,” Shion comments as he scoops a giant glob of the peanut butter with an extra spoon and gestures to their leader to take another bite. And even though Smokey shakes his head in refusal, the other male didn’t seem to be giving up anytime soon. Fully intent on getting their leader to take a bite of the protein and vitamin filled peanut substance, “But he’s new and young. We were all like this when we first started out.”

“Even you, Takeshi–” As P goes to slap a hand on his friend’s shoulder in a joking manner, he suddenly freezes. P just staring at him with this shocked looked on his face

“Wha–”

However, Takeshi stops in his words as he suddenly feels how heavy his tongue feels as he speaks. Bringing up a hand to his mouth, he jumps in surprised as he feels his swollen lips, “Wha’ goin’--”

“Takeshi,” Smokey and Shion are instantly by his side as Takeshi feels his words fade away. Suddenly, it feels as if he is looking at the world around him through a tunnel. His vision on the sides slowly fading away as his ears begin to ring. Smokey, P and Shion are yelling something but he can’t hear them.

What was happening? What was going on?

Then, all of a sudden, the world returns back to normal and Takeshi takes a deep inhale he didn’t know he needed. His vision and hearing return as if nothing had happened and he can feel the swelling in his mouth go down.

“Hol– Holy crap Takeshi!” P suddenly yells, shaking his friend. Making Takeshi realize he was laying down, his head resting on Shion’s lap. When did he end up here? Actually as Takeshi looks around he sees that Yu and the others had returned, staring at the older member worried, “Did you know you were allergic to peanuts?”

At his friend’s words, Takeshi blinks.

Allergic?

Him?

However as Takeshi’s mind races, going over what he experienced and comparing it to the information he knows, he knows what P said was likely true. Damn, he was allergic to something. That’s a pain.

“You're lucky Yu had an Epipen,” Shion adds, patting his friend on the shoulder as Smokey and P help him into a sitting position. Surprised, Takeshi glances at the youngest member who scratches the back of his head nervously.

“I–” Yu starts, stammering at his words under the gaze of the boys, “I just collected them just in case, you know? I guess you can never be too sure.”

Fishing in his pocket, Yu sticks out a plastic grocery sized bag filled with Epipens, adding under his breath, “You can have them, Takeshi. I don’t actually need them.”

Before Takeshi can say anything, Yu has already dropped the bag in his lap and has run off. Mumbling about it being his time to patrol even though it wasn’t.

“Well,” Smokey chuckles, making Takeshi turn his head in surprise at his leader, “I guess you finally got Yu to share something, Takeshi.”

It was true. Yu had never shared anything up until this point.

Unable to help himself, Takeshi breaks out into a laugh, joining Smokey. All it took was him in a life or death situation to have the youngster to share something. What an idiot.

Dan – Sannoh Rengokai

I’m going to be completely honest. I did this because I thought it would be absolutely hilarious.

Listen

Latex Allergy.

If you know, you know.

Anyways I think compared to Takeshi, Dan definitely knew he had this allergy. He just didn’t want the rest of Sannoh to know. Because, obvious reasons.

“Are you going home with her?” Tettsu whispers, nudging his friend who for the first time that night was free and that was only because he was grabbing another set of drinks for them. This whole night Tettsu and Chiharu could only watch in shock as Dan was getting flirted with by a girl. That’s right, a girl interested in Dan.

Dan quickly looks behind him, likely to make sure the girl wasn’t watching him, before slapping the back of Tettsu’s head, “Maybe. I’m not forcing anything though.”

“Well,” Chiharu says, sliding in on the other side of Dan as Tettsu rubs the spot Dan hit in pain. Looking around, Chiharu smirks before stuffing something into his pocket and it doesn’t take Dan much to guess exactly what it was, “You’ll probably be needing those.”

