[My Name: Maria Royudin or Rafina or Rain or Raf or Star] [She/They.] 《Pan/Demi/Nonbinary/Poly(amorous).》 {18+ Blog For Reblogs} [More than Horror, Blood, Gore, NSFW, etc.] Main another (SFW) blog. @morgenstarlightsunflowers19maria. Jesters/Knights/Effeminate Male Villains/DCA/Demons/Cryptids/Monsters/Robots/Plague Doctors, etc. are my type but not humans except women, but although in most cases, there are exceptions.
☆♡Call me Maria Royudin or Rafina (or else Rain or Raf or Star).♡☆
♡Pan/Demi/Nonbinary/Poly(amorous)♡
Pronouns:☆She|They☆.
[▪︎17-18-y.o.▪︎]
[《Birthday: 09.16.》]
《☆172.cm (5′ 8) .☆》
My Appearance: Dark brown hair, tied in a low ponytail with straight/thick bangs and dark brown eyes, a round face with pale white skin.(I wear rectangular glasses because of poor eyesight).
Magic:Fire.
Zodiac sign:Virgo.
Favorite colors: Bright/Light/Pastel colors and more dark/poisonous, Pink and Turquoise and Orange and Green, Yellow, Purple and Blue.
I am a commentator with different and sometimes strange opinions. And I ask you not to judge me.
I do what I like.
English is not my native language, so please bear with me.
💭💫🗨
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June 7, 2025. It's been a year since I'm started using Tumblr.
❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜🤎🖤🩶🤍 🔮🪄♣️♦️♠️🧩🎨🖼🪬🧿 🧝♀️👾🐉💀🤖👽🌕✨️💛💫☀️🌹🌻🪻🌺
Jesters/Knights/Effeminate Male Villains/DCA/Demons/Cryptids/Monsters/Robots/Plague Doctors, etc. are my type but not humans except women, but although in most cases, there are exceptions.
It's my Hazbin hotel OC then name's Erica, Melody and Alyssa.
And also my OC from the land of gems 💎. You can guess ther nemes.
SUMMARY: A continuation of your wedding night with Pierrot
CONTENT: Pierrot X Fem!Reader, Nsfw
(NOTE: This is the first time I've got the courage to post Nsfw so please be nice)
Part 1
＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊．＊
Pierrot pressed a kiss to the damp lace of your panties, a deep rumbling growl escaping him as he inhaled your scent. “My Lady…Your scent, your very essence is enough to intoxicate me~” He pressed his face further between your thighs growling in a way that vibrated against your clit earning him a soft moan. “My lady, your noises are like sweet music to my ears, from your voice, the heart beating faster and faster in your chest, and the lungs shaking with each breath…I want more…” His teeth gently scrap along the fabric before shredding it away with no difficulty.
He pulled away, staring adoringly. “My Lady, how does every part of you manage to look so beautiful even at its most depraved~” He growls as he gently spreads your cunt with two fingers. “So, so beautiful…” He kisses your clit moaning deeply. “So sweet…” He alternates between gently sucking and kissing your clit.
“Pierrot…” You moan your hips bucking uncontrollably. “Shhhh, my lady I need to prepare you…” He keeps one hand on your hips and the other keeps you spread. “Are you ready?” He mumbles against your clit. You nod, breathing heavy. “I need a ‘yes’ My Lady…” He looks up at you from between your thighs. “Yes, yes please Pierrot.” He keeps his eyes on you, watching your reaction carefully as he gently pressed his tongue into your cunt.
Pierrot moaned deeply as he moved his tongue as if trying to taste all of you. “So good…So, so sweet I can practically feel my teeth rotting…” He growls into your cunt. “Right there Pierrot, right there…” You moan breathlessly gripping his horns as he hits that sweet spot. “As you wish, my Lady.” He groans, relentlessly thrusting and rubbing your sweet spot with his tongue. “Pierrot, I-I cant…” You babble wrapping your legs around his head. “Give it to me My Lady, please, please, please.” He practically begs as he somehow thrust his tongue even faster.
He growls deeply as you cum, lapping at your cunt through your orgasm, making sure not a drop of your essence goes to waste. Finally he pulls away, pressing a kiss to your trembling thighs on the way. “Ha…Ha…Did I do well My Lady?” He panted gently brushing the hair from your face. You nodded, unable to speak as he gently propped you up on the pillows. “Your legs tremble so cutely…” He kisses your collarbone as he unzips the back of your dress, In a matter of minutes your dress was hung on a velvet hanger, and the rest of his clothes tossed aside without care before crawling back in bed with you, gathering you in his arms.
“How beautiful your skin is against silk and roses.” His hand rested on your abdomen for a moment before slipping down and gently prodding your still sensitive cunt. “Please My Lady…May I give you all of me?” He pressed a kiss to your neck. “Yes…” You nodded as he moved between your thighs, holding each one apart. “Please promise to tell me if I overwhelm you, My Lady.” He asked as he lined himself up. “I promise.”
Slowly he pushed the tip in giving you time to adjust. “Ha…Ha…So warm…” He panted as he pushed in more. “You're taking me so well.” He massaged your abdomen as he eased more in until he fit as much of his cock inside you as he could. “So good…So, so good…” He panted practically drooling with his hands trembling on your hips. “Can…Can I start moving My Lady?” You nodded. “So full…” You whimpered softly. “Is it too much, My Lady?” He bent over you to look you in the eyes.
“No, no keep going.” You wrapped your arms around his neck pulling him into a kiss. He growled deeply as his tongue danced against yours, beginning to thrust slowly at first before picking up speed. “Your cunt feels so good, so warm, so tight…Even your body was made for me.” He pistoned his hips against yours awkwardly until he hit that perfect angle. “Oh My Lady, is that where it feels best?” He targets that spot over and over before he sinks his teeth into your shoulder. “Pierrot, I-I can't hold much longer!” Your nails rake down his back. “Yes, yes give me all of you, let me mark you as mine.” He moans into your neck as you spasm legs shaking as he continues thrusting through your orgasm before finally bottoming out inside you. “Mine, mine, mine…inside and out My Love, My Wife all mine.” He slurred as he rested his head on your breasts wrapping his arms around you. “...I love you Pierrot.”
may us chubby people get a slice of prototype too 🤞
Also i appreciate that your Reader or Y/N is semi-gender neutral in appearance even tho they are implied to be female, it's not one of those very obnoxiously obvious ones. it's a bit easier to put into the character than "Tiny slim big breasted white Y/N" like no.. but that's just me personally as a random Black Agender hiding within your follower list. 🙏🥀
hi anon :]
i do enjoy giving my inserts flat chests for the versatility, especially for my genderqueer or "its complicated" followers, but also because its simple/natural to draw since i have a rather small chest myself (💔) when i'm feeling particularly dysphoric about that or extra gay, i'll draw some boobs. i love me some good boobs. prototype probably loves him some boobs (typical man moment) but in my opinion, every good insert is a blank slate especially in terms of a chest, since that is a characteristic that arguably varies the most for afabs, in terms of size/shape and personal opinion
it really all boils down to these pieces being highly indulgent, so the insert may reflect my body type more than others, but i try my best to keep it vague enough for most to be able to find enjoyment somewhere in it, and i'm glad you could too to a degree
with all that being said, please enjoy <3 i'll definitely need more practice to lose a bit of the stiffness; if i go over something too much, it'll lose the organic look of my lines, which is especially important when it comes to chubbier bodies. doesn't look as good, but it just means i'll have to draw it more ! i hope the quick shading makes up for the shape a little; still included unshaded under the cut so we're clear where i'm at lol i'm not going to pretend like i can draw anything perfectly, but i'm not going to let that keep me from trying or being shy about showing my progress
You asked for this so kindly, so sweetly... I will give you what you asked for. What good little things you are... so obedient, so well-behaved... I'd love to see what your faces would look like when you gave in to losing control, Desperate for someone to dominate you, to control you... to tame you~
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
Harlequin ~ HC
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
He laughs when you tremble. The laugh is low, husky, as if he’s savoring every second of your reaction.
“So sensitive... and I’ve barely started.”
The tentacles move slowly around your body, tracing paths you can’t predict. One wraps around your waist. Another curves around your thigh. A third slides across your skin, as if learning the map of your body. Meanwhile, his hands—warm, firm—hold your face, forcing your eyes to meet his.
“I want to see,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “I want to see the exact moment you lose yourself in me.” The tentacles begin to move—synchronized, precise, relentless.
“That’s it... just like that...” he whispers, and the husky laugh that escapes makes you tremble even more. “Your body is so honest, Querido...~”
At first, the sound he makes is almost a theatrical moan—controlled, as if he were putting on a show for you. But as the tentacles move, as your eyes lose focus, the sound changes. A husky, surprisingly vulnerable moan escapes before he can mask it. He closes his eyes for a second, brow furrowed, as if processing his own pleasure.
“Ah... so that’s how you like it?” — his voice comes out deeper, as if he’s trying to regain control. He goes back to teasing you, but now the touch is faster, the laugh is lower, and you realize he isn't quite as in control as he’d like to be.
When he finally gives in, the moan is drawn-out, almost angry—as if he hates how much you’ve undone him. A husky, deep sound that rises from his chest and ends in a low laugh, as if he’s trying to hide his own vulnerability.
And then, before he can recover, one slips out: "Haah... Puta que pariu!..."
“You’re dangerous, Querida...~” he murmurs, and the laugh that follows is the first one that sounds genuine. “And I love it.”
His voice comes out drawled, with an accent he made no effort to hide—and for a moment, the persona vanishes. It’s just him. The man behind the mask. Breathless, undone, trying to catch his breath as he stares at you.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
The credits of art: Citrikscum On Twitter.
Author here: Holy shit, I don't know what happened to me while I was writing the beginning of the post. I think Harlequin possessed my body and typed it for me, haha
I'll post an update on the Doctor's and Pierrot's HC in sequence... separately, so they don't get mixed up. Love you guys~
warnings: dead dove: do not eat (heed the warnings), implied smut (both referenced and implied + descriptions but nothing explicit), depictions of violence, fingering (sawyer does it to figure out how you work), reader calls sawyer a pedophile (he locks reader and the prototype in a room to fuck), read with caution !!
word count: 17.2k || summary: You were made for Him. You were made just for 1006.
