The Chosen Pervert

Chapter 2: The Miracle Child

Warmth.

That was the first thing I felt. Not the cold concrete of a New York street. Not the crushing weight of metal on my chest. Just... warmth.

And then: pressure.

Something was squeezing me. Pushing me. My body—if I even had a body—was being compressed from all sides, forced through something tight and wet and suffocating.

What the f**k is happening?

I tried to open my eyes, but they wouldn't respond. I tried to move my arms, but I couldn't feel them. Panic surged through me—or at least, I think it was panic. It was hard to tell. Everything felt distant, muffled, like I was experiencing the world through layers of cotton.

The pressure intensified. I was being pushed harder now, faster, and suddenly there was light—blinding, searing light that burned even through my closed eyelids.

And then I was out.

Cold air hit me like a slap. My lungs—lungs I didn't know I had—expanded for the first time, and I screamed.

Or at least, I tried to scream. What came out was a pathetic, high-pitched wail that didn't sound anything like my voice. It sounded like...

Oh no.

Oh f**k no.

I forced my eyes open—or maybe they opened on their own, I couldn't tell—and the world swam into focus. Blurry shapes. Colors. Movement. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much.

Hands. There were hands holding me. Large hands, gentle but firm, lifting me up.

"It's a boy!" a woman's voice said, and she sounded... happy? Relieved?

A boy. I was a boy.

I was a baby.

No. No, no, no, this isn't—this can't be—

Fragmented images flashed through my mind. A computer screen. Discord notifications. A fox-girl with enormous t**s getting railed in a forest. The taste of Monster Energy. My mother's disappointed face. A construction beam falling through the air.

I died.

The realization hit me like a second construction beam.

I f*****g died.

And now I was... what? Reincarnated? Was that even possible? This had to be some kind of dying hallucination. My brain firing off random neurons as it shut down. Any second now, I'd wake up in a hospital. Or I'd just... stop existing.

But the sensations didn't stop. If anything, they got stronger.

The hands holding me moved, and suddenly I was being placed on something soft and warm. A blanket? No, not a blanket. Skin.

I blinked—or tried to—and my vision cleared just enough to see a face looking down at me.

A woman's face.

And holy s**t, she was beautiful.

I'm talking fantasy-novel-cover beautiful. Porcelain skin. High cheekbones. Full lips curved into the most radiant smile I'd ever seen. Her hair was long and dark, cascading around her shoulders in waves that caught the light. And her eyes—deep green, like emeralds—were filled with tears.

Happy tears.

She was crying because of me.

"My baby," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "My miracle baby."

Her hand—delicate, soft—brushed against my cheek, and I felt something inside me crack. Not in a bad way. In a way that made my chest—my tiny, newborn chest—feel tight and warm.

This woman is my mother.

The thought came unbidden, instinctive, and with it came a flood of... something. Not quite love. Not yet. But the potential for it. The foundation.

And also, because I'm apparently still a degenerate even in a newborn body: Damn, my mom is hot.

I immediately felt disgusted with myself. What kind of sick f**k thinks that about their own mother? Even if I was technically a thirty-five-year-old pervert in a baby's body, that was crossing a line.

But I couldn't help it. My brain—or whatever passed for my brain now—was still wired the way it had been. I'd spent decades objectifying women, reducing them to pixels on a screen, and now here I was, staring up at the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, and my first thought was about her appearance.

Get it together, I told myself. She's your mother. Your MOTHER. Do not be weird about this.

"He's perfect," another voice said, and I managed to turn my head—barely—to see another woman standing nearby. She was older, with grey-streaked hair tied back in a bun, wearing what looked like a simple dress. A servant, maybe? Or a midwife?

"Thank you, Marta," my mother said, her voice still thick with emotion. "Thank you for everything."

The older woman—Marta—smiled warmly. "It was my honor, Lady GreyFox. After all these years... to see you finally hold your child... it's a blessing."

GreyFox. That was my last name now. I was... whoever I was... GreyFox.

Wait. GreyFox? Like the Metal Gear character?

A flash of memory: me, sitting in my basement, controller in hand, playing through Metal Gear Solid for the hundredth time. Solid Snake. Big Boss. Grey Fox.

