title: A Flea for Halloween aliases: [] tags: [FA] author: [Kyrm] id: [49382454] date: 星期六, 十月 15日 2022, 9:37:54 上午 modified: 星期六, 十月 15日 2022, 9:46:53 上午

[TOC]

A Flea for Halloween

Author: Kyrm Source: A Flea for Halloween [Commission]

Sprisk woke to a rapid-fire bang-bang-bang rattling his front door. Not a knock, but the hinge-testing blow from a battering ram. Shocks of cloud-sliver hair flew as he sat up and dispelled his grogginess with a headshake.

Again: bang-bang-bang-bang.

“In a minute!” the blue dragon yelled, pausing to puzzle over how off his voice sounded. His pitch had cracked just then. Really cracked. It almost sounded more like a squeak than—

But a lack of light through the slant in his shades derailed that train of thought. He glanced across the room at his alarm clock: 6:06 PM? How had he overslept by that much? He was late for the Halloween party.

Another unexpected bang made him wince.

And apparently he was also late enough to the door that half the neighborhood’s trick-or-treaters were all queued up in front of it. Couldn’t the brats take a hint?

Bang-bang.

No time for his costume just yet. Leaping from bed, he snatched a used black tee off his dresser top. “ByeKyrm!” he called while stuffing himself into his shirt and blindly stumbling into the hallway. He didn’t wait for a response from his doll-sized roommate in his doll-sized house. Nor did he notice said house was entirely absent from his dresser.

Powerwalking down the hall, he snatched the heaping candy bowl off the stand on his left.

Bang-bang-bang.

...then stopped to gawk at his shaking front door. “Hey!” he yapped. Annoyed at whoever was knocking and then even more annoyed that he couldn’t shake this helium squeak from his voice. Was there a bug stuck in his windpipe or something? “Easy on the—”

Bang-bang-bang. The house itself shook.

“That’s it! I am not losing my security deposit on a third place in a row!” He charged to the front door and threw it wide. “Outta here. No candy for...” The bowl fell from his hands as they shook in surprise, candy contents spilling out at his feet. “…you.”

The hoard of trick-or-treaters he had envisioned assaulting his door didn’t exist. This Halloween night, Sprisk only had one visitor.

Rather, part of one.

Stubbly brown hairs sprouted around a claw-tipped index finger thick as a tree trunk. It floated in front of Sprisk for several moments before curling back to rejoin the boulderous brown fist it pointed from. The hand heaved aside, replaced by a far worse sight.

Forced into a lopsided tilt to fit underneath the porch awning and wedge between its columns, a slender muzzle intruded. Slender in proportion, at least; size-wise it was huge as a van. Glistening dark lips snarled apart arm’s length from Sprisk. Hallway lights behind him cast his shadow inside a spittle-glossed gullet. Long ripping rows of pointed teeth jutted from the gums like garden stones; no amount of candy could satiate them, only meat.

Sprisk had always complained about the morons in monster flicks who just stood there and got eaten. Well, call him a moron: his long tail sat limp in the hall, more a crippling anchor than a body part.

“Boo!”

A blast of humid breath brought the monster’s foundation-rattling roar. It blew Sprisk’s hair back and marinated the air in a scent that could’ve come from a chocolate factory. Sprisk squeaked in terror, leaping so high his head hit the doorframe.

The porch shook as more eardrum-bruising bellows ensued, forcing him to shield his face and squint his eyes. The monster was laughing. Snorting. At him.

The longer he stared, the less terrifying that razor snarl looked. It wasn’t even a snarl. It was a smirk. Smug, not sinister. The goofy snaggletooth. That stupid, leaf-shaped nose. Sprisk should’ve realized much sooner.

Worse than any monster.

“Kyrm!” he yelled, terror replaced by irritation.

This was his roommate.

The laughter came to an abrupt end. Kyrm’s massive tongue flitted out. Sprisk jerked his foot back to avoid the tip, which shook the porch where it splatted. Saliva adhered every last candy bar plus the bowl they had fallen from to the pink surface.

“Hey! The big bars aren’t cheap you know!”

