#CW before the chapter

[acemmetry]

A Poor Man's Dilemma / A Puppet, A Maid, and A Butler Walk Into A Basement

(Available here!)

CW for:

-Violence. This chapter is one big fight

-Blood

-Assault. It gets personal

----

This was it; the day he'd been waiting, wishing, hoping, working and praying for was here, and it had taken years.

  Today was the day Spamton became NEO.

  Walking with those kids had felt like the longest moments of his life, only seeming to stretch longer the closer he got to the basement. It had been difficult to remain professional; he could feel a restless energy buzzing throughout his body as he drew near to freedom. Even now, that energy remained, only growing in intensity as he climbed down the staircase into the basement, thoughtlessly picking at his bandages until they fell off his arms.

  Now that he was actually down here, he could barely register the passing seconds. With an absent mind, he traced his fingers along the cracks of the walls, accumulating an impressive layer of dust at his fingertip.

  He dared not to speak. He dared not to make any noise past the soft clicking of his bare feet against a cold, stone floor. He dared not to break the silence of the moment, lest it prove itself to be another of his delusions.

  But, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he reasoned that this was reality. It had to be; no delusion had ever been so detailed or textured before.

  No, he was really here. Which meant that NEO was just around the corner.

  He could feel himself practically vibrating with anticipation. An eternity. A near eternity of Hell, all for the chance of Heaven! This may very well be the best day of his life!

  Yet, for all his excitement, he couldn't bring himself to move faster than a snail's pace. It was as though he was wading through thick mud, with his legs fully submerged. But that was fine! He was fine. What were a couple more minutes of wasted time when NEO was just around the corner waiting for him and god he was so close, move you damned legs NEO was right there-

  His brain registered that he had stopped moving, and he snapped out of his reverie just as quickly as he had fallen into it. With a deep breath, he ran both hands through his hair, and then took notice of the slumped mass in front of him, its body mainly concealed in shadow. Where was he now, and how had this thing gotten here?

  There wasn't even a face to make out, save for the soft twinkling of what could have been an eye. A tangled mess of what looked to be hair sat atop its head, with two misshapen wings protruding from its-

  A breath of air left him as he processed the phantom pain of being punched in the gut.

  Oh.

  Reverently, oh so reverently, NEO deserved respect, he reached out a hand, and flinched as his finger brushed against cold, dusty metal. A small, breathy laugh escaped his lips. This was real.

  The air felt thin, and light. Everything was so light, he was practically weightless. He made it! NEO was there, it was right there! His head… it felt so fuzzy! Like a cotton ball, or a big, heavy blanket swaddling you in warmth, combating the chill of a bedroom at night as you-

  "Mister Spamton."

Cold dread.

    It was as though a sponge had soaked up the fuzz, soaked up the warmth, and the glee…

…leaving nothing but cold dread.

A voice, hard, sharp, and impossibly icy, had cut through his thoughts.

A voice that forced him to manually even out his breathing.

With his heart in his stomach, he willed a blank expression onto his face, hoping to bury any trace of surprise from his features. From where it rested on NEO's surface, his hand trembled, segmented joints clacking together ever so quietly.

  His legs felt like stone.

  He couldn't move.

  "Mister Spamton." The voice, icier, spoke. "Step away from the machine."

  He couldn't. How could he? His entire body was encased in a casket of ice. He was buried in a grave of-

  A whip cracked through the silence, and he could feel a wave of electrical static wash over him, running chills down his spine. He shuddered.

  "Don't make them ask again. Step away from the machine, Mister Spamton." A new voice, higher pitched and simmering with a barely contained rage, distracted him from his thoughts. The heat of the words was enough to melt the icicles that had formed in his throat.

  Okay, Spamton . Don't mess this up.

  This is the most important sales pitch of your life .

  He turned.

  "[[Easels]]!" He called, smile wide and strained and fake, too fake, act natural- ! "H0W GGOES [bizness]?" He refused to acknowledge the other person in the room, eyes trained solely on Swatch.

  They stood, rigid and unyielding, arms clasped behind their back and expression stony. He couldn't see the hatred in their eyes from behind their bi-colored lenses, but he could feel it. It bore into him like a hot knife.

  They continued to glare at him, and he realized that his hand was still resting on NEO.

  Casually, he leaned his weight onto that hand, crossing one leg over the other. "GIVINGVING ME THE S-," a crackle of static cuts him off. "S1LENNT TREATMENT, HUH? NOT vVERY [[Big Shot!]] OF YOU, [[Easels]]." He fought to keep the glitches out of his voice. "NO MATTER. I CAN [workout] W1TH< THAT. SAY, [[Buddy, Chum, Pal,         ]], UP FOR ANOTHER [Bargein Prices!]? I PROMI-!"

  Without a second thought, he ducked under the end of an electrical whip that flew towards his head.

  Well, there goes that .

  The feel of NEO slipped out from under his fingers as the walls dissolved into a grid of purple lines. He clicked his tongue in feign irritation as a slight tension made itself known from within his being, and in an instant, the atmosphere came alive with a fervent energy.

  A battle had been engaged.

  With a huff, he stretched his arms above his head, body protesting and joints popping, before dislodging his jaw in a yawn. He was much too tired for this.

  According to what he remembered of battle policy, the one to set the battle stage would be the one given the last turn. "To make it fair", supposedly.

  Well, he didn't plan on playing by the rules. This battle, he felt, wasn't just any old scrap yard tussle, after all.

  It was a battle to the death, and he intended to win .

  So, to start it off; the element of surprise.

  Just as he was closing his mouth, he faked a sneeze, advertisements shooting out of his mouth like rockets towards his enemies. The Tasque Manager squawked in alarm as a bullet grazed her, clearly not expecting the sudden attack. Swatch, however, simply stepped out of the way, having seen such tactics before.

  Spamton couldn't help but scoff at that. Leave it up to Swatch to ruin the surprise.

  It was the opposing side's turn now, not that he cared. He was only waiting for the right opportunity to strike. To hit them when they least expected it.

  Swatch, choosing to defend, stanced their feet apart as they shielded their face with a silver tray conjured from their inventory, while the Tasque Manager held her whip above her head and gave a shout.

  "B!"

  …

  What?

  Spamton looked below him, and found himself on a square labeled C. Before he could even think , the cat-lady's whip flew towards the center of the strange board he stood upon, and he gave a harsh full-body flinch as a blinding flash of electricity burst from the ground beneath him. He grit his teeth against the pain.

  When the initial shock had passed, he inhaled sharply through his nose, blinking away spots from his vision. It was his turn again.

  …

  …What was that?! Do you want to lose before you've even started? Pay attention and dodge! Freedom is on the line!

  C'mon, Spamton! Get your head in the game!

  Time to get serious.

  With a snap of his fingers, an angel appeared in a puff of green sparks above his head, giving him a couple head pats before poofing away. Instantly, he found himself invigorated with a newfound energy. However weak it may have been, it was more than enough, and his manic grin only grew.

  Swatch defended again, no doubt trying to gather tension points, and the Tasque Manager readied another attack, but Spamton was having none of it this time. With a speed fueled by his heal spell, he rushed forward and launched himself at the maid, arms wrapping around her waist as he tackled her to the ground.

  When her head made contact with the floor, he wasted no time in connecting a fast swinging fist to her face. Just as quickly, she delivered a kick to his stomach, and he was sent reeling. However, he only had a split second to recover before a fist swung for his head, and he ducked, the attack just barely grazing him. From his peripheral, he saw the end of a whip fly towards him, and he instinctively shielded his face with his arms. Wrong move.

  His arms couldn't withstand the force of the attack, and he was knocked onto his rear. Huffing, he moved to push himself off the floor, but instead found himself biting back a cry as his arms gave angry shouts of protest. 

  Oh well. Who needs arms?

  Without waiting for his opponents' next turn (was it their turn??), he enlarged his head and unhinged his jaw, a horde of mini Spamtons flying out of his open maw.

  Swatch gave an indignant squawk as a multitude of pint-sized Spamton clones bore down on them, clambering up their pant legs and clawing at their suit jacket. Spamton watched in amusement as they struggled to peel a yellow card from off the front of their jacket, (violently shaking a mini-him off their sleeve as they did), before tossing it into the air above them, the piece of paper evaporating in a cloud of sparkles. No doubt it was some Stat Boost Spell they'd saved up Tension Points for. Maybe it raised ATK? That would make sense.

  "D!"

  Crap . He wasn't paying attention .

  There was barely any time to process the Tasque Manager's command before he felt her whip strike him in the chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he tumbled into square A and onto his back.

  Searing, white hot pain exploded from within him as electricity surged out of the ground and through his veins. His body seized up as his… everywhere … went numb, and he felt, rather than heard, a glitched scream tear itself from his throat.

  In a daze, he pushed himself off the floor, arm pains be damned because everything was in agony, and then suddenly, like a rug being pulled out from beneath him, the tension from within his being disappeared, momentarily taking his breath with it.

  They must have spared him.

  An anguished yell caught in the back of his throat, and he choked. Spare him? Spare him?? Why ? He could keep going! He could still fight! He-!

  His vision was swimming, eyes unable to focus. God, he wasn't crying, was he? That would be so pathetic.

  A shoulder brushed past him, and for a moment, he could think clearly again. Whipping his head around, (and stumbling from the sudden movement), he watched Swatch walk in short, angry strides towards NEO. One hand was clenched in a tight fist at their side, the other clutching a-

  …

  …What was that?

  Upon taking a step forward (just for a closer look!), Spamton suddenly found his arms pinned behind his back, 2 hands holding them there in a firm grip. It didn't take much to know it was the Tasque Manager, but there were too many thoughts rattling around in his head for him to care. 

  What is Swatch doing? What are they holding?

  God, I'm so tired. I can't feel my legs. Or my arms. Or anything.

  Hey! Focus! You can't afford to give up now! You still need to load yourself into NEO!

  At that thought, Spamton blinked harshly and gave his head a slight shake to clear it up. Even with his newfound focus, he could only watch as Swatch stood in front of NEO, hesitating in whatever it was they planned on doing with it.

  "It's okay." The Tasque Manager spoke from behind him, voice oddly gentle and quiet considering the situation. "It's for the best."

  What was?

  Swatch inhaled sharply and, supposedly making up their mind, uncurled the fist holding the strange object, giving Spamtom a better view of what it was.

  He squinted. It looked like… a trash bin icon? Why would-?

  His stomach did a somersault as it clicked, and out of nowhere, the room rose in temperature. It was quite suddenly that he felt clammy, and gross, and so, so hot.

  This couldn't be happening. Please, don't let this be happening! I got so far! I was so close!

  Desperately, he began to struggle against his constraints as glitches spilled out of his mouth.

  "[[Easels]]; [[Easels]], Y  YY0U W0ulDN;;T- w0<UldN"T [DEMOL1TION!!] neo,,,, W  W  W<<< woU;LD Y0UU>??"

  Swatch refused to look at him, raising the icon to NEO's perfect surface. The room only got hotter. He felt sick.

  No. Nononononononono-

  "[[Ea-]]- $w- SW@T<<CH, [Please don't take my           !]! F  F0R Th3 [L1ve [[laugh track]] L0ve] 0F- OF        ;; d0N"T-!!"

  They slapped the icon onto NEO.

    Spamton's rambling continued on as a popup appeared before them, asking if they were "sure" they wanted to delete their creation.

  No, they weren't sure! They didn't even want to do this! They didn't want to be down here destroying the only evidence of a life where they'd been important! When they'd meant something!

  This was NEO! A Lightner's dream they helped create!

  Biting their tongue, they reached to press "continue".

  An anguished scream startled them from their thoughts, and momentarily, they halted to cast a glance over their shoulder at the source of the noise.

  This was a big mistake.

  They barely registered the blurred movement in their peripheral vision before a sharp, fiery agony ignited inside their outstretched arm, drawing from it a warm, viscous liquid. Instinctively, they pulled back as a startled cry of pain tore from their throat.

  Blinking back tears, they tried in vain to pry off the jagged teeth of the heart shaped object latched onto their arm. It only bit down harder, and the fire in their arm grew hotter as their sleeve absorbed more of the blood leaking out of their wound.

  It took tugging at the chain connected to the heart with as much force as could be mustered before it let go. No attention was paid to the sticky warm liquid dripping off the tips of their fingers as they watched the thing slink back into Spamton's chest cavity, resigned but still alert.

  Spamton himself was breathing quite heavily, exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders sagged and his legs wobbled, and though his eyes were hidden behind the static in his dealmakers, the look on his face could still be described as one of crazed desperation.

  They stared into each other's eyes for a few moments before Spamton spoke.

  "ST3P AWww@Y Fr-" A glitch. "FROM. THE MACHINE." His voice was strained, panicked, and heavy-laden with white noise. A flare of anger rose up in their chest as they processed the statement.

... 

  He thought he could use their words against him? He thought that he could control what happened with NEO? He had no authority. He had no power. He had no right.

  They gathered the remaining energy in their bad arm and, without a second thought, slammed a fist into the "Continue" button, the action causing a sharp stab of pain in the mangled limb.

