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Something About Petite Mort

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There are plenty of ways you could have — and, let's be real, already have — died in the Tower of Barbs. Immolation, lethal poisoning and dismemberment were good old standbys; eating a bad mushroom could be a pretty nice one too, because if there's one thing you are it's good humored, and what was having your guts blown out of your stomach from consuming an exploding mushroom if not funny? That's the thing with this game — as humiliating and horrible as it was to die surrounded by a pack of naked, feral man-things armed to the teeth with bats, hammers and machetes, you could at the very least face it with something resembling hope. Maybe the next time won't be so bad or I'll get 'em next time with the occasional I'll fuck this game before it fucks me, because you're also the type of person to manage your anger constructively, if that wasn't obvious already.

Unfortunately, you're drawing blanks on how to deal with getting splattered by a ten-story high monster with legs for teeth and the anatomical structure of a mutilated Ken doll. You could be hopeful if the situation allowed for it but you're not an idiot even if all you can do right now is stare wide-eyed up at the abomination towering over you like one. It's not fear that paralyzes you, but disbelief and even a little bit of resignation goes a long way.

Your weapons are on the verge of breaking. Your armor is cracked in several dozen places; Gunkanyama had done quite the number on you and only a trip back down to the base of the tower would fix that. Your get-out-of-jail-free cards — your mushrooms — are gone and you have nothing left to bank on except for the hope that maybe it will be quick, no pussyfooting around, if only so you can go back down and grab another avatar from the freezer, march right back up here with an arsenal, and kick this ugly piece of shit's ass right off the edge.

Preferably along with the grinning skeleton in front of him, still holding his golf club/scythe/whatever up in cheesy triumph, the one barrier between you and the monster.

Yeah, you're not too happy with him either.

“So this was supposed to be where the last boss fight starts,” Uncle Death remarks, finally lowering his scythe to a more relaxed stance. The cheerfulness in his voice is unmistakable and, for some bizarre reason, endearing. He sounds genuine. “But I'm done with that now!”

As casually as one would swat a fly, he twirls the scythe over his shoulder. One agonized bellow later and the creature tumbles over itself in a heap, deader than dead. The sound it makes when it hits the ground is deafening, and the force is enough to cause a brief but strong tremor that nearly brings you to your knees, though Uncle Death seems totally ignorant to this, able to keep his footing just fine.

All of this happens roughly within a ten-second span, give or take. Your anger takes a little longer to build; maybe an extra three seconds. What could you say? You're a very chill person.

This is probably the worst ending to any video game ever.

Uncle Death is on the move again. He has a spring in his step as he walks forward, and you notice that he's wringing his hands constantly, twitchily. He's a bundle of nervous excitement, pent up energy. This too is sincere, and that pisses you off the most because it makes you think back to the arcade, to the emails, to just about every single exchange you've had with him where you were taken aback from the overflow of honest to God encouragement from him. To believe in someone more than you believed in yourself seemed impossible, and maybe that was what captivated you the most about him.

In spite of its childishness, his faith in you was real. Completely, undeniably real. So was the relish that seeped into his voice, dark and whispery and course, just like Death ought to be, when he talked about the mass genocide of mankind just a few minutes ago. So, too, was the reverence and awe when he conceded his respect to you and changed his mind, like it wasn't a big deal, like you could just call something like this off the same way you could reschedule a doctor's appointment or decide against eating steak for dinner or — or anything mundane and unimportant. No big deal.

Again, you're a very chill person. But falling for a timesink of a game that was responsible for (virtually, mind you, but who even knows anymore?) killing you dozens of times over and was actually building up to an elaborate planet and species-wide murder plot sort of gets under your skin, and you're only human, so you do the first and only thing that comes to mind when Uncle Death's head gets close enough to yours:

You punch him. Right in his stupid, smiling, skateboarding, tacky novelty glasses wearing, Majora's Mask climax stealing face. Not incredibly hard, mind you, you still have some restraint, but you put enough force behind it to stagger him. You want to knock him on his ass, if you were going to do anything to him about this. It's petty revenge, but it's all you have and what the hell else are you supposed to do?

Once again, it all happens so fast. His sunglasses go flying off his face and you see a flash of color — greyish blue and so much white, enough to give the impression of shock. Lacking eyelids probably gave that sort of effect, you decide, and you force yourself to maintain your composure at this — even if it's so unremarkable compared to the rest of the shitshow you'd endured thus far — as you watch him fall to the ground in a pile of tangled up limbs and coat folds.

The sound he makes when your fist connects with him is surprisingly delicious, air rushing out of his mouth in a breathy, startled hiss, and you focus on this, too. Anything to keep you grounded.

His breath is coming out in low bursts, panting as he looks up at you with those lidless grey eyes, not really hurt or angry, just deeply surprised. You think back to

(“Senpai, the thing is...")

the last thing he said to you before the giant monster tore its way out of the ground and get the feeling that

(“I've really respect you.”)

this might have been what he really looked like underneath the mask his dumb glasses provided. Without their safety, he looks naked, disarmed. Even a little vulnerable.