“No. No, I won’t.” Dan says back under his breath before pulling out the offending item from his jeans and shoving it in Chiharu’s chest. Not wanting it anywhere near him even though it was wrapped safely in plastic. Swearing he could already feel hives breaking out on his skin even though he probably wasn’t.

“What's your deal, man?” Tettsu murmurs, confused on what got Dan so irritated all of a sudden, “You allergic to wrapping up or something?”

Even though it was supposed to just be a joke, making both Chiharu and Tettsu laugh, they quickly fall silent when they see Dan not joining them.

“No way. Are you actually–”

“Shut up.” Dan cuts them off as he finally gets handed his drinks, grabbing them quickly as he begins to walk away. Already feeling his ears burn a bright red from the embarrassment dripping from him.

“Wait,” Tettsu quickly stops him, getting in his way from walking forward back to his table. Making Dan’s scowl in annoyance grow larger. Chiharu joins them, seeming to watch in interest as Tettsu pulls out his wallet from his back pocket and fishes something out. Quickly sticking it in Dan’s jacket pocket.

This asshole.

Dan feels his hands shake in anger as once again knew what was put in his pocket, “Do you want to get your face punched–”

“Latex-free, bro.” Tettsu says, slapping Dan on the shoulder with a grin and thumbs up. Silencing Dan in his threat as he stares confused and bewildered at his friend. However, Chiharu quickly filled in that silence. More than enough questions for Tettsu.

“Wait, are you also…?” Chiharu asks, seeming caught off guard as he looks back and forth between his two closest friends. For some reason suddenly feeling the one left out from the group.

“No, I got them from SMG,” Tettsu says with a grin, seeming suddenly quite proud of himself as he references the White Rascal subgroup. Though, it only confuses Chiharu and Dan more, “In their words, you can never be too careful. It's not just men allergic to latex.”

Ah.

At Tettsu’s words, it suddenly clicks for them. Of course, it was the White Rascals. If Dan remembered correctly from his one and only visit, the club had multiple bowls of the items around. Just in case a couple was stuck without a source of protection. Always thinking of the women guests' interests; Always.

“You got this, Dan.” Chiharu suddenly says, snapping Dan out of his thoughts as his friends slap him on the shoulder before returning back to the bar. All the while Tettsu tells Chiharu how he has been learning from SMG on how to woo a woman correctly.

Idiots.

Though Dan can only smile as returns back to his seat.

Agyo – Daruma

Agyo and Ungyo, twins(?) of the Daruma Ikka subgroup: Daruma Babies.

Even though we hardly know anything about these two (as well as a lot of characters of Daruma), I thought it would be interesting if someone in Daruma was allergic to Soy.

Mostly because Soy can often be found in a lot of traditional Japanese foods.

Ex: Tofu, Edamame, Natto, miso, (occasionally) soy sauce, etc.

While we hardly have any lines or scenes of the two of them, we can infer three facts about them. (1) they are quick to anger and fight like the rest of Daruma, (2) they seem very close as they are hardly ever seen apart (even in fights) and (3) their names are based on two opposite Japanese gods (likely inferring that their personalities are opposites as well).

Just guessing but because Agyo means one with an open mouth (aka one to speak first or birth), I’m guessing Agyo is more of a talker and the smarter one of the twins (Also because he has glasses and we’ve seen so far in High and Low, anyone with glasses is typically smarter than the others). Then, Ungyo, one with an closed mouth (aka last to speak or death), is likely less of a talker and more likely to use his fists first (Also, even though both of them seem hotheaded, he seems to be the one more interested in picking the fight with Ranmaru than the others when he bumped into the group).

But once again, this is just me making an educated guess and inferring as we hardly know anything about any of these Daruma boys except Hyuga.

Anyways, back to the Allergy headcanon. I think Agyo would have a soy allergy but wouldn’t tell anyone as he might be prideful and didn’t want to get laughed at. And Ungyo would eat any Soy products that anyone tried to give his brother, to hide Agyo’s secret.

