#i just. it feels so jarring. so artificial.

[thegreatyin]

assume this is whatever sort of genre and style of story you most desire to read at this very moment. a fanfiction of your favorite fandom OTP. a classic work of literature. a multimedia webcomic at 2am. all that matters is what writing style you prefer. do not use the examples as a signifier of the writing quality or what kind of story it is, they are purely to explain the difference in POV styles

[puppys-tiny-space]

🩷shops for smols and bigs🩷

Just a small selection of shops I can recommend (mainly) from personal experience!

🍼pacis and similar:

🐰 @pacisbybunnie (insta, Tumblr, website) bunny has pacis, bottles and chewie bracelets, they have super cute items and great customer service, plus u can use my code "bunnybab for a discount" UK based

🧸 @cozypacicorner (insta, vinted, website) milk has incredible products, they sell pacis, paciclips and chewie bracelets, their customer service is great and she is just the sweetest, u can aslo use my code "bunnybab" here Based in France

🌸 @dreamydecos (insta, TikTok) Lily has super cute pacis, bows and sensory jars, their customer service is great and shipping time is fast! Based in Netherlands

🧃 @punkiepacis (insta, website) punkie has super cute products, great customer service and fast shipping! They sell pacis and bundles! US based

🩰 @florameow.co (insta, website) em has super cute pacis, I didn't buy from her yet but when I had questions in the past she was very nice! Also she is having a huge discount on a lot of pacis rn! UK based

🩷onesies and clothes:

🦕 @onesiesdownunder (insta, website, resellers) onesiedownunder has amazing products with a high quality and great sensory feel, they sell onesies, bloomers, paci-clips, bows, dungarees and dungaree dresses, they are 18+ and not all of their designs are sfw so keep that in mind! Australia based but resellers in europe and other countries

🩰 @babyyourdollco (insta, website, Etsy) babyyourdoll has super cute products, they have plain pacifiers, onesies, bibs, clothing and reusable fruit squeeze pouches. They are 18+! US based but some non-us shops offer customs with their bases

🚀 @everkidcouk (insta, Etsy, website) they have adorable products but I didn't try them (yet) their shop is completely sfw! They sell onesies and other clothing articles. UK based

🖍️stickers and art:

👑 @moomis_didney_castle (insta, Kofi, Patreon) moomi sells adorable stickers, their customer service is great and the products are amazing and durable! UK based

🧃 @nymphsgarden (insta) nymph makes adorable commissions usually based around fursonas, they r rly sweet and fun to work with! Online based

🦕 @littlessproutart (insta) sprout makes super cute commissions, they work fast and are super kind! Online based

🍼 @tny.preschool.bun aka me (insta, TikTok, Tumblr) you can always message me about commissions and find examples of my art on my insta and here! Insta is 18+ but non-sexual for personal reasons(The stuff in the picture at the bottom is also from me!) Online based

Fun fact of the day: artificial banana flavoring is based off of an extinct kind of banana, which got wiped out in the 50s

[ravenofazarath2]

I’ve been seeing a fair amount of discourse over whether or not Ricky September was a good person, and I feel like a lot of it takes a very black and white view of Ricky as a character.

One of the recurrent themes in this season (and, well, a large portion of the show), is the importance of hope. And I think that’s what Ricky is supposed to represent.

Hope that there’s kindness in the world.

I think we can all agree that that was basically his thing, right? He didn’t have to help Lindy through the slug monsters, but he did. He didn’t have to try to save her life, but he did.

Everyone else we meet in FineTime is self-centered, vain. Their friendships feel artificial. And that’s probably because they are artificial since they never talk face-to-face. They literally live inside a spherical object that also acts as an echo chamber they can personally curate. That’s one of the most literal metaphoric interpretations of “in a world of their own” I can think of.

And right when it seems that life this way will be the death of them all, here comes this ray of sunshine named Ricky September. He immediately shows Lindy kindness even though she’s a complete stranger. And then they hug, what is likely the first empathetic touch ever in her life. Tells her that he spends most of his time unplugged and reading and learning. He does the Doctor grabs a hand and yells run thing. And when he sees that Homeworld was destroyed, he lies to Lindy so that he doesn’t kill the hope that’s keeping her running for her life—to see her mom again.

I know can’t be the only one who thought, “Oh, maybe his kindness will rub off on Lindy, and she’ll be a better person in the end!” That’s the hope.

That’s what Ricky represents; he’s the hope that, as long as empathy exists in this world, things will get better.

Hope that people can change.

The only shadow in this perfect ray of hope is the fact that, just like everyone else in FineTime, Ricky September is racist.

His micro-agressions aren’t as, well, aggressive as Lindy’s, but they are there. His hands are fidgety and he's distracted. He's giving awkward smiles and chuckles. He does seem uncomfortable working with the Doctor.

But we know that Ricky has empathy. He shows it when he saves Lindy, but I think the most jarring example is when he says he read about manual labor and said, "That life was tough." Lindy's response. "My sit at a desk for two hours and gossip with my friends job's not easy. I get chapping." And he learned this empathy through reading instead of spending all his time online. Which is where he learned about pulse codes, too. So he's empathetic and willing to learn.

(On a side note: Lindy's lack of empathy by this point should have clued us in that she was beyond redemption)

And that's I have no doubt that, had he survived, he would have pushed his biases aside and taken the Doctor up on the offer to travel. He would have worked to unlearn the institutionalized hate he was raised in. He's the hope that people—that we can change, become better people.

Unfortunately, Ricky is just different enough for Lindy to other him in order to justify sacrificing him to save herself.

The real lesson Ricky September teaches us.

Unfortunately, Ricky being a symbol for hope is exactly why he had to die by, essentially, Lindy's hand.

Hope simply existing isn't enough to bring change. If we just sit back and hope for a better world, nothing will get done. We have to act on that hope, be that hope, because if we don't, those trying to maintain the hate will snuff us out. And not just for ourselves, but for our fellow man.

If we just sit back and hope for a better world, nothing will get done. We have to act on that hope, be that hope. And not just for ourselves, but for our neighbors, too. If we show each other empathy, we can reach more, spread more kindness, be the change.

But if there's no empathy, then there's no hope for our survival.

And that, I believe, is the lesson RTD wanted us to see.

[sssailorvanya]

for once in my life, let me get what i want. [battinson]

please ignore my shit tenses | wc: 780(?)

You’ve never been one to ask for more beyond what you’re given. Your feet are always impossibly cold and your smile is missing from your face these days. Winter’s hard enough as it is. You didn’t know how to feel about the mysterious man dressed up as a bat, running around at night to fight crime.

You’ve heard what this mysterious vigilante does to the rogue criminals he catches. You’ve even witnessed his brutality a few times, thankfully never aimed at you. He saved you once. You were walking home, with your cold feet and blank expression, and a group of men had jumped out of a nearby alley. You had thought, ‘oh fuck, here we go again,’ and prepared to hand over your meagre possessions. You had not anticipated the fearsome vigilante materialising out of nowhere, throttling the living daylights out of all the men until they cowered in fear. You had watched, dumbfounded, as he picked up your small, bright pink purse and handed it to you.

You almost wanted him to keep it, if only for the comical juxtaposition.

So, no, you don’t know how to feel about him. Gratitude is a motivating factor but, nowadays, you barely feel anything at all. You certainly don’t feel anything when he takes your cold hand the second time you meet (another mugging foiled) and awkwardly massages it.

“For the circulation,” He growls softly.

You hum and let him massage your hand.

The citizens of Gotham call him “the Batman”, or simply “the Bat”. Sometimes they’ll call him “Vengeance” with a capital V, but nobody answers when you ask why.

You’re not native to Gotham, but you’re not from a city which was its polar opposite either. The gloomy weather and gothic architecture is a welcome reminder of the home you unwillingly left behind.

The third time you meet him, you feel braver than before. “You ever heard of the PJ Masks?” You ask softly, watching as he delivers a harsh blow to an unconscious thug (muggings are very common in Gotham, especially when they can sense that you’re not from here). He glances back at you, his lips pursed and his eyes smeared with dark eyeliner. You wish you could take off the cowl and see his full expression.

“I haven’t,” He says softly. His voice is jarring to listen to. You can tell he’s a man of few words so whenever he speaks, you are enthralled. You don’t know why. What sort of lunatic would be fascinated by a bat vigilante?

Lunatics like you.

“It’s a good show. Reminds me of you,” You say. Your lips don’t curl up in a smile but it’s a near thing. Your feet feel warmer today.

He’s a man who talks little, but he humours you anyway. “Must be good then.” You think you imagine the minute twitch of his lips as he turns away, his fearsome cape dripping with droplets of rain and blood. You watch him go.

Your hands are still cold.

The fourth time you encounter him makes you feel as if he’s started to keep tabs on you specifically. There’s no reason for the fearsome Bat to be lurking outside the 7/11 closest to your little apartment at 2am, but he is there. There’s no thievery to put an end to and no criminals for him to terrify. There is just you and the bright lights of the 7/11 and the jalapeños-and-cheese baked concoction in your hands. Your eyes are glimmering in the artificial light as you break off a piece.

You offer it to him, a small smile playing on your lips. He takes it from you slowly, as if he’s afraid he’ll hurt you. Your feet are cosy and warm tonight. He doesn’t smile back but he does stand next to you all night. Gotham is quiet tonight. It’s a blessing in disguise for you both.

The last time you meet him, you are hurting all over. There is blood sliding down your face and your vision is blurred, but you know it’s him when someone takes your hand. He rubs your hand soothingly.

“For the… circulation… right?” You croak out. It’s hard to talk with chapped lips and broken teeth.

He doesn’t respond. His grip on your hand tightens.

Some upcoming villain in Gotham decided to launch a nefarious attack in the city centre. You were caught in the crossfire, as were many other civilians. But it’s you whom he chooses to comfort, and it’s you whom he clings onto as you fade away.

Your hand goes limp in his grasp. It’s cold.

But there’s a smile on your face and your feet are warm.

[imagine-darksiders]

On the Ropes

Chapter 25 - Uninvited Guests

Montgomery Gator X F!Reader

WARNING:

-Noncon touching, inappropriate behaviour, abuse of authority, implied s/a, self-doubt, mild threat

Summary: Tempers flare, emotions are high and boundaries are tested. You worry, but Monty worries more. He just isn't as good as expressing it as you are.

Sorry this one took so long. A few months ago, my parents made me a partner in their company with a view to take over the whole damn thing when they retire, and I've had to learn how to run a business without a lick of experience in the field, so that's been taking up a lot of my life lately. I'm still finding time to write, but it is harder.

Still! I hope a nice, long, juicy chapter full of angst and fluff and hurt/comfort makes up for the hiatus. Love to the brim. X

---------------------------------------

As ideas go, Monty concludes that his latest might have been best left on the backburner, never to see the light of day. He hardly dares move, locked in place by his own mechanical parts as he stares down at you on the sofa, and you in turn, gawk up at him, your eyes still wet and shining with tears.

And for all his artificial intelligence, for all the state-of-the-art programming slapped into his circuitry, the most eloquent response he can conjure up in the face of his own blunder is a weak, faltering, “Uh…”

But what else could best encapsulate the jarring realisation that he’s been caught? He hadn’t really fathomed being caught at all, hadn’t even considered what he might do if he was caught.

Well, too little too late now, he supposes. There’s no way he can simply duck back through your open window and feign ignorance when you inevitably return to the Plex to confront him…

…. Could he…?

… No, no. Definitely not.

Closely observing your expression, the gator’s proverbial stomach sinks as your face begins to lose all aspects of shock and instead turns towards something more closely akin to anger, unpleasant in its familiarity, and Monty realises he’s running out of time to come up with a believable excuse to explain away his presence here, as if a 'good' excuse even exists.

Brows scrunching together, your jaw creaks shut, teeth meeting with an audible ‘click,’ that pulls an involuntary flinch from the gator’s tail.

He can handle Mick being angry with him. He can handle Andy and that exec, the staff and guests and all of their cross words and scathing looks.

Yet for some reason that he dare not examine, the very notion of you pointing your wrath at him fills Monty with a dread so palpable, he’d swear the coolant in his hydraulics freezes solid. The irony of the revelation doesn’t escape him. Until now, he’s spent so long being angry at everyone around him without sparing much thought as to how it must feel to be on the receiving end.

Beyond the threatening wave of apprehension cresting over him, he can still hear the sizzle of water against a hot stove-top somewhere nearby – the very culprit that had landed you on the floor, and him here in the first place - and in his eagerness to set things right again, Monty latches onto the one task he’s at least semi-certain he can’t mess up.

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you, not until he’s edged his way into the little kitchenette and finally tears his gaze from yours to spin around to the stove, knocking his tail against the fridge with a jarring clang of metal. He winces at the force, hoping he hasn’t dented it.

Grimacing at the knobs and dials sitting innocently on the cooker, he elects not to tackle them, instead reaching out to engulf the saucepan’s entire handle in a single fist where he simply lifts the whole contraption off the stove.

At once, the water boiling within its metal confines eases to a manageable simmer.

“Monty…” When his name leaves your lips this time, it’s deeper, colder, with the barest tremble flecked into your voice. “You… you can’t be here…”

The gator has enough sense not to bark out a nervous laugh at the century’s greatest understatement.

Clenching his fingers around the handle, he carefully plops the saucepan down near the back of the stove, away from the burning, red ring of heat. Excess water still dribbles in tiny rivulets down the side of the counter, but he turns his processor away from the mess by physically twisting himself around in the cramped space until he’s facing you once more, clutching his hands up to his yellow chest plate.

“You can’t be here,” you reiterate thinly, your eyes blown wide and pupils small and dark like pinprick holes, locked in his direction.

Then, with the suddenness of a bullet firing from a gun, you explode into motion.

Lurching over at the waist, you swipe your discarded crutch from the floor and begin shoving yourself gracelessly from the sofa with such fervour, Monty is momentarily struck by the ludicrous idea that you might be on your way to attack him.

“Of all the-! the stupid-!” you sputter, slamming the crutch’s rubber foot into your carpet and heaving yourself upright, wobbling across the room on an unsteady leg, “Dangerous! Irresponsible-!”

You continue hurling out adjectives and lumbering forwards, and Monty – suddenly alarmed that you’re about to topple face-first into the carpet again – kicks himself into gear. His pistons carry him across the room in a few, loping strides where he meets you at the edge of the kitchen linoleum, mindlessly throwing both of his enormous palms around your waist to steady you.

Almost at once, you latch onto him roughly, your fingertips squeaking against plastic as they attempt to gather purchase around a too-thick wrist.

“Monty!” The acrid taste of panic steadily trickles down the back of your throat. “Monty, this isn’t funny! I’m not kidding! This isn’t funny, you cannot be here!”

But Monty isn’t laughing. And although you sound borderline hysterical, there isn’t a trace of humour in your expression either. Maybe you hope it's a practical joke, or that you're seeing things. Anything except for the gargantuan reality peering down at you from behind star-shaped sunglasses. 

“I know,” is all the gator can muster up as a reply. Because he does know. He can’t be here.

And yet, he is.

“Then what-” you snap, “-the fuck are you doing here!?” It’s the first time you’ve really raised your voice at him, and there’s a sharpness to it that tucks the animatronic’s snout down towards his chest, rendered contrite in the face of your reprimand. Something deep in his subroutine starts to hum, discontented. Perhaps it’s the fact that the shoe is on the other foot now, and this time, he’s the one on the receiving end of someone else’s anger.

Another tear spills over to clump your eyelashes together.

Whirring loudly behind his glasses, Monty’s optics track its path over the swell of your cheek, and again, he creaks his jaw open, hoping something more substantial than his previous answer will miraculously come to him. As it is, he merely utters a soft, “I… don’t know.”

Evidently however, that had been the wrong thing to say.

For several seconds, your mouth flaps open and closed in disbelief before your face screws up into a tight ball of incredulousness and you manage to shrilly proclaim, “What do you mean you don’t know!?”

You snatch your hand away from his wrist to rake trembling fingers through your hair, digging into your scalp with the tips of blunted nails. “Oh god, oh god… This is bad, this is bad! You’re…”

Trailing off, you lean away from the animatronic, shoving a palm against his solid chest and giving your head a harsh shake, as if you might somehow throw the whole situation from your mind. Even as you pull away, his hands retain their firm point of contact on your sides.