  Spamton gave out a pained cry as NEO began to come undone, its vibrant colors melting away at the same time its shapes began blending together into one congealed mass before slowly fading into oblivion.

"WHAt

Wh@T

wwH4t H4V3 [you done with that?]!? >>>yY0   OU-!"

  His rambling faded into the background as Swatch looked on in agony, looked on as their prized creation crumbled into nothingness. They tried to focus on the feeling of stinging in their eyes, or the painful tug in their heart, or even the burning blaze in their arm. Anything, anything except what was happening in front of them.

  It was a groan from Tasque Manager that pulled their attention elsewhere. Sharply turning their head towards the noise, blinking back tears, their eyes widened at what they saw.

  She was on the ground, in a pool of blood that must have come from the large bite wound in her side. Her white clothes were now stained a brilliant shade of black -- the sight, oddly enough, had Swatch thinking that the dress would have to be disposed of.

  It looked as though she was just coming to as she sat up and cradled a gash on her head with a black-stained hand. Not wanting to dwell on NEO's fate, (their job down here was done anyway, Spamton would be leaving any minute now), they made an attempt to rush to her side, to offer assistance, to help her because she was bleeding out , but something stopped them.

  It was Spamton's fist. In their gut.

  They reeled back, clutching their abdomen and letting out a cough.

  ">>y yY0U!!" He cried, swinging another fist into their midsection. This time, they braced. "YOU<< rRU1NeD [[3verything is y y yours for-]]!! (Y)?! (Y)"D yY0U H4VE T T TO f[Fifty Percent Off!]-" A harsh glitch this time, one that momentarily disconnected his entire upper half. "[%#&£] 1T UP!!" Another swing, but this time a miss. Swatch had caught his fist.

  If they had been icy before, they sure as hell weren't now. Ice gave way to fire, wild and all-consuming, Spamton's audacity fueling the flames. Who the hell did he think he was?

  This... this was the last straw.

  They pulled Spamton's wrist up above their head, forcing the man onto his tiptoes with a yelp. They were eye level now, and the glare Swatch was giving Spamton could kill. 

  "Oh, is that right?" They said, vitriol flying off their tongue. "I've ruined everything? I'VE ruined everything?!" They were shouting now, each word ignited by a wrathful flame. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!! YOU DID THIS!!" They raised his wrist higher, effectively lifting him into the air, before slamming him into the ground like a bag of wet cement.

  The violent speed of the motion caused his arm to snap off the ball joint of his elbow, eliciting a scream from him as he cradled the stump close to his chest. The limb in their grasp was tossed to the side without a second thought as they reached down to pick him up by the collar.

  "IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOUR OBSESSION, NEO WOULD STILL BE HERE!! "

  Spamton planted a heel in their stomach before scrambling away as best he could with one arm. Gaining some distance, he stood on shaky legs and braced himself, arm and stump splayed out at his sides, hand twitching.

  With a flick of their wrist, a dinner plate spawned behind the man. The lid popped off, knocking him out of his stance, and Swatch used the distraction to close the gap between the two. Spamton noticed, and steadied himself just as they reached for him again. Deftly, he ducked under their arms and delivered a left hook to their face (the only hook he could deliver) before ducking underneath them and dashing towards where NEO was deteriorating. This only served to further infuriate Swatch. Ignoring the black liquid dripping from their nose onto their tie, they gave chase.

  With pain threaded into her words, Tasque Manager called out to them, weakly. "Swatch, enough. Please."

  Swatch ignores her.

  Enough? Enough? No, Swatch decided when it was enough. Spamton had forced their hand. If it weren't for him, NEO wouldn't have needed to be deleted. NEO wasn't the problem, it was Spamton. Spamton made it a threat, Spamton was at fault.

  Their vision blurred.

  Swatch hadn't spent their recent years decaying in garbage, so naturally, they were in better shape. Naturally, they were able to catch up to the man and lift him by the back of the collar. Naturally, they would have the strength to throw him against the wall, into the spot where NEO once sat, and watch as he struggled to get back up, a black smear running across his forehead. Vines hung overhead, two pillars stood at his sides, and a wall sat, unyielding, behind him. There was nowhere to run.

  He was trapped.

  They could feel blood trickle down their face as they slowly made their way towards him, but couldn't find it in them to care. Their breath hitched as they readied themself to speak.

  Their next words came out a growl, angry and so, so wrought with grief. 

  "You had everything."

  Step. 

  "You were a 'big shot', sitting on top of the world."

  Step.

  "You were rich. Famous. People adored you."

  Step.

  "Anything you wanted, you could just ASK for. You were free."

  Step.

  "But then you threw it all away." They were kneeling in front of him now, hand clutching his matted hair to keep his head up. Somewhere in the middle of the fight, he had lost his dealmakers, giving Swatch a full view of his face. He was grimacing in pain.

  "You THREW IT ALL AWAY for some dusty old machine, rusting away in a basement, all because it was the one thing you couldn't ask for, right?" They were fighting a losing battle with keeping their voice level.

  Spamton's mouth opened, but no sound came out except for a pathetic little click in the back of his throat. 

  Swatch tugged at his hair, slightly raising his face to meet theirs in the hopes of eliciting a response, but none came. He only weakly clawed at their hand.

  With a deep inhale, Swatch released their hold on his scalp and stood. The overhead lights cast a shadow over Spamton's crumpled form.

  "All I had was NEO. And you took that from me."

  They delivered a swift kick to his stomach, and he folded in on himself. No sound came out. Again, they kicked.

  "I ruined everything? Take a look around you, Spamton. This is all YOUR fault." They enunciated those last words with another kick, this time at the arm trying in vain to shield his face. No sound came out.

  "Don't you have anything to say? Come now, you're always running your mouth; say something." Another kick. No sound came out.

  "Say something." They hissed, beak twisted in a snarl. Another kick, harder this time, and he went limp. Still, no sound came out.

  "SAY SOMETHING!! " They're shouting now, crouching down to hoist him up by his lapels. "ANYTHING, GOD!"

  His head hung down, as if in shame.

  "YOU NEVER SHUT UP, SO WHY NOW ARE YOU GIVING ME THE SILENT TREATMENT? C'mon! Apologize! Insult me! EXPLAIN YOURSELF! Just-!"

  "SWATCH." They startle, turning to look over their shoulder. "Please. He can't hear you." Tasque Manager is limping her way towards them, a hand pressed against the now-closed wound in her side. She comes up behind them to squeeze a hand to their shoulder. There's a pained grimace on her face.

  Their face fell as they took in the sight, guilt overpowering all other emotions. She had been wounded, had CALLED for them, and they had ignored her in favor of the puppet. How could they have ignored her?

  "Tasque, I-"

  She shook her head, swaying a bit with the movement. "I'm fine. I had some leftover spaghetti code in my inventory. An Ambyulance will heal the rest."

  "But you-!"

  "Swatch." She said sternly, eyes hardening. "I'm fine."

  They bit their tongue against any other retorts.

  She turned her attention to the salesman still pinned up against the wall.

  "We should call an Ambyulance, speaking of." Seeing Swatch start to voice their agreement, she continued, cutting them off. "For all of us. Your arm, my side, his��" She nodded towards Spamton, and faltered when she took in the sight if him. Her sentence went unfinished.

  "He doesn't deserve an Ambyulance." Swatch finished for her, still feeling vindictive. Their arm throbbed violently at the reminder of the injury.

  "Do you even hear yourself right now? Of course he doesn't deserve an Ambyulance, he's entitled to one." Their grip on his lapels loosen. "He has a right to medical care as a citizen of Cyber City, and he... well, he's probably concussed, Swatch, and that's likely not even the worst of it."

  Swatch shook their head in quiet disbelief, pain lining their features. "No, he des- he destroyed NEO, he hurt you, he shouldn't-!"

  "Is that what you're telling yourself? Spamton destroyed NEO?" Her hand slid off their shoulder. "Swatch, you chose to follow through with this. You agreed that it was best if you did the deed. I understand that NEO was important to you-"

  "How could you understand? How?! You've never worked with a Lightner for weeks on end to bring to life their greatest dream! You've never had to leave your greatest creation unfinished because they gave up! You-you-!"

  "I understand," Tasque Manager interrupted, voice gentle, and they felt instantly ashamed for their outburst. Her fingers brushed back a stray feather from their forehead. "That NEO was important to you. Destroying it destroyed you, I get that. But," she gestured to the unconscious salesman. "Think about him. Hate it all you want, but he's inthe same boat as you. He's tried every trick in the book to get to this thing, and we don't really know why it's that important to him, anyway."

  "..."

  "C'mon, don't look at me like that. We don't."

  They were eyeing her sideways.

  "...Reasoning aside, he's fought a long battle for some dingy basement robot, abandoned everything just to get it, and then we... erased it. We erased the one thing he had going for him. That's… no matter how unhealthy it may have been, that has to be crushing."

  "Why do you care?" They suddenly retorted, fighting to keep their voice even, and God, why were they treating her like this? She hadn't done anything wrong, why were they yelling at her? "We both hate him. We both hurt him. Why now do you care?"

  "Because..." she said, biting her bottom lip as she gave the puppet a pitiful look. There was a pained light in her eyes. "...I can't afford not to anymore. This has- it's gone on for too long. It's gone too far. Look at him, Swatch. Really look at him."

  And they did. They took in every crack in his plastic, every tear in his clothes, every thing about him. They took in the dirt between his joints, the layer of grime on his skin, and the filth embedded in the fabric of his suit. They took in the grease, and blood, in his matted hair, and the bags under his eyes, and they felt ashamed.

  So, so ashamed.

  "Alright," they muttered, pulling Spamton off the wall and into their arm. They grimaced when his head lolled back. He really was unconscious. "Let's get out of here and- and call an Ambyulance."

  They carried Spamton out of the basement, holding him under their arm like a doll. Tasque Manager followed not too far behind, the puppet's discarded arm on hand.

(Originally written 9/15/22)

[sawyerexe]

I dont know when i'll finish this um....harleith.... green beans in the passenger seat and you're freakin me out are we casual now.... (WIP)

[marzfartz]

The person is on their knees, and Tim can hear them breathing, all wet and rattling, like every breath is work. Tim and Alfred exchange a glance. From the posture, it’s obvious they’re in pain, and then they say: “Tim?”

Sorry y'all but with how good chapter 32 was how could I not, so here's more propaganda to read Better Halves by @aster-draws

[atlasthecactus]

they make me ill

[septic-salad]

DEAD OR ALIVE:

CHAPTER ONE PT. 1

Fuel: 25%

ASKS ARE NOW OPEN

HEYYY I'VE RETURNED (MOST LIKELY)

And no you don't get any context, the story will slowly unfold as more asks come in 🙏 SO PLEASE DONT BE AFRAID TO SEND SOMETHING IN THIS CAN'T CONTINUE WITHOUT ASKS (AND DONT BE AFRAID TO SEND MORE THAN ONE!!)

I am cringe but I am free..

[dunmeshistash]

Good day, Dr. Meshi!

Do you perhaps know where this panel is from?

Thank you very much!

Hello! Chapter 78 page 9, Flamela is the one explaining

[ittybittyfanblog]

.....i need a cold shower bro WHAT AM I DOING

[hazelnootnut]

The weather always sticks together!

[acemmetry]

A Poor Man's Dilemma / Poor Man p.2

(Available here!)

CW for:

-Hallucinations

-Paranoia. This is the majority of Spamton's section, so just... watch out

----

Five days had elapsed since Swatch had bid farewell to their beloved creation.

  They didn't think about it. There was nothing to think about, and no time to think it! Not when they were alone in the confines of their chambers, not when conversation found itself scarce, and not when they were stalking the Mansion halls with nothing to do because Queen had so generously gifted them a mandatory vacation to "Give Them Time To Mourn".

  What a splendid idea, they had thought on numerous occasions, to be left alone with one's thoughts. Not that they needed that! There wasn't anything to think about, so why not get back to work? The purpose of their whole vacation was ludicrous, really. There was nothing to grieve anyway, except maybe the time they were losing every minute they wasted "vacationing".

  Tasque Manager's words, from the recesses of their mind, echoed, and Swatch, however reluctant they were to do so, pushed aside their pride and listened out of respect for the woman.

  You have every right to be upset. Something that you created and cherished is gone, all because someone else wanted to get their grubby little hands on it. You spent so long protecting it just to have to destroy it. Anger, resentment, sorrow. It's okay to feel an emotion outside of your professionalism; your personal life has been affected, not your work life. But, you are responsible for acknowledging your feelings. You have to let yourself feel them, otherwise they will fester before growing out of control. Ignore your feelings, and you'll be ignoring you. Don't do that to yourself, okay?

  How she could help with their every problem, they had no idea. She was an amazing individual, capable of doing and handling so much, and it hurt them every time she had to play therapist with them. Relationships are supposed to go two ways, and if they wanted any chance at romance with her, they needed to return the favor. But how?

  I'm getting off topic here, they thought, their hands busy with making a recreational drink (they had to specify it as such to the Swatchlings who were charged with keeping them away from work, since their underlings had been half a second away from dragging their boss back to their room). Let's think back to my feelings. Why am I upset, aside from NEO?