Of course, this would work out for a while. That is until Ungyo was absent during a hang out and left Agyo by himself.

“Oi, Agyo,” Ukyo calls, taking an inhale of his cigarette before pulling it out of his lips and gesturing to the waiter that was taking their table's order, “What you want?”

“Ah, I’ll just have some Mori Soba,” Agyo says, handing his menu forward to join the others that had already ordered. Some of them make noises of agreement with his choice, murmuring how it was pretty hot outside and debating if they should get something cold now, “Is it okay if I order something for Ungyo as well?”

“Sure, just pile it in. Poor asshole probably sick as a dog at home anyways.”

“Alright cool. Can I get a Miso soup to go as well? Thanks.”

As the others in the gang proceed to order, Agyo returns his attention back to his phone; Typing a quick message to his brother to check in. Though as a response quickly comes back, he can only snort. Of course, Ungyo sent an unflattering selfie of himself crouched over the toilet bowl. Only his brother would do something like that.

Continuing to text his brother, ignoring the occasional yell from Ukyo and Sakyo to get off his phone, the food eventually arrived. Some of the guys cheering as the waiters and waitresses place the plethora of food down.

Agyo is one of the few that stayed quiet. Breaking open a pair of chopsticks as he chats with Futa. Finally, for the first time that night, relaxing as he knows Ungyo took some Advil and went to bed for the night.

That is until his bowl was placed down in front of him.

“Oh, Agyo, is something wrong?” Futa asks as he sees his friend freeze when he glances down at his bowl. The other member of the Daruma Babies, Raita, glances from across the table to see what’s up.

“Aish,” Raita says, as he groans once he sees what’s in the bowl, “So lucky. They gave you extra toppings.”

And extra toppings they did. While Agyo didn’t mind the carrots nor mushrooms in his bowl, it was the offending plethora of aburaage that sent his stomach through a loop. Already imagining the nausea and hives he gets from eating the tofu product, sending his heart pounding with anxiety. Blinking once, twice and finally a third time, Agyo realizes the dish they gave him. Not Mori Soba but Kitsune Soba. Shit, they switched up his order.

Wait.

Agyo’s eyebrows quickly furrowed in confusion as he notices the soup wasn’t steaming. An usual trait in a Kitsune Soba was for it to be hot. Dipping his pointer finger in, he realizes the soup was in fact cold and that it has the Tsuyu dipping sauce on the side. Two characteristics that are usually only found in Mori Soba.

So, they just gave him extra toppings? But why?

“Oi,” However before Agyo can even attempt to figure out the answer, his bowl is suddenly picked up. He doesn’t even need to turn around to guess who it was as he catches a whiff of cigarettes and weed; Hyuga.

“His order is wrong,” Hyuga barks as he takes an inhale of his Kiseru. Blowing out a puff of smoke in the waiter’s face before shoving the bowl in his shaking hands. “Redo it.”

“B-but Sir.” The waiter stutters, some of the soup staining his shirt as it overspills from being handed to him, “The young lady gave the extra toppings as a—“

“I don’t give two shits.” Hyuga spits out, shutting the man up as he takes a step forward. Getting in his face, “Re. Do. It.”

“Of— of course, Sir. Right- away.”

As the waiter scampers off, Agyo can only stare in shock. For once in his life, his mouth shut and not a single word planning on leaving his lips. However, the rest of the members had more than enough to say.

“Ah, Hyuga. Wasn’t that too harsh?”

“Come on, it’s free stuff. I doubt Agyo was complaining.”

“Oh man, Mad dog Hyuga is off his leash.”

Though all it takes is Ukyo slamming his fist down on the table and a glare from Sakyo for everyone to quickly shut up. Agyo, one of the few silent ones from the start, can only watch in uneasy silence as Hyuga grabs his plate and takes a seat next to him.

Sighing and taking another inhale from his Kiseru, Hyuga only raises an eyebrow at Agyo’s stares.