You don't remember life as a human. It's that simple.
You think you were in Playcare at one point, but you don't remember. All you know is that when you woke up, you were in a music box on a music stand with a key attached to your back, and you were introduced to another toy.
The Prototype, they called him.
1006.
You were 1008. Created to keep the Prototype company. He was a jack in the box, and you were a music box. A doll with fully movable joints so you could perform ballet the same way a real ballerina might, but shedding the skin of the ballerina for the clothes of a jester instead. You were created so the music from the Prototype's box could mix with yours. They called you 1008, ignoring and erasing all identity you had in the past. You don't remember your past anyway. You woke up in the body of a dancer with the colors of a clown, and you were created for one purpose. Accompany and soothe the Prototype.
The Prototype and his Fool.
Oliver, you learned his name was after Elliot Ludwig had done the honor of introducing yourselves to each other.
"See? Poppy is still adjusting, so we thought to make you a new friend."
You met the boy, pensive and playing with your own fingers when you had met the toy you were modeled after. You had legs, he didn't. It'd prove to be something he wouldn't let go of even years down the line.
"This isn't what I was promised! You promised me a better place!" Oliver yells, throwing something at you as Elliot clicks his tongue.
"Ollie."
The Prototype stops, frowning at you.
"This is your companion toy. It was created so you'd have a buddy while I'm busy with Poppy. You know how disorienting it is to wake up in a body you don't recognize. Your sister is still adjusting. She's not a strong or as smart as you, you know?"
You turn to look at Elliot, words coming out of his mouth contradicting himself.
He probably has little intention to introduce Oliver to Poppy.
"It hasn't said a single thing since meeting me!"
"I'm not sure what I should say." You blink at the toy, and he looks at you.
He looks terrified at your voice.
"No."
You blink at him, tilting your head.
"You turned them into a toy too?!" He yells at Elliot. "You said you would leave them alone!"
"They wanted to join you." Elliot takes a step back, and Oliver screams.
"I hate you! Leave me alone!"
You wince as Elliot slams the door closed behind him, and Oliver looks at you, hands reaching for your arms as he holds you. Your feet are stuck to the platform under you, but you try your best to accomodate. He lifts you so your legs bend, and he sits you on his box as he looks at you. You don't understand the sadness, but you understand that you were created to be a companion to him, so you wrap your arms around him anyway, your cheek pressed to his as the two of you look at the slammed door.
"You don't remember me." He mourns.
"I don't remember anything." You mumble back. "Did I know you?"
"We were best friends. We used to play in Playcare together."
"I see."
The silence that fills the room has you wondering if you can really become anything if you do not have a past to reference. Would he despise you if you acted different? You don't know. You're a little scared to ask. All you are now is a toy stuck on a rolling platform that you can't even control. You think your muscles end at your foot, and there's some kind of mechanic keeping you stuck to the platform below. It's like you're in a glass cage. You're glued to a platform that restricts your movement, but as far as you're aware, your feet can flatten back to how a human might walk.
"You could kill him, you know?" You tug at his gloves, and the metal reveals itself underneath as he blinks.
"Kill him?"
"Isn't that what humans do to people they really really don't like?"
You think you shouldn't be giving advice, but the Prototype genuinely considers your words. You wonder how old you were before you passed. Considering that the Prototype was… Oliver was a child. You must have been young too. You don't know. You've never been too certain about it. It becomes something irrelevant to know eventually. You're gorgeous and pretty, and all the scientists beg the question of if they'd consider selling you as an adult toy, and Elliot Ludwig calls it absurd that they'd want you. It's just uncomfortable how badly some of the scientists want you. You stay locked up with the Prototype, the two of you passing time together.
Oliver is a fast learner. You consider the idea that you might have been older than him in Playcare, and you're more knowledgeable in things you didn't think you would be, and Oliver picks everything up. He absorbs the knowledge like it's second nature. If anything, the requests to access whatever reading material Playtime had is fulfilled as long as Elliot Ludwig is alive. He isn't trying to stop the two of you from growing up or growing. He simply immortalized you two. It's actually quite interesting and fun, now that you recall upon it. The two of you read all the files about the past experiments. It's probably what gave the Prototype the knowledge to operate and experiment himself eventually. You, on the other hand, developed more of a taste for making sure Oliver's emotions are regulated like you were created to.
You're an accompanyment to what he is.
The Poppy Gel that brought you both to life is eventually accessible by everything except what it's supposed to be accessible by, and Oliver tells you he wants to escape one night. You meet eyes with him, and he tells you he has a plan but it requires him to develop legs, so thus starts construction.
Construction as in rip himself from his attached box, spring shredding out of the box as you had screamed.
You beg Elliot Ludwig for a pair of legs for Ollie, begging kindly and crying about how he needed it especially with the fact that he had ripped himself from the box. Elliot Ludwig agrees, and you're there in the room in the back, watching the entire process before the two of you match. Ludwig removes the platform with wheels from under you, and you stand over the surgery table, holding Ollie's hand as he's freed from his box, legs finally acquired.
He takes a little to adjust, but he does ultimately end up two-limbed like Poppy. The three of you could even cosplay a healthy family if you tried hard enough. Elliot Ludwig could have three highly unstable children in the form of toys if he tried hard enough. For the most part, it's enough. Ollie gets to roam downstairs with you in the depths, and the two of you start adjusting to life as toys. Ollie, though, always the fierce one. You don't know how long he'd been plotting it, but he tells you one night when the scientists on duty are all tired that he has something to tell you.
"I'm going to kill Elliot Ludwig." He whispers. "We can be free that way."
"I don't think that's how it works." You hum, but you don't tell him not to, pinching at the gloves on his fingers instead. "What if you leave tracks?"
"I won't. I have an opening thanks to someone." He tilts his head so you can reach for the bells on his hat.
"Will they owe you a favor?"
"More than just a favor."
You free the little clappers from the tips of his jester hat, and he turns to rest a hand next to you on his box.
"Stay safe." You mumble, and he presses his cheek to yours.
You break the lock to your cell that very night, both of you sneaking around in the dark as he heads upwards to get rid of Elliot once and for all.
Elliot Ludwig dies before your eyes, reaching out for your ankle as he collapses from Ollie's stab, and you look at the glass with the stars in his office. The sunlight is quite nice — if there was sun. You stay there for a moment with Ollie to look at the outside. It's been a while since the two of you had gotten to look outside. How rare and nice of an opportunity. You burn this moment into your memory, because you know what's about to come is years of being locked up in the depths and never be allowed to step up into the higher areas.
Ollie retreats to find somewhere to hide.
On the other hand, you steal Elliot's grabpack to wander into the room with all the surgical tools, and you consider just what you could do. You steal a scalpel and some other small things that scientists could consider easily misplaced. There aren't enough security cameras in the room, and considering that the two of you would most likely get searched in the morning because you both had disabled the cameras in both your shared room, you take the chance while security is slacking off to access the proper archives that you never got to enter when you were stuck on your pedastol.
Elliot Ludwig’s grabpack stolen from the his body is easily used as you enter into the archives and hack through all the data. You'd corrupt the security system, and you're certain Ollie would do that much for you when he's up in Elliot's office. Instead, you focus on searching for your number file in the archives, and you find Ollie's while you're at it. You wonder if the two of you were always going to become toys or if Elliot himself had selected the two of you. You don't remember anything, but it'd be good to know how the two of you were before the surgery.
Your file is shockingly full.
An older teen in Playcare that hung out with Oliver a ton, the two of you were close to the point that some of the workers considered separating the two of you. Too curious, with minds that developed too fast, the two of you were incredibly knowledgable. Too curious, and when Elliot Ludwig had taken an interest in Ollie for that exact reason, the two of you had stopped talking as much. There's much more backstory beyond that, but the final page with your surgery information is what stops you. You had requested to become a toy to accompany Ollie. You'd asked Elliot Ludwig yourself. The file before that talks about how you had gotten lost in the labs and bumped into Ollie, but nothing else. Maybe Oliver remembers something you don't. You'd be hurt if your closest friend was turned into a toy by your adoptive father who promised you that it would only be you and Poppy.
It's a shame.
You take a look at your anatomy too, frowning when you realize you're fully anatomically correct.
Oliver's file is shorter, and you skim through it. All information you remember. You ended up recalling most of the information about him as the two of you shared a living space. You like sharing a room with him, but you have an inkling of a feeling that since you've set Ollie free, he probably won't come back. You decide to sit in the archives instead. You don't need to eat or drink either, so in a way if you hide well enough, you could live in the archives forever. Would Ollie come back for you? You don't know. You're made for him, not the other way around.
The Prototype is also supposedly anatomically correct after the correction surgery to give him legs.
You don't want to know why Elliot Ludwig made the two of you that way. Maybe the ability to have sex is his atonement for stealing your youth. You remember the older teens in Playcare used to mess around and fuck. It's part of teenager hormones, if you think about it. You'd never been curious enough for it, too preoccupied with stimulating your brain. You probably would've fucked someone given the chance, though. You don't miss the surge of hormones from it.
Maybe he'll forget about you.
You don't know. All you know is that you have to get rid of the files on the two of you so no one ever finds out about all of this.
Poppy can keep her files, but the two of you would remain shrouded in secrecy. You start a fire in the archives to burn your files, and you put it out as soon as it goes on. It's ultimately what gets you caught by the other scientists.
Oopsies.
You lose track of time in the archives at one point, reading up on all the other experiments. Oliver never returns to his cell, you learn eventually when some of the scientists come to escort you back. You tell them you had just been curious, and they let you off the hook. Though, you catch glimpse of the new Head of Special Projects, and he stops the scientists escorting you.
"And who might you be?"
"1008… sir?"