  Yesterday morning, when Queen had just barely started up for the day, she had summoned all the Mansion staff for a "press conference" regarding the circumstances of their "fresh-out-of-a-coma" guest. The pang of guilt they had felt at the term had just as quickly disappeared upon hearing that the vermin was to be employed at the mansion. According to her, it was "A Trial Run For Rehab" and "A Funny Idea". Frankly, it was the worst idea they had ever heard of, and the woman was infamous for her terrible decisions! Rehab? As in, rehabilitation? There was no "rehabilitating" that menace. He had absolutely no desire to change himself for the better, which only became more obvious as the days went on. He had been nothing but a pain with a holier-than-thou attitude ever since he had woken up. They could only imagine how much worse he'd be since today was his first day of his, as Queen had put it, "community service".

  "Spamton, I implore you, put on your tie. It's a clip-on, you should have no problem getting it on."

  It had only been two days since the puppet's waking, and a lot of adjustments were already being made. For starters, he was still missing an arm, and an order had been placed with a parts manufacturer for a new one. Normally, the limb could just be reattached, but considering that it had been in such disrepair without any hope of being salvaged, it had been decided that he simply get a new one. The last purpose his old arm would ever get to serve would be as a reference for its replacement. His other arm would soon follow suit, as it, too, was so utterly decrepit. His doctor had been astounded upon finding out it could still function.

  "I'M MORE A [Bowties, Half Off!] PERSON. IF I'M [[working minimum wage]] HERE, I'M DOING IT IN [Keep up with the latest fashion trends!]."

  He had been absolutely baffled upon learning that the Mansion had a personal Ambyulance, as though he had forgotten how frequently he had visited them during his last days at the Mansion. At its (quite aggressive) insistence, Spamton had begun running an antivirus program that minimized the glitches in his speech and body. It left him jittery and a bit laggy, but such mannerisms could be tolerated if he was at least somewhat coherent. Though, they couldn't help but wonder if anything could be done for the ad interruptions.

  "Bowties aren't in the uniform. You work here, you wear the uniform."

  Ah, yes, and he was made to wear a uniform, the same uniform that their Swatchlings wore, to officiate his status as a mansion employee.

  "I DIDN'T [Invest in our 2 year plan!] ON [This is the thanks I get for working overtime?]."

  "Well, you signed the paperwork."

  "SAY IT [[As You Wish!]]. IT WAS A [legally binding contract]. A CONTRACT."

  "Spamton, I'm not going to keep arguing with you. Follow instructions or I'm getting Swatch."

  "[[Easels]]? OH NO, WHATEVER WILL I-?"

  "Pardon," they said, stepping into the conversation, a finished Butler Juice in hand. "I heard my name." They had been eavesdropping. "Am I needed for something?" They knew exactly what they were needed for. Apparently, Spamton had begun exerting some sort of extreme caution around the Mansion's Head Butler to avoid pissing them off. It was strange, but they would be a fool for not utilizing such a tool to their advantage, and their coworker's current situation called for just that.

  Tasque Manager shot them a grateful look as they drew near. Spamton, on the other hand, stiffened, letting sound only a single click before falling silent. Somewhere in their subconscious, they felt disgusted at the satisfaction the reaction gave them.

  "Swatch, hello," Tasque Manager said, masking her relief with an air of polite professionalism befitting such a remarkable woman. "I was just filling in our new employee on our uniform policy. We need, uh, a second opinion, if you wouldn't mind." They shook their head to show that no, they didn't mind. She smiled. "Great! Now, should he wear his tie, even if he is an unwilling hire, or make himself look like a clown by wearing a bowtie?" She spoke in a voice that betrayed a playful, chiding tone, as though she were gently explaining to a child why they were wrong. It was no doubt a tone meant to tease Spamton, who's hands they could see were already beginning to clench.

  "Oh, the tie, definitely!" They responded in the same tone, walking up from behind Spamton to rest a hand on his shoulder. The man's head turned ever so slightly so they could see the scathing look he was burning into them. "Willing or not, an employee is an employee, and as such, expectations are to be met. And besides, we don't hire clowns. Tasque Manager, the clip-on, if you please."

  Tasque Manager, amusement gracing her expression, traded Swatch the tie for the drink they were holding as they spun Spamton around to face them. To mess with him, they took their time in getting him sorted out, opting to straighten his collar and dust off the wrinkles in his suit after the tie was clipped into place. A smile had to be wrestled off their face when, after tilting his face this way and that to check for dirt they knew to have been washed off, Spamton decided he'd had enough and pushed away from them, face flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

  "Well," they remarked with a smile (it had won, in the end). "You're all set! Now off to work with you." Before they set off to their room, they informed Tasque Manager that she could keep the drink she had taken from them, seeing as it had been made for her. She thanked them with the same smile that always melted their heart, and then they were walking away, ignoring the fluttering in their chest in lieu of adjusting the cuffs of their sleeves. While the look on Spamton's face had been worth the prolonged contact, they felt as though they had dirtied themself during the interaction. They'd have to wash the suit.

  "Aw, what's that look for?" They heard Tasque Manager, tone light and mocking, from behind, likely addressing the puppet. "Going to give me the silent treatment too? I'm devastated." They smiled to themself upon hearing that.

  If every interaction with Spamton was going to go like that, then maybe they'd be able to tolerate his employment here.

    If every interaction with Swatch was going to go like that, Spamton was going to kill himself.

  Just the sound of their voice made him freeze up, and only God knew why. Not that they'd tell him, seeing as God hated him.

  Why was it, that whenever they were around, a dread unlike anything he had ever known would wash over him, and his joints would lock up? Every time they came into physical contact with him, he had to fight tooth and nail with himself to keep from trembling under the touch that felt like fire on his skin. Hell, if they were so much as in the same room as him, his voicebox would just... stop working. What was with that?

  The Tasque Manager had asked if he was going to give her the silent treatment. I don't intend to. In fact, he had thought. I'd be calling you a bitch, but I can't exactly do that if I can't talk. In lieu of a response, he had just further soured the look he was drilling into her face.

  If it wasn't obvious enough, he was not fucking happy.

  The next few days crawled by. Not a moment had gone by where Spamton wasn't being monitored, either to ensure he did his job or didn't escape (he suspected it was both). The only time he was alone was when he was locked in his room for the night, which he fully utilized to his advantage. When retired to his chambers, he would write down what he'd memorized of the routes and schedules of his, ugh, "coworkers", in favor of deciding an escape plan. He had once known such information, but seeing as he was not being kept in as opposed to out, things had most definitely changed to accommodate him.

  Today, he was feeling... irritated. His tedious chores and lack of escape progress hadn't bothered him (he was endlessly patient) until the Mansion's doctor (He still hadn't quite wrapped his head around that. Where were they during his breakins when he was beaten black and blue?) decided to install an AdBlock in him. Apparently, it was to help get rid of the ads "permeating" his speech, but all it did was make his body ache, his eyes hurt, and his throat sore. Hadn't that antivirus- the one that made his insides shaky and his skin itchy- hadn't it been enough? His thoughts were already laggy enough with the addition of the antivirus, he didn't need an AdBlock to make everything worse.

  This is hell, he thought as he clipped on his stupid tie for his second day of "work". He fumbled with it because he forgot what be was doing.

  This is hell, he thought when Queen dropped by his "work station" to talk to him for hours on end on the third day. Her voice drilled holes into his head with how... sharp? it was.

  This is hell, he thought, only four(five?) days into formulating an escape plan. He couldn't take it anymore! Either he lost his mind "working" here, or to the factory reset he was promised were he to leave without Queen's consent, all because of that stupid, fucking, contract! At this point, he was willing to risk the reset, because at least then, if he managed to escape, he'd be free of this hellhole. If not; oh well. It was better than his brain slowly succumbing to the rot that was monotonous labor.

  It was final. The time had come for his half-baked plans to hatch.

  ***

Day 1. Though he had decided he'd overstayed his welcome, he still had enough sense to take it slow, so when the next day came around, he played his part. His uniform was donned, his breakfast was ignored, and his "coworkers" were treated as nothing but insignificant; such was the usual with him. However, his daily chores were different each day, so hearing that he had been assigned kitchen duty for the day had been a welcome surprise. If memory served right, the kitchen was a maus magnet, and Swatchlings, the "coworkers" who were constantly watching his every move, were terrified of maice. To pass up an opportunity like this would be stupid.

  Eventually, through discreet searching, he'd found one of the little pests, and his plan was put to action. With the creature caged in his palms, he set it loose in the kitchen instead of outside like he was supposed to. The reaction was instantaneous; the first Swatchling to lay eyes on the thing freaked the hell out, causing the Swatchlings around it to take notice and also freak the hell out. Soon, they were all freaking the hell out, and Spamton was able to slip out amongst the chaos.

  Sadly, he didn't get very far, as the Tasque Manager was quick to arrive to the scene and discover him unsupervised. Though she had no doubt been suspicious, she had let him off the hook upon hearing that the maus had "frightened him into fleeing".

  He didn't pay much attention to his day after that. Why should he, when his attempt at escape had failed? Ah, well, there was always tomorrow.

  All that was left to do was hope that the buzzing under his skin would disappear by then.

  ***

Day...2? 2. He'd had this stupid "job" for about a week. Probably. Who was counting? His day started off as it usually did these days: shitty. Granted, he had just woken up, but he didn't doubt that anyone in his situation would also be unhappy, regardless if they had slept in a soft bed with silken sheets and fluffy pillows.

  Today's "job" was pottery watching.

  Why? Why was that a thing? Did Swatchlings normally watch pottery all day, or was this just one of those "you-keep-a-lookout" scenarios? As in, pointless busywork given to him for the hell of it?

  This wasn't even "busywork"! He was just sitting around watching fucking pottery!

  This was so boring. How does one even get out of watching pottery? Knock over a vase? Experience taught him that such an action would get him beat within an inch of his life, so clearly, that wasn't an option. He'd be instantly apprehended if he were to just walk off, so he couldn't do that either.

  He was loathe to admit it, but it seemed as though there was no attempt to be made today. By the time he was escorted back to his room, he felt drained beyond measure, which meant there would be no planning, either. Besides, he likely wouldn't have been able to focus anyway, what with the buzzing under his skin having turned into an irrelievable full-body itch.

  He probably wouldn't be able to sleep tonight.

  ***

Day...- did he need a calendar? He should probably get a calendar if he couldn't keep track of the days. Not that he had been able to in the first place. His pre-installed calendar only ever worked enough to tell him the date of his upload anniversary. How long had it been since his last one? He couldn't remember. His brain felt fuzzy.

  When he woke, his skin felt like it was crawling. No matter how much he itched, or how hard, the bugs in his body kept skittering over his bones. Regardless, he went about his day.

  Someone kept trying to talk to him as he worked. Their voice ground glass into his ears- did he have ears?- so it was hard to focus on what they were saying. Not that he was trying to, anyways; his attention was focused solely on sweeping up a tasque trail of dirt into a dustpan, a feat that proved quite difficult with just one arm. He didn't need any help, though. After all, he'd handled worse during his break-in days (which were what, two weeks ago?), like that one time his leg got caught in an oversized maus trap, and he'd had to detach it to get free. Reattaching it had hurt just as much.

  Or! How about that one time he'd been kicked to the curb after-

  His thoughts exploded into screams of wrong. Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong. It never happened. Did something happen? What had he been doing? He couldn't see anything past the green in his vision.

  Suddenly, he was in his room. When had he gotten here? The abrupt change of scenery left him reeling, and he hadn't registered the other person in the room until they, voice muffled as though filtered through static, spoke. Were their words directed at him? He didn't know.

  He slept, for he was too tired to listen.

  ***

What day was it? Where-? No, wait, that was a stupid question. He was at the mansion.

  What exactly was it that he was doing? Polishing stuff? Silver stuff? When had he even woken up? It was hard to focus on the task at hand, but trust him when he says he's trying. It wasn't his fault that the shadows in every reflective surface, moving about in his peripheral, kept distracting him.

  Wait. Shit. They were moving?

  He checked behind him, and saw nothing. A heated glare focused on the shadows in the silver before him bore no fruit either, and with growing unease, he concluded that he was just seeing things. It's all in your head, he told himself when the darkness continued to dance at the edge of his vision. You're just seeing things. There's nothing there.

  At some point, a pair of eyes had appeared from the abyss, doing nothing but boring into his flesh. He started checking behind him at regular intervals to make sure that they weren't actually there, nothing was watching him, he was just imagining things. However, a presence soon accompanied those eyes, which had him twisting around double time to make sure no one was there, because nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong.

  He gave up polishing altogether when be saw hands reaching for him from the dark, the presence bristling, and he couldn't take it anymore. He had to leave, run, hide. Where were the dumpsters? It couldn't get him there.

  One of the hands managed to grab his arm, pulling him back, back into the abyss, and he jerked violently against its hold, static cursing spewing from his mouth. The hand's grip tightened, and then came a voice, loud and sharp, and he froze. He knew that voice.

  Slowly, no sudden movements, he twisted towards it, and felt his voicebox turn to stone in his throat upon seeing the face it belonged to.

  No. No, please. He hadn't done anything.

  The feeling of his arm- the right one, the one he was missing- being ripped out of his shoulder burned itself to the forefront of his mind, and it was then that he became acutely aware of how tight their hand was on his arm.