“Wha’,” Hyuga mumbles, seeming interested in his dumbfounded expression. Slowly, the other members of the group around them go back to their own conversations and meals. Though, Agyo can only keep his eyes trained on his boss as a small smirk makes its way to the male’s lips, “Go ahead try a bite.”

“Oh,” is all Agyo can let out as Hyuga pushes the plate of Sashimi closer in front of him. Although delicious, with the adrenaline still rushing through his body, Agyo had lost his sense of appetite for the time being, “I’m good. Thanks, Boss.”

However, the mischievous dark eyes that stare into his own doesn’t seem to take no for an answer as Hyuga takes another inhale before muttering words that stun Agyo even more silent than before,

“Eat the fish, Soy boy.”

Agyo had never reached for a pair of chopsticks faster in his life.

Kizzy – White Rascals

Lovely wonderful Kizzy.

Poor girl is allergic to pollen :(

Of course, Kaito would know about this. He would likely find out when they first started dating.

Though it would take a couple of tries for the rest of the White Rascals to figure it out.

Especially as Kizzy doesn’t seem like the type to tell them when she isn’t feeling well.

But, when they do. They going to make sure they take Kizzy’s allergy seriously. Like super serious.

“Hah?” Kizzy shouts, her loud voice causing Kaito to turn away from the pan he was cooking on to look at the direction of the hallway. The young girl, fresh from out of the shower with a towel still wrapped around her body, walks into the kitchen and it doesn’t take another second for Kaito to realize Kizzy was on the phone, “What do you mean I’m not working tomorrow? It’s not my day off! I’m scheduled!”

Confused, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, Kaito takes the pan off the burner and walks over to Kizzy. Placing his hands carefully around her waist so as to not surprise her, he leans carefully against his girlfriend. Placing a soft kiss on the back of her shoulder; her skin still slightly damp under his chapped lips.

“Well, I want to work. You can’t just call me off at the last minute!” Kizzy says aggressively once more on the other end, turning herself around so as to face Kaito. Her nose scrunched up in annoyance; a trait that instantly makes Kaito think of how adorable she was. Wanting to smother her in a kiss right then.

Though, knowing his girlfriend was busy on the phone, Kaito settles for wrapping his arms around her waist and placing soft pecks on Kizzy’s long neck.

“Do I need to kill someone?” Kaito murmurs as there seems to be a pause in the conversation on the other line. An action that causes Kizzy to snort even though she knows her boyfriend is serious.

“No.” Kizzy responds, pulling the phone away from her mouth for a moment, “And it's Rocky.”

Of course it is. No wonder she hadn’t already run out the door to kick the person’s ass.

With a humm in acknowledgment as Kizzy returns to arguing with Rocky once more, Kaito resumes placing kisses along his girlfriend’s shoulder blades, chest and neck. Enjoy the brief moment of intimacy between the two. Especially as one of Kizzy’s hands comes up to weave into Kaito’s hair. An action that lets him know Kizzy was paying attention to him and his affections.

“Hey! Oi! You better not– That fucking bastard.” Kaito watches from his spot with his head rested on her shoulder as Kizzy pulls the phone away from her ear and glares at it, “He just fucking hung up on me.”

Kaito raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Especially as Kizzy curses some more and begins to walk away. A signal for Kaito to let go of his girlfriend as she was thoroughly pissed off.

And while he usually would follow after her, waiting for her to cool down once more, the slight vibration in his back left pocket distracts him. Pulling out his phone and seeing a text on his lock screen that just came through, Kaito can’t help the grin that spreads to his lips.

Although as quickly as the smile came it left. Placing his phone on the counter and shrugging off his jacket, Kaito slowly walks over to Kizzy. The young woman still fuming as she attempts to call their leader back; the young man not answering any of her calls.

“Kizzy…” Kaito mumbles, this time his hands a little less carefully in not surprising his girlfriend as he places one right on the curve of her ass, the other skimming on the top edge of her towel. Placing a kiss to the back of her shoulder, he waits for his girlfriend to respond before proceeding.