The gaze between you two remains unbroken for a good few moments, but then Uncle Death's eyes travel down to himself, to his lap, and he makes another noise that is partway between a gasp and a grunt. He throws himself to his side and reaches out with his hand, hurriedly fishing around on the ground for his glasses.

“Jeez, any harder and you'd think you were back in that ring.” You know that this is his way of taking control back in the only way he knows how to with you — a joke, of course — but you also know better because you were quick enough to follow his eyes down and you saw, or at least you think you know what you saw and you just can't ignore that. Before he can say anything else, anything dumb, you stride forward and give his side a little kick with the flat of your foot, knocking him onto his back again. Uncle Death, sensing what you're trying to do, makes a desperate downwards grab. You put a quick end to that by grinding the bottom of your foot into his crotch.

Uncle Death groans and, when you feel just how heavy the bulge tenting his pants really is against your boot, a bulge that seems to grow even more engorged with every bit of pressure you put on it, you realize that it isn't because he's in pain. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Are you fucking kidding me. You can't help but marvel over the impossibility of what's happening, what you're feeling. Uncle Death is silent, but he's already starting to fidget endlessly and trying to dislodge your foot from his groin, and again, you shut that shit down. This time, you slowly lower yourself to your knees, putting your weight on the one and shifting that onto his crotch to replace your foot. You press down with your kneecap and feel him.

Boy, oh boy. For someone who hates humans, he sure does have a lot in common with them anatomically. Cute.

“Senpai,” he husks out, but you never let him get any further. You grind circles into his erection (or whatever the hell he has that mimics one) and the words die right there, hissing through his bone-white teeth.

Your movements are exploratory, not nearly as rough as you could be, though you suspect he wouldn't object much to that kind of treatment. Uncle Death loves violence, bloodshed, flashy brutality and creative ways to make your enemies suffer. The latter of those sounds practically appealing for this unique...situation, though not in the way you imagine he's used to.

It would make for a fun game, if nothing else.

Pinned under you, Uncle Death begins to writhe, tentative at first to the rhythm of your rubbing, but there's real urgency to it. He needily reaches up at you with both of his hands and you just realize there's another way you can make this interesting as you grab him by his wrists and pin them above his head, stretching his arms up, digging your nails into the stretchy material of his gloves.

His hands feel all-too thin and boney underneath them, which isn't a surprise, but you swear you can feel something more to them; something that radiates weak heat, and a softness that feels too supple to be skin, like wet clay that hasn't quite set yet, or old mud. It should disturb you, but it just excites your curiosity more and more, just like the encouragement Uncle Death's body is giving you to continue.

All the while, you're waiting for him to say something more; ha ha, okay, Senpai, you've made your point or good one, guess we're even now, right? Anything to give himself a way out. It's at the point now where you're worried that you wouldn't be able to stop otherwise.

When he leans up to press his forehead against your neck — and God, you never realized how small he really is, but when you angle yourself up against him like this he feels so tiny, a compact bundle hiding in a mess of black folded fabric, wearing boots that probably only add to his already miniscule height — and exhales hot sigh, it gives you another confirmation entirely, something you weren't expecting.

“Good stuff,” Uncle Death mumbles. “Real good. Big surprise, heh..."

Your own little cheerleader, even now. That dissipates what remains of your anger and you heave out your own sigh, trying to stop yourself from releasing the smile that dances on the edge of your lips. You release one of his hands and, with some gentleness this time, peel his head away from your neck. He makes a discouraged grumble but lets himself fall back all the same.

You look down at his jaw, staring into blackness beyond his mouth where you can swear you see something that looks like an opening. You've always had a hunch that his outfit was nothing but a costume, and his face an elaborate mask, but this more or less confirms that.

Without thinking, you press your index and middle fingers together and slip them inside the hole. Uncle Death gives no resistance, moaning needfully when you push past something dry and fleshy and pliant you identify as — or at least hope to be — his lips. The cold, wet lump that snakes out to greet your fingers by way of running over them feels even more alien, which makes for a beautiful contrast with the debauched whines and sucking sounds Uncle Death is making around you.

“Damn,” he rasps around your fingers, his voice broken by desire, thick with an accent that threatens to turn incomprehensible from lust. “My so good to me.”

You press down on his “tongue”, enjoying the way his saliva pools under your fingertips, and when you've had your fill you abruptly pull them back out with a wet pop. A string of slimy and sickly looking greyish-black fluid trails behind them, and this mesmerizes you so much that you almost don't have the time to savor the low, whining moan coming from beneath you.

“H-Hey, man, c'mon, don't tease me like this.” Distressed, Uncle Death grinds his swollen dick against you feverishly. “You can't have all the fun. Just let me touch you a little.” He's close to babbling. “Come on, throw me a bone!"