  There was nothing stopping them from tearing it out of the socket. That's what they were going to do, wasn't it? They were going to tear out his other arm before- and the back of his head stung at the thought- throwing him against another wall and blocking his escape. Phantom pain blossomed across the surface of his body as a shoe from his memories stamped bruises onto his skin, accompanied by a voice screaming at him to say something. But he couldn't say anything, not even to beg for the pain to stop! He couldn't make one sound past the clog in his throat! Any moment now, he'd be pummeled into the floor until he became nothing more than a stain, and he'd be helpless to stop it.

  An unfamiliar expression crossed his attacker's- no, that wasn't right, they weren't attacking, why weren't they attacking?- face, one of... concern?, and the grip on his arm was released. Suddenly, there was confusion, and apprehension, and relief, and fear.

  A torrent of emotions swept through him, and he couldn't help it; his mind was pulled under, and he passed out.

  ***

He woke up in complete darkness.

  Nonono. Not safe, not safe, it gets you in the dark.

  He was paralyzed where he lay, too afraid to move to turn on the lights. If he moved, it'd know he was there. Did it already know? The presence circling his bed was hungry. Had it found him, or was it still looking? No, the better question was, had it already gotten him? If so, what was it going to do to him? He wanted to strangle the heart beating a hammer into his ribcage into silence, because it was too loud, and if it hadn't found him before, it certainly would now. Please, just-

  Light flooded his vision, and through his sudden disorientation, he could feel a spike of anger in the presence as it retreated into the shadows of-

  So he was still in his room, then. It hadn't gotten him. That was good. Where had the light come from, though?

  He turned to find a black mass standing in the doorway to his room, one shadowy tendril... arm?... hovering over the light switch, but before he had the thought to panic, it stepped out of the room, closing the door behind it. Just like that, he was once again left alone with the presence in his room, but this time, he had the advantage; the presence was limited to the small pockets of darkness tucked away in the corners of the room. Relief flooded every fiber of his being when the weight of such a revelation pressed down upon him, and, bonelessly, he sank into his bed. For now, he was safe, and there was nothing the presence could do but watch as he drifted off into unconsciousness.

"I think something's wrong with him. Aside from the usual."

  Tasque Manager looked up from her butler juice at the sound of Swatch's voice. They had, in one hand, a cup of koffi, still steaming, while the other was scrolling through a page in their tab book. They hadn't looked at her.

  "What do you mean?" She inquired with a sip of her drink. "Is this about Spamton's recent behavior? I thought he was just acting aloof to get out of work. After the second chance we're giving him, too!" Curious, she set her cup on the counter and leaned closer to Swatch to read over their shoulder.

  "See, that's what I thought to, but ever since that..."  They stilled, caught in either a memory or on a missing word. "...Reaction, from a couple days ago-" Momentary stupor forgotten, they held the tab book closer for her to see, the page opened to the data log for Spamton's behavior. "I've been looking through his log for a pattern to his behavior, and I noticed something." They scrolled up until they found what they were looking for, and she was left to follow their finger as they pointed. "Around this time, he was acting as usual. Cocky, sarcastic, prideful. Again, usual. However-" They scrolled down. "Here is where his behavior started to change. He became quiet, fatigued, and antsy, and only got worse as time progressed. It got to the point where we had to leave him holed up inside his room, and I belieeeve..." They had been slowly scrolling down as they talked, but now they were scrolling back up with triple the speed. "This." Their scrolling stopped with a jab of their finger at the page. "Is the cause."

  Further, she leaned, until her chin was resting on their shoulder and she had to stabilize herself with a hand on their back. The log seemed to have recorded just a run-of-the-mill day, until she read about the doctor's visit. Right. For that AdBlock installation.

  Interest piqued, she slipped off her stool to stand behind Swatch, leaning her body into theirs in favor of reading comfortably. After the visit, according to the log, his speech, though purged of ads, was slurred and lagging, with the man himself acting skittish and distracted, as though he wasn't all there. Her brows furrowed as she read. No doubt his recent behavior was brought about by the AdBlock, but what in his programming would cause him to react in such a way?

  "Swatch." Her eyes raked through the log again, hoping to catch some crucial piece of information that she had missed, with Swatch doing the same. "What species of Darkner is Spamton?"

  They paused, then leaned against her, arms folded across their chest. Their faces were mere inches apart. "I, uh..." Their brow furrowed. "Hm." Tasque Manager rubbed circles into their shoulder, as if that would help their inner search query load. However, they both continued to read over the log; with two sets of eyes looking, how could they be missing something? "I believe his core coding is that of Addison origin, though he could just as easily be a Trojan program. It's hard to tell with how, uh, all over the place his programming is."

  "Hm, yeah." She chuffed out a laugh. "He's gotta be an Addison then, because I don't think her Majesty would let a Trojan stay in the mansion."

  "Would she even know if she was?"

  "Probably not."

  They both chuckle at that, momentarily forgetting what it was they were talking about before returning to the task at hand. Tasque Manager felt that a burden had been lifted during the brief moment of mirth, and was about to crack another joke to keep the atmosphere elevated when something finally clicked for her. Mirth made way for confusion as she turned her head to better face Swatch.

  "What happens when you install an AdBlock in an Addison?"

  They locked eyes with her through a side look.

  Leading up to now, nothing interesting had happened.

  Before the start of the work day, they had gotten into uniform, eaten a breakfast of frozen bagel bytes, and caught up with their unread messages. Only one had caught their eye: a text from their cousin, wishing them a Happy New Year's. It had been sent two months ago, and served as a subtle reminder that they should check their messages more often. They didn't bother opening the rest of them, so they were marked as read.

  Work did what work always does: it dragged until a customer gave them something productive to do, then went right back to dragging. The Addison across the street, oftentimes having nothing to do, would occasionally come over to converse, which was... nice, but distracting. At least he wasn't annoying about it.

  There was nothing interesting about lunch break either. They'd step off the clock, pull out whatever they had packed that day from their inventory, then settle down at whatever bench caught their eye. The Addison across the street, Displayse, always managed to find them, and would thereafter spend his lunch break in their company. However, he never used the time to eat.

  It was only after today's lunch break that the "interesting" presented itself.

  "Oh, I think it likes you," the blue Addison beside them commented, thinly veiled adoration seeping into his tone. A tasque was rubbing against their leg, and honestly, they didn't know how to react. They weren't a tasque person.

  Suddenly, the feline stood to perch its front paws on their knees, effectively knocking them out of their stance. Displayse practically squealed in delight. "Awww, Targetooooon. You made a new friend!" He knelt to start skritching it behind an ear, cooing, "You're just a little sweetheart, aren't you? Yes you are!" A loud inhale. "Yes you are!" The tasque began to headbutt his hand, purring, and that's when they saw it. A collar, fastened around its neck.

  "Displayse," the orange Addison commented. "This is a mansion tasque." At that, Displayse's hand flew away from the cat, as if burned, and he began to glare suspiciously at the creature while rubbing his wrist. His antics went ignored.

  Without the physical attention, the tasque went back to kneading their knees, mewling. "I'm assuming I have a summons to the Mansion," Targeton state, bending slightly to read the name on the tag. Skribbles. "This must be a newly employed tasque if its letting people pet it."

  "A summons?" The blue Addison repeated, cautiously reaching out to pet the creature again. "Booo. You were going to introduce me to your cousin today." His hand began to scratch under its neck.

  "Auctionelle can wait," they said, walking off in the hopes the tasque would follow to begin its escort. "Queen cannot." Finally, it peeled away from Displayse to take the lead.

  ***

As it turned out, Queen wasn't the one who had been waiting.

  The Tasque Manager herself greeted them at the Mansion's entrance, releasing her pet of its duties as she insisted they walk with her to "the problem". Though her explanations on the way helped to answer their unspoken questions, they were still curious as to how the Cyber World's most orderly and meticulate professionals hadn't been aware of such a piece of information as vital, and usually obvious, as a Darkner's species.

  "How didn't you know your guest was an Addison?" They inquired when finding room to speak. "With that in mind, why an AdBlock? Addisons are an ad-based species, an AdBlock would be... less than ideal."

  "Yet you sell them?" Targeton cast her a side glance.

  "Right, but not to Addisons, seeing as it's basically ad deterrent. I would have bought one myself were that possible. Light knows how annoying Addisons are."

  "You're an Addison."

  They barked out a laugh. "Not an affiliation I'm content to admit. Now, about my question?"

  "Right, of course." The Tasque Manager cleared her throat, looking a smidgen embarrassed. "We installed an AdBlock because, well, again, we didn't know, but we didn't know because-" An awkward cough. "Because his code is in tangles. We had to look through his files from when he lived here to actually determine his species, though the file was quite the hassle to locate."

  "He doesn't live here currently?"

  "...It's...a special situation."

  How perfect was their timing, for the two of them to reach their destination just as their conversation had ended. They stood to the side of a door, which the Tasque Manager opened before motioning them to go inside, imparting them with the knowledge that a Swatchling would be waiting right outside were they to need anything, and leaving. She didn't need to tell them she had other matter to attend to by the way she speed-walked away.

  Just by standing there, they could feel the eyes of the room's occupant boring into the side of their head, so without looking, they reached for the doorknob parallel to them and pulled its conjoined door closed. The promised Swatchling wasn't here yet, and they weren't about to step into a room with a quarantined stranger without the comfort of backup. Until then, they were content to wait. Hey, it wouldn't hurt to go over the information they had gathered in the meantime.

  Firstly, the Tasque Manager had said that the Addison was easily agitated. While that did cause need for caution to be tread, they knew that such a behavior was common for an Addison saddled with an AdBlock. Their multitude of product testing experiments gave proof of this.

  They also knew that the agitation was a cause of anxiety, not anger. In these situations, Addisons tended to develop a nervous demeanor, as well as sensory issues and a paranoia of sorts, and would understandably react to their surroundings negatively. Of course, the level of anxiety an Addison felt varied with each individual, but roughly, they were to be approached the same way; calmly and casually. Anything that indicated distress would only serve to further set them off.

  Secondly; the tenant didn't live here. Hadn't lived here for quite some time, according to the Tasque Manager. With that said, it would be safe to assume that the circumstances of his stay were contributors to his stress, alongside the fact that his code was, supposedly, "in tangles". What could that mean though? How could one's code be so "tangled" that their Darkner type couldn't be identified.

  Whatever. That Swatchling still wasn't here, and they weren't going to waste time waiting around because of a little nervousness. They weren't nervous. Get it over with, Targeton. Open the door and get it over with.

  Idly, they remembered that the Tasque Manager hadn't told them the resident's name, but that problem solved itself as soon as they stepped into the room. Its occupant, still staring holes into them, wore a face they hadn't seen in well over fourteen years, not since it was last on TV. Whatever apprehension they felt before coming in vanished in light of their shock.

  They couldn't help it. They started laughing.

(Originally written 2/9/23)

[ditzyredrobin]

Before and After

Chapter 1

For Whumptober 2024 Day 27, Before and After, Alternate universe

-

So, I guess I forgot to post this one here? Originally, this was just supposed to be one shot—Dick and Lazarus!Tim bonding but 4,613, chapter 2 is on the way. 😂

-

In a blink, the knife is out of his hand soaring across the living room, towards the intruder. All the while without dislodging the bottle from the fussy pup in his arms. After hours of crying—of soothing, and changing, and singing, and bouncing, and burping she had refused to go down until now and Tim was Exhausted™️.

If he didn’t know any better, he would have assumed the black and blue costumed vigilante was another assassin sent by the League—Nightwing moved with easy grace, easing his way through the window, movement flowing like water and air. But not even the best of the League had managed to crack his security without electrocuting the shit out of themselves.

The room was illuminated by Friends reruns and the Gotham skyline peaking in through the crack in the curtains.

Nightwing ducked and weaved, only narrowly missing a knife through the delt. He rolled back to his feet without a hitch, shocking blue eyes wide and wild with the whiteouts down. The knife stuck in the wall with a satisfying thunk.

Without missing a beat Tim uttered lowly, “Breaking and entering is punishable offense. At the very least it’s C felony, at least 10 years in prison, and upwards of a $250,000 fine.” Not that he could actually get a judge in Gotham to prosecute without a hefty bribe.

Nightwing held up his empty palms in surrender keeping his feet firmly planted. “I’m sorry, we haven’t heard from you and I wanted to check on you.”

Tim discretely adjusted the cashmere blanket across his lap over the pup with a silent prayer she didn’t wake up. “Well, you can tell everyone I’m fine. If I needed help, I would have asked.” He snarks, adding. “But I didn’t.”

I don’t need a keeper.

But that was the thing about bats—they had a tendency to be too nosey for their own good, to pick, and poke, and prod until you were on the verge of wanting to pull your hair out and scream.

Boundaries? I hardly know her.

If Nightwing noticed, he didn’t say anything, opting to remove his domino and tucking it away, his brows were furrowed.

Tim knew how he looked—gaunt, deep purple bags under his eyes, cheekbones sharper than they should be.

Welcome to being a single parent.