And respond did Kizzy do. In a little less than a couple seconds, Kizzy had already captured her boyfriend’s lips in a searing kiss; shrugging off her towel as she was pushing Kaito down to the couch. Likely unable to wait to get all the anger and frustration out of her system.

All the while, Kaito can only grin as he hears his phone buzz once more. The unanswered message from Koo likely still on his lockscreen.

Today, the neighbors planted sunflowers and refused to take them out when we asked. Rocky does not want Kizzy to be coming to work until we get the situation settled. Please keep her occupied until then so she doesn’t show up to the club.

He just hoped Kizzy wouldn’t see the text afterwards or he would be a dead man.

Murayama – Oya High

Lots of people say Murayama is a dog person.

Though I can honestly see him as just a straight animal lover.

Like I feel like he and Smokey would be the most likely to take in strays. Whether that be cats, dogs, etc.

Except, unlike Smokey, I feel like Murayama would be the type to be allergic to cats. Like the sniffly sneezing, runny red eyes, and stuffy nose type of allergy.

Murayama also seems like the type of guy that would be like, “The more I’m exposed to my allergies, the more likely I can be immune!”

No, no idiot. That's not how it works.

So, I feel like a lot of the part timers (especially Furuya and Seki) have to step in to keep him from getting near or taking in stray cats.

“Oi! Murayama!” Furuya shouts once more, using the toe of his boot to kick at the door. Not caring about the strange looks he and the group of part-timers got from Murayama’s neighbors as they poked their heads out from their apartments, “Open the door! We know you are in there!”

“Maybe he really is not home?” Seki asks as he passes the broom in between his hands, the student holding the animal carrier just shrugging at him. Meanwhile, some of the students holding nets and containers of their own go over to the window next to the door to see if they could peek past the curtain to look inside.

“No he is. The fucker definitely is.”

Just as Furuya goes to kick at the door once more, it suddenly swings open revealing their boss. Of course, just as Furuya had guessed, Muruyama had bloodshot glossy eyes and a red nose. Fucking idiot.

“Oi! Hey!” Not giving Murayama even a second to ask them what they are doing here, Furuya has already placed him in a headlock and shoved his way into the apartment. The other students immediately stampeding in as well, splitting up to search the premises. Looking for the fluffy devil-like creature inside, “What the hell–”

Though, Furuya has already kneed Murayama in the stomach as the male attempts to get out of the lock. Likely this would end up in a fight between the two but Furuya knew it was good for the idiot. He can’t just take in the thing he was allergic to.

“What the FUCK–”

As a large crash and girlish scream resounds throughout the apartment, Furuya and the other students can only watch in shock and horror as an offending creature comes barling out of the room. With brown and black fur, a fluffy thick coat, sharp claws, black noses and whiskers, it scampers onto the coffee table…holding a peanut butter jar?

“Is that a motherfucking Racoon?”

While Furuya doesn’t know who said it, he honestly didn’t care. Especially as he just continued to stare straight at the Tanuki on his leader’s coffee table. Said Tanuki was not only eating out of a peanut butter jar but had a matching blue bandana across its forehead.

“Tanushiki!”

Furuya doesn’t even bother cursing Murayama out as the young male elbows him in the stomach, releasing Furuya’s hold on him. Especially as their leader, their leader for crying out loud, proceeds to scold the Tanuki called Tanushiki about standing on the table.

He thinks about saying something. Maybe a comment or even a question if the raccoon was named after a combination of Murayama first name–Yoshiki–and Tanuki. Or perhaps ask how long their leader had the animal. Likely a while based on how calm the thing was with Murayama.

But all of that goes out the window as the sound of hissing and banging is once again heard in the other room, some of the part-timers cheering as one of them comes out with a container; a stray cat clearly inside.