After a beat of silence, you go still once more, blinking up at the gator and confirming that, no, you aren’t imagining the hulking, green goliath towering over you, looking far too large to occupy the space between your ceiling and floor. “Monty, for god’s sake,” you say through gritted teeth, “You’re in my flat!”

“I.. I know this looks bad-” he tries, removing a hand from your waist, palm tipped towards you in a placating gesture, “But, it’s okay-“

“- In what universe is this okay!?” you fret, batting at the massive paw that stretches towards you, “Monty! You’re outside the Plex! If you’re caught, they’ll-! Christ! You could be decommissioned! Is that what you want?!”

“I wanted to make sure you got home,” he emphasises.

“You can’t do that though!” you almost wail at him, shaking your fists beseechingly as if to beg him to comprehend your desperation, “You understand why you can’t do that, right?!”

“I was just-!” There’s a sudden buzz of static as he cuts off his own voice box, rendering the end of his sentence effectively unspoken.

But he ought to have known you aren’t about to let him get away with silence, not when you’re so clearly distraught and prying for answers.

“What, Monty?!” you exclaim, pinning him with your glare like a butterfly to a corkboard, “You were just what?!”

The gator’s jaw works mechanically, grinding the gears on their pivots as he clenches and unclenches it. He’s unwilling to give up the vulnerable words that have lodged themselves in his voice box, words that seem far too soft coming from the mouth of an animatronic with an unmalleable frame.

The only sound to break the silence is the steady ‘drip,’ ‘drip,’ ‘drip,’ of your leaky faucet.

“Montgomery,” you snap when his silence starts to overstay its welcome.

And the gator, despite his best efforts, flinches.

Plastic eyebrows slot together with an audible ‘clack’ as Monty lowers his optics to the carpet at your feet…

You’ve fallen back on his show title.

It’s a… rather decisive step away from the nickname he asked you to call him. The chasm that stood between you and the gator was wide when you set foot his green room not so long ago, yet in spite of first impressions, that gap has slowly been closing up over the last few days.

But now? Calling him ‘Montgomery,’ and in so terse a tone feels too much like the rift has just inched a few notches wider again.

Perhaps it’s that solemn, borderline desperate urge to regain what precious ground he’s lost that drives him to finally lift his gaze from the carpet and aim it somewhere near your glistening eyes instead.

“Just… tryin’a do what you did for me…” he utters.

Your face immediately untwists, brows launching up your forehead as everything about you opens up in clear surprise.

Whatever excuse you’d been imagining, he hadn’t provided it.

“What?” The question squeezes out of your throat, rasping and tight.

Hiking up the volume in his voice box, Monty retorts, “You came to make sure I was okay at the Plex. I-I’m just… doin’ the same thing!”

Sputtering around half-formed words for a several seconds, you finally manage to exclaim, “There is an astronomical difference between a human going to their place of work, and an animatronic up and leaving the place they were built, Montgomery, you can’t even try to pretend there isn’t!”

You’re well aware that comparing your autonomy to his own is a little below the belt, but the truth, whilst certainly ugly, is still the truth.

“Andy can tear me a new one for not going home after surgery,” you continue frantically, “But that’s nothing compared to what Faz Co. will do to you if they find out you’ve gone awol! And that’s not even the half of it! I mean - What if you run out of charge!? Or – or!”

As you steadily approach the line between distraught and thoroughly panicked, your voice begins to rise, cracking at the apex of your sentence, hypotheticals darting relentlessly through your head.

“What if someone saw you!? How did you even get here! Oh, fuck, Management’ll scrap you for spare parts, or - Damnit, Monty!” you blurt, ducking your head to try and meet his downcast optics, “Are you evening listening to me!?”

He is listening, as a matter of fact, quite intently. Though his visual feed may not be focused on you, the gator is hanging on your every word. But it isn’t the realisation he could be decommissioned that’s caught his attention. He already knows that the outcomes you’ve just listed are very real possibilities, should his little escapade ever be discovered.

No, instead, it’s the clear and undeniable fear laid thickly in your voice that grinds his processor to a halt. It sits on your tongue like a glaze, shining brightly for him to pick up on, and wonder how he missed it in the first place.

This isn’t anger.

This is something else dressed up to look like anger, and the tragedy is, it’s a disguise he knows all-too well, so well, in fact, that he should have recognised you’d donned it the moment you opened your mouth to speak.

You’re afraid.

If animatronics were built to house spirits, Monty’s would be tentatively lifting their heads. However, the revelation that perhaps he hasn’t driven off his best and only friend is cut woefully short when all of a sudden, his audio receptors give a ping, alerting him to new input approaching from a nearby source.

Without warning, the gator’s head snaps towards the door of your flat, mechanical clicks filling the unexpected silence as his optics adjust to the change in distance.

Footsteps… heavy and unhurried, slowing as they draw nearer to your door…

“Monty?” you hiss, distractedly following the line drawn by his glare, “Don’t try and-“

‘Knock.’

‘Knock.’

‘Knock.’

Three deliberate raps on your front door cause any further arguments to shrivel up and die at the back of your throat. You stop breathing altogether, and every noise suddenly seems too loud in the ensuing silence.

‘Who the Hell-?’ you wonder, dumbfounded, ‘-It’s the middle of the night!?’

No sooner has the thought occurred to you than a finger of ice-cold dread drags a chilly path up the notches on your spine, right to the fine hairs prickling at the nape of your neck.

Like a jackhammer, your heart rams itself up against your sternum over and over again.

‘He couldn’t have… Shit. Could he? But... How?’

“Y/n?”

You’re too slow to clamp your mouth shut around a gasp when you hear the voice, muffled but undeniably masculine, calling out from the other side of the door. Monty’s silicone lips ripple apart, though he at least has the forethought not to push an audible growl through his speakers.

The voice, however, doesn’t sound as though it belongs to the… the person you thought it might have belonged to.

You can’t place it straight away. You’re only sure that you know it from somewhere, but with several centimetres of wood standing between you and it, details are distorted and difficult to pinpoint.

Another knock startles you again, even more-so when it’s followed by, “Are you in there?”

A pregnant pause stretches until your teeth start to ache from keeping them pressed together so firmly.

And then, the words you thought you’d never have to hear again filter through the cracks beneath the door. “I thought I heard shouting.”

There’s an instinct that rises from buried depths at the utterance, instincts you thought you’d put to bed long ago.

It's as though someone has lit a fire under your feet. Mechanically, you twist around towards the sofa, your eyes locking onto the remote controls sitting on its arm rest. Limping up to them with stilted, frenetic movements, you snatch them up and aim them at the television, jamming your thumb into the ‘on’ button with far more force than necessary. Plastic creaks beneath your fingertips.

Seconds later, the screen flickers to life, landing on a film you don’t bother to try and recognise. Hiking up the volume until the tinny sound kicks out of the speakers and fills your meagre living space, you toss the remote back onto the sofa cushions and make your way arduously to the door.

Yet another knock indicates that your late-night visitor is persistent, you’ll give him that.

Several steps from the entrance, your progress is stopped by a sudden wall of green stepping in front of you, blocking your path forward.

“Move,” you rasp through gritted teeth, too quiet to be heard over the television as you smack at the gator’s tail that’s trying to curl around your thighs.

Monty’s head swivels around to frown at you. The purple casings surrounding his optics slide half-closed to give you the impression of a beseeching look.

You wonder if he knows who’s at the door.

“Hello? Y/n?” the stranger calls again.

“I - just a second,” you blurt out, ignoring Monty’s grimace as you bully your way past him, using your crutch to keep him from stepping around you lest he risk tripping you over, “Sorry, I’m... still getting the hang of these crutches.”

You have half a mind to demand to know who the Hell would have the unmitigated audacity to come around and knock on your door at this time of night.

Behind you, Monty’s claws try to hook into the back of your shirt, but the fear of accidentally tearing anything you own keeps him from holding on with any real purpose. As such, it’s only too easy to slip out of his grasp and press your eye up to the peep hole, the blood in your ears rushing to a watery crescendo.

A distorted yet familiar face peers back at you through the glass, sweat glistening off a ruddy forehead that shines under the overhead lights.

“Mick!?” you burst out.

What in the name of God...

Whirling around to face Monty, you throw an arm out, gesturing wildly towards your bedroom door.

The gator’s jaws are clenched tightly enough that you suspect if you were to toss a lump of coal between his teeth, he’d spit out a diamond, and while his tail twitches back and forth in clear agitation, he doesn’t otherwise move.

“Ah, you are there,” your not-so-mysterious visitor exclaims, “Mind opening the door?”

Yes, you mind! You mind very much! What is he doing here!?

Unless…

Your head turns slowly over a shoulder to gape unblinkingly at the animatronic looming close behind you. Your eyes find his, your stomach clenches…

“Hello?”

“Uh, just… hang on a second!” you stall, fumbling and fiddling with the metal latch, pretending to fight with it whilst you cast another, desperate look back at the gator. “Damn lock is always getting stuck.”

The moment his optics catch your eye again, you mouth, ‘Please’, jerking your chin at your bedroom door, ‘Please. Hide.’

Ever so slowly, Monty blinks, taking in the harsh lines that cut crevices down the centre of your forehead, right between your furrowed brows. And just like that, the corners of his snarl start to fall, and the apertures of his pupils expand to hide blazing, crimson LEDs.

A thousand calculations run through his processor at once, all of them pertaining to the risk of leaving you to face Mick by yourself. His programming shrieks in defiance as he takes a reluctant step backwards, being light as he can on cumbersome actuators.

He should stay… Neither of you know why Mick is here, though he can hazard several guesses.

You’re afraid, you’re vulnerable… You need him.

But probability reminds him that perhaps the situation isn’t so dire. He's sure he hadn’t been spotted on his way here, and if he was, why would Faz Co. send Mick – of all humans - out for retrieval?

What if the man's being here is merely down to chance?

If that's the case, then should he catch you with one of the Glamrocks in your home, the repercussions will be far worse than whatever Monty fears could happen by leaving you to deal with the situation alone…

So, driven back by the urgent glimmer of tears shining over your sclera, Montgomery Gator begrudgingly makes a decision that goes against his very programming. He retreats from the room, slinking backwards as silently as a two-tonne bot can through the door and into what he can only assume must be your personal recharging station.

All the while, you watch him over the threshold, waiting until the gator’s hefty bulk disappears into the darkness of the room beyond. Even still, you wait for him to push your door shut with an undetectable 'thud' before you finally wrench the lock on your own door free and tug the whole thing open, remembering to plaster a tentative smile on your face just in the nick of time.

“Mr Matthews,” you grind out sweetly, praying that the television in the background covers your stumbling addition of, “What a… a nice surprise!”

The man on the other side of the door straightens his posture at once. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s keeping one arm behind his back as he too slaps a grin on his face, though you imagine his is slightly more authentic than your own.

“Y/n, my dear,” he returns, revealing his hidden appendage and, to your surprise – and confusion - producing a fistful of limp, strikingly dark dahlias, the kind you might pull off the bargain shelf at your nearby petrol station.

 “I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” Mick continues, edging towards you until the toe of his winter boot pokes over the threshold, “But I was in the area and thought I’d stop by to see how you were doing.”

With the flowers practically shoved under your nose, you try to surreptitiously lean backwards, putting your weight on the crutch as you reply, “O-oh, that’s, ah, very kind of you…”

Can he hear your pulse thundering? Oh god, can he see the dilation of your pupils? Does he know who you have hidden in your bedroom? He must… He has to. Why else would he be here?

Almost running on autopilot now, you continue, “You didn’t need to come all this way though. Um…” Trailing off to bite at the inside of your cheek, you hedge, “I didn’t realise you knew where to find me.”

To anyone with even a modicum of self-awareness, the statement is poised as a direct question, in expectation of an answer. ‘How did you know where I live?’ is being broadcast from every facet of your voice and expression.

But Mick, clueless or perhaps deliberately obtuse, merely lowers the flowers an inch and replies, “Oh, you’ve mentioned it to me a few times now.”

… Have you? It’s… entirely possible, you suppose. After all, you talk about a lot of things at work, and subsequently, you forget about a lot of things too. But who would remember all the small talk you make with co-workers, or the unimportant comments you toss out while you’re responding to ‘check-ups’ from management?

Your home address however… It took you a long time to even tell Andy where it was, in case of emergencies… You can’t imagine it’s something you let slip without noticing.

But… Mick is here…

So how else?

Shoving down the frustration at yourself for being careless, you clear your throat and nod at the flowers. “And, can I presume those are for…“

Mick jumps, staring down at the dahlias clutched in his fist as if he’s only just remembered they’re there. “Oh, yes of course they’re for you!” he proclaims, “Of course, of course. Only courteous to give flowers to people in need of healing, no?”

You blink at him mutely, pretending not to notice the excess oil he’s slicked into his hair tonight.

Is that why he’s here? To bring you flowers? Is that all?

Part of you wants to slump with relief. Another part however, older, wiser and sadder, remains cautious.

“Well, again, that’s really kind of you,” you tell him, reaching out to take the flowers from his hand. The stems seem to breathe elated sighs as he relinquishes his iron-clad grip. “I’ll have to find a vase for these…”

You’re not sure you even own a vase…

“Naturally,” he replies, peering over your shoulder to quirk a brow at the television blaring behind you, “Ah. Movie night?”

“Hmm?” Following his gaze, you rush out, “Oh yeah, I figured… since I’m off tomorrow and the foreseeable future, a little late night wouldn’t kill me…”

Would it be rude to ask your senior why he’s bringing you flowers at this time of night? Maybe you can tell him you were just about to turn off the TV and go to bed?

As you deliberate how best to tell the man on your doorstep to make himself scarce, he surprises you by abruptly asking, “May I come in?”

‘No!’ your own voice screams at you from inside your head, ‘Just say no!’

“I’m not sure that’s-“ you begin tactfully, but Mick is already bustling forwards, crowding you until you take a slight step to one side. After that, well… You’ve given him an inch, he’ll take a mile, as it were.

Once he has a literal foot in the door, Mick sweeps past you, moving breezily into your living area and roving his gaze all over the room, hands planted on his hips. “Goodness,” he remarks, cocking his head at your bare walls and sparse décor, “You don’t get much on a cleaner’s salary, do you? You haven’t put that… ahem, bonus to good use yet?”

You want to bristle like a cat that’s been kicked.

Mick’s jab is unmistakable, but his awareness of his own civility is not.

Swallowing back a retort, you simply murmur, “Hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I’ll go and put these in some water.” Truthfully, you’re still reeling from the fact he’d just invited himself inside.

Hobbling towards the sink, you delicately lay the flowers in the washing-up bowl and turn on the tap. An angry ring of red light catches the edge of your vision, and you glance over at the stove-top, clicking your tongue as you reach over and turn the cooker’s dial to the ‘off’ position.

Teeth find the inside of your cheek and bite down on the fleshy wall, worrying at it while you wait for the bowl to cover half of the flowers’ stems.

‘Monty knows better than to give himself away,’ you assure yourself, trying to pretend you can’t feel those eyes prickling at the back of your neck, ‘And it’s getting late. Mick’ll want to get home soon. This isn’t anything other than a concerned manager delivering well-wishes to a member of the staff.’

‘There’s a guest in the house,’ a voice that isn’t entirely your own pops up, unbidden, ‘Offer him a drink.’

“Can I get you anything?” you blurt out, turning off the dripping tap and swivelling about to face Mick, “Coffee? Tea?”

The man throws you a look, barking out a laugh. “My word, someone’s got you well-trained,” he chortles.

The moisture dries up in your mouth. He likely assumes he’s referring to your upbringing, or maybe your schooling, but his statement hits far too close to home and sends phantom prangs of alarm through your brain, fizzing like electricity.

But just as your head starts to feel light…

“No, nothing for me,” he sighs, entirely oblivious to the cracks forming in your outer veneer as he nods pointedly at your television, “Although, uh, TV’s a little loud, no?”

“O-oh, yes,” you give a start, wobbling past him, “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.” That one was a little barbed, but you think it’s more than justified, given the circumstances.