“I know you didn’t ask but it’s what family does. I want to help.” Dick sounded painfully desperate earning an eye roll. “No matter what you will always be my little brother.”

Tim scoffed, “If I needed help I would have asked.” What part of he’s fine was not getting through that thick skull of his? Maybe it’s just all the years of vigilante-related concussions. “Maybe in another life we were family but I’m not your brother, Dick,” not anymore , “you don’t even know me.”

Dick breathed a heavy sigh, moving around the overstuffed couch to sit. It took everything in Tim not to bare his teeth and growl. “Of course I know you, Tim. You will always be my little brother.”

“But I’m not!” Tim finally snapped, startling Amalia awake. Her little lip wobbled, her nose scrunched, and Tim went into oh shit mode. Her wails made his inside twist and churn with the need to fix it , as she shook her tiny fists in anger.

He set the empty bottle down and adjusted her so she was upright in his arms to burp her. “Shh, ya Rohee,” he crooned, patting her back.

My soul.

She was his everything—his sun, his moon, to the moon and to Saturn. The only good thing that came of his time with Ra’s after the Council of Spiders and the Pit.

He could feel Dick watching him but didn’t look up, opting to instead rock his infant. She was small, even for a babe of her age, he still had a hard time imagining her anything other than fragile.

He nuzzled her, her patch of almost black, whispy hair tickled his nose, purring softly. It was a little uneven with disuse but it soothed her enough to bring her wails down to whimpers. She smelled milky and soft and like his . He did his best to ignore the hint of spicy incense underlying in her scent from her other father.

She was his and no one else’s. It would change in a few months and maybe he would finally stop seeing him in the shadows.

There was no way she was going down now but he’d lost all hope of that when Dick disengaged his security and decided to sneak in (an issue he would be working on a patch for later).

His eyes felt hot but he ignored it. He didn’t need a nap anyways, right? He’d worked more on less after all. This should be cake , right?

Eventually, as the pup calmed down, Tim dared to glance up at his unwanted visitor. There was a complicated expression that Tim couldn’t quite discern despite all of his training. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. I don’t even know who I am.”

For a long moment, Dick sat with that, a complex flurry of emotions crossed his face before settling on something soft. A fondness, watching the small pup in his arms. “You have a baby?” Talk about understatement of the century.

Tim rolled his eyes, continuing to pat the pups baby. “Yes, last time I checked I did, in fact, have a baby. I have the stretch marks to prove it. You want to see?”

Dick shook his head, “That isn’t what I meant. I just…How old is she? What’s her name?” He sat forward with his elbows on his knees.

Tim had to think for a long moment, back tracking the dates. The escape had been four days following her birth, still sore and as unsteady on his legs like a newborn fawn. There hadn’t been a choice—it was escape or lose Amalia. She had been born weak, words like failure to thrive had been tossed around. Ra’s Al Guhl was gifted with another disappointing heir.

“Well, Timothy, we’ll just have to try again, won’t we? Surely you won’t disappoint your Alpha a second time.” The or else was implied.

He had still been on his back, bleeding from the long birth. His milk supply hadn’t come in and the tiny pup wailed across the room with the wet nurse.

“Tim?” Dick sounded concerned, snapping him back into the present. His grip on Amalia tightened just a hair, her warm weight against his shoulder grounding.

“Amalia,” he said remembering the question. “Her name is Amalia and she’s-“ If he had been in Gotham for nearly a month, days before being found out and the trek from the Cradle to Gotham had taken around two weeks… “Her birthday is July 19th.” He said instead.

Fresh out of the Pit, time was hazy, seasons and dates made little impact on his life and Gotham’s perpetually gray skies.

Dick had a worried look on his face. “What about her other the father?”

“Dead.” Tim said succinctly.

That he made sure of.

Dick made a soft noise of acknowledgement, continuing to watch the baby with a fondness in his eyes. He didn’t push the matter. “She’s beautiful. You did so well.” He croons softly, “I’m sure it was hard for you.” He didn’t know the half of it.

“It was hard,” Tim admitted softly, basking in the Alpha’s praise. Finally, Amalia burped. “I had a few people that helped—Talia and an assassin I saved after-“ before he died, after the Pit, and before Amalia. “After. They made it easier but Talia wasn’t around often. I don’t think she was overly fond of what he was doing.”

“What about the assassin?”

Tim bit his lip, his eyes felt hot. “I don’t feel her bond anymore.” There was a bone deep ache without her. Whether she had cut it herself to save him, or really hadn’t made it out after Ra’s death, was all up in the air. “I’ve looked for her but-“

“But she’s part of the League.” Dick filled in and Tim nodded. He was quiet for a long moment before promising, “We’ll find her.”

Tim looked up from the pup quickly, “What?”

“We’ll find her.” Dick repeated with all of the seriousness in the world. “For you. I promise.”

Tim held his eye for a long moment, gauging the whether or not believe his words but Dick’s resolve never faltered. He felt his pulse pick up and a bright blip of emotion he didn’t want to think about. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. What about Batman? He doubt he’ll be a fan of having a member of the League in Gotham.”

“I’ll handle Bruce.” Dick promised. “Just focus on you and your pup. We will find her.”

Tim bit his lip nodding once. He didn’t trust it but maybe… maybe just this once he would try.

[moonstruckpupwrites]

little snippet of something short and super self indulgent im writing ft swapfell papyrus that will hopefully be done at some point in the next few days!!:

“does it hurt a lot?”

You would have shaken your head if it hadn't been cupped gently in his two hands so you settled for a little “eh” instead.

“It hurt a lot when the needles were going through and when they were putting the jewelry in but now it's mostly just sore.”

Rusty nodded at that, a far off look on his face. You knew that look. He was thinking about something.

Hard.

That could be dangerous.

“What.”

He snapped to attention and looked at you quizzically, still holding your face surprisingly tenderly, like one might cradle a baby bird that has fallen from its nest.

“what what?”

“What were you thinking about, ding dong? I could practically smell the smoke.”

He snorted at the playful ribbing (HA! Rib.) and stared you down with a lopsided smirk on his face.

Uh oh.

“can i kiss you?”

divider credit: @/cafekitsune

[averycutesalamander]

NO!! SNAKE BITE BOOTHILL I'LL FOREVER WAIT FOR YOI...... MY BELOVED

Silliness apart I 100% understand. I'll love anything you write. Can you give a taste of what ur writing right now? The 18k draft? I'm curious.....

by the way, do you think boothill would like whiskey? With 2 ice cubes?

-Snake Bite anon

edit: i wrote most of this like right when i got the ask (like two months ago i am SO sorry 💀) and meant to finish it immediately after but uhhh obviously that didnt happen. and in retrospect it is extremely funny how nervous i was to talk about this considering how bad my newest newest draft is. anyway here you go

-

oh god anon the can of worms youve just opened.. 😭 im sort of nervous talking about it but. im too obsessed with it to not finish and post it eventually so i guess i should just rip off the bandaid now.

cw pseudoincest under the cut but HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

ok so for the record this is NOT MY FAULT. i was talking with (redacted) about how sad it is that one of my favorite writers sees him as an uncle. like, it's a familial thing. and we were joking like "well that wouldnt stop me lmao am i right guys" and it was all in good fun.

and then i started. Thinking About It. and entirely against my will my brain formed a plot. and at first i was just gonna write like a drabble or something to get it out of my system but uh. well.

yeah. so. yeah. so. ok. i know this looks bad but HEAR ME OUT. also spoilers for the first uhhhhh maybe half of the fic ?? two thirds of the fic???

ok so. this initially takes place before the IPC arrival. the reader gets adopted by one of his sisters when she's 5 because she was alone in the desert. she cant talk, and by the time she can, she doesnt remember what happened, so whatever. she meets boothill (who i am presently calling ahiga because i literally could not dodge around the name for that long) when she's 7 and LET ME EMPHASIZE THAT IT IS COMPLETELY PLATONIC AT THAT POINT. 100% PLATONIC. THERE IS NO GROOMING IN THIS FIC. OR UNDERAGE. ZERO. ZIP. ZILCH.

so reader is like.. cripplingly lonely with some major attachment issues. her mama's farm is pretty far from everyone else and there aren't many kids her age in the family, so she doesn't have many connections when she's younger. and she's a quiet kid, so she doesnt get much attention from the rest of her relatives. boothill can kinda see this to some degree, and i think hes sort of acquainted with loneliness (although his is largely self-inflicted at this point) so he kinda goes out of his way to include her in stuff and be nice to her. NOT in a creepy way, just in a regular cool uncle way. he teaches her how to ride horses, gives her sweets when mama isnt looking, that kind of thing. they don't see each other all that often but it's enough that they have a pretty solid, positive relationship.

so when shes like 16 she forms a teeny tiny itty bitty crush on him. just like. a little thing. and shes VERY aware that that's fucked up and she should cut that out immediately, but the thoughts kind of linger. but like.. presumably that'll just.. iron itself out eventually. with time. it's fine.

and almost immediately after that the IPC shows up and shit goes down. she and mama get kicked off their ranch and have to go shelter with nick and graey, and in the next week or so many other relatives follow. boothill ends up dropping off his daughter (who im calling manaba in this fic for the sake of naming consistency) to join the rebellion. reader helps out with the war effort, does supply runs, that kinda thing. when the ipc finally gives the kill order, shes between towns, and since they're targeting population centers, she escapes the direct blasts and shelters in a river to avoid the ensuing wildfires.

not everyone is so lucky, obviously. no one in her family (that she knows of) survives. some shit happens, but she ends up getting picked up by a group of survivors. skipping the details, several years go by. she doesnt really make any new friends, and the loneliness sinks its teeth into her - so she relies on the past to keep her grounded. the memories of her mom feel too painful, but her memories of her uncle feel.. safer. kinder, in a way. and in the back of her head, that tiny crush starts to fester. subconsciously, she starts to feed it, because the loneliness is ripping her apart, and this weird fucked up little fantasy feels like the safest way for her to keep it at bay. it's not a conscious thing, though. she's actively disgusted and disturbed by it every time it crosses her mind. it just kind of.. stews in the background.

she starts sleeping around to sate that loneliness. "There's a void in you that you haven't managed to fill. Something about having someone's hands on you makes the ache a little quieter, a little more manageable, but not by much." it's not born out of love, or any kind of affection - just a feral sort of desperation.

she never really feels like her partners fit her. when she finally realizes that shes chasing people with features that remind her of her dead fucking uncle, she promptly declares herself a freak forever and sentences herself to celibacy until she can figure out whatever the fuck is wrong with her brain.

she ends up leaving the planet, because staying is too painful. im a little foggy on the details here, but tldr she finds a mentor and gets into the tech scene, then the hacking scene, then starts doing what she can do fuck with the ipc wherever possible, etc etc. somehow, experiencing the impossible vastness of the universe, being surrounded by a functionally infinite amount of people, feels more lonely than ever. she's just kind of adrift in the world - sending money back home to help people make end's meet, generally just trying to find a reason to live beyond fear. there's a storm of emotions brewing inside of her - the hatred and the terror and the grief. she does all she can to spite the IPC, but it never feels like enough. it never feels like it does any good.

and then, years after the massacre, she's at a bar meeting with a client, and she sees him, and he sees her. and she's thinking "holy fucking shit that's my dead uncle" and he's thinking "holy fucking shit that's my dead niece" and they reunite and stuff. very heartwarming, very sweet, lots of tears (well. from her at least. he can't partake obviously 💀) and they start catching up over drinks.

and that's when he tells her his mission - that he knows who pulled the trigger, and who was behind the slaughter of their people. and she latches onto that HARD, because now she has a specific target for her emotional turmoil instead of the vague, amorphous concept of "the company." etc etc etc they agree to team up because he could use someone to help with behind-the-scenes stuff. and also because it's really nice to have someone around from home. so they exchange contact info and stuff, yay yay yippee

so they chat more, and they drink more, and reader maaaaaybe kinda sorta drinks a little too much. more than a little, actually. more than enough that her hold on her inner monologue slips and she starts thinking about how pretty he is. and suddenly that dormant little harmless crush that she was subconsciously feeding is swinging back around with a vengeance, because now it's real, and he's here, and he's ALIVE, and god did his lips always look that soft or-

and. well. eventually she uh. she might maybe kinda sorta ask if she can kiss him. and then processes the words that just came out of her mouth and starts CRYING because what the FUCK is wrong with her. and he like.. never addresses it directly. he just calms her down and makes sure she gets back to her hotel room and fucking DIPS.

BUT THE THING IS. THE THING IS. SHE WAKES UP THE NEXT MORNING. AND DOESN'T REMEMBER DOING IT. SO NOW HE KNOWS!! BUT SHE DOESN'T KNOW THAT HE KNOWS!!!! AND THEY HAVE TO ACT NORMAL!!!!!!!!!!!!

so the next bit is kinda loose and im probably gonna tweak some things. but. but. they have to go on a mission together. and.

yeah. im. yeah. they have to go to a bdsm club. together. and im sure you can guess. where im going with that. theres a particular section from the club scene that has been absolutely CONSUMING ME but idk if i should share that yet jawhbdjahwdbjawbajd unless somebody asks nicely ig. but jesus christtttttttttt it makes me feel insane. this whole fic makes me feel insane. the ending makes me want to chew my hands off but we'll get there when we get there. fucking pray for me because im not seeing the gates of heaven with this one

[cassiopeia-mori]

redraws i did for fun, the original (and cooler, frankly) doodles are from @no-hl btw go check them out and follow them and like all their posts and reblog all their posts and

(old man yaoi)

[screams-in-writing]

Hehehehehehehe :)

This got longer than expected, but hey, more to read, right? A little background explanation, then there’ll be that preview of what I’ll eventually get to in the fic with mc/reader and Mr. Puzzles.

