Requester: Sake Vision
"ost-apocalyptic, science fantasy, hunting, smutt. The mc is a horny man who hunts for giant Godzilla like monsters that roam post nuclear New York, in order to subdue them and have sex with them. he is followed by his female sidekick, whose feelings will never be reciprocated because she's human and he's gay anyway.
now write it. "
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The writer stared at this request, a feeling of disgust growing cold in his stomach. He could practically feel the bags under his eyes grow heavier. The lack of sleep was one thing, but the depravity of mankind was taking it's due from his very sanity.
Carefully, he spun his office chair and stood, stooping ever so slightly. Calmly, but in morbid silence, he moved to the shelf nearby. Like Atlus with the world on his back, all he could think about was the cruelty of it all. Nothing in this world was sacred, but even then, such an ask was weighing upon him.
His fingers slowly engulfed the clear, small glass. Slowly he turned it about, eyeing the carefully made craftsmanship. No, it was not such a thing, he realized. Mass produced, near worthless, and replaceable. WIth one swift motion, it could be destroyed and none but he would care.
The bottle, which he gripped with his other hand, was the same. Cheap made liquor to dull the pain. In that moment, holding his vice he began to pounder. Was he any different? Should he not write such a request, it would likely be forgotten by everyone but himself. It was possibly a joke, if so.
Yet, one could ask whether it was a serious request, for it was the internet from which such a thing was derived. A horrid chill ran through his spine at the notion. No, it was better to be thought of as nothing more than a sick joke. Yet, then, was he not the same in that aspect?
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His work was merely one of not just thousands, but literal millions. A single voice in the discordant choir of the creative. He would not be remembered, for he couldn't even be amongst the top of thousands. In that silent madness, he was still drowned out like a single drop of rain in the great storm.
The glass made a soft clink as he sat it down on the table, his hand gripping the top of the bottle. Silence defined him as he stood there, unmoving. Even further, he was but a speck upon a speck in the void. The mountain he struggled up was not even the ant hill.
Slowly, he began to unscrew the cap. There was now an uneasy feeling building in him, his eyes still on the singular glass. He still had to decide if he would write what was asked. It was not like he was obligated to actually do so beyond his word. Yet, what good is anyone who can't keep their word. For this, perhaps it was silly to ask such questions, but to shurk even a small promise, even made ignorantly, could be as the trickle upon the stone. Such things did leave a mark, even if one did not notice.
Tipping the bottle, the author watched as the liquid poured. It's noise was loud in that room devoid of any other. Once done, he set the bottle down, picked up the glass, and that feeling began to grow ever harsher in his being. This was nothing more than a tonic to quell that dread that crept ever higher and more forcefully into his mind.
His eyes turned, balefully, back to that screen. The words sat there taunting him yet still. Would he write it? Could he even do so?
He gritted his teeth, looking back to that mind dulling drink. He could see himself in it. At what point did things go so wrong as to lead him here? It was a simple ask of the people, yet anyone versed should know better. He stared back from that awaiting glass.
Downing it, he let its burn run it’s way through him. His eyes turned to the ceiling, he shuttered. Even if not aware, even if it would forget, it left its mark. It would always leave its mark. For he had stared into the abyss, and the abyss asked him to write gay godzilla smut.