The withering look you give him at that — inadvertent pun or not — makes him wiggle in frustration, and he impatiently ruts harder, sobbing out. “Please, Senpai! I just, I wanna—come on—“

You're not sure you want to go that far with him, but you think you can meet him halfway. Slowly, you ease yourself back onto your haunches, releasing Uncle Death who scrambles to sit up. You're aware of how hungry he looks as he watches your hands go to your belt, unfastening buckles and zippers, letting busted up, rusting armor fall down your legs. The cool air hits your crotch, making you acutely aware of how wet you are, how hot you've gotten in the last few minutes. You could melt into a puddle here and now.

Uncle Death takes one look at you and frantically crawls over on his hands and knees, grabbing your thighs for support as he smothers himself into your arousal, tonguing it with starving, long strokes that leave oily trails against the skin. You fist his hood, having nothing else to grab onto, and push his face deeper into your pubic hair.

It's like being sucked off by a horribly lively dead fish; his tongue is so cold and the texture is so off, not at all like human flesh, and everything about him feels horrid in the most basic organic sense, like this shouldn't be allowed to happen, which just makes it so much more dizzying.

Because whatever this thing is, it doesn't just want you — it needs you. He needs you inside him and around him, and he needs your hand forcing him down on you as he fucks you with his mouth, whimpering out breathless pleas for you to let him take you deeper and harder because this is so good and you're so perfect for him, too perfect for him, and pleasing you is all he wants to do right here, right now, because you're his—


Uncle Death protests only a little when you pull his head back and give him a light shove back. At this point, that feels like a routine, and it still satisfies you that he doesn't complain; he simply watches to see what you'll do next, blurry desire fogging his wide unblinking eyes.

You were expecting him to react positively when you undo his pants and yank them down over his thin legs, but you weren't expecting him to wail, especially when you lower yourself down onto him.

It takes a few moments for you two to get in sync, but when you do, it's like electricity coursing up over you, opening up every nerve. Uncle Death clings to you and buries his face into your breastbone, crying out words that vibrate into your chest. His cock feels just as wrong as his tongue and it looks even worse with an unhealthy discoloration that makes it seem deeply bruised, almost blackened, dribbling with oozing strands of precum, but the way he humps it against you hits every sweet spot and contrasts beautifully with your own warmth. You can hear him whispering a litany of filth as heat pools into your face, burning your cheeks scarlet, and you hang onto every fuck yes and holy shit Senpai right up until the end when you feel your orgasm peak and overtake you in an explosive heat that makes you shudder and croak out, straining your voice and your lungs until all you have left is your own harsh breath.

It pushes Uncle Death over the edge, too. He cries out and comes almost right after you, spilling against your pelvis. In spite of the repulsive gooeyness that you would be pretty fucking surprised to discover is semen after everything else you've seen thus far, you wrap your arms around him and hold him there for a good few minutes. He scrambles to shift himself in a way that allows his head to align with yours, panting heavily, then breathing softly, then chuckling lightly — and maybe even a little nervously.


Yeah, wow. You sigh and prop your chin up on top of his head, holding him there.

“You're...something else, dude. I thought you were a badass before, but now— I mean, don't get me wrong, what I mean is—“

There's that energy again. You finally push him off before he can say anymore or get even more grabby, and look down to assess the damage so-to-speak.

What you see makes you stare way, way, waaaay longer than you anticipated. Much too long to be considered polite.

You can feel Uncle Death's eyes on you as he tucks himself back into his pants sheepishly. What did he say that one time when the two of you were in the arcade talking about his biology? Oh, right.

Nasty gunky shit. Your mistake for not taking him literally.

You clean yourself up as well as you can given what little you have and begin to pull your leggings back on. It's a process, but a quick one. It also gives Uncle Death enough time to fix himself back up, finally putting his glasses back on and getting to his feet. You can see yourself reflected back twice in them when he edges closer to you, coyly sliding up like a schoolgirl would to her crush.

He offers a hand to you. You take it and before you know it you're being hauled to your feet and swung around into a clumsy twirl as Uncle Death crows and laughs.

“You're so fuckin' rad, Senpai!”

And hollers—

“So wicked cool!”

And squeals—

“What'd I just say about your performance? I can't get enough of you!”

And continues to skip with you over to the edge of the platform suspended above what looks and feels like an endless expanse of night sky and wrecked buildings, an abyss that you spent hours upon hours scaling and could take an eternity tumbling down from.

“I can't wait to play more with you!”

Which is exactly what happens when the two of you inevitably, unavoidably and purposely go careening off and begin to plummet down like two sinking stones, and Uncle Death laces his fingers through yours as he keeps hanging on even as the pair of you gain momentum, cheering for you and your triumphs all the way down.

The praise doesn't end, even after you black out and wake up safely back in the arcade, facing a skeleton-thing whose adoration stands in sharp contrast to Naomi's grumpy apathy and Meijin's...well, Meijinness, the two of them hanging around on opposite ends of the room without a single fucking clue about what just transpired and how close their species came to universal extinction.

"Ready for a new game?"