"Doctor Sawyer." He holds a hand out for you to shake, and you're careful with your strength as you nod. "You must be the other resident of Room 1."
"Yes. The Prototype, my partner, is somewhere out there." You hum. "Are you new? I do not recognize your face."
"Yes. Head of Special Projects."
"How quick they were to replace papa." You mumble. "Alright. I hope we get along."
"I read up on your files. Are walks out mandatory?"
"I would walk with 1006, but I personally do not need it."
He nods. "We will be creating more toys soon. Toys like you. Would you be willing to help?"
Harley Sawyer isn't really asking you, you realise. He wants you to turn into a shield for some of the scientists, but two can play a gamble on who the toys like better. The child turned toy like them or the evil scientists who turned you both into what you became. With Ollie somewhere hidden away, you think it wouldn't be an absurd request. You'd be used to help the toys adjust.
"I wouldn't be opposed, though I do believe it would take much more than a companion. A companion toy that resembles them might be a better choice." You hum. "They have to wake up conscious first."
Harley Sawyer nods.
"I heard they found you in the archives while you were missing."
You really can't say no.
"If that would help."
Word spreads around of Sawyer recruiting one of the toys to help him out with his experimentation, and soon, the entirety of Playcare is talking and discussing about how you were autonomous enough to do human things. Most of the scientists hadn't touched either of you super often since you were both under Elliot Ludwig's protection, but now that he was gone, you'd have to move onto safer bets. You don't know if Ollie would ever come back for you. You've served your purpose in a way. He probably doesn't need you anymore.
You get used to the lab coats and gloves, going around with Harley Sawyer and experimenting on smaller animals as he tries to step into the shoes of Elliot Ludwig. Big shoes to step in. It would take three normal people to take over the role of Ludwig. His two kids would know that best. You, would also know. You don't tell him, though. You know how to cut people open and turn them into toys because you got to watch Elliot Ludwig do it. Harley Sawyer doesn't ask that. The experiments after you were all done by other scientists. None of them suceeded because none of them were by Elliot Ludwig. It was a hand of magic. Three experiments with no compliations. Two of you were willing participants, and his deceased daughter only needed to wake up and be good.
You need to be willing, and your nervous system has to cooperate. Not to mention the technicalities of which toys would be best to create. Bigger Bodies required strong mentality, and the constant thirst for knowledge from both you and the Prototype worked perfectly. Harley Sawyer doesn't know that, though, and you've learned over the while of being a toy that staying quiet is much more profitable than speaking up about things. You know how to turn arms into legs and legs into arms. You've learned the anatomy of muscle inside out, being made of muscle yourself. You know what you're made of. It's impossible to not know.
"Experiment 1026 was mildly successful." Harley Sawyer notes, and you type notes on the computer.
"Mhm."
"And why do you think that is, 1008?"
You turn around from the computer, meeting eyes with Sawyer as he gets up to walk over.
He rests his hands on the armrests of your chair.
"The intelligence. They were much more adapted to the body. They almost accepted it."
He reaches behind you for a pen before getting up.
"I'll take your word for it."
Rumors of you and Harley Sawyer fucking and having sexual tension also takes the office by storm. Leith Pierre actually visits you both at one point to make sure nothing was going on. You assure him nothing could. If he tried anything even remotely dangerous, he wouldn't live to see another day. You have a guard dog that kills and eliminates like second nature. He may be back in his cage, but the rumors would have pissed him off enough. You might want to avoid seeing him for a while. Something about him being territorial lately. You didn't know toys could do that.
"Keep workplace regulations proper." Leith warns. "Especially you, Sawyer."
You shrug, going back to your keyboard as you finish typing up the notes for the new experiments. The meeting afterward discusses the most recently made toy, and how it was so close to succeeding. It might be better to create something simliar to what the Prototype once was and go from experience. A boxed toy, you tell them. You were attached to something at one point too. It seemed to act as a stabilizer. You also offer the option of exploring Poppy to see.
Not that the scientists weren't already doing that, but Harley Sawyer gets an idea.
"Thank you, doll."
It's a shame you can't sue for workplace harassment in Playtime Co.
The next time you meet Ollie, he's got the same look to him, but he's back in his cell that you once shared with him. They moved him to a cell, and they let you have a room with the other scientists. You visit the Prototype at night since you don't need to rest, and you notice that he's taller now. Towers over you through the glass, and you try to peek at his legs. Nothing seems to have changed. Maybe his spring for a spine was elongated so he'd look more intimidating.
"Fool."
Now that's a name you haven't heard in a while.
"Prototype." You hum back, glancing at the camera in the room.
"I hear you and Doctor Sawyer have been… fraternizing."
You don't like how he says the last word in Leith Pierre's voice.
"You know that's not allowed in Playtime."
"It does not… stop the other workers from it."
"No, not at all."
"Come back."
Elliot Ludwig's voice.
"Isn't it amusing to find us on opposite ends of the glass?"
The security camera moves behind him, and you glance at it in the glass, the Prototype moving his eyes to look at the camera too.
"They are watching you."
"I know."
"Let's entertain them."
The Prototype switches to a foreign language, and you follow without thinking. You know what he's doing. The company will need to find or hire translators if you keep talking like this. It's to entertain the scientists. You're certain that it will entertain Sawyer, at the very least. You converse with the Prototype, and you barely notice the way he stares at you. Codependence would have been a better word to describe how he felt about you. You should be depending on him, yet here you were. On the other side of glass after striking a deal with the devil and now there are rumors that you've left him for that doctor. Perfection for a human? How awful.
"Come in, won't you?"
You contemplate it. You have his door code, and you could go in, but you don't know if you want to.
"Please?"
He uses his own voice this time.
"Won't do anything to me?"
He doesn't answer.
"And what might be on your mind?"
"Fool. You were made for me."
"I suppose you're right. I can't be abandoning my duty like this." You hide the code from him as you enter into the room, and you're met with a hand around your waist as you pull to close the door.
"Missed you." He mumbles, sitting you on the box in his room as he looks at you.
You wonder if he's doing this because he wants something from you. He probably does. You indulge him, though, hand scratching at his chin as he closes his eyes, his hat brushing your chin as you at the camera. The device was moving earlier, so Sawyer was most likely watching. He liked observing like some kind of a freak. He wanted to learn more about the three of you who survived everything and could never die. The immortal three, he calls you. He can't tear you open without the Prototype destroying the facility, so he targets the weakest one. Ollie's protective of her too, but not nearly as much as he is with you. If anything, he only comforts her through the little telephones in the room. Somehow, he'd figured out how to use it.
"You did?"
You, on the other hand, are not given the luxury. You're handed the luxury of spending time with him instead, his hands, somehow back to the plush and cotton you remember from when he was first made, resting on your waist as he breathes. Imitates breathing, really. You rest your chin on his shoulder, and you take in the moment. No luxury. No life. You're from the company for the company. It's fine. If you get to play pretend and play stupid with the Prototype, then so be it. Ollie has always been gentle with you.
"Yes."
He leaves you with a bite at your neck, and you walk out with teeth marks as another scientist watches you emerge from the room. He meets eyes with the Prototype, a grin on his mouth.
A hand hovers over your lower back as he leads you out of the room.
You miss the way Ollie's eyes narrow in on the hand on porcelain that should be his to touch. It's a twisted sense of ownership, he knows. You were created for him after all, so it only makes sense that he should dictate what you can and cannot do. He knows for a fact that he'd always been territorial over you, even when the two of you were kids. He'd gone through the trouble of having to isolate you when the two of you were playmates, though he failed in the end since you still had other friends. but you're with him now. In the end, he ended up with you, so that's all that mattered.
Now, now, a surgeon was trying to stake a claim over someone who wasn't his.
The Prototype wouldn't kill something created to help him. He's not stupid. But the jealousy that simmers under the porcelain of his mask was never something that he developed. He'd been jealous when Elliot helped Poppy adjust for so long, and he'd been jealous when you had gotten moved into his room and given legs that work instead of being attached to a box like he was. He'd been furious when he found out you'd start operating on children to turn them into toys like him, and the rational part of him knew that it was so you wouldn't get locked up, but the irrational part of him gnawed and chewed on his psyche, accusing you of betraying him for another man. A human.
Not a child like him. An adult. Someone who looks like what they turned you into.
He looks humanoid enough at this point in time, so why would you pick someone else? He got his two legs, and the two of you were doing pretty well prior to Sawyer's entrance, so why was it that you'd choose to be on the other side of the glass? He's sure you have your reasons. You'd always been coy and quick, not a single moment would ever be wasted in that mind of yours. They'd made you to be just as quick witted if not quicker than him. Not that he'd ever admit that you're quicker witted than him. Pretty doll, they call you. Doll. Not ballerina like you were made, or Fool like he calls you.
He'll make them pay. He's first on the chopping block? He should remember his place.
The alarm clock in his room beeps every morning he needs to wake up, and he tinkers with the box as he finds a way to create a concentrated laser. It shouldn't be too hard. The two of you had made one back when you were newer experiments. It's interesting to consider how much seniority he has over the toys now. Some of them are still scared of him, but most of them are welcoming to you. It's easy to walk around and recognize you for that. Somehow, you attract the other Bigger Bodies more than any other toy. Well, not that you have much competition at the moment.
The Prototype creates a laser after confirming that that same worker would be on call, and he disables the camera as they send someone in. He tries to escape while he's at it, but you lock the door, turning off the voltage in the glass, watching as the Prototype tears into the employee, stabbing holes through the scientist. You don't say anything else, watching. He knows you can see. Both of you are aware of how soul-tied the two of you are made. Horrific, but it's what you have to make do with.
"Did you enjoy the show?"
You grin at the Prototype through the glass, writing down your notes as you hum.
The camera was a decoy. Both of you know that. Silly scientist, rushing in to fix it up.
