Choking - Blog Posts

low-key don’t know what to do with this thing (fan-made tma spiral fear experience in an amusement park) I wrote but I found it appealing read myself even if it was pretty short. Any warning I will put in the tag to the best of my ability.

Long day of being at a amusement park with friends, it’s crowded, then I get a message that my mother is here to pick me up, beginning to feel rushed to dash into the crowd and take a turn at a shop I recognize, then again, and again, and again.. my legs feel like they’re about to give out under myself and yet feels like there is no end in sight. In hope of any more clarity on where to go I look around to find that the sky has gone cloudy, there is less people or none at that matter, I cannot find any maps and resort to finding a park worker. Twisting and winding the amusement park is and I have not found any staff, or anyone, I am tense. The sandals I have chose to wear have begun to blister my feet, I take them off and the cold stone decorated path I run on will not help. Finally a shop, it’s open, why wouldn’t it be? A cashier, hair blonde and very curly, thank goodness someone else is here. I approach screaming hello, my throat weak from dehydration and how long I’ve been running. 

Pat

 Pat 

  Pat

They(?) look up, I feel uneasy, I ask how to get to the entrance from here. They do not respond, I stare, it stares.

  Run

 Run

RUN

FEET BLISTER AND BURST

THIS PAIN MAKES ME STUMBLE AND FALL 

I CRY IN FEAR 

THE SCREAMS AND LAUGHS 

MY SCREAMS AND THE DISTORTED LAUGH

OF A MAN I DO NOT

CAN NOT 

COMPREHEND

A FACE CONTORTS IT’S FEATURES INTO A SPIRAL

FINGERS TOO LONG GRAB AND PIERCE

I KICK AND CRY 

AT A POINT

I HAVE MY HANDS AROUND A THROAT 

THE LAUGH BECOMES A WEEZE

THE GRIP HAS LOOSENED 

ITS HANDS HAVE LEFT MY WOUNDS

HANDS PRY AT MY HANDS

MY HANDS TIGHTEN

I HEAR IT GASP 

IT HAS NO PLUSE

THERE EXISTS THE BONES

TO STOP

THIS HELL

I WILL BREAK

ITS NECK

AND ESCAPE

The moment ends and now I’m back. A crowd around me I see, blurry eyes and a throbbing headache. There are staff around and the sirens of an ambulance. I bring a hand to my head. Blood, I look down, the wounds have not bled through my clothes, no signs at all, I pick myself up and like a sore thumb in the crowd,

I 

See 

It.

Though that moment had been too quick, my vision goes blurry and blacks out. 

I’m awake, a hospital I assume and I am safe. 

-18 DNI

P in v, roomie!Satoru, perv!reader, mild breath play,

Roommate!satoru has the biggest cock you've ever seen.

Once upon a time, he made the mistake of leaving his door open whilst he showered, thinking his pervy little roommate was asleep, little did he know she was Riiiight behind the door, jaw dropped and red faced.

Since then, that's sparked an interest- No, an obsession, with all things satoru. From sniffing his boxers to shooting guilty glances at your lockscreen, him while you trail your hands down to the apex of your thighs.

Once, he left for a mission to exorcize a curse in central Tokyo, and you never left his room. You rutted on his pillows, rubbed his silken sheets up and down your bare breasts when Creek!.

Fuck.

As he opened the door, looking absolutely exhausted but still flawless as usual, his eyes widened. "Y/n." He groaned. "You little creep..."

But there wasn't enough time to apologize before he forces you onto all fours, his plump head was shoved Into your gummy walls. "Fuckin needed to get this- Ugh- out on someone." He says, though it's more of a moan then words.

Feeling a hand slowly wrap around your jugular, you flip your head back to look at him "Toru.. wh-" you manage out before he cuts off your air supply and thrusts harder, removing pressure and adding it over and over again.

You wake up, laying beside him, completely wrapped in him yet still feeling completely comfortable.

Wow, was that a night...

“I was never really welcome here, was I?”