Keep in mind the fics tags/warnings of the fic since this isn’t on ao3 yet (I’ll tag some things for the post)

Also- note that what’s written here may be subject to some change once the chapters prior to it are posted (and that more edits may be done).

Context-this would be once reader and Mr puzzles are on better terms and have actually spent time together-like some of the other snippets I did where mr puzzles shows himself to be very in others space and touch starved. Like, there is interest in MC/reader yet not acted on, both trying to figure where the other stands on an unspoken friendship of around a month and a half (or two) whether it’s mixed with more since it seems a bit too fast for what little Mr. Puzzles has offered up of where he came from.

But teasing? Teasing and verbal sparring seems to be safe until it leads to a hug in the following future chapter. which would be fine for friends, but the whole hugging your friend while they’re shirtless while also checking them out a bit too closely and experiencing emotions is maybe a little past being just friends? Reverse strip tease I think? Hmu if this needs more tags. I think this is toeing the T rating even if I cut some things out.

Ok enough of me yammering. Short Mr puzzles pov, and then the mc/reader’s.

-

I didn’t anticipate for you to visit me at the edge of town in my pitiful, sparse home I’d claimed the first day I’d arrived. 

It was a welcome distraction, however. Though, spending time with you was becoming less a distraction and more surprisingly welcome company. The only problem was that it was not good timing on your part until I belatedly recall that you’d agreed to meet me here today. 

I’d even given you get a set of keys to the place after you convinced me to set locks into the small, dilapidated house if I really wanted to stay there. I highly doubted this would have been able to be done in a large city, without paying for the place. For some reason, there appeared to be pity for me here on town, and that allowed me to somehow stay here in this building for as long as I needed to. 

There is a knock on the door to the chosen ‘bedroom’ but instead of reacting, I found myself frozen in place as I realized my current predicament. I had just been doing some routine maintenance with the tools this world was able to provide for me, until I heard otherwise from SMG4. 

But this meant that I was not currently dressed for company. I was also so very exposed and it was nerve wracking to think of anyone seeing the upper half of my body without clothing covering it. All that was there was a black towel that I’d loosely wrapped around my neck to help me not stare at the mess my neck had become. What with all the wires underneath skin supporting my spine, and the way bits of wire and metal poked in and out of my skin without the protective layer of fabric I kept around the wires. 

I completely missed the sound of a key on a lock, signaling that you’d opened the front door and locked it. With rising trepidation, I realized I’d foolishly left my door half-open right before you knocked on it. Swiftly, I crossed my arms over my chest and abdomen Thank goodness I’d finished the internal inspection a half hour prior to this moment, while I attempted to work up the nerve to do see to my his back. But that would require me to take my head off, place it behind myself on a table and contort my arms to perform the inspection, though it would be difficult without the tools I needed Smg4 to agree to get to me.

“Puzzles?” It is you. “Are you in there?”

“Yes.” I stuttered. Goodness, I was not well-prepared to be around anyone. “Do give me one moment to get myself presentable-“ My screen flashed to worry upon hearing a soft intake of breath. My shoulders hunched up as I pressed my arms tightly over my front. “I am hideous at present, my dear.” I couldn’t hide the tremble in my voice, refraining from smacking the side of my head to reset it forcibly. “Just…just let me find where I put my dress shirt. I’ll cover up and-“

“You’re not hideous, Puzzles.” You tell me patiently, entering the room with slow footsteps. 

I don’t quite believe it, but I feel there is sincerity in your voice. It made me relax somewhat. I even perked up when I heard curiosity next. 

“I’ve been wondering what you looked like without your dress shirt on all the time.” You commented, before adding. “More so different clothing styles, but also how the heck your body is shaped that way.”

“Oh? You’ve wanted to see me without my clothes? How scandalous.” I teased, slipping more comfortably into a showman attitude to hide the very real fear of the rejection that lurked in my mind that if you saw me without a persona and the confidence as well as the unsightliness of my exposed body, you wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore. That you wouldn’t want to get closer to me more than you already were, despite how desperately I wanted to spend more time with you. 

“I can wait outside the room, if you’re uncomfortable with me seeing you like this. I thought you might be resting, after yesterday. Plus, you know, we’re supposed to hang out today and temporarily forget about work? Relax?”

“Relax.” I repeated dubiously, before sighing theatrically without moving my arms from their crossed position. “I do recall that being the plan now, my dear.”

“Do you want me to leave?” You asked again, not having taken another step toward me. 

I hesitate, considering. 

Usually, I never let anyone see me so vulnerable, and yet.  

And yet you and I have had some rather interesting heart to heart conversations over these past few months. It wouldn’t be too bad if I let you see some of me like this? Slowly, I lower my left arm, and held it out to the side, palm up and held rather steadily, I must admit. Then, scrounging up the courage before I changed my mind, I spoke softly as a contemplative expression settled over my face. “You may…come closer, but do not look at my front, please.” I pressed my right arm across my chest nervously. 

(There will be a transition of maybe a few more sentences before it switches to readers pov-so it would be technically a new chapter)

You wondered if you should insist that Mr. Puzzles didn’t have to do anything that made him this uncomfortable; hunched shoulders, leaning forward a touch, antenna poking up out of the hat twitching in what you could only presume was nerves. 

And yet, he held a hand up, clearly seeking comfort because you didn’t need to hold Mr. Puzzles hand to inspect his exposed back. But this also gave you an earlier opportunity than later on to try something you’d been wanting to for at least a week. You weren’t entirely sure how he’d react, and perhaps being without clothing on his upper half might make your half-baked plan coming over here more difficult. 

There was only one way to find out. 

You stepped forward, watching Mr. Puzzles carefully for any other signs of discomfort, but he remained stiffly in place at the edge of the stool he was seated on. Reaching out with your own left hand, you set it on his, but after grasping it in what felt a reassuring way, he let go of you and went back to planting both arms across his chest from the way his fingertips dug into either shoulder lightly, on either side of a black bath towel wrapped around his neck. 

“It’s all right.” Mr Puzzles whispered. 

You’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself.  You’ moved to stand behind Mr. Puzzles after he let go of your hand, momentarily marveling that even seated on a stool the top of the TV set he called a head came to the top of your shoulders while you were standing.

“You’re ridiculously tall.” You commented, dropping your gaze to beneath the towel around his neck as a low chuckle emitted from Mr. Puzzles. 

“Better to oversee everyone in the cafe, no?” Amusement, and nervousness. 

“Sure, and for keeping a lookout for me?” You asked casually as you inspected the way his sleek robotic arms were attached to what was left of Mr. Puzzles’ human shoulder. It didn’t look sore around the attachment area but you weren’t certain if it was normal for where he came from for skin to be colored as it was. Slightly gray from where the robotic limbs were as the color went up what was left of the shoulder and spiraled across over his left and right shoulder blades. 

“I have noticed you, at times.” Mr. Puzzles said eventually, in a causal way. “Though ordinarily when you attempted to sneak up to that podcast area of yours before you so kindly invited me up to visit.”

“Like we didn’t notice you trying to eavesdrop a few times?”

“You could never prove it.” Mr. Puzzles hummed. 

“Probably not. You move pretty quick for being so tall as well.”

“One of my many charms.” Mr. Puzzles said proudly. 

“Running away?” You teased, thinking about the time Mr. Puzzles fled through the back door of the cafe and was gone before anyone could figure out what had happened was that his apron had been tugged at and he thought it was one of your roommates come back to get him for flirting with you. 

You think it was flirting, anyway. 

“Staying hidden.” Quiet. Contemplative. 

That…didn’t sound like a good thing.

You stared at the back of Mr. Puzzle’s tv head, then continued roving your gaze over his back when he had nothing more to say. 

Mr. Puzzles spine was…a distressingly visible bumpy line down his back all the way down to where it disappeared down his pants, the suspenders hanging off either side of the belt. There were no obvious robotic parts, just skin that was that graying color that trailed up past his waistline. Upon closer inspection, you could see what appeared to be a line of raised skin along the entire length of Mr. Puzzles spine. You glanced at the back of his head again, then stepped forward to  lightly brushed a few fingers along the raised skin, drawing out an involuntarily shiver from Mr. Puzzles. 

Scar tissue. 

Really thick scar tissue, as if it had been repeatedly cut open and sewn shut. 

“Hey, Puzzles?” You see the way his head tilts to the side, his fingers digging slightly harder into his shoulders. “Can I…give you a hug?”

A very long silence before a very slow exhale sounded. 

“You may. As long as you don’t…”

“…look at your front?”

“Yes.” Quiet.

“Can I touch or-“

“I would presume so for a proper hug.”Attempted amusement poor hiding of the desperate need for touch. 

“Tell me if it’s too much and I’ll stop?” You think you hear a muttered ‘would never be too much’ but couldn’t confirm as Mr. Puzzles  merely straightened up and held ramrod still as if he were about to be hit instead of hugged. 

That made you sad to think that he was nearly flinching as though expecting the worst despite your intentions being pretty clear with your words. Stepping forward, you lightly touch a shoulder blade, drawing forth a stronger shiver before mr puzzles practically leaned back into it.  His skin was slightly cooler to the touch than when he was wearing clothes. Then, he seemed to be warmer, and you couldn’t help but wonder if whatever had been troubling him, especially this past month, might be the reason. 

Mr. Puzzles uttered your name in a barely there whisper. 

You take a final step and lean in, deciding first where to rest your head before carefully wrapping your arms around middle, just below where his arms crossed over his chest. It was always a surprise that you could practically touch your own sides if you wished while hugging me puzzles with how slight he was around the middle compared to his ridiculously wide set shoulders and broad chest. But you merely hold your hands over his middle and press your arms into his skin, drawing yet another shiver. 

Was the temperature difference too much?

“That…feels nice.” Mr puzzles murmured appreciatively. 

Ah.

He liked the sensation of you touching him, perhaps a little more than when you had grabbed his antenna and yanked them, only to, after a very long conversation, pet them at Mr puzzles request about two weeks ago. It had left him a happy puddle of static buzzing and a fast heart rate. 

“This okay?”

“Mmhmm.” He sighed near dreamily. 

You decided to unclasp your hands to trace your fingertips along Mr. Puzzles quivering lower abdomen. This caused him to let out a little whine of static, trembling in place as if not sure whether to press into your touch or lean against you. 

When you note that Mr. Puzzles had begun to fidget you stopped, about to move your arms away when his own arms moved to clasp your hands with his own. Mr. Puzzles stayed motionless for a moment as he held your hands, before, with a little shake, settled them over his chest so you could feel his heartbeat. 

And more crisscrossing of strategically placed lines of scars that reminded you too much of a cadaver in a horror game you’d played.

You focused on his heartbeat instead. 

The two of you stayed in place like that for a moment before Mr. Puzzles eventually yet reluctantly relinquished his hold if your hands and dropped his own onto his lap. 

He was being uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Where’s your shirt?” You think he might feel better if he could see you and reciprocate a hug, but for that, he would need something to put on. 

A hand rose to point a digit to the left. 

You step over to the dress shirt (this one gray instead of white) and walked back to drape it over his shoulders. You watched as he slipped the sleeves over his arms and just as he was about to button it up you had inspiration strike you. Stepping obviously up behind him you lean into mr puzzles back again and shooed his hands away as you began to button the dress shirt up instead. 

Look at you go! All those dark morning fumbling with clothes  with buttons on occasion paid off and it drew an interesting reaction from Mr. Puzzles. 

“Not that I’m not flattered with this assistance but may I ask why?”

“Why not?” You respond, doing the last button right before you wrapped your arms around Mr. Puzzles again. “You look good in these clothes.”

“I do?” Uncertainty, then. “Well, of course, I do!”

You coax one of the suspended straps over Mr. Puzzles’ shoulder before he catches one of your arms. 

“I do believe I am capable of dressing myself, my dear.” 

“Yeah, you are, but I think you like me helping out?”

“And you deduced this how?”

“You’re letting me.” You point out as you let the other suspender strap snap over Mr. Puzzles other shoulder. 

“I do suppose that is true.” Mr Puzzles began to do his freaky 180 head turn, only to stop with a full body grimace and hastily turn it back forward. 

You take the opportunity to steal his bow tie that he was reaching for and step off to the side and out of ways reach of long gangly arms. You can’t help but let out a snort of amusement when Mr Puzzles gracefully spins the stool with a leg to face you. He studied you with an expression of amusement on his tv face.  You wordlessly hold up the bow tie and wiggle it. 

“I get up and you won’t get far.” Mr Puzzles said after a moment. The screen switched to a light smile and hooded eyes. 

He was really bad at hiding his interests even if those interests were likely to scoop you up and hold you in his lap or something while he soaked up his ‘allotted cuddling’ for the day. 