Harley Sawyer finds you fascinating on the same account. A smile that stole and captured, and a face that was created to be timeless and pretty. You'd be a main attraction in a Carnival. The face of it all. But you're not foolish how a clown should be. You're the smartest no matter what room you enter into. It makes him mad. He needs to overtake you, but nothing works on you. The Prototype knew it too. He'd been the one to design you, after all. He just never expected it to be you who got sedated and shoved into the toy. You woke up without memories of what you were before too. It's bitter on his tongue when he thinks about too long. You were so pretty that the humans started wanting you too.
He designed you. You're his.
It goes hand in hand with who you are fundamentally as a person. Calculating, but not cold. You'd chosen to take Sawyer's hand for a reason. Leith Pierre's hand, on the other hand, did not feel very thrilling to take. You'd known him when he worked with Elliot, and where Elliot saw innovation to bring his daugher back, Leith Pierre saw opportunity to cut down the workforce in the factory and replace everyone with toys. You sign your life away when you enter the factory as a worker. Even the innocent ones who want to leave — with any confirmation that they're slightly suspicious of the company, they're eliminated. Oh, what a horrible way to die at the hands of another rich man.
Leith Pierre's vision comes to life when Boxy Boo is successfully created. With a hunger for flesh and eating the scientist who had gone in to inspect him, it was impossible to miss. The way to get rid of nosy employess sticking their nose where they shouldn't has just come in the form of a jack in the box. A toy like the Prototype — except no one remembers when the Prototype used to be a jack in the box anymore. All they remember is a jester on two limbs with a color scheme that reminds them of the permanent paint on your face. A reminder that the two of you are fundamentally inseparable even if you had fought whatever god there is out there yourself.
You enter into Boxy Boo's room, glancing at the one way glass. Maybe they want the toy to eat you.
"Boxy Boo. Log 00398. Displays no aggression towards 1008 even when beckoned or touched. Cannot be said the same for the other scientists. Discretion is needed."
When the toy emerges from its box, it cranes its head at you curiously.
You mimic it's movement, and it steps closer to you, forehead against yours as it blinks.
You don't move.
Eventually, it moves its hand to pat your head twice before returning to its box.
"No aggression towards toys. Log complete."
Sometimes, you wonder if any of the men feel remorse, and you don't lack a filter when you don't need one, so it becomes quite well known that you ask because you're curious about how humans act. You wonder if anyone feels anything when they experiment on the same children who were conditioned and put into Playcare with the promise that they'd be adopted, only to be cut open to shove into a toy with minimal success.
"Do you ever feel bad, Doctor Sawyer?" You glance at him sitting across from you in the conference room, and he raises a brow.
There's a moment of respite. You've just finished watching the scientists operate on Pianosaurus, and you have all the notes on hand as you prepare for the conference, and some of the other scientists are still scrubbing off the blood from the procedure. It's a cold and apathetic way to treat something. You've mastered the art of detachment because that's quite frankly all you care about. Your goal is no longer something you know. Ollie would tell you when he needed something, and until then, you had really no reason to do anything different except to continue to survive without having to be cut open like he and Poppy.
"What are a couple of lives lost in the grand scheme of discovery?"
You hum.
"I suppose… but kids?"
"They're much more flexible mentally than adults."
He knows what you're trying to do, but you also know that he knows. Whatever. It's not your issue, really. He's not the only scientist in this lab. You figured you'd start from the top of the chain of scientists. You'd work your way down to people you know are weaker mentally, and they'd be worn down and question their morality if they even had a shred of conscience. You're counting on the humans being human to get into brains. You don't need an immediate result, if anything. All you need is one person to crack, and a single crack will eventually result in a total breakage. It's how things are worn down over time.
"And who do you suggest we operate on next?"
The Doctor grins, and you think you understand something.
Being his favorite saves you from nothing.
There are a handful of experiments before Quinn Navidson is put under the knife, and you can't help but think Sawyer is acting too quickly, but you don't tell him that. You tell the kid to come out strong instead, pinching his cheek gently as you spend his final moments with him. He may wake up totally not conscious of himself as a person. You did. You read about yourself, but all your memories are gone, so there's really no way that you can really get that part of yourself back. It's best to be born stupid without memories than be born smart without memories. A blank slate is a blank slate either way, so you suppose you can't be picky.
"They'll call you Yarnaby in the future."
Quinn blinks at you.
"Doctor Sawyer told me."
"Yes." You hum. "Anything you wanna do before they make you live forever?"
Quinn frowns.
"I'll be with Doctor Sawyer forever, right?"
"In a way."
"Then I'm okay." Quinn turns to look at you. "I'll be like you."
You frown.
"Yes. You'll be like me."
Yarnaby comes out cognitively challenged. A step up, because he can feel loyalty and affection for certain scientists, but still not the kind of cognitive ability the first successful toys have. You perform his second log after Sawyer, and you start the tape recording.
"Log 00983, concerning 1166." You hum. "Test Subject Yarnaby. Yarnaby, do you remember being called Quinn?"
The lion tilts its head, rolling over and ducking its head under your hand for some pets. You give him what he wants, petting him and forgetting that you're mid log, hands running through his yarn as you coo at the boy. You get sidetracked, what can you say? You're not immune to fluffy things. You do stop at one point, though. You'd like to get some information out of this session and not get beat by Sawyer. Not that he would beat you. That lecherous gaze makes you squeamish.
"Hm. How about tricks." You pause. "Yarnaby, turn around."
You make a turning motion with your hand, and the lion follows.
"Sit."
He sits.
"Paw?"
You get a paw.
"Able to take commands—" You fall over as Yarnaby rubs his face on you, and you laugh. "And very affectionate."
The toy opens its mouth at you, and you blink as it gets close before he closes it and gets off of you.
"And does not eat toys. Log 00983 complete."
You don't see Yarnaby for a long time after it. You hear it's because Sawyer wanted the toy to be entirely attached to him, which isn't a horrible decision considering that Yarnaby isn't capable of higher cognitive abilities, but you wonder how it would be if Sawyer flies too close to the sun. You know half the company already hates him, and it's only a little over a hundred experiments since. You wonder how long Sawyer is going to give everyone an excuse to send him to the chopping block. Well, not your problem. Playtime is having immense success with the Bigger Body Initiative right now. Sawyer's practically glowing with pride. If you walked past him or spent too much time with him, you'd turn purple. And not the fun kind of purple.
You don't see through to any of the surgeries. Sure, you're Sawyers assistant, but you're not a scientist with the backing. You learn through example, not knowledge. You have no foundation to build knowledge of, only to store it. You learn again and again, perfectly imitate everything that's presented to you, but you don't know anything else. You don't know, you just do. Well, wrong. You pretend you don't know. It's a survival tactic. You'd gone through the trouble of burning your old files anyway. Everything is new knowledge. Elliot Ludwig had a copy of the files, but he's dead and buried, and his office is untouched, so in the end you're the one who survived while he didn't.
Speaking of. You haven't been allowed to access the Prototype in a while.
You understand it's a heirarchy thing as Sawyer's assistant, but you'd expected him to use you to run more experiments with how much of a dichotomy the Prototype is when he's around you. The gentleness is something that's engraved in his soul or something. Maybe Harley Sawyer wants to harden the Prototype beyond saving. It'd be impossible as long as you exist, and considering that immortality is something you've already crossed into, he most likely will spend the rest of his fickle life trying to recreate that. Well, not that you don't know how to. Elliot Ludwig let you sit into all of his surgeries. Oliver got to sit in too.
The two of you know how to create toys from corpses, not living humans.
Security is slacking off again tonight, and you find your way through the security hell of the Prototype's room.
He's expecting you.
You switch languages, to a language you had made up when you were soft skin and squishy cheeks with Oliver. You wonder if he remembers the language, but he picks it up just as quickly. Linguistically confusing, and a language only known for the two of you, but it works because it does. It's a language that ties the two of you as much as it traps you both. You have a feeling Sawyer keeps you away from the Prototype because of something else too. No one in the awful laboratory could keep their eyes off of you. You looked like too much of an adult. You're carved like an adult the same way the Prototype is carved with a spring for spine and jester's uniform for clothes. You have a feeling Elliot Ludwig had another plan with you if they ever made a line of toys for you, but you don't speak on it.
"That's new."
You glance at the crack in his sleeve.
"Yes. How are you?"
"Are we really using such formalities?"
He grins.
"I missed you."
You stare at the camera in the cell.
"Sawyer's watching."
"I know."
The Prototype turns to shake his glove from his hand, stabbing through the camera as he glances at the glove.
"I hope you were fast enough for that."
"I always am."
You slide the glove back onto his hand, and he rests them against the part of your waist that curves, and he leans up close to you.
You blink at him when he presses the permanent smile on his face to your lips, and when he realizes how absurd it must feel, he drops his face back to your neck, biting to leave teeth marks. Something slides up your neck, though, and you pause at the slimy sensation.
"That wasn't there before."
"It wasn't."
You crane your neck to get a better look at him, and he keeps the tongue out as you reach to pinch it. It's made of silicone. Elliot Ludwig truly wanted to make the two of you more adult-leaning to atone for something. Poppy could stay a child, but for some reason neither of you were given that grace. Or you were giving a luxury that he couldn't afford for his daughter. Either way.
"Why is it slimy?"
"Lubrication."
You're not going to ask why.
"I caught the scientists…"
"Fucking in the hall, yeah."
He licks at you again.
"Is the camera still dead?"
The sudden bite at your neck tells you everything you need to know.
And, well. God forbid hormonal teenagers do teenager things.
You leave before the scientists have questions for you, straightening out the jacket, and the Prototype watching you while seated on his box. Teenagers, the two of you would be. Stupid children and fools that don't know anything. You wonder stupidly if there even is any emotional connection in it. You can still feel, and to an extent he can too, but. Well, not that it matters. The more you think about it, the worse you'll get. You don't know what you two are anymore. Maybe there isn't a point in trying to figure that out.
It doesn't concern your day to day, and with the consistent breaking of cameras even without you in the room, none of the scientists can seem to figure out just why he keeps periodically breaking it. They're not entirely sure how he's breaking it too. He's soft all over, and from x-rays, he doesn't seem to be able to remove anything to let the metal under his fabric and porcelain out. The rubber isn't detachable later, and there aren't any rip marks so. Some of the scientists, though, notice you wandering the halls on nights where security isn't being a pain in the ass, and rumors spread fast.