Is that a coincidence? Or is this world somehow connected to—

No. That was stupid. This wasn't a video game. This was... something else. Something real.

Or at least, it felt real.

My mother shifted, adjusting me in her arms, and I got a better look at my surroundings. We were in a bedroom—a large one, with high ceilings and wooden beams. The walls were stone, but they were covered with tapestries and paintings. A fireplace crackled in the corner, filling the room with warmth and the smell of burning wood.

This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't even modern.

This was... medieval? Fantasy?

Oh f**k. Oh f**k, I'm in a fantasy world.

Another flash of memory: me, scrolling through anime recommendations on Crunchyroll. Jobless Reincarnation. That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime. KonoSuba.

I'd watched all of them. I'd loved all of them. The idea of being reborn in a fantasy world, getting a second chance, having magic and adventure and—

And I'm a f*****g baby.

The reality of my situation hit me like a third construction beam. I couldn't walk. I couldn't talk. I couldn't even control my own bladder. I was completely helpless, utterly dependent on the people around me.

And judging by the medieval aesthetic, I was probably looking at years—years—before I'd be able to do anything useful.

This is bullshit, I thought. This is absolute bullshit.

"Look at him," my mother said, her voice pulling me out of my spiral. "He's so alert. So aware."

She wasn't wrong. I could feel my consciousness sharpening, my thoughts becoming clearer. The fog that had surrounded me since... since I was born? Since I died? It was lifting.

But with clarity came more memories.

The fox-girl porn. The D&D session. Sir Reginald casting Meteor Swarm. PussySlayer420 asking if I'd jerked off before the game.

I did, I thought, and I would've laughed if I could. I jerked off to furry porn, and then I died, and now I'm a baby.

The absurdity of it all was overwhelming.

"Should we fetch Lord GreyFox?" Marta asked.

My mother hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. He should meet his son."

Marta bowed slightly and left the room, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

And then it was just me and my mother.

She looked down at me, her green eyes still glistening with tears, and smiled. "You have no idea how long I've waited for you," she said softly. "How many years I prayed. How many times I was told it was impossible."

Impossible?

"They said I was barren," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "That I'd never have children. But I never stopped hoping. And now... here you are. My miracle."

Barren. The word echoed in my mind. She'd been told she couldn't have kids. And yet, here I was.

So I'm not just a baby. I'm a miracle baby.

Great. No pressure or anything.

My mother's hand stroked my cheek again, and despite everything—despite the confusion and the fear and the lingering disgust at my own perverted thoughts—I felt... safe. Loved.

It was a feeling I hadn't experienced in a long time. Maybe ever.

In my old life, my mother had been tired. Disappointed. Done with me. And I couldn't blame her. I'd been a waste of space, a leech, a thirty-five-year-old man-child who contributed nothing.

But this woman—this beautiful, kind woman—was looking at me like I was the most precious thing in the world.

Don't f**k this up, I told myself. Whatever this is, whoever you are now, don't f**k it up.

The door opened, and a man walked in.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and a confident stride. His hair was dark, like my mother's, but shorter, and his face was rugged, handsome in a roguish sort of way. He wore a loose white shirt and dark pants, and there was a sword strapped to his belt.

A sword.

Yep. Definitely a fantasy world.

"Is it true?" the man asked, his voice deep and warm. "Is he—"

He stopped when he saw me, his eyes widening.

"By the gods," he breathed. "He's real."

My mother laughed—a sound like bells—and nodded. "He's real. Our son is real."

The man crossed the room in three long strides and knelt beside the bed, his eyes fixed on me. Up close, I could see the lines around his eyes, the faint scar on his jaw. He looked like he'd lived a hard life. An adventurer, maybe?

"He's perfect," the man said, his voice thick with emotion. "Absolutely perfect."

And then he grinned—a wide, wolfish grin that made him look ten years younger—and I immediately knew what kind of man he was.

A womanizer.

I'd seen that grin before. On actors in movies. On characters in anime. Hell, I'd tried to pull off that grin in the mirror once, back when I still thought I had a chance with women.

This man—my father—was a player. A charmer. The kind of guy who could talk his way into any woman's bed.

