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

68 | The Beauty of the Beast

You sit down under the palm tree standing guard here at this lonely island. You have your shoes kicked off—it's the beach, why not—and your shirt still stripped to show your scarred, bandaged body. Your imperfections, all of them. Standing over you, not too close though, is Zoroark with her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes have softened, barely, but every so often you will see a flash of feral animal behind them—a gentle reminder that she is not your ally.

She is not your friend. She is not your friend.

So why are you letting your guard down around her? As if coming out here alone with her wasn't enough, you really had to seal the deal by telling Meowscarada and Cinnamon to leave the Terarium altogether. Now, you think, that was a mistake. Unmistakably stupid. It's like signing your name on a death contract—sending you right to hell, no questions—in cursive. A fancy way of saying Kill me, ooh, kill me next!

As if she were responding to the second guessing going on in your head, Zoroark says: "You've got some big balls to be out here with something like me. Bet you're not feelin' great about this anymore, huh?"

"Don't make assumptions," you say. You smack the ground next to you. "Sit."

"Oh—oh hell no—you don't get to talk to me like a dog." Zoroark walks close, right up to you. You look up and catch the faintest smile on her face. It's small, and it's not inviting whatsoever; it is the smile of a monster. "Now that we're all alone, I'll finish just what I started back before you sprung up from the dead." She kneels over your thighs, raises her claws to your shoulders and holds you firmly against the palm tree. Her face is close, too close (kissing range), and her warm breath tickles your face like a breeze of squashed, dead fruit.

A wind swishes past, and that stench is replaced by the smell of water. You don't make a move; your arm's in a cast, for Arceus' sake, you've got no chance of fighting back against her now. Maybe you knew that. Maybe you didn't care. The fact is, you are backed into a corner, and death lingers above you, straddling you like a sadistic madwoman. Zoroark breathes into your face. Just as your nose scrunches up, she digs her claws into your shoulders, anchoring them like thorns.

You do not need to look to know that there is already blood. Your whole face crumples into an impulsive wince.

"Yeah, that's right," Zoroark whispers, "sit there and bleed and hurt like the little bitch you are. That's one for punching me in the face." She takes one claw and steadily drags it down your shoulder, carving out a thin line of rosy blood. You suck your teeth but you do not scream. "That's one for slamming me into those rocks." She does the same to your other shoulder, slices a long thin cut into it. "And that's for bringing me out here, thinking you can get through to me."

Your body hurts, there is no denying this. But a few cuts will not stop you from speaking. You grit your teeth, your eyes watering a little from the stinging sensations ringing on both your shoulders, then open your mouth.