“Who said I was going to run?” You offer back. 

Intrigue, then a slightly manic smile.

Oh, you definitely got him interested in whatever it was you had in mind.

Mr. Puzzles stood up, and slowly approached you, watching you closely as he retained eye contact. How he did that with a static expression, you weren’t sure, but it sure was impressive. In two long steps, Mr Puzzles stood before you and held out a hand with a flourish, as if expecting you to bestow upon him the bow tie.

You reach over for the step-stool nearby and make a show of climbing the two steps as though it was an arduous task, drawing an appreciative chuckle for the theatrics. You reached out with your hands, making it clear you intended to do the bowtie for him too.

Mr. Puzzles indulgently stooped while keeping his neck upright. This close to him you could hear the fuzz of the screen and the huff of laughter over you clearly struggling to get the bow tie in place. 

“I guess it’s easier on the tutorial.” You eventually admit, jumping a little when Mr. Puzzles’ hands come up around yours.

“And most I assume are for one wearing the bow tie. Here.” He guided you through getting the bowtie into place, only to switch to a grin when it was done and you’d lowered your hands with his still around yours, as if Mr. Puzzles was reluctant to let go of you. He looked like he might try to pick you up despite his neck troubling him.

“Want to go to the other room?” You asked casually, as if Mr. Puzzles hadn’t just begun to pet the back of your hands with his ungloved ones while retaining a semblance of eye contact with you. 

“How about a change of venue?” Mr. Puzzles asked, his tone a little deeper than before, rougher. “I think it might be more private in the dimension in my mind.”

Okay, giving him undivided attention appeared to bring out the possessiveness, so time for a diversion to defuse that, and a great time, you think, to push things a little farther to let Mr. Puzzles know you did have interest in him and were down for whatever, even if it as cuddling and handholding at this point, like he insinuated yesterday, as if it were scandalous for friends to do. 

You don’t think it is, but whatever. If that was his current comfort zone you’d go with it and back off if your next words and actions went over poorly. “You have a ridiculously grabbable waist that allows a perfect angle to switch to grabbing your ass.” 

“Oh?” Mr puzzles screen flicked through a series of expressions before landing on a curious eyed eke with a smirk. “How raunchy. You’re lucky we’re not on one of my sets where that’d be highly inappropriate.”

“And since we’re not on a set?” You asked with curiosity, only to nearly jump out of your skin as Mr Puzzles has managed to move in that freakishly fast way of his where he now had you  up against a wall, hands on either side of your shoulders on said wall. 

“I would say I’m very…interested, to see where this is going.” Mr. Puzzles carefully lowered his tv head to rest it over yours. That didn’t seem comfortable to press his screen into the wall but he wasn’t found so very hard. 

You didn’t gove yourself time to think and reached out to grasp his hips. 

Mr puzzles trembled in place.

“You want me to keep going?”

“wouldn’t have said I were interested if I didn’t mean you to.”  Mr. Puzzles sounded oddly breathless. 

“You going to be okay, big guy?” You asked. “Just touching your hips seems to have gotten you all hot and bothered.”

“Unoriginal. Use something other than ‘hot’ and ‘bothered.’ Too cliche.” 

“I’ll give you cliche, ass.” And you promptly tugged him forward to grab said ass. His stupid, stupid backside that should not fit his lanky, weirdly built body. 

Mr. Puzzles hands pressed harder into the wall. 

“Any requests?” You asked, as if you weren’t just kneading him through his pants and making him shake. 

“Perhaps it is a bit too much?” Mr. Puzzles gasped out. It sounded like his screen was flashing through a lot of pictures and faces.

You stop, only for him to let out a frustrated whine. 

“I didn’t mean for you to actually stop.” 

You frown up at Mr. Puzzles, take in the pointed not looking at you as he kept his screen pressed to the wall, and then glance down. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“We can stop.”

“No, please continue.”

“We’re going to have another talk okay? Like we did about your antenna.”

A hum of agreement and then a desperate, softly uttered ‘please’. 

“This is okay, what we’re doing right now?” You asked again, wanting to make sure he wasn’t just stuck in the touch starved sensation where anything felt nice.

“Yes, yes it is.” A little snappish as the tv head leaned back for Mr. Puzzles to presumably eye you. “Do your worst. I am perfectly fine with where this is headed.”

“Okay, here goes.” You set one hand lightly on his hip while you followed the urge to give his ass a final slap through the pants that made Mr. Puzzles give a high-pitched yelp of surprise, as if not entirely expecting that.

He sank to the floor on his knees with a flushed expression flashing across his face. Mr. Puzzles buried his screen into his hands, but you catch a glimpse of the screen that showed off blushing, a small technicolor smile and a set of eyes set off to one side away from where you stood.

You decide to let Mr. Puzzles have some dignity while he gathered himself, but you can’t help leaning over pat his head, since it was easier to access when he was crouched or kneeling. The whisper of ‘good boy’ came out unbidden when you pet the side of his screen and an antenna, half-thinking he’d bat your hand away and scoff at you.  You did not expect the noise Mr Puzzles made as he sank entirely to the floor, curling up and pressing his hands into his tv face harder as his expression burned bright, his facsimile eyes on you this time, like he was seeing you in a new light and was very, very curious.

Wow.

Okay.

You knew Mr. Puzzles liked praise with that ego of his, but this flustered demeanor was new compared to the awkwardness of trying to strike up conversation with you in the first week of being here in the world.

[afterartist]

Thinking of rewriting my first ever fanfic but with different characters (because SOME ASSHOLE thought dating a 17 yr old when he was 27 was a good idea)

So now it’s your turn Undertale Multiverse community,

Time to select 7 random AUs you want to see thrown in an infinite non linear Asylum together

Link to the Original Fanfic for context:

REMINDER⚠️⚠️

I was 13 when writing this fic

So it’s got horrendous writing (not that it’s improved much (,: ), and very bad depictions of both Mental illnesses and the LGBTQIA+ community

It was written when I only knew of DID as MPD (and unfortunately vilified Alters as that’s all the knowledge I had of it at the time) and had basically no knowledge of LGBTQIA+ identities, I was raised in a conservative Christian home and thus has practically no real world experience with anything outside of my parents views (my grandparents to this day believe you can pray the autism away /: )

All of these will be rectified or just entirely left out in the rewrite as I have more knowledge and by no ways stand with those old viewpoints

[feralwritings]

dissonance

part five

4.2k words

She hasn’t noticed the way her breath is coming out, stuttering and shaky, the way her chest is heaving until it brushes against his as he draws closer, and the way that the cold arena has gotten warm until his fingers are tracing around the outside of hers, and there’s an ache to the gesture, an ache in the way he’s slightly trembling, an ache in the way he’s looking at her.   “Tell me you hate me,” He says, and it’s a plea, he’s begging, “Tell me you actually hate me so I can let this go. Please.”

masterpost

taglist: @cam-peggio @mewchiili

see end of post for content warnings.

They leave the glitter of Vegas in the rearview, driving another desert road until a mountain range looms in the distance, and they’re crossing over the border into Utah. September has turned the landscape into a kaleidoscopic display of reds, oranges and yellows, with smatterings of green here and there. The further north they go, heading into Salt Lake City, a picturesque little valley cradled beneath looming mountain peaks welcomes them, and once they’re settled into the hotel downtown, Reader takes a moment to admire the view of the mountains from the balcony attached to the room. 

There’s a chill in the air that wasn’t there in Vegas, and as it blows, lifting her hair gently, she closes her eyes against it, inhaling the scent of fall, loving the way the cold nips affectionately at her nose. 

It's soothing, in a way. She feels overheated more often than not these days, her proximity to Eddie only growing as the bands become more and more comfortable with each other. The wedding seems to have solidified some bonds, each complimentary member of both bands talking about their instruments, Robin and Gareth debating about which drumsticks are the most reliable, Nancy and Joey talking about the world’s greatest bassists, Chrissy and Jeff texting back and forth about which strings yield the best sound.

They intermingle, Steve coming out a bit more, interacting more, sitting in on dinners longer, hats still slung low over his ears, famous hair a little flatter than normal but smile brighter, which is really the only thing that matters to anyone.

It’s her and Eddie that still have that distance. There’s this bridge that they keep passing each other on, and sometimes he tugs at her sleeve and she catches his wrist but they’re pulled apart by some inextricable force, or pushed away by something that lives within each of them. 

These inhibitions disappear with alcohol, as evidenced by the Polaroids from Vegas, so Reader hasn’t touched a drop since, not because she’s scared of him but scared of what she might say, what she might let herself do. 

In a sense, there’s no use denying it anymore; there’s something here. Something is growing between them, but she can’t tell if it’s blooming like a flower or spreading like cancer, but either way, it grows. 

It doesn’t help that now is the time Stacy decides to crop back up, demanding to know why she was not consulted about the Melissa Etheridge cover, alluding to the fact that Eddie coming on stage for her and Reader not going on stage for his band is not what was agreed upon, and yelled down the phone for fifteen minutes when Reader pointed out that, hey, we still performed together, isn’t that what you wanted? 

Part of her doesn’t know why she’s hanging on so tight to UDR. Daisy Chain worked their ass off to be signed and this is what it got them here, on arena stages, playing their hearts out to crowds that are there for Steve, but have moved past tolerating them to actually liking them, aided in part by Reader singing with Eddie, so…credit where credit is due, she guesses. 

It still doesn’t make it any easier. When they sing together, he looks at her in that way that makes her legs go weak, the way he looked at her during the wedding, the way he looked at her at the club the night after. 

She doesn’t know how much of it he remembers. There are pieces of it missing from her memory, but she knows that they crossed into something that night, going from tolerating each other to actually enjoying each other's company, so much so that she knows that there were so many ways that night could’ve ended. 

The shows go well enough, a double rather than a single, both nights she’s paraded out onto Corroded Coffin’s stage, to make them shine a little brighter then leave, or at least that's how it feels for the second show, when Eddie keeps his distance, letting the rhythm section of the song fall away in favor of grasping the hands of the people at the barricade. It’s not like she even needs his attention, but quelling underneath his stare had become something she was getting used to, and the absence of it felt cold.

Maybe they’re moving away from active disdain to amicable indifference, which, in Reader’s mind, is the best course of action. There’s so much of the tour left, so many ways this could go, and the unknown of it all is making Reader’s stomach twist.

And then there’s everyone else. Chrissy keeps stealing furtive glances at her, opening her mouth like there’s something on the tip of her tongue, but before she says anything she seems to think better of it and either doesn’t say anything at all, or says something completely random. Nancy and Robin are in the throes of newlywed bliss, but even the shift in the dynamic hasn’t escaped their notice, and on the journey between Vegas and Salt Lake, and in the few days before the shows, Reader had walked in on them furtively whispering more than once, only to break away from each other the moment they realized Reader was watching.

It’s maddening, everyone seems to know something she doesn’t, and the memories of Vegas are hazy but not blank, and she feels like if anything did happen, even if her mind didn’t remember her body certainly would.

Eventually, she can’t take it anymore, so she leaves the bus, trudging into the arena under the guise of having forgotten something on the stage, and leaves the whispers, the looks, and the questions behind. 

***

When an arena isn’t streaming with lights, and when people aren’t pressed close together in the crowd, it can be a very chilling, haunting place. 

Each step she takes onto the stage echoes, and as she meanders about the equipment, packing up things, performing for an audience of exactly no one, another pair of quiet footsteps joins her own. 

She turns, a bundle of cables in one hand and a roll of gaffers tape in the other. 

“Hey,” Eddie exhales, hands in his back pockets, shoulders ratcheted up almost to his ears. He screams tense, with every step he takes, every time he runs a not entirely steady hand through his mess of curls. 

“Hi,” she says back, her tone just as clipped and nervous as his is, “How did you know I was here?”

He shrugs, “I didn’t. Just needed some quiet.”

The fact that they chose the same place for some quiet doesn’t bode too well, in her opinion, and she turns away to squeeze her eyes shut, puffing out her cheeks to let out an inaudible, yet shaky breath and bends to drop the cables into the rolling case.

“Listen,” He says, rather suddenly, and he sounds a lot closer than he was, and when she turns, he is, and she has to crane her neck back a little to look into his face, “About Vegas-”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” She cuts him off immediately, a small huff escaping from her lips as she speaks. She doesn’t know what exactly it is, what he’s referring to, and she watches as his face falls for a half a second before coming resolute again.

“I want to talk about it, though,” He says, taking half a step forward, she takes half a step back, the small of her back bumping against the case, “Listen to me, for just a second, okay?”

She simply stares, giving a small jerk of her shoulder to indicate that she is listening, but keeps her mouth shut, biting down on the inside of her cheek to counteract the way her heart has started thundering in her chest.

“There’s something going on here.” He states, factually, and she feels heat rise in her face, “I don’t know whether it's good or bad, all I know is that it’s something and this tour is going to be miserable if we keep ignoring it.”

That’s the word. Misery.

She huffs out a wry laugh, letting her chin dip onto her chest, speaking to the floor rather than to him, “You’re assuming I’m not already fucking miserable.”

“What?” 

