Point of Fusion

Rei puts whatever’s left of Kwa in its place, namely beneath his foot.

Rei Kwa

foot unimaginable scale extreme degradation unexistence

A sketch by Kwa depicting himself as a blushing minuscule dot under the awning of Rei’s divine toes, with a frame of Rei’s handsome face resting on his fist, looking down condescendingly, and a bubble speech of a Discord message by Rei reading: “Guess you should be rubbing my feet too mister, with your hubby”. — Sketch by the pathetically talented Kwa (💜 u Master)

You know, if you weren’t such an itsy-bitsy bug, right now, you’d be feeling the softness of my soles resting on your face, kneading into your features, pinning you against the arm of the sofa, your body going limp with pleasure. You wouldn’t realise you dropped the controller, your mind overtaken by their comfortable warmth; you’d be unable to breathe anything but their sweet, masculine scent working its way into your brain; you’d be worshipping them, French-kissing them, lapping at the sweat until you’d pass out from exhaustion, your blood not knowing whether it should pool in your cheeks or in your crotch, you thirsty, thirsty slut.

But you can’t have any of that now. You’re nothing. Erased from this world and forced into mine. Into me.
Do you know where you are? Left foot, right foot; toe, ball, arch, heel? Do you remember what a foot is? Have you eyes to perceive even a fraction of it, a mind to comprehend even the concept of it?
Do you know where my voice comes from? Do you know how long it takes your brain to parse a mere vowel, a single vibration, like a pinhole trying to pass an ocean through itself? In the time it takes you to fully hear this very WORD, trillions of universes will have fizzled out; in the time it then takes you to understand it, reality will have looped over and over itself to the point of its fabric wearing thin.

You don’t exist anymore. There isn’t a scintilla of quoi remaining. Each and every kick, each and every stomp, each and every step, each and every flex of my toes, each and every moment of me grinding my foot into the floor, of me squeezing the last ounce of resistance out of its victims, of me popping whatever happens to be below it out of existence, of me simply standing there and letting the weight of my very nature crush the worlds beneath me; each and every of these actions happened to casually embed you deeper and deeper into my sole, into your new reality. And as you lose yourself in the superior, doughy flesh, as you un-become you in the shadow of my Greatness, as each and every of my words further degrades your selfhood, you dwindle down beyond limits that even I cannot imagine, beyond the possibility of interacting with the peachy world you’re trapped in.

I can’t even get a kick out of it: domination is a imbalance of power, so what do you call it when the non-thing in your insole doesn’t have any of that, when there is no body and no mind to break, when it is only barely connected to reality by the tenuous thread of me choosing to remember it?

I am ending your story here.