But Kyrm withdrew his tongue then sealed his lips together. With a booming, Glp, he swallowed tens of thousands of calories in sugar—wrappers and all.

“Happy Halloween, Sprisk.” At six scrawny inches, Kyrm had no right sounding this terrifying. It was against the natural order. The nasally little dork should have squeaked and piped. Just like Sprisk should have been able to flick him away with one finger.

“You’re gonna break the porch, dingbat!” But Sprisk’s harshest kick now hurt him more than it did Kyrm—toes aching where they bounced off a brick-hard chin.

“You were sca-ared,” the bat sang. It took some effort to dislodge his wedged snout. When he succeeded, the awning’s columns crunched outwards to form a set of cracked wooden parenthesis.

“Was not,” Sprisk grumbled. He stomped down the steps with his arms pouted. Both out of displeasure and to brace for the fall’s chill. Except the air was mild. Stuffy room temperature. Of course it was—they were in a room.

All the grasses and trees around his yard remained intact, but side fences that should have then led to neighboring yards instead gave way to scuffed wooden flatlands.

Sprisk was on a table.

One he recognized, though it took him a bit since he could normally fit these varnished fields in one palm. Kyrm and his crew of bite-sized nerds congregated here during game nights. They’d sit around the table and pretend to be wizards until 5 AM the next day.

Sometimes Sprisk would sit in on their sessions if he got bored.

Sit on, rather. That would be more correct.

Kyrm cleared his throat, wrenching Sprisk’s attention towards the front of the yard. It still led out to the sidewalk, bookended by streetlights with connecting power cables. But there wasn’t any asphalt past that. No road.

Like his house, the streetlights somehow functioned. These pinpricks of illumination worked in concert to create a nightlight in an otherwise dark lair. They cast the velour tower looming over the table in ominous relief.

The bat had Halloween spirit.

“Cool costume, right?” he boomed down, louder and more obnoxious than ever. “I think it really brings out my warlock nature.”

Sprisk craned his neck. The light from his yard struggled to touch the peak of Kyrm’s body, emphasizing lean facial features with shadow. Bat ears tall as buildings loomed from holes in a wide-brimmed witch hat. He had swapped his usual specs out for a half-moon style. The lenses glinted at bright contrast to everything else up there; they reflected Sprisk, his yard, his house. Narrowed hazel eyes leered above their frames—underscored by a lopsided I’m-bigger-than-you-tonight smirk he wished he didn’t know so well.

“Well, I think I finally figured out where my stash of Halloween candy’s been going.” Sprisk gestured towards his titanic roommate.

“Eat one bowl of candy and it’s all he ever complains about.” Kyrm smoothed down his robe’s hips. Except they offered nothing to smooth down. Scientists could’ve taken a microscope to each acre of velour and they wouldn’t have discovered a crease or wrinkle or rumple in that bulging costume.

A real wizard’s robe should have billowed. This one looked tailored to the task but had failed spectacularly. It wasn’t that Kyrm had ordered his costume a size too small. The sleeves hung loose enough to hide his wingspan; they swallowed un-athletic arms that broke into hives at mere mention of football.

The rest of the robe, though…

The culprit hung in plain view for Sprisk. The scariest thing this Halloween might’ve been Kyrm’s figure: past the sidewalk, instead of a road, he had this nerd’s candy-stuffed waistline to look at. It beat his miniature yard for width.

Twice over.

Velour strained to seam-stressed limits, stitches bulging against hips flared well past the shoulder. The robe plunged from their dramatic swerve to restrict a set of thunder thighs thick as the torso they propped. Crammed together in one tight tube of fabric, they sucked it between them in a pronounced Y-shaped divot.

Sprisk heard segments of the woven wall’s girth strain at different locations. At Kyrm’s colossal scale, his outfit creaked like a wooden house against strong wind. It was an urgent warning—maybe a whimpered plea—for him not to draw his legs apart even a fraction. If he did, the robe would rip.

It all added up to a plus-sized slutty witch look, not whatever coveted “cool” warlock aesthetic Kyrm fancied.

“Yeah, my bowl, fatass.” But Sprisk would sooner be flattened under those hills and valleys and corpulent columns than hint at the awe he felt in their heaving presence. “You’re six inches tall. I’m six feet. Do the math.”