Making your way to the sofa again, you reach for the controls, intent on swiping them off the cushions, but you freeze in your tracks when your eyes land on the overturned coffee table to your left. The coffee table Monty had knocked aside in his haste to get at you after you collapsed…

Behind you, Mick of course, has already seen it.

“Doing some redecorating?” he comments.

Thinking on your feet, you resume your task of picking up the remote and turning the television off, plunging the room into an uncomfortable silence once more. “No, just… had to move it earlier to do some exercises the physician recommended.”

Mick ‘ah’s’ in apparent understanding whilst you elect to deliberately leave the table where it is, tipped on its side.

“You wouldn’t believe how much space it takes just to do some stretches,” you add, “I haven’t gotten around to moving it back.”

You make a concerted effort to keep your eyes from drifting towards your bedroom door, painfully conscious that the gator must be standing just on the other side, head pressed to the wood to follow the flow of conversation.

“Mm, I can imagine,” Mick grunts noncommittally, and as you return your attention to him, you’re just in time to see him helping himself to a seat on your sofa, breathing out a long, languid sigh as he glances up at you, ruddy cheeks pushing out in a smile. “Come, sit!” he insists abruptly, as if it isn’t your sofa that he’s inviting you to. “Rest that leg of yours, you must be tired.”

If only he knew how terribly his suggestion puts your back up and sends your pulse skyrocketing.

All of a sudden, from the direction of your bedroom door, there comes a soft, nearly inaudible scraping sound, not unlike claws dragging across wood.

To your horror, Mick’s head starts turning towards the noise, but quick as a flash, you draw his focus by stretching your jaws into a wide, obnoxious yawn and settling down on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a respectable distance between you both.

Covering your mouth with a palm, you loudly proclaim, “Oh! Oh, excuse me. I suppose I have got one foot in bed already.”

You try for light-hearted, miss and land on uncomfortable instead. But if Mick gets the hint, he doesn’t outwardly acknowledge it, merely hums and pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt, daubing at a glistening temple.

As you perch awkwardly on the edge of the seat, you keep a firm grip on your crutch and make every conceivable effort to avoid casting any wayward glances at your bedroom door. If there’s even the slightest chance that Mick isn’t here because of Monty, then you aren’t keen on blowing your cover.

“So,” the man next to you starts conversationally, clapping his hands down on his knees, “You’re holding up all right, then?”

Shrugging a shoulder, you reply, “As well as I can be, all things considered.”

Mick purses his lips, head bobbing sympathetically. “Mm, I’m sure that’s the case,” he admits, “Bad business, that attack in the tunnels. Very bad business…”

Bad business, or bad for business, you wonder.

And talk about an understatement. You have to sternly remind yourself not to scoff.

His mention of the ‘incident’ however does raise a certain flag at the back of your mind as it occurs to you for the first time that Faz Co. wouldn’t be above sending someone to make sure you’re sticking by the non-disclosure agreement. You wouldn’t put it past them…

Is that why Mick is here? Second guessing yourself for the umpteenth time, you take a deep breath and gently try to steer the conversation towards something of real substance. “I… signed the exec’s paperwork, by the way… So, you don’t need to worry. The matter’s done with, so far as I’m concerned.”

The fact that you now have enough money to start looking for a nicer place to live is certainly motive enough to keep idle gossip to yourself.

In response, Mick only tips his head back and barks out a laugh, “Of course you did,” he chuckles, shaking his head at you, beaming, “You’re a damn good woman. You work hard, you keep your head down. You do your job, and you do it well. You’re loyal…”

Trailing off, he twists himself about at the torso to face you, the smile sloughing off his face as he adds, “Loyal enough that you’d come to the Plex the day after you were carted away in an ambulance.”

With gradual unease, your fingertips curl into the sofa cushions.

Whatever expression you pull must be dire indeed because Mick immediately drops his serious façade and lets out a chortle, leaning across the sofa to give your knee a pat just a few inches from the top of the cast, apparently too amused to notice that you blanch.

“Now then, no need to look so spooked,” he tells you, “I’m not here to lecture you about what you should and shouldn’t be doing following a major incident. I just thought I’d mention that I saw you today-“

You can barely focus on his voice. He’s allowed his clammy palm to lay like a lead weight upon your knee. It’s still there. Why is it still there? The temptation to kick your leg out as if to shoo away a bothersome fly is awfully prevalent.

“I must say,” he carries on, oblivious to the way your gaze drills into the back of his hand, “I was impressed by your dedication to the company. I’d have come over to say ‘hello,’ but…”

Breaking off to torture you with a pregnant pause, the man’s jovial expression collapses, turning sour. “Well…” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Then I saw you were with the gator.”

Right there on the sofa, your heart seizes up.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with that gator recently.”

‘He knows,’ you fret, flicking a frantic look at the door to your bedroom. The evidence is stacking up against you. Why turn up now, and why mention Monty at all?

Fingers trembling, you start the process of falling apart right next to him, debating whether or not to just get it over with and come clean when he suddenly furrows his brows at you and – at long last – draws back, retrieving his hand from your leg. “You need to watch yourself around that bot. You hear me?”

Relief and shock war for control for several seconds as you gape at him, only remembering to snap your jaw shut once you realise it’s been hanging awkwardly ajar for far too long. Swallowing thickly, you try to smooth down your bristling nerves and stammer out a clumsy, “I-I’m sorry?”

“I’m not the only one who’s noticed, you know,” Mick surges ahead as if you hadn’t spoken, “Most of the staff are starting to talk. A lot of the guests too. And now there’s that video going around…”

Your eyes are starting to ache with the effort of keeping them affixed to the manager, not your bedroom door.

“It’s no secret that it’s taken a real liking to you,” he grunts, “And the way I see it, that puts you at the most risk.”

Suddenly, you find it much easier to pay attention. Several, rapid blinks put Mick at the centre of your focus as you politely admit, “I’m sorry, I… I don’t follow.”

The look he gives you is decidedly pitying. Heaving a slow sigh through his nose, he roves his gaze up towards your ceiling as if he means to pluck the right words out of thin air. “Listen,” he begins patiently, like a teacher trying to explain something basic to their struggling student, “Bots don’t just… change like Monty has. I mean, what’s it been? Less than a week? And it’s gone from causing countless incidents of property damage and snapping at every staff member it sees to carrying one across the plex?”

He puffs out a derisive scoff and shakes his head, lips pursed. Then, leaning forward, he links his fingers together and props both elbows on top of his knees, glowering hard at the blank television screen. “I’m not buying it,” he utters darkly, “Sooner or later, its old ways will start kicking in again, and when they do, who’s the person directly in the firing line?”

Peeling one hand away from the other, he curls it into a fist, extends his forefinger, and aims it right between your eyes.

There’s something so inherently disconcerting about the action alone that you physically draw back from the man on the sofa, leaning away and eyeing his hand as though you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. But at the forefront of your mind – and a sudden source of great contention - is his implication that Monty is any kind of threat to you. Perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling a thrum of defensive indignation if the gator himself hadn’t been in the other room, no doubt able to hear every word Mick is saying about him. As it is, your chest starts to buzz with the desire to correct the man’s assumptions.

Peeling a dry tongue from the roof of your mouth, you slowly press out, “With all due respect, Sir-“

“-It’s Mick, doll. Just Mick.”

You try not to pull a face at his interruption. “Mick,” you start again, “With all due respect, I think that’s a bit unfair to Monty…”

At once, surprise opens his expression, smoothing the wrinkles between his brows as they go shooting up his forehead instead.

“Unfair?” he deadpans.

“I just mean that he’s been trying very hard to do things right lately, and we shouldn’t dismiss that just because he's had a few bad days, right?” Instances of breaking into your apartment notwithstanding. “Christ, Mick, he saved my life from that en-“

Mick’s beady eyes narrow at you.

Clearing your throat, you carefully amend, “… from that intruder.”

For several seconds, you watch on as the man’s face twists up once again into a frown, and he purses his lips at you, exhaling roughly through his nose. Leaning sideways across the sofa, he puts himself close to you and raises a finger into the air, wagging it at you in a manner that you really don’t care for.

“One example of the ‘correct’ behaviour doesn’t negate all the harm that bot has otherwise done,” he tells you firmly, “To the brand, to the plex…” Trailing off, his eyes gloss over as they drift to the back of his hand, staring at something you can’t see. After a moment, he quietly adds, “To me.”

Glancing sideways to find you fixing him with a strange look, he pushes out a cough. “A-And it certainly doesn’t prove that it’s safe. Never trust a dog that’s bitten once not to bite again.”

“Monty’s not a dog,” you point out, your brows set in a stern, unyielding line.

“No,” Mick agrees sharply, “It’s a two-tonne animatronic with a history of violence and a penchant for causing trouble wherever it goes.”

All at once, you bridle, clenching your fist around the crutch. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re in your own home that gives you a shot of courage straight through the chest. If Mick had confronted you with these accusations at work, you can’t deny you might have been a little more hesitant to retaliate. As it is, he came into your flat uninvited, he sat on your sofa and started bad-mouthing your friend…

 “Now hang on a moment, that’s just plain wrong,” you retort, “Monty hasn’t caused any trouble for me, and in fact, he’s gone out of his way to help me these past few days – quite a lot, actually.”

Somehow, Mick’s brows travel even further north towards his slicked-back hairline. He blinks, surprised, either because of your sudden and admittedly barbed defence of a bot you’ve only known for a few days, or because he hadn’t expected you to show him your backbone at all.

You quiver angrily on the opposite side of the sofa, heavy eyelids protesting the late hour whilst Mick blows a noisy breath through pursed lips, regarding you with newfound interest.

“Now then, there’s no need to get yourself all worked up,” he soothes cloyingly, “I didn’t come all this way to upset you.”

The willpower it requires not to bark ‘I am not upset!’ is tremendous, even more so to fake an apologetic smile and reply, “Of course you didn’t. Sorry, it’s just been a long day.” And getting longer with every second Mick sits there, behaving as though he’s done nothing untoward simply by being here.

“I’m sure it has,” he remarks.

And then… something happens. Something that sets the synapses in your brain firing off alarm bells left right and centre, paralysing you in your seat.

Without a word to announce his intentions, Mick shuffles himself along the sofa cushions towards you, closing the very deliberate gap you’d wedged between the pair of you minutes ago.

“If I’m being perfectly honest with you,” he begins in a low murmur, and you wish he wouldn’t be honest at all if that’s how he intends to speak, “I’m sorry I ever sent you into that damnable gator’s room in the first place. I mean, granted you’ve saved the company thousands in repairs since then… But… Ah, forgive me, perhaps this is unprofessional but…”

His already soft voice dies to absolute silence as he stretches his hand across the distance between you and sets it down on your leg once more, just above your knee - nowhere an uninvited hand ought to have any business treading.

You can’t tear your eyes off it. All the moisture in your throat has dried up, all the breath in your lungs stays trapped.

You’re not angry anymore.

“I simply wouldn’t forgive myself if that gator hurt you, you know,” his voice sounds muffled, half-drowned out under the blood rushing in your ears, “I’m only looking out for you.”

You’re scared.

He’s sitting close, too close, close enough that the smell of smoky cologne is suddenly clogging up your airways and sticking to the back of your throat when you inhale.

“Can you blame me for worrying though?” he asks, rubbing his hand up an inch as if he’s testing the waters. Sadly, your limits have been pushed before, further and further each time until the bad things just became mildly uncomfortable things, and the really dreadful things were simply better to ignore.

“You really are a very good worker. But that animatronic isn’t safe.”

Your breath catches in your gullet when you swallow, and even now, after all your experience and the hurdles you’ve cleared, you start to doubt yourself. Perhaps Mick really is just concerned. He certainly sounds it. You could be finding horror in something entirely benign. He’s a manager, he knows better.

He’s a molehill and you’re sitting here wondering if you should make him into a mountain.

Fingers twitch against your skin and you blanch, prying your jaws apart to… what? Scream? Tell him to get his hand off you? He hasn’t technically done anything wrong. You let him inside…

All of your senses come flooding back to you suddenly as a strange sound catches your ear; a latch clicking out of place, a handle turning inwards. Ears thrumming with adrenaline, you at last manage to rip at least part of your concentration off Mick and train your hearing towards your room instead.

Luckily for you and the idiot gator trying to stealthily open your bedroom door for some, inane reason, Mick seems far too preoccupied with catching your eye to even register the noise.

He’s looking for a reaction.

The appealing idea that this might just be one big misunderstanding starts to wash away bit by bit.

You cast your mind about, mentally searching the room for something – anything to derail the direction of his goal. When that fails, you reluctantly allow your gaze to wander from your television to the front door, over to the kitchen and then down to the flowers poking over the lip of the sink…

Flowers…

A stray gear in your brain chugs to life, kicking out a single, blessed idea.

“Hah!” you wheeze out breathlessly, forcing a wobbly smile onto your reluctant mouth, “You’re starting to sound like Andy. He worries about me too.”

There. It’s only for an instant, but out of the corner of an eye, you see Mick’s expression falter. “Flowers?” he asks.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, “I’m surprised you didn’t arrive with him actually.” Feigning an expectant glance at your front door, you school curiosity onto your face and add, “You didn’t see him on your way up, did you?”

Mick’s hand starts to raise ever so slightly from your thigh, too slow for your liking, yet you grit your teeth and bear it for a while longer, like you always have.

“See him?” the man blinks, “I… no? Why would I have seen him?”

“Oh, it’s just, he texted me before you knocked on the door. Said he’d be here in another ten… fifteen minutes to drop off some stuff I left in my locker at work. I thought you might have come together.” Shrugging a shoulder as casually as you can, you quirk a brow at Mick and continue, “You really didn’t see him? Huh. I hope he’s okay. It’s not like him to be late.”

On the last word, the feeling of warm, sweaty skin pressed to your leg disappears.

Bingo.

“Well,” Mick announces brusquely, plastering a cheery grin on his face as he leans back and slaps his palms onto his knees, pushing himself off your sofa, “If Flowers is on his way, I’d better let you two have your space. Wouldn’t want to crowd you, hmm?”

Though it damn-near kills you to do so, you tilt your head and ask, “Oh, are you sure? I think he wanted to have a word with you about something.”

Mick’s face turns several shades paler than usual as he stumbles over his response. “Ah, well, I’m sure it can wait until I see him at work tomorrow.” Slipping a finger between his grey tie and the collar of his shirt, he tugs the fabric looser, taking several, hurried steps in the direction of your front door. “I’m sorry to have stopped in unannounced.”

Your smile reveals just a few too many teeth. “It’s not a problem,” you lie, using the crutch to lever yourself onto your feet, “I suppose I’ll see you at work, then?”

Mick’s backwards peddling might have been funny if you were in any mood to laugh.

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes. I’ll see you then,” he titters, “You just stay off that leg in the meantime.” His hand grasps the door handle, sliding clumsily around it for a moment as his damp palms clamber for purchase.

You heart soars when he finally manages to pull it open, only to step halfway outside and hesitate in the threshold of your home. For several, awful seconds, you stare at the back of his head, wondering if he’s changed his mind, or worse, if he’s called your bluff.

Sparing you a look over his shoulder, Mick catches your eye. “Just… remember what I told you about the gator,” he tells you suddenly, “Preferably before you decide to visit the Plex again.”

And with that, he just… leaves, disappearing out into the hallway and pulling your door shut in his wake until the latch ‘clicks’ shut.

Mouth full of cotton wool, you listen intently for the thump of dress shoes hitting carpet to peter out as Mick beats a hasty retreat down the hall. Fainter and fainter, the sound fades, until at last, you hear the far-off 'ding' of the lift doors sliding open and shut, and with a shuddering inhale, you promptly crumple forwards against the door, gasping out a wet, pitiful noise whilst you scrabble at the lock with shuddering fingers.

It’s only when the metal latch slides into place with a definitive ‘shunk,’ that the door of your bedroom bursts open.

With all the speed and unimpeded ferocity of a stampeding bull, Monty comes surging from the darkness of your bedroom, his shoulder struts reared back like a pair of snakes ready to strike.

“What’d he do to you!?” he demands, crossing towards you in just a few strides.

You spare a thought for your downstairs neighbours before you remember they’ve been on holiday since last week. And a good thing too. Each step the gator takes sends tremors through the floor below your bare feet.