Oh, this is going to be interesting.

"What should we name him?" my mother asked.

My father stroked his chin, pretending to think. "How about... Reginald?"

I would've choked if I had the motor control.

Sir Reginald. My D&D character. Is that a coincidence? Or is this world somehow pulling from my memories?

"Reginald?" my mother repeated, wrinkling her nose. "That's... old-fashioned."

"Exactly! A strong, noble name."

"No."

My father laughed. "Alright, alright. How about... Wyatt?"

Wyatt.

The name settled over me like a warm blanket. It felt... right. Familiar, even though I'd never been called that before.

"Wyatt," my mother repeated, testing it out. "Wyatt GreyFox."

She looked down at me, her eyes searching mine. "What do you think, little one? Do you like the name Wyatt?"

I couldn't respond, obviously. But something inside me—some instinct I didn't understand—made me feel like the name fit.

Wyatt GreyFox. That's me now.

"I think he likes it," my father said, grinning again. "Look at him. He's already got that GreyFox charm."

My mother rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "He's five minutes old. He doesn't have any charm yet."

"Give him time. He's my son. He'll be a heartbreaker."

Oh god. I'm going to grow up to be just like him, aren't I?

The thought was both horrifying and oddly comforting.

My father reached out and gently touched my hand—my tiny, useless hand—and his expression softened. "Welcome to the world, Wyatt. I promise you, it's going to be one hell of an adventure."

Adventure. The word echoed in my mind, mixing with fragmented memories of quests and dungeons and dragons.

And then, unbidden, another memory surfaced: the fox-girl. The one from the porn video. Black hair with grey streaks. Golden eyes. A tail wrapped around her lover's waist.

Why am I thinking about that now?

I didn't know. But the image lingered, vivid and sharp, even as everything else faded into a haze of exhaustion.

Being born was apparently hard work.

My eyelids—tiny, heavy—started to droop. I fought it, wanting to stay awake, to take in more of this strange new world. But my body had other ideas.

"He's tired," my mother said softly. "Let him rest."

"Of course," my father said. He leaned down and kissed my forehead—a gesture so tender it made my chest ache. "Sleep well, son."

And then the darkness came again. But this time, it wasn't the cold, empty darkness of death.

It was warm. Safe.

I'm alive, I thought as I drifted off. I'm actually alive.

And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt something that might've been hope.

When I woke up—hours later? Days? I had no concept of time—I was still in my mother's arms. She was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, humming softly, and the sound was soothing in a way I couldn't explain.

I blinked up at her, my vision clearer now, and she noticed immediately.

"Hello, my sweet boy," she said, her voice like honey. "Did you sleep well?"

I couldn't answer, obviously. But I made a sound—some kind of gurgle—and she laughed.

"You're hungry, aren't you?"

Hungry?

As if on cue, my stomach—or whatever passed for a stomach in a newborn—cramped painfully.

Oh. Oh no.

I knew what was coming. I'd seen enough movies, read enough books. Babies needed to eat. And there was only one way for a newborn to eat.

Please don't. Please, for the love of God, don't—

My mother adjusted her dress, and I immediately closed my eyes.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I'm not doing this. I'm a thirty-five-year-old man. I am NOT—

But my body had other ideas. Instinct took over, and before I could stop myself, I was... feeding.

This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, I thought, even as my tiny body relaxed, satisfied. Worse than the construction beam. Worse than dying. This is rock bottom.

And yet, some distant part of my brain—the part that was still a perverted nerd—couldn't help but think: At least she's hot.

I hated myself for that thought. I hated myself so much.

But I was also too tired to care.

When I was done, my mother burped me—another humiliating experience—and then cradled me against her chest.

"You're going to grow up strong," she said softly. "I can feel it. You're special, Wyatt. I don't know how I know, but I do."

Special. There was that word again.

I wanted to ask her what she meant. I wanted to tell her about my past life, about the construction beam, about the fox-girl porn and the D&D sessions and the basement I'd wasted decades in.

But I couldn't. All I could do was lie there, helpless, as she rocked me gently.

And as I drifted off to sleep again, one thought echoed through my mind:

What the hell am I supposed to do now?