“I am six inches tall,” Kyrm agreed. “But in what world are you six feet tall?”

“The one where my shrimpy roommate isn’t a stupid little—”

“I’m a big fan of your costume too, Sprisk.” A lazy thigh bump shook the table, and with it his miniature diorama. Streetlights flickered with powerlines playing jump rope between them; tree branches snapped off and crashed across the yard; and Sprisk saw this happen while skidding backwards across the lawn. “It suits you.”

“Someone didn’t give me time to get my costume.” Sprisk got up and patted the grass off his ass. “I have a party to get to, you know!”

“So you’re not going out as a flea tonight? Because that’s probably what your friends’d mistake you as.”

“I thought we had a deal?” Sprisk’s tail slithered across the grass like a prodded snake. “No shrinking and I don’t make you pay your half of the rent.”

Shrinking.

It took a tiny toll on Sprisk’s sanity to think about it. Kyrm rarely used his amateur sorcery to get big around Sprisk—except that last house they lost a security deposit on. To compensate, his roommate just made him much, much, much, much smaller. Tiny enough to stand relative inches tall to a six-inch little brown bat on a little wooden desk in a dollhouse on his bedroom’s dresser.

If any of his friends at the Halloween party caught him in their fur, he’d be lucky if they mistook him for a flea.

“Ah-ah.” Kyrm wagged a giant index finger in front of Sprisk. “We agreed to no shrinking unless you give consent.”

“Which I didn’t! I never would!”

“Au contraire, my little newt familiar.” Kyrm reached beneath his robe and unrolled an ancient-looking parchment made from stitched leather. Last Sprisk had seen it, it had been tiny enough to fit on his fingertip. “You signed my contract, remember?” Now it waved from Kyrm’s hand at the size of a movie screen.

In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have gone signing a contract given to him by Kyrm. No matter how small.

“So once you sign this waiver, I’ll be allowed to scare you however I like on Halloween night,” Kyrm had told Sprisk the night before—both of them at their proper heights.

“Uh-huh.” Sprisk squinted at the unreadable characters, all scrawled in a size smaller than the smallest fonts his computer could manage. “Well, whatever twerp. Do your worst.” He had signed it best he could, which wasn’t very good at all—he saw his giant, first-grader S overlaying the contract’s jargon. But from down here, he could still make out all the blood-red letters beneath ballpoint ink.

“Until All Hallow’s Eve draws to a close,” Sprisk mouthed to himself, “I hereby bequeath my immortal soul… to…” He paused, glaring beyond the micro-sized contract to the grinning bat. “My immortal soul?”

“Only for a night.” With a snap of Kyrm’s fingers, the contract disintegrated in a puff of ash and a hint of brimstone.

“I didn’t even sign the dotted line! My handwriting was too big.”

“Clearly still counts, since I have full magical dominion over your pitiful existence.”

“I signed that contract out of pity. I figured you’d just… jumpscare me from a closet or something. Not that you’d shrink me and my house.”

“I’m a bat.” The desk shuddered as Kyrm’s palms boomed down on opposite sides of Sprisk’s home. Their sleeves heaped over both fences and blanketed the grass. Upheld by his arms, Kyrm hovered over the house like a glaring nerdy meteor: “We do not half-ass Halloween.”

Sprisk might have commented that Kyrm couldn’t half-ass anything. He heard velour wheeze as it held down a very full ass when Kyrm bent over. “W-well, you got me.” He forced a thin chuckle. “Had me going when I was out on the porch. I really thought you were a huge, scary monster.”

“I am a huge, scary monster.”

“Sure are… big guy. Cool, uh, witch costume by the way.”

“Warlock.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. But, listen. I reaaally need to get to that party. People are gonna expect me. So if you could magic me up some height, that’d be—”

“You said you signed that contract out of pity.” Kyrm drew himself to full loom and began drumming his clawtips against the sidewalk. They jackhammered concrete apart like graham crackers, rubbled worse with each tap. “Where’d that pity come from, Sprisk?”