Monty’s sensors – by now so well-tuned to your vitals – had been going haywire behind the door, picking up on your thundering pulse and the steady uptick in your cortisol levels. He’d had to stand there, helpless but to listen as Mick spewed his rhetoric into your ear, and Monty hadn’t been able to defend himself or refute the man’s claims at all. But you-!

Wonderful, righteous, amicable you... You had! Monty's systems were thrumming, thoroughly cowed to hear you come to his defence, which made it only more difficult not to burst into the room and sweep you away from Mick when the man all but purred reassurances at you.

But worse, perhaps, was the gator’s inability to see what was happening on the other side of the door. Mick’s verbal blows against Monty’s behaviour couldn’t have been the catalyst for your climbing heartrate, though some small, selfish code in the animatronic hopes you felt at least a little indignation on his behalf.

No… Something else occurred here tonight. Something Monty wasn’t privy to, but wishes he was, if only to settle the ire broiling in his circuits.

You have your back to him, and your forehead pressed against the solid wood of your front door.

He has to see your face… He has to know. He has to read your expression and see for himself that there isn’t any fear there, just exasperation or even a fiery burst of anger. Anything… Just not fear. He would take all the fear in the world from any human he meets if he would only be spared from yours.

Wrestling back the hissing lines of code that poke and prod at his temper, Monty slows to a halt as he reaches you, his apertures twitching wide then narrow again whilst they flit up and down your body in search of damage.

“Hey,” he calls, sliding a single, clawed hand around your bicep, “You hear me? What’d he-?”

If he’d have just known… If he’d have hazarded a guess as to where your mind had gone in that moment, he might have thought twice about laying his hand on you.

“DON’T-!” you yelp shrilly, whirling around to face him and thrusting your wrist against his, knocking the limb aside as if to parry a weapon instead of his arm.

Startled, the gator wrenches his appendage back, holding it above his shoulder in a display of surrender as he blinks down at you dumbly, jaw falling ajar.

And then, he sees it.

You’re staring up at him, your face drawn back, haggard and half-mad with terror, your chest heaves with the effort of taking in breaths.

He doesn’t have to perform a scan to determine what he’s been dreading. Humans have looked at him like that ever since he was first brought online. Monty’s processor thumps, dredging up a memory of Mick - younger and bolder than the man he is now – reeling away from the gator, face as pale as Moon’s and his eyes so wide the entire iris was exposed. Monty remembers the odd sensation of something soft collapsing between his teeth.

The animatronic violently purges the memory from his internal storage, though he knows it’ll still linger there somewhere, buried behind layer upon layer of firewalls until his guard is lowered once more.

All at once, he recoils like he’s been hit by a wrecking ball, staggering backwards until his tail hits the wall behind him and he’s forced to stop. Unable to retreat any further, unable to offer you any more distance, he simply stares at you from his side of the room.

It’s over… This wonderful, safe harbour he’d found in you is finally finished… You believe what Mick had said about Monty being a danger to you.

He always knew this had to end, of course. Good things can’t thrive in the vicinity of a Faz Co. animatronic. He just… didn’t think the time would come so soon.

Even still, he can’t help but cling with raw, desperate hope to you, scrabbling to keep a hold of your good graces because he’s too stubborn or too foolish to let go.

“I-I wouldn’t -“ he starts, concealing his claws with his fists and tucking them against his chest, “- I’d never… I wouldn’t hurt you. Not you, not ever. You’re…”

His voice box sputters, cutting out for a moment as he searches his bank of vocabulary for what you are.

When it finally dawns on him, his processor almost grinds to a halt.

“You’re all I got,” he confesses slowly, surprising himself with the revelation, “I don’t got nobody else…I ain’t gonna hurt you, you know that.”

You have to know that.

Please know that.

Gradually, far too gradually for the gator’s highly strung code to endure, you lower your arm  too look at him, brows high on your forehead.

“Monty?” you utter quietly, sending a quick glance between the animatronic’s downcast snout and the hands he still keeps curled beneath his chest. In another blink, you realise what you’ve just insinuated through action alone.

“Oh, I… Monty – No, of course you wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, I… God.” Slouching back against the door, your head knocks against it as you drop a palm over your face. “This is such a mess.”

Lowering your palm to the door, you splay your fingers over the wood behind you, drawing in a steadying breath and trying to ground yourself to the solidity at your spine. Another breath, and you finally drop your eyes to the gator.

For the briefest moment, you consider telling him why you couldn’t bear to feel a hand on you right now.

Your mouth creaks open, the words sitting on the tip of your tongue.

But something along the vein of common sense tells you that it wouldn’t be fair to burden Monty with such knowledge.

‘Besides,’ you remind yourself, borrowing your mother’s words, ‘It’s all in the past, and least said, soonest mended.’

Morose yet resigned, you swallow back your admission.

“I’m sorry, Monty,” you offer instead, raising a hand to rub at your drooping eyelids, “I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Unconvinced, the gator curls his tail inward, eyeing your arm - the one he’d grabbed.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” The question seems to creep out of him, his volume levels set so low that you have to strain your ears to hear it.

“No,” you reassure him, dropping your hand to give him a gentle, albeit tired smile, “No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” he readily agrees, lifting his snout a little.

For a few seconds, the pair of you simply regard each other from opposite sides of the room, until eventually – and reluctantly – you have to let your smile fade away, replacing it with a worn, heavyhearted frown.

“That was close though,” you whisper to yourself, letting your eyes slip shut, “Shit, that was too close.”

How on Earth Mick didn’t find out about Monty’s presence here, you’ll never know.

A mechanical whir followed by a thud lets you know the gator has just edged a step closer. “Yeah, no kiddin’…” There’s a pregnant pause, and then you jump slightly, snapping your eyes open as Monty raises his voice to an indignant bark, “And just what in the heck did he think he was doing, comin’ round here in the middle of the night anyway?”

The look you shoot the gator is withering enough to have him tilting his head sideways.

“What?” he asks, apparently oblivious.

You elect to gloss over his blatant hypocrisy in favour of jabbing a finger at him, though the action lacks the same hostility it might have ten minutes ago. “You know, it wouldn’t have been ‘too close’ if you hadn’t been here in the first place.”

Perhaps recognising the rising challenge in your tone, Monty’s stance shifts as he raises up on his struts, towering so high that his mohawk almost brushes the ceiling. He peers down the length of his snout at you, the line of his brows set and rigid, half shuttering his optics.

“I ain’t sorry,” he tells you, and it’s so matter of fact that you give a hard blink, your own eyebrows springing up towards your hairline.

You’re starting to feel a little like Andy. If this is how exasperated the poor mechanic feels when you do something stupid, then you owe him several, sincere apologies.

“I… I was, though,” Monty adds suddenly, lowering his nose as if the bluster was only ever meant to be short-lived, “Before Matthews turned up. But now, I…”

For a second, he falters, then bulldozes through his hesitation with a sharp grunt and a shake of his head, meeting your gaze resolutely. “Now, I’m glad I was here.”

His optics flicker brightly, though they dart between your face and the cast on your leg at frequent intervals as though he’s uncertain of himself yet determined not to back down from his conviction.

“I ain’t stupid,“ he insists, but there’s too much fervency behind it, like you’re not the only one he’s trying to convince, “Matthews was doin’ something to you. If you hadn’t’a got rid of him, I’d’ve…“

“…What, Monty,” you sigh when it becomes clear he’s hesitating to sort through his words again, “What would you have done, short of giving us both away?”

“I’d have stopped him,” he growls, puffing out his chest and jabbing it with the sharp claw of his thumb, “I’d’ve protected you.”

Rolling your eyes, you huff, “Oh, my hero. You’d get yourself scrapped, and me arrested for kidnapping an animatronic.”

It’s disconcerting to see a bot so large and intimidating positively wilt as though your point has just heaped a very real, very tangible weight upon his shoulders.

Letting a sigh slip through your nose, you catch a loose bit of skin between your teeth, worrying at it in the tangible silence that hovers between you and the gator.

You want to be angry with him for being here. You want to tell him how foolish and misguided his programming was to convince him that he should leave the Plex to seek you out. But if there was any strength left in you after the day’s events, it’s been well and truly sapped clean out of you. In fact, ‘sapped’ is too gentle a word for it. As memories try to pile up on top of one another, it takes more effort than you’d care to admit to beat them down again, leaving you with very little residual energy to conjure any resentment for an animatronic who followed you home because he wanted to make sure you got there safely.

This behaviour is so out of character for him.

And you? Well, you’re so out of your depth. Shit, you can never tell Sun and Moon about Monty’s escape. If the daycare attendants find out that they can leave the Plex as well, you’ll be in for a whole new world of trouble.

While you slump against the door, contemplating, Monty’s large head swings to the left, his optics studying the window. He’d wrenched it open so hard the frame had torn jagged splinters from the surrounding wood. The corner of his lips turn south as he lowers his optics to the table he’d overturned. That alone had almost been enough to rouse suspicion, but you’d explained it away expertly, from what he could hear, and Mick ended up none the wiser.

It comes as no real shock to the gator that if it weren’t for your quick thinking and well-oiled responses, he’d have given himself away ten times over. He’d have given you away…

Impulsive, Freddy might call him.

Stupid, would be Roxanne’s more cutting, though no less accurate decree.

It’s never been an easy thing for Montgomery Gator to admit that he might have been wrong. Even if his protocols thrum with a newfound urge to guard a member of Fazbear Co.’s faculty, his processor knows all too well that his coming here put you at the most risk.

The gator’s tail drops to the ground with a dull ‘thunk’ of plastic and metal on the carpet. “I just wanted to do somethin’ right for once,” he utters to the stillness, his truest desire finally spoken aloud.

He doesn’t look at you this time, but his audials pick up your gentle intake of breath and wonders what happened to the animatronic who would have bitten your head off several days ago just for looking at him the wrong way.

At least if that Monty did something wrong, it was usually deliberate. Somehow, as he’s quickly coming to learn, it’s so much worse trying to do something right, and getting it wrong anyway than doing something wrong in the first place.

Hurts more, he concedes.

The gator is too busy discovering the scope of his regret to notice you push yourself off the door, leaning hard onto your crutch as you squint up at him, cocking your head to one side like he’s a puzzle you’re still figuring out. Admittedly, you absolutely are. You’re not an engineer or a programmer. You can’t begin to fathom the depths that Monty’s learning algorithms can reach.

All you can see is an animatronic condemned by those who made him, trying to be better than he’s told he is. So, while you can’t condone his being here, for his own sake, you realise that he - much like yourself - has likely had more than enough of people telling him off.

Sucking down a long, thick breath, you release it all in as weary a sigh as you’ve ever expelled.

“You’re doing fine, Monty,” you say, and it’s kinder, warmer than you’ve sounded all evening, “You’re doing just fine. I mean, this was a little…” Pausing to gesture loosely at the overturned coffee table, you let out a soft laugh and continue, “Uh, overzealous. But your heart was definitely in the right place.”

‘Your heart.’

Slowly, hesitantly, Monty’s tail lifts from the ground, rising with the edges of his crocodilian smile. You might never know how much it means to him that you don’t point out how he doesn’t technically have a heart. And it means even more to hear that you know his intentions came from a good place.

“But,” you add, inhaling, like you’re bracing yourself, “I’m still not happy you’ve put yourself in such a precarious position just to check up on me.”

Monty’s metal framework groans as he slumps again.

“Ugh. Listen to me,” you chuckle, rubbing your temple, “I’m starting to sound like Andy.” Starting forwards, you begin limping for your room, stifling a wide, clumsy yawn behind the back of your hand. “Now, I have had, like, the longest day. And I’m going to bed before I keel over.”

“…But… what about your food?” he asks, sparing a glance over at the saucepan sitting idly on the countertop. The water inside has long gone cold.

Your footsteps pause as you draw alongside him, reaching out to lay a palm on your bedroom door. “I’m not hungry,” you murmur after a second. It’s not entirely a lie. For some reason, the meagre appetite you had for cheap noodles and tea has evaporated, leaving you hollow, yes, but not nearly as hollow as you were rendered by the touch of Mick’s hand on your leg.

Giving your door a shove, you push it open and reach around the corner, sliding your fingers along the interior wall until you find the light switch, flicking it on and illuminating the bedroom with a warm, yellow glow. Monty is frowning at you, you can feel his crimson optics boring into the side of your head, but you ignore him to say, “I suggest you go back to the Plex before you run out of charge.”

You must have mistaken the gator’s earlier acquiescence for a willingness to leave.

“I got plenty of charge,” he deflects.

As it is, Monty’s optics rove over the top of your head, widening significantly behind his glasses as they land upon the contents of the room that he’d been standing in just minutes ago. He hadn’t bothered to sate his curiosity then, far more apprehensive about what was happening on the outside of the space, but now, without oppressive darkness cloaking every corner and without a potential threat to contend with, his protocols take a backseat to his inquisitiveness.

He observes closely as you shuffle into the new territory, your territory, where you immediately make a beeline for the nest – bed, his CPU corrects – that’s set against the furthest wall.

Swinging his prodigious bulk around, the animatronic trails after you, ducking underneath the doorway and raising his snout to the air.

You don’t even have to look over a shoulder to know you’re being tailed. The heavy stomps are proof enough of the gator’s proximity. “Monty, come on,” you whine, “You’ve gotta go home.”

The gator only offers a gruff hum in response, otherwise distracted by the simple yet pivotal revelation that he, for the first time, is seeing your private, recharging chamber. Immediately, he’s struck by how much more lived-in this humble space is. Out there, in your kitchenette and the adjacent living room, everything seemed so much more bland. Less you.

In here, there are pieces of you scattered into each corner of the room, from the pile of unwashed clothes sitting in a nearby chair to the row of house plants lined up like soldiers along the breadth of your windowsill.

Curious, his optics roam towards a desk in the corner, upon which sits - to his immediate intrigue – a large, square tank filled almost to the brim with crystal-clear water, and lit from above by a cool, fluorescent light bulb. He knows what it is at once, though he’s never been privy to one in person before.

At his back, you reach the bed and promptly collapse onto your rear at the edge of the mattress, dropping your crutch to the floor and listening to it land with a sharp clatter of plastic.

“Ohhh,” you groan tiredly, leaning forwards to balance your elbows on your knees and drop your face into a palm, trying in vain to rub away the bags underneath your eyes with numbing fingertips.

Your whole body aches ferociously, all stemming from the sharp twinge of your ankle that lays protected behind a thick, white cast.

Six Weeks…

Day one has been hard enough. How are you supposed to make it to day forty-two? The question remains; is it uphill from here, or down?

Glancing over a shoulder, you restrain an impromptu smile before it can spread as you spot Monty creeping up to the fish tank on your desk, his head hunched low to peer through the glass at your little corydoras sifting eagerly through the substrate in search of hidden food.

“Hey, little guys,” the animatronic murmurs, his optics casting the water in a gentle, pinkish glow.

Fish are a novelty for him. He knows of them, of course, has seen images of them depicting many various shapes, sizes, and colours. He knows they can’t survive for long outside of water, and he knows they’re covered in scales.

But to see for himself how those scales flash under his scrutinous, crimson LEDs, to watch their barbels twitch as they playfully chase one another along the floor of the tank…

There’s a strange kinship there for the creatures who share the waterways with his real-life counterparts.

He likes them, he decides. He likes that you have them. It speaks to an apparent affinity for aquatically-inclined animals…

For several moments, you merely observe the gator from your bed, wondering why he’s stalling. At least, you assume he’s stalling.

“Monty,” you yawn, pretending not to notice how his purple shoulder struts jump in response to your voice, “What are you doing?”

The gator’s head twitches towards you briefly. “M’sayin’ hi to the fish,” he states simply.

Shooting him a deadpan glare, you retort, “You know what I mean. Why are you still here? You need to get back to the Plex before you’re missed.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna miss me,” he shrugs, “Sides, I’ve still got a couple’a hours of juice left in the tank. Don’t worry.”

“But I am worried, Monty,” you squeeze out - and oh, there’s that pinch of tenderness to soften the hard, brutal metal hidden under his casing – “If I wasn’t worried about getting caught, I���d haul you back to the Plex myself… How did you get here unseen anyway?”

“Came over the rooftops,” he replies proudly, cocking his head at a fish that approaches the glass, lured by the glow of his optics.