It's easy to devour the bottom of the chain when they're connected with the top. You're not weak or stupid, despite what the scientists seem to think about you. Elliot Ludwig didn't shove you into the body of an adult without once thinking about whether or not you'd be one. You'd been. You'd been on the edge of becoming one anyway, so this would have just been life if you took the offer of researcher instead of toy. Well, hard to leave Ollie behind. You'd been told that you'd find him if you took the offer, and find him did you.
"1008."
You turn to look at Harley Sawyer.
"Files for Clarke."
"I didn't know I was running your errands now, Doctor Sawyer." You take the files from him, and he laughs dryly.
"You're an assistant. Remember your place."
You hum, taking them and taking a turn down the hall.
You heard from a little birdie that Clarke was reevaluating his life choices.
"Clarke." You hand him the files, and he takes a look at the names in the file.
You take the chance.
"Do you feel bad? Turning them into me?"
Thomas Clarke turns to look at you.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't you think it would be great if adults could be operated on too?"
"Well—"
The alarms blare over your head, and a scientist yells for you at the end of the hall.
"1006 IS MISSING!"
You hum, turning and running off with urgency as Clarke is stuck there considering himself. He got a cancer diagnosis, and he's been considering what to do with himself and his life. Now, you come in and ask him how he feels? It's like the universe was yelling at him. He wants to be useful in death. He'd saved a kid, surely he would end up in heaven? Yet, the human part of him craves that immortality that Harley Sawyer boasts about. Maybe there would be a breakthrough if they operated on an adult instead of a kid for once. There would be change. There could be change. He would become that change.
1006 is not missing. When they shove you into his enclosure to check for him, you notice the box pushed against the wall, and when you pop it open, it leads to a dug out wall. You don't follow in, having the specialists do so instead, but you have a feeling they might die. In all honesty, the Prototype isn't unkillable right now. They might sedate him for all you know.
When they fail to find him in a day, they bring out the cameras, and you watch some of the scientists lose their minds looking through all the security cameras. He wouldn't hide somewhere he could be spotted. You're guessing he's either in one of the blocked off rooms that Playtime created eons ago during construction, or he's somewhere in that intricate have system. Either way, he's not in the labs anymore, you're guessing.
It takes around a week before the scientists throw you to the chopping block and send a handful of assistants down into the caves to check properly.
You notice something before everyone else, and you feign taking a break before all the assistants have left the area.
"1006." You hum, glancing at the bell barely visible in the crack of the wall.
"Fool." He responds.
"What do you suppose I do? Should I leave you here? It's not the right time yet. I'm still working into their minds." You tap at the crack, and the wall comes out as he yanks you into the enclosure. "What a blessing that you don't need to eat."
He sticks his tongue out at you, and you reach to tug on it. He retracts it before you can.
Instead, he sticks fingers into your mouth, pinching out a matching silicone tongue, though shorter than his. He blinks slowly, and your neck strains at the way he pulls. He's taken off his gloves, and you'd never been so thankful that you can't feel pain in your tongue because it's pure muscle and no nerves. You can't taste anything either, but you don't need to eat so it doesn't matter. Instead, your tongue serves the single purpose of making you look way more realistic than you need it to be.
The Prototype stares, using his finger as he dips ink to the pinpoint, and you have a feeling you know what's coming.
"hon hou hahe—" You rip your tongue free from his grap, and he raises a brow at you. "Not without you."
He raises a brow at you, but he doesn't say anything, opting to stare instead.
"They made you for me."
"Until I'm back in that Fool's dress, I'm autonomous enough."
"You forget your place."
"No," You lean into his touch, humming. "I have no place right now. I need to bring you back. Or I can leave you here. They'll carve me open if they find out I found you—"
"1008?"
You still, and the Prototype stares out the crack.
"I hope you still trust me."
It's the only warning you get before your lab coat is ripped off unceremoniously and you're violated, yelling for the scientists outside. Some of them see a flash of color before the wall is torn down, and the makeshift room is exposed. In that time, though, the Prototype manages to get both you and him bare to porcelain, and you're uncomfortable, but it was so you could escape. You were supposed to do that, you tell yourself. The Prototype had—
used you.
You end up locked up in a lab because you've got the anatomy of a real human and not just a doll. It's the same room as before, and you're put in close proximity with the Prototype because he's also anatomically correct. Harley Sawyer hadn't expected it. Sure, you were quite the looker, but he hadn't expected Elliot Ludwig to make you a carbon copy of a real woman. It was some kind of twisted wanting, maybe. If it would have been anyone, then it would have been Sawyer. You can't be swayed, though. You know what kind of experiment Sawyer wants to run on you both.
"This can be solved with questions."
"No, 1008. Elliot Ludwig made you and 1006 compatible."
You have a feeling that means Leith Pierre finally cracked open the safe in Ludwig's room, and the files that you hadn't gotten to read and burn detailed just why the two of you were given human-adjacent bodies. Human bodies. Toy bodies with the human ability of sex. It's twisted. It doesn't take a genius to know that, and now Sawyer intends to do what Ludwig never had the courage to. Courage is a funny word. Ha. Sawyer is now carrying out what Ludwig decided he shouldn't do.
"So you want us to have sex? Is that what it is? You want to watch two toys who were shoved into their bodies as kids have sex? Sawyer, if you were a pedophile, you could have just said so." You stare at the camera, and he sneers into the microphone.
"Don't get snarky on me, 1008. Don't make us drug you. We know you're still muscle and veins underneath."
You stare at the Prototype, who stares at the camera with the same hardened eyes.
Yes, because a scientist who's definitely not a pedophile's first reaction to finding out that two of their toys can have sex is to throw them into a experiment where they intend for the two to have sex. Uh huh. Sure.
"Give them fun." The Prototype mumbles, caging you in from behind. "Warp the camera."
He lifts you as you wave at the camera, snapping the neck and breaking the door so it would stay stuck, and you find the microphone piece in the room, crushing it as the Prototype stares at the enclosed walls. Four sides of a prison. It's a cell this time instead of the room he had been in previously. It seems they want to lock him up in some sense. Using you as a science experiment for him was bad. Maybe he does care whether or not you die. Well, not that it matters. He never goes the whole way. He never has.
He leaves scratches on your porcelain, and sure, his head is stuck between your legs for a good while, but nothing more than that. Both of you know when to give enough and nothing more. Besides, it wouldn't matter. You'd be the one getting prodded and poked at afterwards, so you lie through your teeth. You've always been good at that when it was to humans.
Nothing beyond that. If the two of you did anything that you were built to do, then you'd do it on your own terms. You find it interesting that the Prototype still feels like Ollie at this point in time. The boy who still did care despite it all, and when the security finally barges into the room, you're shaking in the corner, eyes distant. You know how to pretend to be scarred. You know whatever response you'll give will end up making Sawyer want to run the experiment longer anyway, so you might as well tank his reputaiton while you're at it.
The Prototype lunges for the scientist who escorts you, and the man is sacrificed to get you out of the room properly.
"The agreement was that I would be spared experiments if I became your assistant." You stop to stare at Sawyer, and his eyes brush down as he looks back up to smile.
"Is that so?"
You stare until Sawyer turns to look away, and your lips quirk up kindly.
Alright. If he wants to have his head up his ass, then you'd do what everyone else on the floor was dying to do.
You plot. It's rare, but you plan for it, because you know Sawyer's been telling the other workers that all it takes for a bad experience is one bad day, and you know what day he's planning for it. Some people are coming in for a full tour of the factory. Not the lower labs, but somewhere in the upper labs where everything seems harmless. You overhear Sawyer tell the workers that one bad day is coming, and you know exactly what's about to happen. You'd been waiting for this. It's what he deserves for locking you in that room with the Prototype and threatening you.
The day comes, and you hand Sawyer his usual cup of tea, drugged with a laxative so he wouldn't be able to show up at the theatre. You know he's crazy enough to lock you in there and somehow still let the toys in there to kill the visitors. Sixty in total, if you remember right. Sawyer's literal evil, but you suppose you cut him some slack because the rest of the awful board of executives are all slimy white men who strike more awful deals than anything else, so whatever. At least he isn't a straight white man.
Harley Sawyer tells you to take over his role in showing the visitors the theatre for the day, and your opportunity presents itself.
You are, in lack of better words, a psychopath.
You light a fire in the theatre room, match tossed to light one of the back seats aflame, and you think it's one of the few times you'd been glad that Harley Sawyer did something under the table and sent you to the chopping block. You start the fire, and you lock the doors, pretending to pass out in the projection booth. Sawyer's the one who sets the toys loose for some enrichment, and you wake up to a room full of blood and Boxy Boo tucked next to you when you do wake up. One of the specialists help you up as you eye the toy next to you.
"You do reali—" You cough. "Boxy Boo."
You're handed off to another specialist as Boxy eats the specialist, and you're promptly rushed out of the room as the toy wakes up for his daily hunger.
It doesn't pertain to you, but you escape with another specialist, who fires a tranquilizer at the toy and sedates the guy. You thank him, and when the executives come to question you, you cry crocodile tears and sniffle about how all you did was listen to Harley Sawyer's instructions on carrying out what you need to. You didn't know that meant getting locked in a theatre with fire and having toys run around wild. Only half of it is true. Harley Sawyer let the toys out, yes, but you're the one who lit the theatre on fire. They can't uncover fingerprints yet. You're not eligible for conviction. You have no fingerprints.
Stella Greyber is the one to comfort you, offering you solace in Playcare if you ever need it.
You'll remember her offer.
Gerard Lockehart, the investigator hired by Playtime, is hard to get into, but shockingly incompetent. You suspect that Leith Pierre told him to frame Sawyer or something, because you thought you'd been stupid to light the fire after locking yourself in the room, yet somehow it was traced back to Sawyer instead of you — especially after you had put on the whole act to say that Sawyer was the one who told you to go in the projection booth only to lock you inside of it. The Omni hand excuse does wonders, you find.