“Ah…” Sprisk swallowed. “No hard feelings for sitting on that micro spook house you and your friends were working on?” A raised brow scolded him into amending: “With you in it?”

“Hard feelings?” Kyrm pinched a chunk of sidewalk up between thumb and forefinger. “On Halloween?” Then he flicked it, broken to pebbles that scattered across the lawn and caught in Sprisk’s hair. “Of course not.” His smile widened, but his eyes tightened.

“Great!” Sprisk clapped his hands. “Great, great, great!” While talking, he marched backwards in the direction of the porch. “So, I’ll go back inside, you’ll undo whatever all this is, and—” Before his foot could find the porch step, his back collided against a warm wall. He looked back over his shoulder at Kyrm’s fingers fencing his path.

“Hoooold on there.” Bat claws raked dirt and grass as he slowly swept Sprisk away from the house. “This presents a unique opportunity for you, Sprisk. Halloween is all about thrills, chills, and spills.”

“I don’t wanna spill!” He held his legs out ahead of him, digging his heels into the ground to no effect.

“And as a bat, you can consider me Halloween’s maître de maison. Some party full of normies and cheap beer isn’t gonna get you an experience like this.” At the lawn’s edge a strong shove sent Sprisk into a stumble, leapfrogging from one broken section of the sidewalk to another. Unable to break his momentum.

“Oof.”

Until his momentum broke for him, outstretched hands colliding against Kyrm’s thighs. He stared into the velvety abyss sucked between them, snug enough that he could’ve wiggled in and been cradled vertical without falling.

“Scared yet?”

His answer was of course yes. Just touching this outfit gave him the sense of walking a tightrope. One twitch of the leg, one stitch undone, then the whole robe would come apart. All that held-back heft rolling out like a fleshy tidal wave.

But at least a tidal wave didn’t think. It indiscriminately crashed over everything and anything. Sprisk slowly craned his neck. He had to look ceiling-ward to find Kyrm’s gaze. A single look said he was fucked, because this tidal wave did discriminate. It didn’t want to wash over shores and cities. It wanted to reserve all that punishing weight for one dragon.

Sprisk showed his weakness for a second before tightening his slack jaw. “It’ll take tons more than that!”

“Is that a request?” The gentlest nudge from Kyrm’s thighs rebuffed Sprisk. If he hadn’t been so tiny it would’ve hurt having his ass bite concrete. “Because I’ve got a ton or ten more.”

“Intimidating someone isn’t exactly the same as scaring them.”

“So you are intimidated?” Kyrm reached for Sprisk.

“Don’t think about it!” Sprisk leapt upright then backed towards the lawn only to find himself walking on air. The bad guy in a slasher flick would’ve been envious of the lethal edge to Kyrm’s filed claw point. His index finger moved with a surgeon’s precision, curved nail intruding beneath the hem of Sprisk’s top—tickling across his middle then chest until it came out through the shirt collar and nudged his chin.

Futile punches and kicks glanced off Kyrm’s index finger. Tears started forming across the distended front of his shirt, overcrowded and unable to hammock his weight.

“This’d be easier if you held still.”

While he was distracted at the front, he felt a light pinch on his unguarded backside. Then came a tearing sound as his shorts and underwear ripped clean off.

“There.”

A wrenching curl from Kyrm’s finger divorced the front of Sprisk’s shirt from the rest. He dropped onto the lawn, nude save short sleeves and the tattered back of his tee.

“Hell was that for?” Sprisk clamped his thighs together, an arm down the middle of his lap to cover up.

“Just helping you get into costume.” Kyrm flicked the sliver of t-shirt away like so much lint. “Ever heard of a bug that wears clothes? I haven’t.”

“You’ve made your point!” Sprisk whined.

“Funny how something so squeaky and unimpressive could be the homewrecker who pancaked my haunted house.”

“I didn’t want a thousand micros lining up in front of my bedroom to go to your stupid haunted house. So sue me!”

“So it wasn’t an accident!” Kyrm thundered, fists punching dents into his pillowy hips as wrath filled his eyes.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Didn’t mean that!” But Sprisk’s whimpers didn’t budge Kyrm’s furious expression. Instead it lifted of its own accord. Replaced by something much more threatening:

A smile.