“The rooftops!?” you sputter, “How on Earth did you get up there!?”

Flashing a cheshire grin, the gator gives the casing on his thigh two hearty slaps. “Got the best pneumatic cylinders in the business. These things’ll carry me distances you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I use ‘em to get from one side of the catwalks to the other. This is the first time I’ve seen what they can really do.”

Collapsing backwards on top of the covers, you splay your arms out on either side of you, letting a long, appreciative whistle pass your lips. “You jumped…. All the way here?” you realise aloud.

“Beats walkin’.”

“… And you’re going to jump all the way back?”

“Can’t exactly take a cab, can I?”

You don’t respond for a long while… So long that he turns himself all the way around and rises to his feet, half expecting to find you fast asleep on the bed.

Your eyes are closed, and you’ve gone very still. Your chest rises and falls with even, steady breaths, though your legs are still dangling over the side of the mattress, toes brushing against the carpet.

Monty frowns. A hum of machinery gives him away, not so silent as he paces around the bed towards you and lowers himself down onto one knee, reaching for your legs with the intention to lift them up to the bed so you can lay flat.

His first-aid protocols are nowhere near as advanced as Freddy’s, but he’s skimmed enough medical files in the last twelve hours to know that you should keep your damaged leg elevated.

With gradual movements, the animatronic’s fingers flex and stretch for your cast. However, his purple claws barely make it within a foot of your appendage when your body goes absolutely rigid, as though you’ve turned to stone right there on the mattress.

At once, Monty stops, glancing up to see one of your eyelids crack open and swivel over to peer at him, blinking slowly in the glow cast by his optics. “What’re you doing?” you ask guardedly. Something in your voice quivers. He catches it right away.

“I… just – I was gonna put your legs on the bed,” he explains.

The clock on your bedside table ticks quietly ever onwards, and it’s only when you remember to exhale that he considers your expression for another moment and finally ducks his head, asking, “… Can I touch you?”

Stuffing your teeth into your bottom lip, you clutch a fistful of the duvet beneath you and slowly shake your head from side to side. “Not… Not yet… I’m not…”

You falter, swallowing a painful lump that sticks in your throat like guilt. Monty didn’t do anything, after all.

But for an animatronic, his response comes far too softly.

“Okay,” he nods, pulling his hands away and returning them to his lap.

And that’s… all he does for a long time.

Sniffing, you lower your gaze, tugging yourself backwards using the duvet as leverage until you can haul your heavy cast over the side and stretch your legs out towards the foot of the bed, sighing in relief.

"Better put a pillow under there," Monty pipes up, jutting his chin towards the fluffy, white cushions spread out behind you.

Clicking your tongue, you stretch behind yourself and snag the first pillow your fingers grasp, hauling it over your head and tossing it haphazardly near your leg. After taking a moment to brace yourself, you lean back on your elbows and bite your tongue to keep down a cry as you lift the leg up and onto the pillow.

Through it all, Monty says nothing further. He does stare at you though…

You’ve noticed he’s being doing that a lot lately. What was it Mick said?

‘It’s no secret that it’s taken a real liking to you.’

You don’t want to think about Mick.

Finally, when the gator’s staring starts to grow a little too… intimate, you swallow thickly and peel your lips apart to mumble, “Monty, why don’t you want to go back to the Plex?”

He perks up at his name but loses his enthusiasm as he registers the question.

“I’ll go back soon,” he grumbles.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Monty’s vents hiss as he simulates a pensive sigh - like yours - and begins folding his legs up underneath himself, his plates sliding over each other as he settles himself down onto his rear, arms draping loosely over his knees. He knows.

“Six weeks…” he mutters, cautiously lowering his long chin until it brushes the duvet cover beside you. When you don’t protest or move away, he gives his head a little more rein to droop, and the framework in his neck no longer strains to keep it aloft.

Confusion lays its mark bare across your face. “What?”

Six weeks,” he repeats, “That’s how long you’re gonna be gone for. That’s a long time to…” Static clings to his voice-box, stifling his words. With a grimace, Monty thumps a fist twice over his chest until something clicks audibly into place. Then, forcing a laugh, he falteringly adds, “S’a… long time for a bot to go without having his room cleaned, yeah?”

“You could always let the S.T.A.F.F bots help you,” you point out.

“Nah, they wouldn’t do it right.”

A weary smirk toys with the edge of your mouth as you reply, “Well, have you considered – and this might be a bit outlandish, but bear with me here – have you considered just… cleaning it yourself?”

“Course I have,” he retorts, “But… c’mon, it’d be more fun with you, wouldn’t it?”

He should have known when your smirk recedes to leave him looking at a flat, sombre line that you weren’t fooled for a moment.

“Monty… Is the truth really that embarrassing?” you pose.

‘Yes…’ he huffs wordlessly to himself, ‘It is.’

 “It’s all gonna go back to the way it was before,” he mumbles into the duvet.

“What is?”

“Everythin’,” he suddenly exclaims, wrenching his head back up, “It’ll go back to how it was before you came along. You’ll be gone for six weeks! What if I start gettin’ angry again? What if I forget about what you taught me, ‘bout accidents n’ stuff?” That thought brings on another that’s even more dreadful, and he curls his hands underneath his chest, leaning into them against the side of the bed. “What if you forget about me?”

You blink at him, bewildered, studying the jarringly human behaviour he’s exhibiting, and wondering, not for the first time, if it says something about you that you see humanity in so much of what these animatronics do.

“Hey,” you offer, giving him a sympathetic smile when he slides his nose further along the duvet until it almost touches your arm. Almost. “You might be overthinking things, Monty. I’m pretty sure I could never forget you.” You laugh at that, causing him to blow a whuff of air against your forearm. “And besides,” you add, “Six weeks is… like, nothing, okay? It’ll go by faster than you think.”

Far from convinced, the gator only grumbles unintelligibly into the duvet and casts his optics to the other side of the room. The bed underneath you rumbles as the rich bass growls out of his speakers.

“Listen...” you sigh, flopping your head down onto the pillow to blink up at the ceiling overhead, “When I was younger, one of my best friends moved halfway across the world with her family.”

Immediately, the gator’s jaw clenches at the mention of your ‘best friend’ before he catches the action and berates himself for behaving like a toddler being asked to share their favourite toy.

“We haven’t seen each other for… Oh boy, ten years, maybe? I still call her sometimes… Probably not as often as I should... And you know what?”

“…What?”

You roll your head over to peer at the animatronic beside you, finding his focus has returned to your face.

Pulling your mouth into a sleepy smile, you let out a hum before murmuring, “Every time I ring, she’s always so pleased to hear from me. I bet if she were to walk through my door right now, it would be like no time had passed at all.”

Monty’s optic shutters click open and shut. “How come?” he prompts quietly.

“Well, do you think I love her any less now because I haven’t seen her for ten years?” you reply, “Friends can’t be together all the time, you know. Even if they might want to be. Life gets in the way. Families, jobs, fatigue, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still friends. So, you don’t need to worry about not seeing me for a few weeks, okay?”

You can’t help but find this conversation very reminiscent to a similar one you had to have with Sunny after he learned you were leaving for a week of summer vacation.

“I ain’t worried,” Monty lies through his teeth, “Just wonderin’ how you’re gonna have any fun without me around.”

“Fun was not the doctor’s recommended treatment,” you yawn, letting your eyes slip shut and keeping them closed, bogged down by a cumbersome weight that’s been heaped upon your shoulders. A myriad of hurried little thoughts swirl around inside your head, too numerous to pin any single one down. Mick’s arrival and subsequent behaviour, whether you’re trying to read too much into what might have been nothing more than a friendly gesture, Monty’s escape from the Plex and the sudden responsibility you have for an animatronic you’ve barely known a week…

You just need to sleep.

‘It’ll all make sense in the morning,’ you try to tell yourself…

You’d make a shit salesperson.

For some time, the quiet gurgling of your tank's filter provides a soothing backdrop to the silence cast between you and the animatronic.

“Can I stay here?” Monty’s question breaks through the fog of flitting thoughts, his volume barely a digit away from being entirely mute, “With you? Just for a lil’ while?”

Prying your eyelids apart to blink tiredly at the gator, you let your chest fill with a slow, heavy breath, blowing it all out again through your nose.

“… Just this once,” you whisper back.

The gator’s optics brighten, then flit towards the movement of your hand on the bed.

You’ve raised your forearm, inching the appendage closer to Monty’s snout. Fingers worn dry and abrasive from chemicals and labour touch down on top of the animatronic’s nose, followed by your palm, spreading a pleasant flood of warmth down through his teeth and onto his tongue.

In response, some of Monty’s systems backfire, kicking errors codes to his HUD that tell him he’s overheating, and should release excess coolant to the affected areas. He ignores the alerts. He ignores everything. Everything that isn’t your hand is left by the wayside, forgotten in favour of soaking up a touch that he knows would never cause hurt.

Letting his optics click shut, the gator draws his silicone lips up into a lax, lazy smile.

The muffled ‘thumps’ of a heavy tail fall and rise from the carpet over and over, and Monty’s frame seems to purr as he relaxes his massive head onto your mattress, contented and committed to this spot until his battery hits zero and his limbs rust from underuse.

He knows he has to leave, but for now, just pretending… It’s the happiest he’s been in…

It’s the happiest he’s been.

“Just this once.”

[betterbemeta]

Hi hello and welcome people who like the fat girl vampire post!

I made it 8 years ago in response to having graduated a while earlier, as I struggled to actually get jobs with my shiny new degree.

I rarely presented femme in my life before I had to dress up for interviews, and for in-person work. I was always 'kind of terrible at it', partially because I have always been fat and that interferes with 'doing girl correctly' to a lot of our society.

Having to work as an adult likely contributes to being fatter than my previous norm, which was maintained despite walking miles between school and home, biking at college, etc.

I wrote the fat girl vampire post, thinking that the things that fat women often deal with (intersection of fatphobia and misogyny?), have to do with presence and absence. Vampires, when the trope isn't discussing class (?) also are often about presence and absence:

A fat girl is not invited to parties or events because she is pushed away from society in favor of those who are seen as just a bit more human. A vampire can't enter your house unless invited; they lack the social agency of a living person.

A fat girl is not photographed because someone does not like how she'll look in a group. Or she is covertly photographed to humiliate over how much space she takes up in public. A vampire can't be photographed because they are dead, their image can't be captured, they aren't 'there', or they do not have a soul to capture on a silver exposure plate. And yet their absence from the photograph is jarring, their 'space' they take up is obvious.

A fat girl is terrorized into avoiding mirrors, a vampire avoids mirrors.

etc.

Although I enjoy many feminine fashions and took away a lot of knowledge from that part of my life, I began experiencing a strange alienation when I would 'dress up,' as if I was in costume or in disguise. Some of this was probably due to the artificiality of it all. I only 'needed' to wear more feminine things to go to work, which is the means to an end of Get Money. But I also bought and wore things I genuinely liked, that weren't completely for the work type of costume. So that wasn't the end of it.

I reasonably considered, most women don't feel like they are assuming a form, or are in costume, when they present in public. This stuff clued me in to identifying as agender, and nonbinary. I wonder if I had been a skinny child, if I would feel the same way. Or would being given a 'full life' as a woman instead of a 'half life,' have conditioned me differently?

Because our world really doesn't know what to do with agender people, I still most frequently 'assume the form of' a woman for social reasons, and I can even enjoy it... in the way you can enjoy wearing a costume sometimes. I can't say I am no longer connected to 'womanhood' even if I definitely do not have a cisnormative relationship with it.

It's interesting to me to see that ancient post circulating now, with an artist's work attached to it. I love the artwork, and I adore the artist's work and size inclusive clothing shop. In context to my specific experience though, I find it funny that the fat girl vampire is pictured to be so effortlessly feminine in her existence. She's as close to the default as she can be and still be seen to be fat. She has 'assumed the form', too...

[hms-tardimpala]

Ficbinding: Saw collection

Warning: long post

As you may have noticed, I recently got into Saw, and the fanfic quality is phenomenal. The writers in this fandom are exceptional and unafraid to write the kind of freaky shit I love. In a month, I've read enough amazing fics to fill a small book, so I did!

As usual, the fics come first. There are nine, by four different authors (I found writers I love right off the bat in this fandom).

By @theflirtmeister:

Our land is sharp and glorious (3.5k, E) (special mention to this one for being the first Saw fic I ever read <3)

Tell me sweetheart (1.6k, M)

What suits your taste (3.3k, E)

By @degloved (Wolverton on AO3):

See me bare my teeth for you (1.9k, E)

The Issue series (3 fics, 7.5k, E)

Pig on speed dial by @gurokatt (2.9k, E)

Helping hand (1.9k, E) is by an anonymous author I salute, wherever they are.

These are all great fics I wanted to bind to make rereads easier and I recommend them all strongly (just mind the tags). A big thank you to the authors for replying positively when I reached out, I hope this is a good surprise!

Now let's talk shop.

This is my smallest book to date, and I have a good reason for that. As silly as it sounds, I wanted to make a book that could fit in a pocket of Amanda's cargo pants^^ I chose red for the cover and black for the headbands and bookmark to mimic the Jigsaw coat. This cloth is amazing: the pictures above show the book in real lighting (I took them at the window to catch what light was left today). It's a non-uniform blood-like dark red, which is perfect for Saw. It's also slightly reflective, as if it were slick, as you can see in this video under artificial lighting:

I went crazy with the cogs, I know.

I'm very happy with the fonts I chose: "s'AWsome" for the title, "impact label" for the fic titles (reversed for the author names), "underway" for the drop caps and "reem kufi" for the body of the text.

I decorated this book more! Every fic starts with an image of an object related to Saw (I used chains, blades, a puzzle piece, a bear trap, a scar, etc...). I also put the title of the fic and the author's name at the top of the pages. I wish I could have put something between these and the page numbers, but it would have been too small to look good. I used barbed wire for breaks in the stories because of course I did.

I'm especially proud of the "underway" drop caps, look!

They look like fingerprints!!! The oily residue and everything, you know!

What didn't work?

This time, most of what I did worked perfectly. Well, I did have to print, cut, fold, sew and glue this three times because I made mistakes when trimming the textblock. But in the end it's fine because I don't think the uneven edges are jarring when it comes to a Saw collection. There's a small spot of glue on the cover that I'll be the only one to notice. I could have strenghtened the back less for a book this size, it would have made it bendier.

One the whole, I love this book and the stories inside it and, as a craftsman, I'm very proud of myself.

Reminder: Feel free to ask me about materials, fonts and tools, it won't bother me at all to tell you what I used, but I'm too lazy rn to write it in this post that's long enough already.

[wishluc]

[Behold! The promised Barbatos content has come at last! -🧵 Anon]

If eyes are the window to the soul, this air of mystery Barbatos maintains is the shroud which casts shadow upon his face. Tucked behind closed shutters and layers of curtain, his true intentions remain hidden from the world.

This distance that he's set, this barrier that he's built, has never once been breached. Not by Diavolo, who, while closer to him than any other, knows better than to ask questions. Nor by Solomon, who, while pact-bearing and ever curious, knows better than to get close. This line has never been crossed. Not a single soul—neither from times forsaken nor those yet to come—has slipped pass his defenses and approached his truest self.

Not until you, that is.

Your sincerity was a rarity in Devildom. It came as no surprise when the demon brothers, as dysfunctional as they are lonely, fall for you. It's when you win over the others that he begins to take interest. The Celestial Realm had no shortage of kindness and sincerity, so why did Simeon fall for you? Solomon had met countless humans across his long life, and yet he also became entranced by you. It's too late when Barbatos realizes his growing attraction. His fate was already sealed. Caught in the spider's web, you had captured his heart along with all the others. How careless of him.

Though, he refrains from giving himself too hard a time. Because really, the truth was, his fate had been sealed since the very beginning.

It was inevitable, he finds, that he would fall for someone so loveable. Every door and staircase led to the same destination. Every mirror reflected the same path. No matter the place or time, they all came to love you. Their love was so strong it surpassed space and time. His love was so strong it surpassed all space and time.

But yours wasn't.