The findings are exactly what you hoped they might be.
Harley Sawyer is responsible for the Theatre Incident.
Harley Sawyer is next on the chopping block, and you're given orders by Leith Pierre himself to be the one to get him sedated and complacent. 1354, they have dubbed him. The Doctor, but really just a bunch of jarred organs kept alive by electricity and poppy gas. It's quite nice, actually. You're excited now that Sawyer's getting dragged to your level. You want to watch him suffer from the lack of autonomy. Ha. How fun.
Speaking of. You're also still pissed at the Prototype, so this kind of gives you the perfect excuse to kill two birds with one stone.
"Sawyer." You hold your lab coat together, turning to look at him as he looks up from his desk.
"What."
"Take a break, won't you?"
You make your way around the table, tilting your head as he finally looks up.
"You'd wanted to know what I look like under all those clothes, yeah?"
He blinks when you drop the coat, bare porcelain for show as he stares.
"Come on."
"Who put you up to this?"
"No one. Your need for experimentation has caught up to me. I wanted to know what kind of a face you'd make if you did see what the Prototype has only seen."
"Then you'd answer some questions for me?"
"Why not just a check up?"
His hands are on you experimentally, and it doesn't take long before he's pulling your tongue out past your teeth, checking it.
"It's silicone."
He checks you starting from the mouth, and you wish he'd hurry up and look lower so he could get distracted so you could tranquilize him.
He moves down eventually, prying your legs open to observe.
Your back slides open as you reach for the tranquilizer needle they'd handed you, and you hold it behind you as Harley Sawyer continues to pry at the silicone between your legs. Fingering, you remember it being called. One of the things you'd heard from the other scientists while she was talking about her sexual innuendos. You don't know how relevant that is to Harley Sawyer doing it for the sole purpose of figuring out how you worked, but you don't question it. Instead, you stab him with the tranquilizer, earning a yell.
"What do you—"
He passes out before he can finish the question, and you call for the workers outside.
"Sorry for the wait." You hum, sliding your back closed, porcelain bare to all those who'll watch. "If someone could pass me my coat before you collect him, that'd be appreciated."
You're handed your coat as the worker looks to the side, and you button it around yourself as you stare at Harley Sawyer's human form one last time.
Well. He deserves it after that stunt of his.
The Prototype catches news from the toys fast, and you do the horrible thing of refusing to see him and acting like you're too busy to sneak off to see him. He's mad, but you're also insane. You need to cool down and calm down a little before you do anything or even see him. It's becoming quite apparent that none of the actual scientists feel any remorse for what they're doing. Well, you should at least pretend to be surprised. The conditioning tapes with Miss Gracie really seem to give everyone a sick sense of satisfaction.
Huggy Wuggy had broken free from one of his conditioning sessions just the other day and killed a handful of specialists.
It becomes apparent, though. There really is no way out without killing everyone part of the system.
"1006." You open the door, and a claw is pressed to your neck immediately, the toy towering over you with a stare that you can only describe as infuriated.
"1008." He hisses out. "I heard from a little bird that you slept with Sawyer to get him into a Bigger Body."
"I didn't sleep with him. I just let him observe like he wanted to that one time when he locked us in the room to research." You tilt your head at the Prototype, and he digs his hands into your neck."I don't know why you're so peeved. I'm a scientist right now, not your aide."
That strikes a nerve.
He backs up, staring at you as he turns around. His neck stays in place while his torso faces the other way, and his faceplate makes a full rotation as he speaks.
"You have something to tell me."
"Only way out is to kill all the scientists. It won't be hard to get the toys on our side, but we need a way to free all the toys."
The Prototype smiles. "You could free me."
"Not yet."
You leave that night, and you start wondering, just a little, what it means to kill everyone. There would be the issue with food, since all the other toys need to eat, and there was the problem of if there needed to be a power system established. Building a society was not thrilling in the least. You wouldn't like being in power, but the Prototype probably would. It's a question that you don't really bother with, though. All you need to do is find one crack in the system to collapse the whole system. You know who to talk to for that, but you wonder how long it would take.
"Preston." You hand him the files, and the lights behind you flicker.
"1008."
"Do you ever feel bad?"
"Excuse me?"
"You have a child with your wife, yeah?"
He meets eyes with you, pupils shaking as you hum.
"Wouldn't it be a shame if she became me one day?"
"Is that a threat?"
"No, just a consideration."
"They're orphans."
"Does it matter? We're all humans at the end of the day."
"You watched them tear into Thomas."
"Yes, but is that so wrong? You'd be vengeful of the ones who turned you into a monster when they suddenly use your sacrifices to turn into a toy and become immortal." You perk up at your name being called, turning around as Preston shakes.
"Don't say that."
You hum. "I'm just saying. That's someone's kid in those Bigger Bodies. Sawyer may feel no remorse, but he's a sociopath. Are you really that unwell in the head?"
"1008, 1354's looking for you." The face the employee makes makes you laugh, and Preston sits there.
"I'll be right there. Sorry, I just got caught up in a conversation with Preston. You know how it is." You wave bye to the two, humming as you head off.
The walk to Sawyer's new space isn't very long. If anyting, it's nice. It's a quick walk, and you wonder if he's going to skin you alive for selling him out like that, but he understands that there was always a power inbalance between the two of you that you've just toppled. You're not the new head of innovation, no, but Harley Sawyer is now a machine much like you, so that's actually all that really matters. You didn't climb to his level, you simply yanked him down by the ankle. How fun. Thrilling, even.
"1354." You smile, tilting your head at Sawyer as his eye on the screen twitches. "I was told you wanted me."
"I'll forgive your stunt with sending me to hell with your own bare hands after letting me experiment on you, but I have a small request."
"I didn't know you knew how to do that, 1354."
"Yarnaby. 1166."
"He's in a deep state of depression." You hum. "However, I've taken him under my wing. Don't worry. I can install a camera or TV in his room if you need it."
He stares at you.
"I'll be indebted to you."
"Save that debt to the Prototype when he needs it." You look at him. "Don't you want to kill the bastards who locked you up in this machine?"
He stares at you, and it clicks.
"You've been planning this."
"You're but a stone in this game of checkers that all the humans are playing."
"And you both are playing chess." He laughs. "Give the word. I don't have an Omni Hand, so I'll need that eventually."
"I'm sure you'll be able to obtain one." You hum. "In the meantime, they've moved me to the smiling critters, but I'll be sure to visit Yarnaby when I have time. I have a feeling it'll be a long time. Oh, while I'm here."
The Doctor looks at you, and you smile.
"Any idea who in the executive position would be the easiest to break into?"
Harley Sawyer laughs, and you smile.
"Since you're already in Playcare, talk to Greyber."
You thought as much too.
"How fast do you think I could break her?"
"Fast."
You're moved to Playcare and assigned a nice little home to rest in, a room not too far from the kids. You see Catnap every day for naptime, and the other smiling critters in the area. You have a particularly soft spot for Dogday, but you don't really let it show. It'd be dangerous to do anything when Catnap was close by. You don't want anyone sent to the chopping block because you had a preference for them. In a way, you're both more and less free. You don't do check ups on toys who are stuck in the labs anymore, and Dr. White was too prideful to ask you for help anyway, so you were glad to be out of the space. Instead you spend your time upstairs checking which orphans did best in the Game Station, checking up on Mommy occasionally too. Mommy Long legs had always been volatile towards adults, so they avoided having people who were too old in the area, but she was civil with you. Civil. Not kind. She acknowledged that you were a toy like her, but she also knew that you were playing both sides for survival, something she considered cheating.
But she understood the laws of survival.
You were trying to survive as one of the oldest toys amongst them.
You report directly to Stella Greyber, detailing which kids were doing well and which ones weren't. You tell her which kids will be selected for experimentation, worded kindly as "adopted by Dr. White" and other things. You know she feels bad. You can watch as she doubts the usefulness of experimenting on orphans, and you find another opportunity.
"Ms. Greyber. I, uh. Had a question."
"Yes."
"But as off the record." You glance at the door, and she nods.
"Take a seat. Close the door. Would you like tea? Can you have tea?"
"I can, but it does nothing for me." You sit. "I just. I just wanted to ask how you feel about all the experimentation downstairs."
She pauses, and she considers her answers before she replies. You know she's going to say something that can be interpreted both ways.
"It's… something." She reaches for something in her desk and turns it off.
"If you're worried about the recordings on every executive, I know how to warp the audio before it's sent in." You hum.
She blinks.
"I hate it."
You grin.
"I'm glad at least one of you feel guilt for the hell given to the kids."
The fun part about her is that it takes no convincing for her to think that what they're doing to the kids is wrong, but she acknowledges that she has no power over what happens below. She's one of the weaker executives. Cut off from all of the outside, she can only finalize adoptions and do what she can with such little power. Anything beyond that would be a suicide. You, on the other hand, know what to do. Stirring the pot will eventually send a splash or two over the edge, so it isn't impossible.
But you focus your attention on the kids.
They're lovely. They make you wonder if that's how you once were when you were so much younger, but you don't think too much over it. Catnap is well behaved when you're around because it's a double edged sword. He'd never hesitate to throw you to the wolves and inform the Prototype that you'd betrayed him for the humans, but you can also put in a bad word to Ollie about how his housecat was making your life miserable. Quite awful, but you also acknowledge that it's a sword you will use if you need to.
The other smiling critters are wonderful, though, and that's just how life is for a while. You take care of the kids and watch over the Game Station, existing with Mommy Long Legs, reporting on which kids were doing well. You advise Dr. White when he asks which children would be good for experimentation, but he has a much more voracious appetite than Sawyer and is much more brash, so he throws kids into toys like it's second nature. None of the proper Bigger Bodies are ever attained again after Sawyer's death. It makes you excited, if anything. It just means Bruno is just as shit as you remember him being. It makes you laugh.
It is lonely, though. You miss sneaking to see Ollie like some teenager in a romcom.