“I’ll give you a choice.” Starting at the collar, Kyrm began undoing his robe. Velcro kept the cheap costume together from the inside. By hand he exposed his unremarkable chest and stories of sheer brown midriff. But when it came time to disrobe the robe around his waistline, it peeled apart for him. As if eager to be rid of its incredible burden.

“Trick…”

Cataracts of shed velour poured down Kyrm’s body as he shrugged his robes to the floor. The instant those hips escaped imprisonment, they sighed wider—wobbling whole feet out from Sprisk’s diminished vantage.

But he wasn’t bare. Not yet. Black bars marked orange cotton. Pumpkin-style spandex-blended undies gripped around a formidable busload of junk. Then Sprisk’s horizon-hogging roommate began to turn himself around.

Kyrm was a runt.

Dinky.

Short as a shot glass!

A nerdy, dweeby, dorky, capital L-oser.

…but all the insults in the dictionary couldn’t stop Sprisk’s stare from being locked into the gravity of an absolutely monstrous ass. Good genes, lazy gamer: that Halloween candy had been heaping on over the month.

Streetlights dappled diminutive circles onto Kyrm’s whopper. It curved outward, upward; made even more daunting in shade reminiscent of a Quarter Moon. Underwear costumed his cheeks—though it remained victim to their curvature. Like some monumental Halloween float, the jiggling jack-o’-lantern face printed overtop his bottom cast its stretched-thin grin over Sprisk. Apparently laughing over his fate, as if aware it was the last struggling line of defense against cheeks that each matched his yard acre for acre with ass fat.

Above a waistband tortured to trembling rubber band thinness, Kyrm’s great pumpkin had a stem in the form of his stubby brown tail. A nub compared to the threatening harvest, it wagged from its cheeky peak.

Sprisk gazed higher. Up the shadowy slope of a bare back, where a lone eye scowled from past the shoulder. It tightened to a slit, telling the bug on his table that he was the lone target for all his ire.

“…or…”

A one-word warning before Kyrm threw his hips back. Powerlines were sparking string, streetlights snapped twigs in the face of unstoppable heft. Darkness buried Sprisk’s yard.

Panicked. Slightly aroused. He tripped over himself in his dash for the front porch, reaching the first step before landfall. The festive pumpkin smothered the front yard with a singular, muted thud. Adipose cushioned the loudness, but Sprisk still flinched from the sound.

“…treat?”

The sound plus the fact that Kyrm had somehow parked his juicy wall of ass just shy of the porch steps. One moment Sprisk could see his front yard, the next his view of trees and grass and fences gave way to a wedgie-furrowed crack lit only by his house’s front windows.

Displaced fat began a slow-motion spillage towards the house. Threadbare underwear bulged out. The poor jack-o-lantern’s eyes went wide with surprise before being punched from the inside-out. Replaced by brown-haired triangles of ass fat that bubbled through ever-wider rips.

Sprisk stumbled up the porch steps. From the relative safety underneath the portico, he watched Kyrm’s ass plug the space between front rails and spill overtop them. Scraps of orange-and-black cotton flew off, landing in still-warm confetti heaps around Sprisk.

The porch groaned but somehow held as Kyrm’s hips settled. Leaving Sprisk alone with his single demanding trick-or-treater. His plush, rotund, waterbed-soft trick-or-treater.

“Have I scared you too stiff to answer?”

Sprisk winced at the accusation. He and Kyrm may have bickered, but they both knew what the other craved:

Ass.

Tons of it.

He couldn’t reason with a body part. It sat there in all its mocking majesty. Plopped in front of him by an unworthy owner well aware of the effect he had merely sitting here.

Some people might’ve passed out in terror, faced with an existential threat’s worth of ass.

Others might’ve run inside the house.

Sprisk grimaced down at his own anatomy. He was scared stiff, alright—and without clothes, his humiliating kernel of stiffness pointed dead ahead.

“Treat?” he proposed at a squeak befitting his stature.

“Treat, huh?” And Kyrm questioned at a boom befitting his. “Final answer?”

“Kyrm, look. If this is about the house—”

“Final answer?”