It was unfair, really, for you to be so fickle in the face of such devotion. Incarnations that ran would always be brought home carefully, bound with the softest silks any of the three realms had to offer. When you fought, would always hold you until you went limp in their arms, soothed. When you cried, they would wipe your tears away. When you lied, they would forgive you.

They have loved you to point of insanity over and over again, and yet, you have rarely returned the favor.

In your kinder variants, whispers of sweet nothings dipped in honey would spill from your lips like waterfall. It was far from genuine, of course, but no one seemed to mind. Not as long as you were looking their way.

Artificial as it may be, there was nothing they wouldn't do to earn your affection. No line they wouldn't cross to hold your attention. Love them. Hate them. Anything goes.

You only need to stay by their side.

Nothing is more important.

Hello! Sorry I took a while to get to this. I was trying to read more about Barbatos-related lore so I don't completely butcher this :( And. As always, this was so well written!!! Could literally read anything you write, even if it was describing the ingredient list on the back of a can 0>0

Barbatos was hardly surprised when Lord Diavolo's interest in you took a disturbing turn, and he began plummeting head first into the dark pits of obsession.

The Young Master had always been an intense individual when it concerned his feelings, though seeing him lose himself so quickly, and for a mere human was jarring to say the least. Still, when he sees how the brothers covet for your attention and tug at you like a toy to be shared, he finds himself wondering if it was perhaps inevitable that Diavolo, too, would find himself craving your touch and your smile, carving out a place just for you inside his heart and mind.

Your presence was almost plaguing the Devildom, slowly but surely spreading your influence onto each of the brothers, coiling around their hearts and warping their thoughts until they developed a sick dependency of sorts on you. And after the avatars, it was the Young Master, and after that, SImeon, and now even Solomon was affected.

He knows you're not to blame for the situation you're in, but you were so foolish as to let your guard down in a place as cruel as this, and now, you were beyond saving. The warm smiles and tender caresses you offered, the gentle words despite how agitated you were, the profound understanding you had for demons who were nothing like you—did you think it would go unnoticed? Did you believe that the brothers, who had been scorned even as demons in the Devildom, who had been chased out of their previous home, wouldn't latch onto your sweet assurances and wish to have it all for themselves? You should have expected their greed to overwhelm them, should have long realized that demons felt no guilt about indulging in sins and souls alike, especially when yours only brought them pleasure and warmth.

But when he sees you struggling to turn down Lord Diavolo's suggestion to spend yet another night in the castle, a bitter taste fills his mouth. The scene reminds him of himself, many, many years ago, when he had been tricked and trapped to work for Lord Diavolo. It was painfully clear the demon had not learned anything from Barbatos's resentment of him after the fact, and for a minute, he falters—could you manage to hold back the resentment building inside you, too?

It mattered little; any resistance would be futile anyways, and such burning hatred would only eat away at you.

And then, you start approaching him. It makes sense, somehow, that compared to the unbearable fighting that constantly went on between the brothers, the domineering personality of Lord Diavolo, Solomon's sly plots and Simeon's...nature, that he would be your first choice of comfort. To you, he was just Lord Diavolo's butler. Loyal, skilled, but kind and safe. Though he knows it's a compliment to be viewed as such, Barbatos can't help the stinging sensation that follows when he realizes you must view him as a neutral party. Just there in the background, unaffected by your presence, and reliable—You must have assumed all that because he hadn't changed outwardly yet.

Although he hadn't lost his wits and started following you around like a lovesick puppy, and had yet to try his hand at manipulating you into staying by his side, it didn't mean that he was safe, or worse yet—that he was sincere. It just wasn't in his nature to be outwardly expressive about his feelings, nor was it easy to catch him in the act if he tried pulling the strings to control you.

You simply had no clue what he was up to.

You had no suspicions towards him when he convinced Diavolo to let you room by yourself one night, and you never doubted his intentions when he helped you evade the brothers. It must be so easy to believe that Barbatos was doing this out of the goodness of your heart, that he was helping you not because his jealousy was a miserable thing that plagued him relentlessly, but because he felt bad for your situation. He didn't want your other suitors to suffer as much as he did, he only wanted to lend a friend a helping hand. If you only thought about it a little more, it would be evident even to you how ridiculous the very notion was. But accepting the reality would mean losing your only friend and ally in the realm, and that realization would crush you. It was in his best interest, too, to make sure you were content by his side—a broken lover was not only difficult to ease into a picture of semi-normalcy, but it would also cause all the others to lose their minds. There were numerous, extremely delicate, factors that were depending on his role as your trustworthy partner now, and he would do well to fulfil it.

And really, it wasn't like he was particularly upset about the arrangement. He did want to brazenly stake his claim and have you succumb to him, but it wasn't unbearable having you like this, either. You huddled close to him after particularly bad arguments broke out, seeked him out when you wanted a bite of something sweet to chase away the bitter taste resentment, you confided in him your personal secrets, things that couldn't be found out by spells and tricks. Genuine trust—something none of the others could say they had of you.

However, it was clearly not enough for you.

Barbatos would think that unconditional love, infinite in quantity and absolute in its existence, would be something anyone would desire; especially being at the receiving end. He had assumed that relentless devotion and unwavering loyalty would be something to be yearned, that tender caresses from the cruel hands of your lovers and adoring, cloying whispers of sweet promises would be something you'd begin to appreciate. At the very least, weren't you glad, that they knew better than to frighten you or hurt you?

He was obviously wrong, if the way you keep trying, and failing, to run away and escape. You come to him, the first time, and plead with him, your eyes glittering with tears and voice strained with exhaustion, to help you leave the Devildom; even send you to a different time. But he had to refuse, firm but gentle, guiding you back to your place at the center. After that, you try it yourself. You try to create portals and cast spells, but what good does your measly magic do against the greatest sorcerer? All you get in return is cold treatment.

It does occur to him, when he tucks you in after you fall asleep at the castle and Diavolo gives him a knowing smile from across the room, that he was doing the same terrible thing that had happened to him. He was enabling your slow descent into the murky trap your other lovers had been preparing, by not aiding your escape. You'd never blame him, believing him to be strictly bound to Diavolo's orders, but he knew why he was doing this, and it was not only because of his allegiance to the Young Master.

Barbatos, too, was completely and utterly enchanted by you. You'd hate him, if you knew how his mind was invaded by you; your words, your smile, your light touches, to the point where all he knew was you. You'd be frightened if you knew how his lovesickness manifested, how you plagued him like a persistent illness and the very thought of you slowly sunk into his flesh until your presence had become a part of his identity.

But you didn't know, and that was all he could ask for.

all works © wishluc. do not copy, steal or repost my works on other platforms. (including translations)

[c-rowlesdraws]

final very superficial appraisal of the live action one piece show:

👍:

-the set design was wonderful and had a cool sense of unreality to it (as in, the environments feel like built sets and it’s part of the fun), it was colorful and theatrical and captured the manga’s blend of piratey genre aesthetics (wooden boards, sailing ships, rolled-up old maps) and “modern” elements like t-shirts and neon signs in a really pleasing way

-the show clicks to the top of the first rollercoaster hill at the end of episode 3 and then goes at the start of ep 4 and it’s just one breathless ride to the finish. I didn’t want the show to end. I do not care about one piece and started watching kind of for the bit but now I’ll actually be really upset if it doesn’t get a second season. That’s how good the second half of this show is.

-I love how all of the characters with colorful hair have clearly-dyed hair where their roots are showing (as opposed to wigs), and in flashbacks to a few of them as children the child actors have the exact same sort of imperfect dye job. It’s wonderful. It adds to the theatrical energy of everything, like “we know you know this is artificial, but we trust you to suspend your disbelief and enjoy this fiction with us”.

-with very few exceptions, all of the actors’ performances are great. They are all cool and fun to watch and there are lots of sweet and funny and emotional moments that work because the writing is sincere. Nobody rolls their eyes for the audience’s benefit at how weeeeird their world is— they live here! I love that.

-the trap beat they did for Arlong’s theme music rules

-this story with its global ocean and seafaring/island-based societies is kind of like “what if Waterworld was like a big colorful carnival” and I love that

-the Snail Phones 🐌

Things I liked less below the cut - 👎:

-Zoro’s backstory bff being depressed because “a girl can beat a boy, but no woman can beat a man [in a swordfight]” was a disappointing line to hear two characters just… play straight in a world that up to that point had seemed pretty non-sexist? But this girl sincerely believes that, and this boy doesn’t push back at all. In this world of self-dismembering clowns and people with axes for arms, you’re telling me that there are no champion swordswomen for little kids to admire? Not one?? From skimming the wiki, it seems like in the manga Kuina’s views are influenced by her sexiest dad, but the show doesn’t include that context.

-Kuina dying offscreen in “an accident” was the only tragic thing in the show that didn’t land for me. It’s just so blatant and funny. You’ve got to get rid of her so she can motivate Zoro, because she’s dead in the manga and that’s how you motivate male main characters, with dead women, but… how? Doesn’t matter! There’s been an accident. Typical backstory girl bff behavior. Call that Fridge To Terabithia.

-Iñaki’s energy as Luffy didn’t always work for me. Some character behavior works in manga and anime, but seems awkward and jarring in real life. It’s very difficult to pull off wild limb-flailing anime exuberance in live-action— live-action Cowboy Bebop’s glimpse of Ed comes to mind. But also, I never really liked Luffy in the parts of the manga I read, either, so maybe I’m just not the target audience for a Luffy in any medium. Iñaki seems like a friendly and chill dude and he certainly gave this role 100%— and also Oda himself loved him for the role, so that says a lot.

-the whole thing with Arlong and his Fishman crew where they’re part of an oppressed and formerly-enslaved minority, so of course they have beef with humans (“but slavery’s been abolished!” shouts a human character), but they’re taking things too far and not just fighting for equality, but domination, which includes extorting, killing, and enslaving humans, starting with this poor little girl here. And since this group are clearly evil and have these big evil plans, it’s cool and great actually for the heroes, who are all humans/members of the majority, to kick their asses and kill a bunch of them. Like… I get there’s a whole thing here with Arlong being twisted by hatred into the very thing he says hates, and maybe we’ll meet more Fishmen later in the story who are just people and not bloodthirsty evildoers, but it’s not a great fictional look?

It takes me back to hbomberguy’s critique of RWBY’s portrayal of the Faunus, and the problems with making your bad guys out of an oppressed ethnic group who, the story says, might have a point, if they went about things peacefully, but are just taking things too far with this domestic terrorism stuff. The Faunus and Arlong should really be writing to their congresspeople instead!

[poke-me-with-a-stick]

Chapter 29 of 'Artificial wingman'!

For the full story on ao3, click Here!

Enjoy!

---

Damian let the door shut quietly behind him, flipping the lock before he took a seat on the edge of the bathtub. Outside the bathroom, he could hear Jasmine and Danny playfully arguing about something mundane, their voices somewhat pleasant in terms of background noise. Jason had left not long ago, having said something about having some business that needed to be taken care of while he waited for their order to be filled.

He had sat in the living room, Danny's bag resting beside him, when something had caught his eye. Only now, alone in the bathroom, did he dare to take the pilfered object out of his pocket. a soft golden light engulfed his hands the minute he pulled it out, casting his face in a yellow glow when he brought it closer to examine.

The cure, a potion that cancels other potion effects on a person. In any other situation, he would find such a thing remarkable. Even now, he couldn't help but wonder if it would work on other magic-based effects, slightly in awe of how versatile it could potentially be. But that awe was tempered by the knowledge of what this jar was for in the first place.

He stared hard at the golden liquid, observing the way it swished and swirled in the jar, trails of what looked like a cross between glitter and stardust tracing hypnotic patterns in the thick solution. 'I could drink this right now,' the thought came unbidden, his fingers digging into the ridges on the lid slightly. Part of him wanted to. Wanted to twist the cap off and drain the contents. Wanted to prove, once and for all, that his feelings weren't just because of the potion.

Another part of him wanted to drop the jar like it had burned him. To throw the jar and watch the potion splatter uselessly onto the wall. Or swirl down the drain of the sink, any possible traces of it washed away by water, like it never existed. It couldn't have the chance to prove him wrong if it was gone, after all.

Damian did neither of those, instead sitting the jar down gently on the counter. Sighing, he allowed himself to drop his facade of calm and collectiveness. His shoudler's drooped with tiredness, his head dropping into his hands as he tried to sort out his feelings. Coming from an emotionally dysfunctional family didn't help him much when it came to feelings, but he tried his best not to fall back on his training.

He knew fear, it was a garantee to feel it at least once in a human life. But for a child assassin? Fear is something one becomes intimately familiar with. Maybe not his fear, but the fear of others. So he had little trouble identifying the fear that pushed forth the more... destructive ideas.

The determination and confidence that directly contradicted that fear were as much of a hindrance as they were helpful. Wilfulness is something that Damian had always displayed, even when he was loyal to his mother and Grandfather in the League.

Mother had always said that it was a trait from his father, a will of steel that kept his resolve for justice strong. Having lived with his father for a few years now, that wasn't hard to believe at all.

And now, in the midst of his conflicted feelings, he couldn't help but to fall back on that belief once again. It was different from suppressing his emotions, to instead focus all his being into the way he wished for things to turn out. If his will was half as strong as his father's, then Damian would have nothing to worry about. A little bit of fear wouldn't change thst.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his head from his hands and stood. The teen had no idea how long he had been sitting there on the edge of the tub, his legs tingling with the pins and needles feeling that always accompanied a loss of blood circulation. The apartment outside the bathroom had fallen quiet, only the chatter of the TV and the occasional shuffling of movement telling Damian that the siblings were still out there.

Picking the jar back up, Damian let his gaze trace the swirling golden patterns once more. He could drink it now, and be done with it. He could throw it and damn the consequences his actions would surely bring. But now was not the time for rash decisions. The most logical thing to do was to wait, and not force results. So for now, he would find a way to slip the jar back into it's poor hiding spot in Danny's bag, burried under the prizes from their arcade date, and enjoy the time he was given to spend with Danny. Because no matter if the potion worked or not, Danny would have to return home.

A knock on the bathroom door startled Damian from his thoughts, the teen fumbling with the jar as it slid from his hands. Heart pounding, his quick reflexes helped him re-capture the jar before it could smash on the tiled floor.

Breathing heavily, Damian stuffed the jar back into pocket and twisted the lock, throwing the door open. On the other side was Todd, his fist raised to knock again. The man blinked at him, lowering his fist to rest on his hip in a way that Brown would refer to as 'sassy'.

"There you are. You doin' okay, Demon brat? Danny said you'd been in there a while." Jason gave him a quick lookover, not moving from the doorway as he searched for possible hidden injuries.

Damian scoffed. "I am perfectly fine, Todd " He sniffed hauntingly as he shoved past the man, heading towards the living room.

"Alright, alright!" Todd tossed his hands up in the air in an exasperated manner following him down the hall. "Just making sure. It would suck if you died on me and left your boyfriend here all alone." Despite the teasing tone, Damian could detect the slight bit of serious concern radiating from him.

Before he could come up with a response that would calm his most volatile brother, Damian found himself in the living room. Danny turned around at the sound of their approach, a smile stretching his face and showing off a flash of those enticing fangs. "Robin!" He chirped excitedly. "Come sit down! Jason brought food back. I already put a vegetarian plate together for you."

Sure enough, as soon as Damian had settled onto the couch, Danny was shoving a plate of mouth watering food into his hands. The teen gave the plate an expiramental sniff before taking a bite, pleasantly surprised by the flavorful mouthful.

The teen couldn't help the small smile that quirked up his lips as he watched Danny dig into his own plate, his a mixture of both vegetarian and meat-ladened sides, though mostly vegetarian, with gusto. 'Yes,' he thought, taking another bite of his food, 'it was a good decision to hold off.'

The jar doesn't make to it's bag that night. Damian told himself that it was because Danny was too observant, that he would notice right away that something was out of place, no matter how meticulous Damian was with putting everything back. In reality, he ignored the fact that it was his own reluctance that kept the jar stashed in his pocket.

----

Back at the manor, Cass and Stephanie had begun phase one of 'Distract Dick, no matter the Cost'. Personally, Steph really liked the plan's name, but Cass insisted that it was a placeholder for the true name, still pending.