The darkened study was lined with bookshelves against three of the walls, with a stained-glass window on the far wall from the door providing red, green and blue light across the room in an image of the virgin mother. In front of the window was a desk of polished ebony. The atmosphere in the room was tense enough to cut air, and the man leaning over the desk, short and squat, with white hair and a priest’s frock, laughed bitterly.

“Of course not, you stupid boy. You may have your father’s power, but you have your mother’s naivete.”

The boy, dressed in a white shirt, a leather jacket and blue jeans, looked normal enough, but he was positioning himself to flee if he had to. In his hand he clutched the locket containing the greatest secret his mother had ever kept – one known only to a few. The priest before him was one of them.

“Why? If all this time you meant to kill me then why haven’t you done it?”

The priest drew a cross from his belt and said solemnly, “We weren’t allowed to kill you in the womb. Papal sanction. We weren’t allowed to kill you as an infant – for you seemed normal enough. But as time wore on, I knew your father’s influence would get to you – and that would be our demise. But it seems there is still time to slay you before you betray us. Still time to do the right thing.”

From the door sprinted two younger priests, each gripping one of the boy’s arms. The priest approached, holding the cross at arms-length towards the boy, and drawing from the desk’s top drawer a pistol. He got to within an arm’s length of the boy, and held the gun to the boy’s forehead. “God forgive me for what I’m about to do.” He said coldly, pulling back the hammer of the pistol with his thumb.

It was then, for the first time, in a moment of rage and panic, the boy felt his father’s presence in his soul, and the power within his body. With a shout somewhere between a scream of anger and a growl, the gun was thrown backwards from the priest’s hand, through the stained-glass window that was the only source of light for the room. Clear light poured in through the hole.

Like a surge of adrenaline, great strength and powerful instinct over took the boy, as he threw the two grown men pinning him bodily against the bookshelves on either side of the room, knocking them apart. Books fell on the ground, scattering the floor with ritual literature and apocrypha. The priest backed away, knocking into the front of the desk and holding the cross at arm’s length still, beginning the Litany of the Saints.

At this the boy laughed, a harsh bark that sounded only vaguely human. “Old man,” he said in a guttural tone, different from the voice of the boy who had spoken moments ago. He waved his hand, and the cross flew out of the priest’s hand, into a pile of broken and splintered bookshelves.

He raised his hand, and the priest’s did likewise, gripping himself by the throat. As the boy clenched his fist, the priest gagged and choked as he strangled himself. The priest’s last moments were as pathetic as a dying fish’s, kicking and squirming on the floor as he fought for air. Once the priest had ceased moving, the boy relented, and the strange power faded from him.

The boy looked at what he had done. The dead priest, laying against his own desk, his aged hand still gripping his own throat. Against each wall were another priest, either unconscious or dead, he could not tell.

He went behind the desk and searched through the drawers, finding the things he was looking for. Another pistol, this one set in silver, and a pile of cash. He ran back, out of the room, and into his room in the orphanage. Gathering a bag of clothes, he sighed, and let reality sink in. It really was true. He was… he was…

He looked at the amulet again. Gripping it tight, he slipped it into his pocket. He’d think on that another time. For now, he needed to get far away from here. Once he had as many of his things as he could carry – it wasn’t much, nor, he figured, would much be needed – he ran for the door, and out of the orphanage.

He ran down the street, and didn’t stop running until he had made it across town, to his ‘friend’s’ home. A well-built two-story on the more affluent side of town, he knew his friend could help. He knocked on the door, a steady banging until the person he was looking for answered. “What’s up, Daelyn? You look like you’re… wait, is that… blood?”

Looking down and silently cursing himself, he saw that he did indeed have some small portion of blood on his shirt, from either the priests he sent flying across from the room or somehow from the man he had choke himself to death he did not know. “Zeke, I don’t have time to explain. I need a shirt, and I need to get a fake ID or two. Out of state ones, too.”

Zeke looked scared. As well he should, Daelyn supposed. How would he respond if one of his friends showed up on his doorstep, drenched in sweat and bloodstained.

Zeke looked around the neighborhood, the empty street, and then sighed. “Get in the house, dumbass.”

“I never really was welcome here… was I?”