“Yes!”

“Good.” A chunk of the porch awning’s eave broke off as Kyrm lifted his hips into the sky. It seemed impossible that so much weight would ever be able to get up again, yet Sprisk’s yard returned to view. Trees reduced to splinters. Grass punched flat into the dirt. Like a Hurricane had rolled through.

With the imminent threat of a butt bulldozing gone, Sprisk stamped down the front steps with his tiny fists balled. “Goddammit, Kyrm! This better not be my real—” A branch interrupted as it crashed down next to him. He stared up, eyes mooning as his sentence ended in a murmured: “…home.”

“I’ll treat myself to flattening your house, then.”

His ass resembled low-hanging overcast. A gentle hip-rock cast flecks of accumulated detritus off his cheeks. Rain consisting of sidewalk concrete and tree scraps pelted the house’s roof.

Sprisk looked around. This could not be happening. He was at ground zero, the bomb overhead ready to fall—even at a sprint, he couldn’t outrace it in any direction. “I misspoke, Kyrm. I… I meant trick. Trick me!”

“I think it’ll make for a great costume: the two-dimensional dragon. You’ll practically be a cartoon character after this!”

“Trick, Kyrm! Trick!”

“Happy Halloween.”

“Triiiick!” Sprisk shrilled as those tons raced down.

Sprisk sat up in bed, chest heaving panicked breaths. He patted himself while looking around his bedroom. The fact that he could move and breathe and think were all very good signs. And the clock… 5:45 PM. The party hadn’t even started.

Just a nightmare.

He frowned down at his tented sheets.

Fine, a sexy nightmare.

But at least it was over. Trembling legs got him out of bed. First order of business: payback. Not that he thought Kyrm was responsible for his nightmare. Just that being nocturnally tormented by the twerp’s ass put him in a vindictive mood. Thank all the gods above for the natural order of things.

He tiptoed towards the dresser, arms raised like a monster preparing to pounce. But halfway through the bedroom, he stopped and narrowed his eyes.

“Kyrm?” he asked before clapping both hands over his maw.

That… wasn’t his normal voice. He tiptoed out into the unlit hallway, as if any wrong step might alert his roommate. At the front door he gave a silent prayer before exiting onto the porch.

“What the fuck?” he whispered.

His prayers had not been answered. The lawn was gone. He stepped out in a daze, bewildered by shiny terrain. His house had been transported atop what seemed to be a circle of gold foil. It reflected the harsh glare of sunlight. He walked past the porch while visoring his eyes, vision adjusting to the morning sun.

The 5 PM Halloween morning sun.

Dread settled as he identified the sun as nothing more than a ceiling light shining sky-high overhead. He jogged farther out from the house, towards the foil platform’s precipitous drop. It plunged to polished mahogany. Not a small field like Kyrm’s gaming table, but a dust-lacquered desert that went on for miles.

Other shiny golden objects scattered across the distance. Through them, he grasped that his house stood upon a coin.

Boom. In the distance, something ungodly huge moved.

A chocolate. Golden. Coin. He turned around to stare at his house. A small hoop jutted from the rooftop, affixed to giant silver chains—no, not silver, cheap plastic made to simulate silver. They snaked down his house’s side, stretching off the chocolate coin.

Boom.

The chain concluded at a hoop wide around as the house itself.

Boom.

“Oh, hell.” Sprisk fled for his house. Except that tiny thing wasn’t his house. Everywhere around him—that was his real house. This was nothing more than a replica on a keychain.

Boom.

From the porch he dared to face the colossal intruder thundering down the hall. Buildings didn’t cut it for comparison anymore; not for the whole of him, at least. Mount Kyrm’s strides cleared miles in moments. The muted clap of bare thigh on bare thigh sent curves rolling like ocean waves forced to collide.

He had a familiar outfit on—not familiar on him, though. A stylish tee with its chest-hugging hem and sleeves ruined ragged, as though the wearer had spontaneously grown while wearing them. Short-shorts brimmed with the hips of someone much too thick to be stuffed inside them.

That was Sprisk’s outfit.