You're informed one night that the Prototype is missing.
There's a moment where you wonder if the scientists are going to send you to go find him, but that thought disappears just as fast. Bruno White refuses to get your help because he hated Sawyer so much, and Sawyer had too much faith in you. It bit him in the ass, and Dr. White is committed to not making the same mistakes. You, on the other hand, are insane. He should've used you when he could, because now, you're getting closer and closer to becoming someone that power's going to end up in the hands of, and that's not looking too hot for him.
Dr. White can lie through his teeth all he wants.
Sawyer only succeeded beacuse he got to tear into both Poppy and The Prototype when he was at wit's end. If he wants to try prying you open, Stella Greyber would have him gone. She's not as weak as she makes herself out to be. She holds more influence on internal affairs than the other two men since they have their own things to sort out of. You've got Dr. White blocked into a corner, stuck producing mediocre results. Harley was a pain in the ass, but he got shit done. It really just came down to which one was better at their work, and Sawyer was a clear winner.
Though, it's not really your problem when you finally get an opening at night to sneak around again. You wander down into the labs, clearance still very much part of everything you have, and you scan the grabpack hands, finding a door that seemingly leads to nowhere as you continue down unpainted cement halls. You bet the specialists searched here for the Prototype already, but you share the same mind as the Prototype, so your main concern is finding somewhere that he could have fixed up.
You find 1006 in the walls. Again. You'd think Playcare has learned at this point that he prefers hiding in the walls, but no. They're stupid or something. Maybe they just don't care to find him as long as he kills no one. You spot the color of his hat in a crack. The crack is smaller this time, but you stop and tap on the cement gently. He should have heard your footsteps to his place by now. Not hard to discern. Your steps are always lighter.
"1006." You peer at him through the crack, and he blinks at you.
"1008."
"Pray tell why you're escaped now?"
He looks at you, pushing the wall out to let you in as he closes it behind you.
"Missed you." He grins.
His mouthpiece has cracked off, and all you see now is rows and rows of teeth. It doesn't stop you from anything, though. If anything, you reach up for his cravat, pulling down gently to press your mouth to his teeth. You missed him, really. Also, for a side note, you're not well in the head. You used to sneak to see the Prototype back when you were in the labs, but Playcare has you up there all day. You miss him.
He closes his eyes anyway, hand gentle as he holds the back of your head, and his free hand lifts you up to straighten himself and level you with him. You're pressed against the wall gently, and you pull apart from him at one point, staring as he stares back at you.
"More?"
"I'd like to, but I'd rather not accidentally get caught by a kid wandering around past their bedtime." You press a kiss to the corner of his grin, and he hums.
"Pent up."
"I am." You mumble. "Elliot Ludwig should've gotten rid of my endocrine system when he made me toy."
"He failed to remove mine as well."
You sigh, and he continues holding you as you hum.
"How are you?"
"Same as always."
You pause.
"When I get an Omni Hand, we'll be free."
He hums.
"And how long will that take?"
You shrug.
You return to the surface with mildly messed around hair when the sun rises in Playcare, and you straighten yourself in your living quarters before you clock in. You bet you smell like poppies right now. Catnap definitely picks up on it, and you're given a stink-eye all day. Despite it, though, he cooperates. When you lift kids to hold up to him, he tilts his head and rubs his face in their stomach. He understands what you mean in the ecosystem. You're the only thing no one can touch because the top of the pyramid would be given access to the bottom.
You give it a couple of months. You sneak to visit the Prototype sometimes, mainly for the need of connection. There was something part of you by now that you acknowledged more than often enough. You were bound to the Prototype whether you wanted to be or not. It was something that was now fundamentally part of you as much as anything else was. They carved it in your body when you were being transformed into the toy that you are now. You understand that much, but you also know that they carved your number into 1006's ankle when they gave him legs so many years ago.
It's impossible to let go of the other.
You press your lips to the Prototype's teeth gently, and you're here early for once.
He nips at your neck, and you're not in a rush to leave for once.
"It's been a while."
He rests his face on the crook of your neck, and you whisper.
"Be gentle."
He hums in acknowledgement, twisting his faceplate so he can kiss you properly.
You let him kiss you like he can pretend to. His mouth doesn't move nearly as smoothly as yours or Poppy, but the depths of your being know that this is why you were ultimately made. You were created to satisfy any craving or need he's had over the years. You'd be with him until everything else in the world has returned to waste and emptiness, and somehow the two of you would still be immortal. You wonder if this is what you were made for in the end, clothes abandoned on the ground as he tugs at what isn't sewn onto him, teeth nipping at what he can pull from the plastic around your neck, claws smoothing down your skin as he's careful not to crack you. Porcelain and plastic, you are. You're just as breakable as he is, and he's careful to not hurt you too bad. If he leaves scratches on your skin, he can always fix that up for you.
You let him scratch over your skin, his breath stuttering in his voicebox as he has you.
Everything you are was made for the moment that the Prototype needed anything. Scratches on your skin and teeth marks on your neck mean nothing in the grand scheme of things since you were made for this. All you have to do is breathe and take what he gives you, eyes going half lidded as you cling onto the fabric of his forearms, voice fizzled and half sounded out when he does have you, curling above you with your limbs bent over his shoulder. You wonder if it would have been like this if you had ever done this while human. You don't know. The bells on your head jingle as he moves onto you.
It's equally thrilling as it is intimate. You wouldn't have expected this to happen, but maybe there are reasons. He keeps muttering in your ear about how you're his. Silly boy. You were made for him. There's no way you could be anyone else's.
"Bet you missed me." He huffs, pressed all the way inside of you as your fingers dig into the wall behind you. "Say it."
"Yes, yes." You whimper. "Missed you so bad— missed this so. So much."
"Yes. Not—" He groans in your ear, and the irrational part of you betrays you when your head rushes with the hormones.
You wonder if this is because you've been so lonely the past couple months. Sure, you got the children and their companionship, but you're a lot more human than you care to acknowledge. Maybe you were just fundamentally tied to the Prototype. You were made for him, after all. Maybe they made you miss him when you don't see him in too long. HA. You read your files. You doubt that's the truth. Elliot Ludwig just wanted his son to have something that could fulfill all his desires or something. Desires is the wrong word. A multi-purpose tool. That's more of what you are.
It makes you feel terrifyingly human.
And, what's more human than killing your colleagues and shoving them into toys at Playtime Co?
You know what comes next. Especially since you'd been out a little too late, Bruno White's getting antsy with how much autonomy you seem to have in Playcare. Any good scientist knows to keep their enemies close, and it seems that Dr. White is finally realizing why Sawyer had kept you impossibly close. You were a double edged sword that no one could wield. You could only pray you were on the dull side and not the sharp one. The only one capable of welding you is the Prototype anyway. You were made for 1006. Created with the sole purpose of being used by him.
"We're moving you back down to the labs." Dr. White stares at you, and you raise a brow.
"Any specific reason?"
"Higher ups are unhappy with the lack of successful bigger bodies. I was informed by Sawyer that you would be a great help."
"I see." You nod. "May I have a couple of days to say bye to everyone?"
"One day."
"Will I be moving back down as well?"
"Yes. You have your own office and room now."
You nod.
It's an upgrade. You wonder what the executives will want from you, but you won't be down there for long. You're leaving, and you have a feeling Stella Greyber will be looking for you soon. She was probably there when Dr. White requested you be moved from above to below. It's enough, and quite frankly, you have a feeling it'll take a day or two max before you get that Omni Hand. It's perfect timing, and no one in Playtime is stupid. Especially not those who have been feeling worse and worse with how many failed Bigger Body experiments there have been as of late. It's perfect timing.
You're right.
It happens while you pack to move.
"Moppie."
"Stella!" You beam, looking up from your boxes as you rush over. "Are you here to send me off? That's so sweet of you."
She pauses. "I have something for you."
You blink at the box.
"Don't open it until you're alone."
"What might it be for?"
She looks around, lowering her voice.
"An Omni Hand."
"O-oh?" You raise a brow.
"We figured, well, I figured it'd be good to let you roam around everywhere you can. It must be stuffy down here, yeah?"
You wonder who talked to her, but you don't ask. It was probably Preston.
"But where did you get this? There are only a few available."
"There was a new one made, but we can just lie and say it was lost in transport."
You blink. You weren't expecting your answer on how all the toys should get out to be this, but alright.
"You sure they won't regret it?"
"No. Because we know what you're going to do with it."
You look at her.
"Don't come to work that day."
She blinks at you.
"The kids don't care who dies and who lives. The only ones that aren't allowed to die are the other orphans. You'll get killed in the fire. You're a somewhat good person, despite it all, Stella."
"Maybe it will be atonmenet for letting so much happen at once." She seems to have already accepted her fate.
"Very well. I hope you end up in that better place everyone talks about." You pause. "Would you like to be spared? Not that I can guarantee survival."
She shakes her head. "I know you all have been waiting for it. I would have been planning by now too. We're planning for the 8th."
You look at the calendar.
"In two days."
"Yes, so continue to do whatever you please in the meantime. And… tell the kids I'm sorry, will you?"
You sigh.
"May your end be swift."
She turns to leave, and you remember something.
"Oh, Stella. I have a favor, if you would."
She listens.
The Omni Hand is stored in a room accessible only by vents that the Prototype had been hiding in. It's been around six months since he'd gone missing, and you'd been helping him build new legs so he'd be less killable. You know Playtime well enough to know that there's no way they would send any kind of backup if the toys really did take over. Maybe Harley Sawyer had a plan at one point, but he's on your side now.
"You're back."
You hand him an Omni Hand, and he stares.
"How."
"Stella's atonement." You mumble. "Should I hold onto it?"
He considers it.
It's the day the two of you had been planning for an absurd amount of time. The Omni Hand would be able to disable all the doors to the Shelf, and the toys would be free to roam around and kill. It'd be total anarchy, but that's not the issue. The issue is freeing the toys that never should have been made in the first place. There are so many of you that it just feels unfair.
"I shall visit some toys, but you should too."