Steph crouched in the shadows, sight of her blocked by the wall she leaned against. The batcave itself was empty for the moment, Cass and Alfred having managed to spike Tim's decaf with melatonin and lead the boy up to one of the family rooms for a nap. But she knew her target would be here any minute

Sure enough, after ten minutes, Dick came Striding out of the locker room, nightwing suit snug across his chest as he made his way towards the corner she was hiding behind.

Taking a deep breath, Steph pulled her bowl away from her chest as she stood. Faking a jog, she waited until Dick began to round the corner before she struck. Purposely running into him, she let the bowl tip towards the man and slid from her fingers, dousing the blue and black of his suit in the most eye catching shade of pink she could whip up.

She let out a convincing shriek of surprise, forcing her feet to slide instead of catching herself. Landing on her butt, the girl was treated to the most amazing sight, a dumbfounded look on a bright pink Nightwing.

"Oh, god! Dick!" She stuttered in her hasty movements to get back up, selling the whole 'horrified Surprise' act even further. "I'm so, so sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going, and I was just gonna dye my hair in the sinks down here, 'cause Alfred threatened to make me scrub the upstairs sinks if I stained any of them bright pink, and- and- oh, I'm sorry!"

Her rambling apology seemed to snap him out of his stunned state, the man looking himself over for the fist time. "Hey, Steph, it's okay!" He grimaced when he saw the color, but tried to put on a calming smile as he reassured her. "It was an accident. We can just wash it out, m'kay?"

Steph almost couldn't believe how easy this was going. "Yes!" She exclaimed, tugging the man back towards the locker room. "Go and change out of it, and I'll get it clean in no time!" She didn't give the man much of a chance to protest, shoving him into the locker room and shutting the door behind him.

A few minutes later, and he had returned. Donning a t-shirt and jeans, he held out the costume for her to take. "I'll swing by later to pick it up, but for now I have to go and talk to some people." giving himself a once over, he nodded to her one last time before he made his way to the elevator.

She waited a few minutes, making sure that he was actually gone, before she took the elevator as well. Stepping out from behind the broken grandfather clock, she made sure the coast was clear before hurrying up the stairs and to one of the unused guest bathrooms.

Closing the door behind her, Stephanie turned and faced the silent girl that was already waiting for her. "Got it!" She smirks deviously, holding up the pink monstrosity that she had created. "How about you? Did you get the goods?"

Cass grinned back at her as she grabbed something from behind her. Turning back around, she proudly held up two complete nightwing suits for Steph to see.

"Nice!" Steph couldn't help but to laugh, already imagining the look on his face when he found all of his spares missing. "And you locked the storage room too?" Cass nodded her affirmation, miming a key locking before giving a thumbs up. "Perfect! Now that step one is done, I think we can safely move on to step two!"

Carefully, both girls peeked into the hallway, looking back and fourth for any wandering souls before declaring the coast clear. Moving with quiet efficiency that only a bat could accomplish, the pair made their way to a laundry room on the second floor. Honestly, Steph had no idea it was even here before, and would have just used the one down stairs, if not for Cass. Apparently, this laundry room was so seldom used that it was one of the places she went to when the hustle and bustle of the manor became too much.

Once the girls had reached their destination, Steph waisted no time in throwing the nightwing costume in the washer, purposely going against the washing instructions for their suits. Cold water instead of warm, a healthy dose of bleach, and about half a cup of the detergent that Alfred had told her was for their lounge wear only, instead of the one m0ade specifically for the kevlar- laddened fabric. Confident that the suit was probably done for now, she left her handiwork to finish on it's own. They still hand one last thing to do.

Turning to her partner in crime, Steph let her mischievous grin turn slightly more sinister. "Okay, now. Where can we hide Nightwing suits where they won't be found?" She asked, tucking the two spare costumes under her arm as she let Cass take the lead.

Walking confidently, the two wandered the mayor's maze of corridors, taking so many turns that Steph was sure her head would spin trying to remember them all. It's times like this that the girl is reminded how easy it would be to get lost in this place. How anyone could live gere without maps on the walls telling them where they are, Steph will never know.

After a few minutes of walking, they finally came to a stop in front of a closet. It looked like every other hallway closet they had passed, oak door with a shiny copper handle waiting to be opened and used as storage. There was nothing special about it, besides the fact that islt resided in a part of thr manor that usually went unvisited by anyone besides Alfred. And Cass, Steph supposes, because why else would she lead Steph halfway across the house when there were several perfectly usable closets on the way here?

She opened her mouth to ask the question on her mind, but Cass beat her to the punch. Pulling open the door, the raven haired girl crouched down and began to feel along the floor of the closet for something. Steph stepped closer, watching curiously as her fingers found purchas in a groove between the floorboards. With one swift move, she pulled upwards, the floor lifting with a low creak to reveal a small cavity hidden beneath.

Stephanie gasped in surprised delight, dropping to her knees beside Cass to examine the little hole. It was about three feet long, and two feet wide, forming a cute little cubby that ran only half a foot deep. The small space was empty, save for a few dust bunnies and a lone mothball rolled into the corner. It was perfect.

"Awesome find!" She praised her friend as she dropped the spare costumes in, letting Cass gently lower the panel back into place. Step two complete.

Standing back up, the girls dusted off their hands and knees before turning to head back to the laundry room. Their timing was amazing, as the washer cut off just as they passed the threshold.

Opening the washer, Steph was greeted by a bleach-splotched nightwing costume. None of the pink from the hair dye mixture surviced the wash, sadly, but it did an amazing job, turning the blue bird on the chest purple. Paired with the gray and tan-ish splotches decorating the shoulders and back, Steph was confident that it would be tossed into the storage room to gather dust with Discowing once this was all over.

Tossing the ruined costume into the dryer, Steph hopped up onto the slowly warming surface, kicking her legs happily. "How mad do you think Dick is gonna be when he finds out that this wasn't an accident?" She asked concersationally.

Cass brought her hand up to her chin, rubbing it contemplatively as she mulled over the question. Shrugging, she signed 'Probably not too mad. Not when he finds out it was for Damian's love life.'

Steph snickered, nodding. "Yeah, Dick is a huge softy. He'll probably forget all about this as soon as Damian tells him why. He always qets excited about these little milestones little Dami hits." She giggles again, the image of Dick fake swooning in front of Damian too funny for her.

Cass giggled quietly too, silently thinking about how Dick might get them back for this. While he would get distracted by Damian's love quest, he was not one to forgive and forget such actions. Sooner or later, the man would get his revenge on them, probably in an extremely embarrassing manner.

Cass couldn't wait.

---

(There might be some spelling/grammar mistakes, but it's okay because I tried my best!)

To all the lovely people who follow along, and the awesome person who made the prompt for this story:

@halfblackwolfdemon @manapeer @xxwintrynightzxx @im-totally-not-an-alien-2 @blu-lilac @academicpurposes @secretdestinywerewolf @passivedecept @naluforever3 @postit-nope @spiteismymiddlename @2t-productions @plague-daisy @feet-achy @bubblecookies16 @thesapphiredragon13 @justwannabecat @magicalcollecter @adeniumdream @amuseofminds @lupagrim @readerkayden @dr-syko-pharm-4 @ladythugs @angelheartgamer @markthespot68 @kyrianclawraith @michikoy-yuki @servasvictoria02 @your-emo-nightmare @vala-dreams @scarlett-green-rose @t1dwarrior-of-earth @charlie-the-frogie @akikoyuii @mysticalcomputerdetective @roseuniverse999 @im-totally-not-an-alien @thefearfullone @weird-droplet-309 @jaytriesstuff @raventao @jacquelynwinchester @dragongoblet @tlise21 @longlivethefallen @the-archer-goddess @temple-of-jalebi @adepresseddwightsblogofjunk @plainly-colorful @the-legalHe-shipper @49saltpeppershakers @igotafewbadideas @tumbling-darkling @sparklygardenbouquet @sarcastic-yami @blueneko9314 @starscreamlover @liedboutmurder @do3y @roze-realm @some-mildly-happy-human @yinari-uchiha @azuera @chaoticmistake @altairsarts @kawaiikenna @heartsong18 @thetoyboxs @tricksovertreats @mnemovoid @lim4b3ans @horribly-lost-and-gay @keimiwolf @dryeraseslime @joey394

[ut-poppy-askblog]

Okay, what is Poppy?

Throughout the Omega Timeline: Poppy's Story AU, I've realized that, beyond Poppy's origin, and her acquiring her SOUL, I've never truly delved into what Poppy is exactly. Though her """species""" is generously described as a "Ostensibly, Paper Human", that's not really true. Paper Frisk is unquestionably a paper human, so really, Poppy's true nature hasn't really been explained up until now. Though 4 years late, I've written up an entire post going over some things I've jotted down over the years of how she works.

Any addendums I may make will be listed at the bottom of the page.

What species is she?

I don't know

What is she, then?

(as seen in the Poppy's Origin comic)

Poppy was originally a drawing by a Chara, brought to life by Ink Frisk- whose magic specializes in bringing things to life through art. Though useful in a pinch, they would have never expected something like Poppy to come out of it. In this form, Poppy was essentially moving through the motions, doing as told. Though having some semblance of understanding of what was told to her, she lacked any means of communicating it.

Of course, this wasn't going to last forever, even if Core fed her magic food, the spell would eventually run its course. Thus, they resorted to one of the recently-rescued scientists: (a) W.D. Gaster. But everyone calls him Fling Ding.

(as seen in The Quality of You)

Through Fling Ding's efforts, Poppy was given an artificial SOUL, and was thus born anew. The SOUL inherited all of the body's thoughts and loose memories, and has thus become what Poppy is. This generally implies that Poppy IS the soul, that pilots a paper body. ... But, of course, it's a bit more complicated like that.

How is she 3D, if she's made out of paper?

(Core doesn't naturally have magic, they have to pull it out of a jar every time..)

This is achieved through an obscure spell that Core's learned of through their eternal omnipresence. This spell provides Poppy with all the perks of 3D. Though, of course, it also takes magic to uphold.

When young, Poppy would often be tired from attempting to uphold this spell. When she fell asleep, she would do so as 2D, then core would have to cast the spell at her in the morning. As years went by and her SOUL grew stronger however, she's rarely ever seen in 2D, even when sleeping.

Not to say she doesn't have days where she simply... Can't turn 3D at all. But they're few and far between. As long as she eats healthily, and has a good sleep schedule, it usually doesn't happen.

What does she eat?

Her diet consists of magic food, mostly. Given she does not have any digestive system, any physical food she may try to eat, sort of... Lounges in her mouth until she spits it out. She can taste it, but no one likes to chew on food for longer than needed. She also drinks regular water and whatnot.

Wait, but is she waterproof? Is water going to kill her? How can she drink?

I've pondered myself this many times. But, ultimately, I feel like Core wouldn't just... make her live a life where she is constantly afraid of the weather, or even washing dishes. So I believe she has some waterproof magic going on.

As for how drinking water or any non-magic liquid works for her, I'm not sure. Maybe her body just, naturally fizzles out the water with the magic.

Okay, how does she grow up?

Very good question! Poppy's bodies are drawings on paper after all. You would think that maybe, the body magically ages up. But, at least for this Poppy, it doesn't work like that.

Poppy's bodies are custom-drawn by the Chara who drew her originally (who doesn't really ask why core would need a life-size drawing of their character, they pay very good money) at every stage of her life. And it's not just one body per stage, no. Poppy is a slightly reckless person, so she's had her fair share of accidentally hurting herself.

So now to the gut of the question, how does she go from body to body? It's a fairly simple task, actually!

Whenever she jumps on a similar looking body, the process is quite seamless, but when she jumps onto a taller body— or, really, a body that's drastically different than her current one, it takes some readjusting.

"So that's not my left arm..."

However, after some time adjusting, she's up and ready to go again.

As for what happens with the previous bodies, however...

Core keeps them safely stored somewhere unknown.

Wait, hold on, could she possess any drawing? Even something baseless and meaningless like a scribble?

She could. But it's not exactly pleasant for her. It's like trying to steer a car that's a block of wood. But yes, besides those types of drawings, she could feasibly look like anyone or anything given enough time. Her voice would be a dead giveaway however.

How can she change clothes? Or cut her hair without damaging the paper? How can she speak without vocal cords? How can her body know what's under the clothes when it's drawn with clothes?

Magic. ... Honestly, magic. I just don't have a better explanation. But I would imagine that if, for example, you tried to cut her hair in 2D, that would lead to less-than-desirable results.

How much does she feel? Does she see the world differently?

Another excellent question, hypothetical reader. As I had written it originally in the askblog, I sort of liked the idea that Poppy had a very limited perception of the world. She couldn't feel anything touching or burning her, she could barely taste, she could barely smell. And she can hardly be aware of anything outside of her view (she doesn't have the gut feeling of feeling she has intimidating people next to her, for instance).

But with Core teaching her that everyone's not always as bad as they seem (especially with her found family choices), it's not like this last aspect has changed much.

But, as years went by, I had a very different idea. What I've said would remain true... through more or less the first few months or so of Poppy being in a new body. As her SOUL attuned to the body, she would slowly build more human-esque senses. And perhaps even more human characteristics as well such as sweating. These being rooted in Poppy's understanding of humans... so, mostly Dusted, Core, and Mon for a good while.

As for eyesight, I've had the idea she does see things different than you and I, but I'm just not sure how to convey it through drawing or writing, so it's generally remained shelved for the time being.

... And that's all she wrote! If anything needs adding, it will be done under this. For now, consider yourself a Poppy-ologist.

[after-witch]

Mahito prompt: "what will you do if that monk? You follow wants you to get rid of me?"

notes: unhealthy relationships, mentions of death

You're not sure what pushed you to finally ask the question that had been gnawing at your guts for weeks. How long could this last? how long did you want it to last? Was it better to know--or not know?

Mahito has a look of surprise for perhaps a moment. You can't tell if it's artificial or not.

"Well..."

He stretches his arms out, reaching beyond your shoulder and tugging you close. You let him, the movement a little too jarring, a little too strong, a little too much to be normal. You're used to this, with Mahito. Every action, every touch, every word... always a little stretched, always a little off.

One hand reaches up and begins to pet your head, soft and idle. You're used to this, too--being treated like a pet. A submissive, loyal thing that always comes running when he calls.

He sighs, a sweet, airy sound.

"I'd kill you," he says.

The words don't surprise you. Just make you feel sick with the weight of them.

He sticks out his lips, a childish little pout. "But... I'd be a little annoyed by it! Especially if he told me to get rid of you before I was bored."

He quirks his head a little and grins at you, and you know you're supposed to smile back--so you do. You know what feelings are in your eyes. Love. Adoration. Curiosity. And fear, too, because you were infatuated and flattered and enamored with Mahito. But you weren't stupid.

He leans forward and nuzzles your nose with his.

"And I'm not bored of you yet, you sweet little thing! So let's hope he keeps his mouth shut for a while, okay?"

[apteryxparvus]

L ♡ V E R ⇌ L ⦻ S E R — chapter 5

Chapter five — Grande Belladonna iced tea with 4 pumps of “Please forget this ever happened”, please

Pairing — Scaramouche / Female Reader

Content warning — swearing • mentions of bullying • brief mention of psychedelic substances

Summary: In a twist of unfortunate events, you find out that being exposed as the target of Kunikuzushi middle school bullying escapades was just the beginning of your troubles. To your dismay, you’re thrown even deeper into the glamorous but artificial world of celebrities. Oh, and the cherry on top? You’re forced to pretend to be in a long-term romantic relationship with none other than said ex-bully. All because of a careless misclick by his social media manager.

prev • masterlist • next

It’s early noon when you slowly open your eyes, the world seeming hazy. Your dry mouth and heavy eyelids serve as reminders of the previous night. Glancing around your room, you note the evidence scattered in the corner — the empty bottle of raki and cups, snack packets, and plates.

With a groan, you rise from the bed and stretch your weary limbs, suppressing a yawn. The tempting aroma of freshly roasted coffee wafts through the air, accompanied by the scent of a mouthwatering breakfast. Following your senses, you make your way to the kitchen, the soft padding of your sock-clad feet barely making a sound along the hallway.

“Morning,” Alhaitam greets you with a brief glance as he expertly flips a msemen in the air, the flatbread landing back in the pan with a sizzle. He’s wearing a novelty apron — a gag gift from Kaveh — adorned with the words “I Beat My Meat” and a playful illustration of a tiny, round creature tenderizing a steak.