And Sprisk’s hairdo: Kyrm’s dirty blond mop dyed a dragon’s silver-white.

And he had contacts in, hazel eyes now draconic red.

He had grown up to Sprisk’s height and then some. Meanwhile Sprisk had been left dust-sized in the dust. A micro to a micro now forced to confront a norm.

Kyrm’s strut stopped halfway down the hall. Sprisk froze. Despite the gulf between them being vast as a gnat and a man, he felt he was being stared at.

A blooming smirk confirmed it.

Each of the behemoth’s steps reported to Sprisk’s shrunken ears as an explosion. “Kyrm!” he shouted desperately from the porch. “Kyrm, don’t come any closer!” Cries futile as pleading with a tornado, an earthquake, a belligerent roommate whose soundproofed inner thighs could engulf a city block.

When Kyrm arrived, Sprisk’s house pitched as it rose into the air. Sprisk moved clumsily against the constant shift in his center of gravity. He dinged his knees on the porch then crawled in through the front door, up on his feet in the foyer where he clutched at the bay window for support.

From inside he watched the world rocket into a blur. Terrified… a little excited. But more of the former than the latter. Air wheezed out of him as he stared out at an eye the size of his house. First the left eye, then the right. Then back to the left, right again. His house swung like a pendulum from its keychain.

“Trick,” Kyrm’s tremendous voice thunderclapped. The pendulum swing halted in favor of his right eye, pupil leering in through the bay window. It clenched its smallest to zero in on Sprisk; even then, it was still a tunnel to him.

“Seriously?” An explosive sound ruptured from below—that must have been what a snort sounded like coming from divinity. “You’re hard now? You really are a freak, Sprinkle.”

For a second there Sprisk forgot who this god was—and that he was supposed to be pissed, not awed. “You can’t wear my clothes!” he yelled.

To his surprise, Kyrm answered: “And who’s going to stop me? A flea with the hots for me?”

“This isn’t for you, I just woke up! How the hell can you even hear what I’m saying?”

“You’re mine tonight, remember? You belong to me. So I can always see you. I can always hear you. And everything you own belongs to me—from your clothes to your height; so I’m taking both for now. Glad you like the costume, too: I decided to go as you. The smarter, better, thicker you. I bet everyone at the party will love it.”

The party. “You can’t go! You’re not invited!”

“I’m your plus one.” Stomped-out booms and the house’s steady swing announced that Kyrm was on the move. “I bet everyone’ll get a kick out of your costume. The incredible shrinking dragon.”

Sprisk’s heart sank. “You’re taking me?”

“Duh.” The world blurred again as Kyrm moved the house comet-fast. Jangling came from overhead, some fiddling—then a whole lot of slow-motion bouncing. “You’re going to be a hit accessory.”

It wasn’t until he walked back onto the porch that Sprisk had a full view of his new perch. Rolling mountains of ass meat sloped ahead. Kyrm had suspended the house from its keyring, which turned out not to be a keyring at all. Rather, a tail ring.

Both cheeks raged war for ownership of Sprisk and his home. Each step, one rose to supremacy above the other—a groundswell of heft lifting his house up, only to carelessly drop it on the way down. This subjected Sprisk to constant earthquakes. Buffeting him onto his knees, flinging furniture and worldly possessions around.

“You can’t let everyone see me like this!” he begged.

“Sure I can.” Distance couldn’t keep Kyrm’s voice from filling the house. “I can pass around a magnifying glass and everything.”

“Please, Kyrm. Anything but that!” Sprisk couldn’t handle the thought. Every norm he knew incomprehensibly massive to him. All his close friends’ bodies landscapes he could get lost on.

The world stopped rocking. His house sat at half-tilt, leaned against Kyrm’s left cheek.

“…anything?”

“Just… don’t let them see me, okay?”

“I only offered trick or treat, and now you expect me not to give you either?”

“What if I choose ‘or?’”

A thoughtful hmmm reverberated through the house. “No, not ‘or.’” At that moment Kyrm’s stories-tall thumb stabbed down outside. Protracted twangs came from Sprisk’s appropriated shorts as their new owner began to peel them down.

The air ran hot.

The view, hotter.