“I–” Furuya already felt a headache coming on as he took in the scene around him, “Let’s just wrap this up.”

Defeated, and clearly needing a beer, Furuya takes the rest of the part-timers and leaves. Ignoring the fact Murayama and Tanushiki had gotten into a brawl over the peanut butter jar as he left. Not even bothering to mention or even glance at the claw marks that were scattered on the leader's face when he showed up at school the next morning.

#high and low fic #high and low x reader #high & low #h&l #high and low #high&low #high&low the story of sword #high&low x reader #high and low murayama #oya high #white rascals #sannoh #sannoh rengokai #daruma ikka #rude boys #high and low kizzy #high and low takeshi #high and low agyo #high and low dan

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regularme12 · 1 month

Text

Tickles~

Summary: Tweek came home from a very long day of working at the coffee shop, and his boyfriend knows j what he needs.

--------------------------------------------------

"Hey, babe, how was work?" Craig was on his computer playing roblox with four people who wasn't his friends, Cartman, Kyle, Kenny, Stan, and Butters. Because his other friends, Tolkein, Clyde, and Jimmy, were all busy doing god knows what.

"*Sigh* It was tiring, Craig..." Tweek came in slouching, and his eyes were half open, with eye bags that u can see from a mile away. That boy was tired.

"Awww, it was??? You want to come sit on my lap while I play?" The blue hat boyfriend, made an opening for his lover to sit on his lap, bringing his hand out to grab his.

"Yes, please." Tweek made his way, slowly, but surely, made his way over to his older boyfriend, and sat pleasingly. He slouched over and huged Craig while he put his head on his shoulder. "This is niceee, thank you."

"You don't have to say thank you, my love. You need it, and you need sleep."

"I don't wanna~..."

"Hahaha, bahahabe, can you not mumble in my neck? It tickles."

"Sorry, Tweek turned his head the other direction, and closed his eyes for a bit.

Then he heard Cartman over the headset. "Ew, can you guys not be so lovey dovey over call? It's so gay!"

"Shut the fuck up, fatass." Craig told him. He started scratching his smaller boyfriend's back lightly while using his other hand to play with Tweek's hair. Craig then heard the blonde giggle and realize exactly what he needs right now. "Hey, guys, I'm a hop off alr? We'll play later."

"Alr, dude, later." Kyle called out, before Craig hit "end call".

"Aw, you don't wanna play with your friends? It's not because of me babe, right?" Tweek rubbed his eye, and yawned.

"Of course not, hun, I just want to make sure your tired ass goes to sleep." Craig carried him over to their shared bed, and plopped him down, while he was towering over him.

"I already told you, Craig, I'm not tired..."

"Well your actions tell me other wise," He started poking the other's stomach, making him giggle and curl up.

"Bahahabe, not nohohow."

"Oh come on, you and I both know if you wanted me to stop you would've told me to from the get go, alright? Now relax and enjoy this." He pushed Tweek back over on his back and pinned his hands to his chest, when his shirt was exposing his lower torso. Craig started poking and prodding all around it too, and his half assed button up shirt isn't doing him any justice either.

"Heheheh, gohohod..." The blue hat men could've died by how cute his lover was being. The giggles, the ticklishness, then squirming, GOD, he was in Heaven.

"You're so adorable with your giggles, mi amor," Craig started skittering his sides now, but they were light as a feather, and slow as a snail.

This really started making Tweek move more, and laugh harder, "Hahahahah, nohohoho, not thahahahat!!!"

No one knows who's blushing more, Craig or Tweek, it should be Tweek because of Craig's obnoxious teasing, but really it may be Craig because of Tweek's laughter and giggles. "You're blushing~ Isn't that cute? I wish I can take a pic of this and save it for whenever you decide to be bratty."

"Nohohoho! Dohohon't!"

"Haha, I won't trust me. Tempted. But won't. Now let's get these arms up shall we?" Craig did just that, pinning his arms straight above his head, by how short Tweek is compared to Craig, it wasn't hard to do that and tickle him all together either.