Your attention turns to Kaveh, slumped over the kitchen table, his face buried in his hands as he groans softly in discomfort. A steaming cup of coffee sits beside him.

“How—how much did we drink last night?” you inquire. 

“A whole bottle of raki before I had managed to finish the dinner preparations.” Alhaitam’s deadpan response leaves you wide-eyed. It all explains the raging hangover.

He suggests you take a seat and grab a coffee, while he finishes the crispy pancakes. You settle next to Kaveh, cradling your own mug of liquid relief, and observe as Alhaitam skillfully finishes his task.

He arranges the flatbread, arranging the pieces in three portions, and places them on the table. You gently nudge Kaveh awake, and he stirs from his light slumber. Alhaitam adds the final touch to the table — a jar of homemade honey and some soft butter, along with small bowls of nuts and raisins.

“You should probably check your Twitter,” Alhaitam suggests, casually dipping his msemen in the soft honey. Confusion clouds your mind for a moment, but within moments, the hazy recollections from the previous night rush back. Vaguely, you can recall venting to Kaveh about the whole Scaramouche bullying scandal, and unleashing your pent up frustration as a long twitter rant. 

Panic sets in and a sharp ache throbs in your head.

With trembling hands, you unlock your phone and navigate to your Twitter app. Dread courses through your veins, you don’t feel ready to face the consequences of your drunken actions. The thought of the post and of the numerous quote retweets and comments fills you with embarrassment. You delete the post, desperate to erase your public outburst. Taking a deep breath, you navigate to your account settings and switch your profile to private.

Your heart pounds, as you muster the courage to open your message inbox. You silently pray that the vague memory of you insulting Scaramouche is just a mere figment of your imagination.

“Fuck.”

Author’s note: updates might get a bit more sporadic, sorry about that 😅 also, i decided to add the header image to all chapters, so now i gotta go back and fix the previous ones... sigh

psa, dont go ingesting weird plants u see just cuz they're pretty, okei?

Taglist — @scaramoo @bananasquash @yukiipc @theblueblub @feiherp @scarletttcroww @farelady-fate @skyoverkill1 @reversearrowhead @magica-ren @sakurapeach

[chocodile]

Answering this in TWO PARTS because I have a lot of thoughts! CLICK HERE FOR PART 1.

PART 2: FALLOUT 'VERSE (Frank's default setting)

Warning that this one gets a little weird (gross) at the end (maybe more than a little).

The one scenario where I could see them interacting at length would be Fallout AU. I've talked about Fallout AU Hyden before, but to sum him up, he's a pre-war scientist turned brain in a jar remote controlling a synth body. Unfortunately, hundreds of years of deteriorating hardware and brain-meat have degraded the connection to the point where his synth body is basically completely numb. In this setting, he wouldn't have the luxury of being picky about allies (especially since he's double-crossed half the groups in the wasteland during his artificially long life). So I could see him grubbing around with someone like Frank under this circumstance. Frank is a scavenger, after all. He can help Hyden find materials he needs to repair his system and can be paid in food--something Hyden has limited use for. That makes him useful. (Also he couldn't smell Frank with his senses numbed, which would improve their relationship.)

Fallout AU Frank would think this brain-in-a-jar guy is weird as heck. Frank considers pre-war people "good", so Hyden would have that point in his favor, but is distrustful of non-humans, including synths. He'd probably have some trouble understanding exactly what Hyden is. He'd start to get it after watching Hyden "die" and come back with a new synth body a few times. He'd think that was extremely untrustworthy behavior, though. Things are supposed to die when you kill them. Not doing that is… wrong.

But Frank is a simple creature, and can be convinced to look the other way on moral failings like being a weird unkillable robot clone (or something) if you grease his palms… or rather, his mouth. If Hyden proved himself to be a reliable quest-giving NPC who rewarded him with man-dog treats for delivering scrap metal and computer components, he could come to be at ease around him, even if he still thought he was weird and sketchy. And he'll even agree to some of Hyden's more perplexing requests, like when he wants to sit there awkwardly watching him eat macaroni for an hour and interrupting him every few bites asking what the macaroni "feels" like. Frank doesn't get it, but hey, a free dinner's a free dinner. Maybe that's just what it's like being friends with a robot.

…Though, I did some googling, and… great news! Apparently synths are made of lab-grown meat and CAN be eaten with the cannibal perk! That… certainly opens up some INCREDIBLY dysfunctional paths for this relationship to take! Two morally bankrupt, empathy deficient weirdos, one of which is an obedient, social-cue-blind cannibal and one of which is an unkillable completely off the rails masochist. Good lord. Here's an alternate version of that last image with very offcolor joke (I mean it).

[halloiambored]

Random Snippet

CW: kidnapping and suffering, the works.

Ethan isn’t a hero.

He’s just an average guy who lives in a modest apartment on the East side of the city. He has a cat. It’s nice.

Okay, yeah - he knows things that could cripple the agency in minutes, but that doesn’t make him a hero. If anything, he’s just a liability.

“Large black coffee, please.”

This cafe is always busy around noon, conversations and kitchen clamor bleed together with the muffled chaos of the city streets.

“Sure thing. Would you like our medium or dark roast?”

“Dark would be great,” Ethan smiles weakly, thumbing through his wallet. As he pulls out a ten, his focus catches on the casual tapping of the cashier’s nails.

“Do you want room for cream and sugar?”

“Ah, nope, no thanks. Do you take cash?”

Whatever she says is lost to the ringing in his ears. A few dazed heart beats later, he remembers how to breathe. God, his life is a mess.

“Sir?”

“I uh, sorry, what did you say?” How she manages to be so kind is beyond him.

“We do! It’ll be—”

“On me! Thank you.” A gloved hand on his arm makes Ethan jump, eyes darting to the man - nope, hero - beside him. Ironically, he doesn’t recognize their suit. Ethan, the designer of every super-suit in the city, doesn’t recognize their suit.

“Really?”

“Don’t worry about it! I haven’t checked in on you in a while, it’s my treat. Hey, how’s your cat?”

Completely at a loss, Ethan stares. Something is eerily familiar about his crystal blue eyes, but he can’t place it.

“Are you okay, man? I’ve been worried about you, after everything that happened last week. Here - let’s get out of the way.”

Draping his arm across Ethan’s back, the stranger subtly shoves him toward the pickup counter.

“Look, Ethan - it is actually Ethan, right?”

“Who—”

“Oh c’mon, you don’t recognize me? Wow. Here, I’ll jog your memory.”

With a smirk, the man sends a spark of electricity racing up his spine. And sure, it’s jarring to feel his muscles flex and flutter involuntarily, but the discomfort isn’t what makes his stomach drop.

No - it’s because the villain beside him is Aaron fucking Whitehall, the ex he spent years trying to forget. Since he mentioned last week, it means he’s here because... not to…

“Oh my god.”

Like a switch, Ethan tries to squirm away. To his dismay, his strength seems to be evaporating by the second. All he manages to do before he’s slammed against the wall is knock over someone’s lunch, their plate shattering on the tile floor.

For a beat, the tension in the room is palpable. Then reality crashes back into place.

Naturally, someone’s screaming as the crowd tries to escape the henchman at the door. Ethan, though - he’s begging, eyes wide and filling with tears, hands pathetically pushing at the gloves holding him in place.

“Look, now you’ve made a scene. I was trying to be subtle, y’know. Nice. Hell, I caught you off guard in broad fucking daylight and you’re stupid enough to try to run. Aren’t you supposed to be good at your job?”

“Pleaseplea,” he chokes, breath hitching, “don’t do this, please, I don’t understand why you’re her—”

Without warning, fire. Ethan’s world is on fire.

Gasping in shock, his struggles turn frantic, panic clouding his every thought. Desperately, he coughs out, “StOP!”

“Mmm no,” Aaron continues with a malicious grin. “Instead, three things are about to happen. One, you’re going to get in my car. Two, you’re going to cooperate unconditionally. And three, you’re going to spill all of the marvelous little secrets in that pretty head of yours.”

“N-no—”

“Yeah, you will. Because if you don’t…” Aaron leans in, his breath ghosting over Ethan’s ear. Somehow, the pain gets worse, ripping a scream out of his already sore throat.

“You will suffer. I will make your life hell on earth and I will enjoy every second.”

As the rush of artificial electricity fades, Ethan falls. Even free, the designer’s lungs burn for air that doesn’t come, his body shaking uncontrollably.

“So, shall we?” Startlingly polite, Aaron turns on his heel and walks away, clearly expecting Ethan to follow.

Fuck fuck fuck, this is not going to end well.

Without missing a beat, two of the henchmen step forward to drag him along, effectively cutting off his weak protest with a knee to the gut.

“You got the wrong guy,” he wheezes, voice hoarse and charged with emotion.

After all, Ethan isn’t a hero, he’s just a liability. But if he can make Aaron believe him, if he can get out, maybe the city stands a chance.

“Yeah, sure I do.”

“No really, Aaron,” the goons throw him in the backseat, and he gracelessly scrambles away from the open door. “I work at the agency, but I’m not - they don’t trust - what secrets?”

With terrifying ease, the men drag him back to lock shackles around his wrists, the metal unforgiving.

“Oh, you don’t know anything? Seriously? After your agency leaked your name, you really think I’ll let you off that easy?”

The villain’s cruel smirk leaves nothing to the imagination. Obviously, he isn’t going to be convinced that easily. No, Aaron will ruin his dearest captive, and then some, to get what he wants.

But when Ethan finally sobs, he’s still surprised when Aaron laughs.

Why did he have to be the one to find him?

“Dam-mnit. Please, at least — I’m trying,” his already warbled voice cracks, “I trying to tell you the truth. Please. You’re going to make me go through this, you’re going to… it’s… oh my god, please let me go. I-I can’t give you information I don’t have. Aaron, plEAse!”

“Bullshit.”

At that, the car door slams in his face.

[queenshelby]

Jonathan Crane’s Heir (One Shot)

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Virgin!Reader

Warning: Loss of Virginity, Medical Experiments, Restraints, Breeding, Smut

Words: 1467

Requested: Yes!

Summary: Jonathan Crane has been single all of his life but, what he wants now is an heir, someone to step into his footsteps and take over Arkham Asylum. You volunteered to give him exactly that…

***

"I am glad you volunteered for this Y/N and I am even more glad about the fact that your purity remains intact and for me to take. Now please, take a seat up here” Dr Crane said, pointing towards the examination chair which looked like the chair you’ve seen at your gynecologist’s office.

“Yes Dr Crane” you said shyly before complying with his request and taking a seat right on the edge of the chair.

“Wonderful. Now, please lay back, put your feet up on the metal bars and make yourself comfortable. I need you accessible Y/N. I am sure you understand” Dr Crane then ordered and, when you placed your feet up on the bars, causing you to be exposed and spread out in front of Dr Crane, he tied your legs to the chair with leather straps.

“Dr Crane? What are you doing?” you asked nervously while he approached you.

“This is for your own protection. I need to ensure that you stay in place for me when I inseminate you” the doctor then said while dragging the fingertips of his right hand down your stomach and thigh. You nodded again with approval and Dr Crane didn't stop there. He slid his hand back up your naked thigh under your skirt until he found your panties, and pressed against them hard enough to make you squeal.

"Let’s see if we need some lubrication, shall we?” he then told you before he pulled your white cotton panties aside and pressed two fingers inside you.

“Oh” you moaned with surprise as a wave of intense pleasure accented with pain swept through your body.

“You see, Y/N, I would really like to avoid the use of anything artificial during this process so, I guess this will do for now. You should just be wet enough to take my cock” Dr Crane observed just before he moved away from you long enough to unzip his fly and pull down his pants and underwear.

“Yes doctor. I understand and I am ready for you to begin the process” you confirmed and Dr Crane reached for a pair of scissors which he used to cut off your panties before positioning himself in between your legs.

"Good. Now let’s see if you can give me an heir, shall we?” Dr Crane then told you and you gasped as you felt the head of his cock pressing against your slick slit.

You didn't answer, but he could see the submission in your eyes when you looked up at him and that was all he needed as he started applying more and more pressure with his cock until the head finally popped inside of you.

It was a jarring, painful sensation, but it was so hard to tell pain and pleasure apart. At least that was true until his cock ran up against your hymen for the first time. That gave you such an electric jolt of agony that he had to cover your mouth when you tried to scream.

"Calm down Y/N! It will feel better soon" Dr Crane reassured you as he tried harder to force himself inside you and it was on his fourth thrust that he tore through your virgin pussy.

After that he kept invading your purity, claiming you an inch at a time until he was finally all the way inside you.

"You are nice and tight still. I should be able to fill you up nicely" Dr Crane then told you as he started to pump in and out of your in earnest without even giving you a chance to adjust to his size.

With heavy thrusts, it was the pain that disappeared first. You might have passed out, you weren’t sure, but the raw gritty pain of Dr Crane’s cock going in and out of you was replaced by the slick warm feeling you supposed you were meant to enjoy.

And it didn't stop there. The longer he fucked you, the more you started enjoying the feelings that he inspired inside with you and, eventually you moaned while blushing hard in shame.

"I told you, you would be enjoying this” Dr Crane growled in your ear as he kept on fucking you, hard and fast and your mind was rapidly becoming a hall of mirrors, and every time Dr Crane gave you a little jolt of pleasure, the maze reoriented. It made it impossible for you to put together any complex thoughts as he kept using your body for his pleasure.

The less well you could think the better being fucked started to feel and soon the pleasure was coming rapidly, and the hall of mirrors was quickly becoming a kaleidoscope of constantly rotating mirrors and shapes. Every thrust became both an instant and an eternity and you were lost in them. The hot slick friction of this man sliding in and out of your body had already been the worst experience of your life, but it was quickly becoming the best. You couldn't help it. You couldn't resist it. You could barely endure it. This was a hell of your own making and you burned with the pleasure that was building up inside you. You had agreed to all of this and now you were enjoying it with all of your might.

"Fuck" you cried out finally as your body was burning but your mind was unravelling, and then finally the fragments of your mind caught fire, and burst into flame. You were annihilated by the sudden burst of pleasure. The hall of mirrors. The kaleidoscope. The ability to think. All of it was gone. It went up in an instant, and like a stray firework it was all so beautiful for a moment, then it was gone forever.

You were eventually brought back to your body only by the steady rhythm of the man thrusting in and out of your battered pussy. The pain had returned, and brought you to life one raw jolt at a time. The pleasure was there too now. You were sore, but you also needed more. The fire he'd lit hadn't gone out entirely and you could tell that the smoldering coals would burst into flames all over again if they were given any fuel at all.

"There you are" Dr Crane gloated. "I thought that I might have killed you. You passed out for more than a minute there” he groaned as he kept on going.

“I am sore doctor. It is starting to hurt again” you pointed out but he simply grinned.

“I am almost done” he groaned. “In less than a minute, I will be filling your womb with my seed and the drugs I’ve given to you yesterday should have opened up your cervix nicely for me” Dr Crane confirmed and you knew that he was already leaking precum inside you while he got closer and closer to blowing his load. Every time his balls slapped against your ass it was another reminder that any second now, he could be filling you up and forcing his baby inside your ripe young body.

And, Dr Crane was true to his word as, within less than a minute he groaned loudly and stalled. That was when he bottomed out inside you and the shaft of his cock started to throb against your open cervix while his balls tightened and contracted.

“Right there, that’s it” he groaned and this was when you felt the warmth spreading deep inside you. He was cumming right into your open womb and you could feel it. It kept going and going. For twenty seconds he shot jet after jet of his seed into you and this was enough to put you into orgasmic bliss again. You thrashed and moaned again, but this time Dr Crane didn't cover your mouth. This time he let you moan so loudly that half the people at the facility must have heard you cum like this. The mortification you felt only made it all that much hotter as you burned beneath him though. You hated that this happened, but you also never wanted it to end.

A minute later he peeled himself away from you and pulled his softening cock out of your painfully battered pussy. A streak of cum and blood came along with it and he gently cleaned you up before covering up your pussy with some sort of seal.

“Rest here for twenty minutes and then you are free to go” he told you before telling you that he will require you again the following two days for a top up.

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