She looks up at him, hating the confused look on his face, eyes wide and dark like a baby deer, the picture of innocence that she knows he doesn’t possess.

“I hate this tour. I hate being on this tour. I hate being told to play nice with you. I hate that our career, our band’s reputation seems to be contingent on whether or not I feel like being paraded out onto your stage like a prized cow to sing with a bunch of dudes who thought the best use of my mouth was to have some executive’s dick shoved into it.”

He takes all this on the chin, wincing only near the end.

“You don’t have to come on stage with us anymore, if that’s what you want.” He says, quick and cool.

“I don’t have a choice.”

His eyebrows draw together into confusion, “What do you mean, you don’t have a choice?”

“I mean, I don’t have a fucking choice. It doesn’t matter what I want. You don’t have Stacy in your ear every fucking day, telling you to-”

She cuts herself off. She doesn’t want to tell him, he doesn’t need to know. She doesn’t want his pity, or his smugness, or any other emotion that he could possibly spare for her. What she wants, what she needs is apathy from him. But he’s there, he’s always there in her peripheral vision, always already looking at her when she risks glancing at him. 

He’s here now, staring at her.

“What is Stacy telling you?” He asks, voice dripping with concern that hits Reader right in the chest, a hot spike of molten anger sticking to her skin. 

“Nothing, just forget it,” She mumbles out, making to turn away from him and walk away, but he doesn’t let her. 

A gentle hand closes over her wrist, and despite her feet telling her to run, to leave, to not let this go any farther, they’re glued to the stage by some invisible force. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, infinitely soft, softer than she wants, softer than she deserves, “What’s going on?”

He’s crowding her against the rolling case now, tall and wiry, muscle here and there, his arms, his shoulders. She tilts her head back to look into his face, stiff with concern, eyebrows drawn together, dark brown eyes soft and wanting. 

He looks at her like that a lot, she’s noticed. 

But there’s no way he can know. He can’t know what hangs in the balance, and he can’t know because he’s proven that he wants to help. And she’s resolved fully to the fact that after this tour ends, she never has to see him again. 

She tells herself, time and again, that it’s because she doesn’t want to. 

She knows, deep down, like looking into a dark room where something terrifying lurks, that she wants to give in. 

She hasn’t noticed the way her breath is coming out, stuttering and shaky, the way her chest is heaving until it brushes against his as he draws closer, and the way that the cold arena has gotten warm until his fingers are tracing around the outside of hers, and there’s an ache to the gesture, an ache in the way he’s slightly trembling, an ache in the way he’s looking at her.  

“Tell me you hate me,” He says, and it’s a plea, he’s begging, “Tell me you actually hate me so I can let this go. Please.”

His eyes aren’t on hers, they’ve settled on her lips, like he needs to see the words fall from them. 

The thing is - she can’t. She can’t tell him that she hates him because ultimately, she doesn’t. Sure, he’s annoying and cocky, but there’s this undercurrent to all of it, the teasing, the jokes, being a pest. He wants her attention. He pokes and prods and pigtail pulls, always toeing the line, just so he can get her to look at him, to acknowledge him, to spare him a modicum of time. 

And she knows, deep down, that she could’ve put a stop to this if she really wanted to. He cares enough about her, maybe even respects her a little bit that if she genuinely wanted him to leave her the fuck alone, all she would have to do is say the word. 

But she’s never said it. 

It's a bit sick how much she enjoys it. The constant back and forth. The concealed smiles. 

But, she can’t. She fucking can’t - there’s still so much of the tour left, and with everything on her plate she simply cannot add this onto it, she’ll be crushed under the pressure of it all.

So, she ducks underneath his arm and begins resolutely marching across the stage, but the farther she gets, the slower she gets, and she’s twenty feet away from him when she slows to a stop. 

They’re two opposing magnets. Only one of them has to turn around for them to crash into one another. 

So, she turns. 

He’s not looking at her. His head is tilted back towards the ceiling, and she swears she sees a shine in his eyes when he spares a final glance her way, eyes growing wide when she’s suddenly back in his space, pulling him down for a bruising kiss. 

His reaction is immediate, arms snapping around her waist to bring her closer, moaning into her mouth when she swipes her tongue against his bottom lip. There is no care for finesse, for delicacy as he licks the inside of her teeth, pulling her impossibly closer until she’s on tiptoe, feet barely brushing the floor as he winds himself around her, one hand braced at the back of her neck as the other settles in the crook of her knee as she wraps her leg around his hip to try and gain some semblance of balance.

Eventually, he gives up on trying to meet her in the middle entirely, one hand slamming the lid of the rolling case shut as he lifts her onto it, hands flying to unbutton her flannel. Their hands meet in the middle and he shoves it off her shoulders, breaking from her lips to bite at the junction between her shoulder and neck, bra strap slipping down her arm.

She moans at the feel of his teeth, hands sliding into his hair as he bends to nip at the flesh of her breast, tongue dancing along the cup of her bra before she reaches between them, yanking the cups down and away from her breasts, and Eddie’s mouth waters at the sight of her nipples, pebbled against her soft skin, breasts bouncing slightly from the impact of the movement. She returns this move in kind, nails biting into the fabric of his t-shirt before she’s ripping it over his head, digging her fingers into his shoulders when he leans towards her again.

He cups her tits as he kisses her, ring clad fingers pulling and tugging harshly on her buds, and judging by the noises she makes, the way her hips cant up towards him, she’s deeply enjoying herself, throwing her head back with a groan, panting into the stagnant air of the arena.

She’s devilish, though, which Eddie really should have known, as she tugs him closer by his belt loops, her hand pressing down against his bulge, palming roughly at the denim. 

He can feel her grin when he stutters out a moan against her lips, her other hand joining its counterpart as she tugs his belt free, unbuttoning his pants and yanking at the fly, before delving her hand in past the waistband of his underwear to wrap around his cock.

He’s so hard it almost hurts, and when she squeezes on the upstroke, running the pad of her thumb over the weeping head, he whines into her neck, retaliating with a nip to her pulse, his hands scrambling for purchase on her back and at the base of her neck, hips moving in time with her strokes.

“So needy,” she coos, seizing his chin in her hand, squeezing a little so his lips are squished together, leaning in to kiss him so sweetly, before catching his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling. 

She’s got him so worked up that he briefly forgets he wants to fuck her, but when he remembers, he clamps his hands around her hips and yanks her forward, so her ass is at the very edge of the case. The force of the motion pulls her hands away from him and she plants them behind her on it to steady herself. 

“Fuck-“ he growls out, working open the button of her jeans, and she lifts her hips up so he can yank them down her thighs. She’s almost entirely naked now, save for her shoes, which he bends to tear off so he can get her jeans all the way off of her legs. Her socks are disgustingly cute, little dinosaurs racing around her ankles, and he feels an all too familiar pull of affection as he smooths his hands up her thighs, slipping one between them, rubbing up and down her folds. 

She pulls him in for another bruising kiss by the back of his neck, all tongue and teeth and sloppy, one hand still supporting her as she teeters off the edge of the case. She’s attempting to use her feet to get his pants down, socked toes slipping into his waistband and pressing down, but this move unbalances her completely, and she slips with a shout then a laugh as he catches her, forearms braced under her knees to keep her from falling. 

“You okay?” He asks, and she nods feverishly, slipping herself out of his grasp and putting her feet on the ground. 

He isn’t quite prepared for what she does next. 

She turns around, planting her hands, palms flat on the top of the case. She looks over her shoulder, smirking at his shocked expression. 

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” She asks, somewhat condescending and somewhat sincere, and he’s broken out of his reverie, scanning the flexing muscles of her back, the plumpness of her ass, and finally, the puffy folds of her cunt visible between her legs. 

“God,” he teases, slotting himself behind her as he shoves his pants down, getting them just past his knees, “You’re so fucking bossy.”

“Mmm,” she hums, pressing her ass back against him, “Someone’s gotta keep you in check.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” He drawls, taking himself in hand and lining himself up with the slick channel of her cunt, kicking her legs a little wider when he can’t quite fit.

Before she can answer, he’s sinking into her, and the noise she makes is forever going to be implanted in his brain.

He rests his forehead between her shoulder blades as they both adjust, panting. 

She is so fucking wet, her cunt so needy that there’s barely any resistance as he bottoms out, and he stays there, enveloped in blissful, wet warmth for a few moments, before she whines, high pitched and petulant. 

“Oh, my God,” she huffs, and she intentionally clenches around him, “Fucking move, Eddie.”

Her tone stirs him on, and beneath the white hot pleasure and the need, he feels competitive again.

“Where,” he smacks the meat of her ass, the resulting crack echoing around the arena, along with a hiss from her, “exactly, are your manners?” 

He doesn’t see it when she smiles, as she makes her expression carefully challenging as she looks over her shoulder at him, eyes lidded in a faux expression of boredom, and she actually starts to stretch her jaw in an exaggerated yawn before he pulls almost all the way out, snapping his hips back into her with a growl. 

She squeals, the impact forcing her forward a couple inches, the palms of her hands squeaking along the hard plastic before she recovers, fucking her hips back against him just as hard as he’s fucking into her.

There’s the squishy sounds of her pussy, the smack smack smack of their skin against each other, and a consonant chorus of desperate noises falling from each set of lips, and if Eddie wasn’t so focused on the feel of her in his hands, around him, against him, he’d recognize that they’re damn near harmonizing, musicality never leaving them even in the throes of sex. 

There’s a sheen of sweat clinging to her back, and as he bends to mouth hungrily along her shoulder, he presses her into the case, nipples brushing against the plastic with each sway of her breasts, metal edging biting into the skin of her tummy, the added stimulation seems to send her closer to the brink of orgasm, as her moans become increasingly desperate, and she begins clenching around him at regular intervals. 

Eddie, for his part, has been trying not to come since the moment he started fucking her. He’s quite literally dreamt of this moment for weeks on end at this point, and through his imaginings of a thousand different scenarios, he had never quite realized that it would feel this good. What had started out as open disdain for one another had melted into mutual teasing (accompanied by an embarrassingly sappy crush, at least on Eddie’s part), to whatever this was now. 

Whatever it was, he wanted it. More precisely, he wanted her however he could get her, whatever that may end up being. It’ll suck if they never touch one another again, if when they’re done here, now, in this arena her face falls into lines of regret, with a quick murmur of we can’t do this again, at least he’ll have this memory and his right hand to keep him company. 

“Oh my god,” she half-sobs, half-laughs, pressing her cheek against the flat top of the case, the coolness of the plastic no doubt soothing her heated skin, her eyes rolling shut, all fluttering lashes and a blissful, lazy sorta smile on her lips. 

“Yeah?” Eddie manages, one hand snaking up her back to her head, brushing strands of hair out of her face, the other still firmly grasping her hip, “Is it good?”

“Doin’ so good,” she babbles, planting her palms and using them to lift herself up, turning her head to kiss him, “Such a good boy.” 

And holy fuck if that doesn’t make him almost lose it entirely. Somewhat panicked, he slips his hand between her thighs, rubbing at her clit desperately. She keens, her fingers digging into his forearm as she holds his hand there. 

In no time, she’s coming, squeezing him like a vice into her, and he tries to help it, he really does, but soon enough she feels the warmth bloom inside her, and she moans in what he hopes is encouragement, arm bending somewhat awkwardly to cradle the back of his head as he practically sobs into the side of her neck. 

“It’s okay,” she coos, almost instantly, and if he didn’t white out a bit from the strength of his orgasm he would’ve replied, but he just pants into her shoulder.

They’re both trembling. Her thighs are shaking and he’s sorta shaking all over, and she moves forward a bit, tenderly reaching and pulling him out before she’s turning around, in all her naked, sweaty glory to look into his face. 

“You okay?” She asks, brushing a lock of sweaty hair out of his face. 

He nods, shakily, chest heaving as he cups her face to pull her into a kiss. She accepts it, languidly moving her mouth against his. 

When they pull away, he lets out a little shaky sigh, “That was…intense. Are you okay?”

She nods, smiling softly, pulling her flannel back onto her shoulders, buttoning it, “A little shaky from the exertion, but otherwise I’m okay.”

They get dressed after that, spending five entire minutes looking for her left shoe before finding it on in the third row of seats. She sits on the stage, pulling her knee up to lace it up when Eddie walks up to do it for her.

She watches him tenderly, resting her cheek on her knee as he double knots the laces. He looks up, catching her eye. She gives him a small smile, and he smiles right back before straightening up. 

“You sure you’re good?” He asks, straightening the collar of her shirt as she looks up at him. 

She nods, “I’m sure.”

It’s a little more than awkward. It’d been such a passionate encounter, full of pent up feelings and desperation, after a month of a somewhat hostile dynamic (that, they were both too chicken shit to admit that they enjoyed), and here they were, not quite together, not quite apart, too shy to talk about it. Maybe a bit confused, too, unable to make sense of the chatter in their minds, to identify how they truly feel, just yet. 

“Kay,” he nods, starting back up the rows and rows of seats. 

He looks over at her one more time, “I guess I’ll see you later?”

She nods, picking at a thread on her jeans, “Yeah, see ya.”

And with that, he takes his leave.

***

cw: spanking, biting, nipple play, p in v, no protection.