The blonde men was startled by the swift motion and started slightly using his knees to move his boyfriend out of the way. He didn't want it to stop, and Craig knows this, it's just a reflex, and it always happens in this position. "GaH! Craig!! This is embahahahahrrassing!!"

"If it's so embarrassing, just tell me the safeword and I'll stop, mr. giggles." He leaned down kissed him on the lips and started clawing in his armpits, this drove him mad.

"NAHAHAHAH!! Crajahahahig, CRAHAHHAHAIGGGG!!! I CANANANAN'TTT!!" Tweek started kicking his legs everywhich way, so Craig made it his motive to sit on the lee's waist and go to town on his sensitive armpits.

Tweek started coughing by how long and loud he was laughing, but he wouldn't say the safe word, so Craig didn't want to continue his torment on his sensitive hollows so he stopped and gave him a break. Still sitting on his waist, but let his arms roam free. The blondie got a couple breaths in, and the brunette noticed he started calming down. "Now, ypu calmed down yet?"

"Mhm..." Tweek was covering his teary, redden face, but Craig lowered his hands so he can see him.

"Aww, don't cover your face, cutie, I love seeing you like this. Now let's move on to somewhere... more... sensitive." Craig scammed his upper torso, then reached back behind him and squeeed his knee once, and once was enough.

"AH!! RED! CRAIG!! FUCKING RED!!!" Tweek sat up so fast and punched his lover in the face.

"AH! Fuck!!" Craig rolled off of him and was holding his eye.

"OMG!! CRAIG!!! ARE YOU OK?! I'M SO SORRY!!!" Tweek sat up and started inspecting his eye.

"I'm alr, babe, trust me. Now you get some sleep, while I go finish this game. Love you."

Craig kissed him, and Tweek rolled over to his side of the bed with a, "I love you too, Craig."

The brunette walked over to his gaming set up, and put the headset back on, he was about to push the call button until he heard... laughing? "Wait- Hello?"

A bunch of snickers can be heard from the other side of the call, "We heard everything you said." Kyle ringed out, laughing uncontrollably with the others, but Cartman didn't think it was funny, he just thought it was really fucking gay.

"You guys were being a bunch of f@gs, f@g." Cartman... ofc.

"Wh- but- How-? I thought I hung up?!" This time Craig was getting more red then he was while that whole tickle thing ensued.

"Well, you didn't." Craig laughed.

And Kenny ofc had to put his two cents in, "Mhm Thamt's Mright."

"'Oh, just say the safe word when you-'" Butters mocked before Craig made sure, this time, to hit the call end button, smashing his head on his keyboard.

While Tweek was on the bed hearing everyword that was said, silently blushing, and curling up more out of embarrassment. He swore that he was gonna get his revenge on his stronger boyfriend, because thanks to him, now the people they don't even like knows Tweek loves to be tickled now. Till death do them part, people might say.

#tickle #south park #south park tickles

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thesituation · 6 months

Note

The cat is obviously NOT healthy. Rickybabyboy does not have an appropriate diet and he is extremely obese. Diabetes, some cancers, heart disease, and too much strain on his joints are just some of the health problems. You're right that chunky cats are totally fine IF they are healthy. Ricky is not healthy and that's why people care, it isn't comparable to fat phobia because he is not human and his weight isnt his choice. It isn't "weird" to point out that a very popular blogger is neglecting the animal that made them popular.

oh my bad i didn’t know you were the vet who examined this person’s cat and found weight-related health issues with him. like you do realize it’s fucking bizarre to be this hateful abt someone with a fatass cat right. he’s clearly well loved and taken care of so if he doesn’t have the conditions you so lovingly listed for me then there’s no good reason to get so whipped up about this cat’s health. get a life!!

#answers

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generic-whumperz · 2 months

Text

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.

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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.

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