[18+ Yandere Meowscarada x Reader] I'll Make Them All Disappear!

66 | All Who Weep Must Wither

You're back at Mesagoza, sitting on the couch, snug (as a bug, baby) all in your blanket like a Swadloon. You wonder why you're so cold. Not just cold, but freezing. If not for this blanket, you might as well be a block of ice sculpted into the shape of a human man. Your teeth chatter. You hug yourself a little tighter and look to the window beyond the TV and entertainment center, not quite dismayed but surprised to see flakes of snow drifting down against the glass.

It's winter again, and what a lovely shock that is. Snow falls outside, covering the landscape (what's visible of it, at least) in a dull white mist, piling into thick hills strewn everywhere and seemingly nowhere at all, from where you can tell sitting here in the comfort of your home. Winter, sweet homey winter, and there is no crazy hormone-ridden cat around to spoil the mood.

Except there is. As you turn to face her, sitting patiently beside you, you think that maybe there always had been. That someone like her could never really leave, not in a million years. You look into her eyes, and she humbly shares the gaze. She's smiling, gentle as an angel. Her eyes—as they always have been—are delicate and swimming with tender adoration, like a polite cat with enough manners to patiently plead for belly rubs, ear scratches, a treat from the treat bag, and then repay you with soft purrs and cuddles.

Welcome home, says the world. Welcome home, it's been a long sleep, stay a while, we've got snacks and drinks galore—your cat's here beside you, all juiced up and ready for you.

You're not sure when the world could speak to you—it's as if you've gone crazy and didn't even notice until just now—but the world's voice is soothing. Scarily soothing. What's more so scary than that, you figure, is that you like it.

Sit back and relax, big boy, that voice says, take a breather, read a book, rub her belly. Her belly and then between her legs.

"What?" you say.

Yeah, you heard right. Get in there. She's been waiting, Romeo. The voice seems to chuckle. Do the girl a favor and finger her awhile. If you're lucky, you might be washing her juices off your—

"This isn't happening," you tell the world. "I'm not having a wet dream about Meowscarada. I never have." Have you? It's hard to recall; even harder to recall any other dream, for that matter. Maybe that's because... well... you're in one. Of course, you're in a dream. That would explain the snow and how it doesn't just drift against the window, but rather it pelts the glass like a million white pebbles. You can hear the thump-thump-thump gradually becoming more of a clack-clack-clack as the unusually hard snowflakes grow hollow.

On the TV, there's a familiar show going. The magician Meowscarada so loves to watch, the guy who's had multiple mishaps in the past and still, amazingly, is able to keep his show on the air. He goes through many routines, all of which end in applause (mindless applause), and then the crowd roars when the magician's assistant—a Meowscarada—emerges from behind the red curtains.

"Meowscarada's everywhere," you say, thinking you'd said it in your head but you didn't. "Just can't get away from it, can you?" No way. Escaping a Meowscarada is as simple as running in a dream. You can't run. When you think you're twenty feet ahead of whatever's behind you, it's actually twenty feet behind, and you're always steadily running backward even though you feel yourself running forward. That's how all dreams go, everyone knows it.

You look again to your side and see Meowscarada. At first she's not looking at you, smiling at you, but as though she can sense your eyeballs feeling her up, she turns promptly in your direction. She's smiling still, only wider. It's a smile that would split the face of any human being, that's for sure, leave their jaw crooked or busted right off, but she's not human—mundane rules don't apply to her.