“Trick and treat.”

Sprisk’s house sat atop his roommate’s exposed crack. It was too large—inasmuch as “too large” could ever apply to something so tiny—to fall in. But if Sprisk leapt off, he could’ve disappeared.

Palpable warmth wafted up. It took someone tiny as Sprisk to make out these minuscule heat shimmers. As flesh peeled from flesh, more vented out.

He wrenched his chin upwards as the rooftop creaked, pressed upon by one of Kyrm’s fingers as he inserted the tiny house and its tinier tenant inside his ass crack.

“That’s your solution?” Sprisk paced the foyer while yelling up at the ceiling. “I’m going to drown in there!”

“There’s plenty of air at your size. And I’m sure there’ll be plenty to do, too.”

“If I survive this—”

“Weren’t you the one begging me to keep you sheltered from your friends?” While Kyrm lectured, Sprisk watched fat brim over the bay window—foot by foot like rising water. It smothered sun-bright light from outside, leaving him trapped in his lightless house. “I’m the one doing you a favor.”

“Some favor.”

The insertion halted. “I could always peel you back out. Keep you as my Halloween butt ornament.”

“No.”

“So you want me to stuff you in my crack for hours on end?”

Sprisk’s dick nodded. “No!”

“Then I guess you’re excited to look up at all your friends like a pantheon of gods. Try not to get lost on any of them, okay? I will need your body somewhere near me to ever give you back your height.”

“Kyrm, come on!” Sprisk stamped his feet. Hoping movement could distract him from his frustrating excitement. He was supposed to be mad—mad! And he was. Just… not mad enough that this whole deranged scenario didn’t have him harder than he’d ever been.

“Look. Either you’re going as a teeny dragon for Halloween, or you’re going as some butt lint that fell off my shorts. Which is it?”

Sprisk crossed his arms. “Butt lint,” he grumbled.

“Didn’t quite hear you.”

“I thought you could always hear me?”

“Speak up Sprisk: are you a dragon, or are you my butt lint?”

Sprisk hugged himself tighter as he stammered out, “…b-butt lint.”

“I think I almost heard you squeak something that time.” The descent had resumed. Insidious softness weighed against the house’s sides. It groaned from the constant assault; no amount of padding could counteract such crushing pressure. “Speak up.”

“I’m just your butt lint.” Sprisk couldn’t help it. The words drove him crazy and this stupid, smirking bat knew it. He grabbed his treacherous sub-millimeter manhood while some stupid nerd’s steep, sweltering trench of a crack became his world.

“That’s really what you want, Sprisk? Down to your microscopic heart? You might miss Halloween in there.”

Cracks zigzagged up the facsimile house’s wooden walls. Windows shook then shattered inwards, framing square cuts of bat meat. Threatening creaks squealed higher; Kyrm’s ass wouldn’t tolerate this tiny wooden intruder for long. Soon softness would sweep in to smother everything—walls, furniture, thoughts in Sprisk’s frazzled little head.

“I need to be your lint!” He confessed while pumping his shaft. From zero to drowning-in-ass horny in seconds. At least for a moment. Then the falling-apart world stilled. A timeout called in the middle of his torment-gone-sexual.

“Need, huh?”

Sprisk’s cheeks warmed. “I—”

“Whatever, freak.” A grunt followed: the clench of glutes declaring Kyrm’s victory. They squeezed the walls for less than a second. More than enough time to obliterate the house. Like a submarine with a ruptured hull, the interior flooded. Cheek meat closed its fleshy vise around Sprisk and a 3D floorplan turned to 2D crumbs.

“…huh, finally can’t hear you.” But Kyrm’s muffled voice remained partially audible. “Guess magic does have limits.”

At least Sprisk had a convincing costume for once. Anyone who reached inside Kyrm’s ass and inspected their fingertip would’ve sworn this blue dot was lint. Though he couldn’t perfect his cosplay—lint didn’t huff, lint didn’t hump or whine or nip.

Lint didn’t thirst for the ass it was trapped in, no matter how much it didn’t want to.

He could plot his revenge later. When his brain could process words beyond soft and ass. For now, he’d accept his Halloween feast.