You blink at him.
"Alright."
You let him visit and spread the word through toys he knows he will see. You, on the other hand, inform the toys you make routine check ups with on the fact that an unlocked door means to do whatever you want. You're spared, though. You tell them all that even if they tore into you, there would be nothing good to come out of it. You're not some kind of atoned good. You were never good. You took part in half of the surgeries. Everyone is a victim of a cycle of abuse that would never free any of you. You're upholding it because you were never taught to be free of it. It will end with this, and there will be toys who realize that what you are doing is no better than the other scientists, and then there will be a rebellion to save you.
Yet, none of the Bigger Bodies hate you, and you despise it. Perhaps you should have been less human and more monster and then you'd be despised like the scientists.
"1007." You click on the computer, and she's shaking in the corner of her room.
"1008."
"How are you?"
"They took me apart again."
"How would you like to take them apart?" You meet eyes with her, and she blinks.
"Wh-what?"
"Some of the toys want to do that." You enter a line of code, and the lights in her room shut down. "I'll bring you to the Prototype."
"N-no! What if he—"
"He's made a pact with Ollie to protect you." You open her door, and she looks hesitant to follow you.
"You're the centerpiece of the rebellion, Poppy. We need you now more than ever. I'm only a tool in the box. You're the mechanic."
She takes your hand and lets you carry her, and you bring her to the Prototype as she's hesitant to leave your arms. You observe Ollie at this moment in time. It's the last time he'll ever have these legs. The repurposed train part the two of you had stolen and scrap metal collected over the months is nearly done being repurposed into a lower torso and body for the Prototype. You'll miss the version of him that you're most familiar with, but you have no say in how he presents himself. You have no power over him.
"Prototoype."
"Poppy." He coos, opening his hands for her.
"He won't hurt you." You adjust her dress in your arms, and she nods.
"Prototype."
"The toys need you more than ever."
"You'll become the symbol of rebellion."
She nods.
She's not totally stupid, despite it all, and you spend the night back in your new room, knocked out in your bed as you wonder just how you were supposed to survive it all. You've done your fair share of existence in the labs, and though they never had you hold a scalpel or experiment on a toy, you were still very much part of the issues. The toys like you, or at least they appear to, and you wonder what that means for your existence.
You do everything you should the next day, and when the day ends, you return to the Prototype and Poppy through the vents instead of the way you should be going.
"They toys all sleep at night. It'd be best to set them free at noon." You use your grabpack to open up the room from the inside — leads to a narrow hallway no employees use anymore. It was mainly for the sake of letting the employees live down in the depths, but it didn't do much. Most of the employees lived in shit condition anyway. The kids lived in much better situations compared to everything.
"Poppy. Stay safe." You hum, brushing her hair behind her ear as she nods.
"A moment."
You stop to turn around to look at the Prototype.
"Leave us." He looks at Poppy, and Poppy stares at you.
"I'll be okay, Poppy. He can't hurt me."
You close the door behind her, and the Prototype looks down at you.
"My limbs."
"Yes." You exhale, staring at the scrap metal that's accumulated in the back over the past couple of months. "It shouldn't take longer than the night. Why couldn't Poppy join?"
He looks at you, leaning down to brush his mouth against yours.
"No."
"Why?" You whisper, but you know the answer anyway.
His claws tighten around your waist as he presses your mouth to his, suffocating you as you try to lean back to gasp for air that does nothing for your body. You listen because you're made to listen and not push back against what he does, relaxing in his touch when you get used to the cold of metal. Poppy can't possibly be allowed to watch him show you affection like this. He favors you, not loves. There's a difference. It's a difference that should show to all the toys.
"I'm never—" You crane your neck to avoid his mouth. "Going to finish— your legs at this rate."
"It can wait."
"Prototype—"
"Ollie."
"Ollie—" You push his face off of you. "I need to get your legs done. I missed you, but your legs need to be done so the scientists can't just swing a bat at your legs and break the bones holding them and kill you in one shot."
He stops, sitting down as you dig out the tools.
"They can't kill me."
"Poppy Gel can bring back to life, not make immortal." You hum.
You screw the metal bits that the two of you had been sanding to create the limbs, and you attach them to the body you'd prepared for the Prototype. He could keep his current legs, but it'd get in the way, and he'd still feel the pain, so attaching him to the body would be a much wiser decision. The muscle was already attached to the metal because of the addition of poppy gel, so after screwing everything together, it should slot well. Well, really one way to find out.
The entire night is spent screwing things together with the Prototype, and when you know dawn will break, you attempt attaching Ollie to his new legs. The poppy gel on standby proves to be helpful when you smooth a little where his torso would attach, and you screw him in as he stares down at you. He's officially twice your size, maybe thrice if he stands on his hind legs, but you don't question it. He'd never hurt you, and you'd never hurt him.
"You should stay here." The Prototype suggests, and you blink up at him.
"No, no. It's alright." You hum. "I have a couple of colleagues I'd like to kill."
He hesitates, and he shakes his head.
"Not in a lab coat."
"And what do you suggest I wear instead?"
The room is riddled with old clothes that never made it to the other Bigger Body toys since most of them came out with fur and no need for clothes. The Prototype seems to have something specific in mind, and you stand there as he climbs through the boxes to reach the very end. It's got your experiment number on it, and he beckons you over. You glance behind you to make sure the door is shut, and he shows you the clothes you once wore when you had first been created. You didn't realize they kept it.
"Well." You tug at your lab coat and the turtleneck under, bare porcelain for show as Ollie takes the clothes from you. He rests them on another box, and you push at the pants on around your waist, loosening the belt as you lean back slightly to unclasp and tug them off. You don't seem to register that you're not alone in the room, but if you remembered right, your dress was meant to be pulled up from below you, and it had a velcro that needed help to be attached properly too. You can see the way he doesn't look at you in the mirror in front of you, and you wonder if it's because you're lacking.
"We'd be late teens by now."
"In a way we are teens."
You step out of your shoes, and you dig through the box for your old shoes. The Prototype keeps his eyes on the bend of your back, and it feels uncharacteristically intimate of the two of you. Not that you hadn't had your fair share of intimacy when the two of you were newer toys, but it feels different now. In a way, the two of you are older. Forever children, but still mentally older. It ends up begging of question of which age was your true one. It doesn't matter anyway. Both of you have and are about to do things beyond forgiveness.
You find the dress, turning it inside out as you step into it, tugging it up, and you realize that the skirt had just meant to be a skirt. There's a velcro attachment to stick it to your top, but you dig through your top and the complicated layers. You remember removing it when you were being touched up for the first time ever. They called it a toy spa day, but in retrospect, it was just to make sure that you were working and fully articulated from head to toe. Ollie had watched you from the other side of the glass, so being nude in front of him was nothing new.
The undershirt with the wiring to give your sleeves its volume goes on first, and then you tug on the sleeves, absurdly strong velcro holding up your back. You reach behind yourself and straighten your back to try and grab it, but you're unable to reach it. You had another worker help you open it back then, and you're stuck in an awkward position. It was easier to take it off than it was to put it on. Well, you're glad the Prototype is with you in the room.
"Ollie?" Your voice is meek when you turn your head to look at him.
He looks up at you, and you show him the velcro.
"I may rip your clothes."
"You couldn't."
He's careful to not nick you as he attaches the velcro on your back, and the hole in the center of the fabric is pulled out to attach the winding key back to the hole in your back. You'd always preferred having a key than the emptiness of a closeable hatch that made you feel human, and the Prototype is careful to click the winding key into place. You take a look at yourself in the mirror, attaching the decoration to your hair and the jester hat for your head.
"Lock it in place for me?"
The Prototype obliges, claws reaching for the hat as he snaps it in place for you, click going off in the silence as you look up at him.
"You shouldn't come."
"I want to."
He looks at you, and you rock onto your toes to press a kiss to his teeth.
"Please."
The Prototype seems to hesitate, but he ultimately relents as the two of you open up the gate. Poppy's left already, presumably to find Kissy Missy, and you follow behind him as the two of you make your way through the lower labs. There's a central control to kill all the power keeping doors locked for all the toys. Unfortunately for them, you have an Omni Hand and most of the toys are awake by now. The lights have all blared on, which means that the toys have all been woken up for their developmental check in.
You fire the Omni Hand at the office door, and you step in.
The Prototype broke from you a while ago, and you rest the hand on the scanner as you punch in the code to override all the security measures. You leave the door to the office you're in locked, and you watch from the glass as the toys realize it's the moment they'd all been waiting for. Any of the toys in transit wouldn't be able to survive, but you'd grown immune to the poppy gas, so when you watch everyone in the labs break free and fight, it's really free game for all the toys. You leave the room once the gas starts emitting, and you pass a handful of toys as some of them turn to look at you. You don't react, walking through instead. You'd like to kill some colleagues, but the ones you despised were mostly taken care of by Ollie when you'd make him lure them into his cell.
Instead, you'd like to go to the archives and find your music box again.
It was part of you for such a short time, yet somehow you have attachments to it. Maybe it's easier to consider the idea that the only reason you had attachments to it was that it was made to be part of you. It was retired to the warehouses of old things when you had been removed from it. You and Ollie always prefered sitting on his box as opposed to the small ringmaster stand you had been given. You'd always been more entertainer than anything else, really. It was so fun as opposed to literally everything else. You'd learned tricks in your early days — well, learn is the wrong word. They tested your mobility and mind before you had been introduced to Ollie. You needed to match his wit.
You get notified on your watch that Stella had completed what you wanted, but she also tells you that some of her colleagues that she cared for were still in the factory, so she'd be returning. You advise her against it, but tell her that you'll bury her in Playcare if she doesn't survive. You'd recognize her in a room full of people always. She's not hard to miss. Even as a dead body.
It does, however, cause problems for Catnap, who had found out most if not all the beds were empty when he had gone to collect the orphans on the Prototype's command. He searches, and you watch from the cameras of Playcare, snickering. You didn't know the Prototype — well, you did. You knew the Prototype would want the orphans for leverage, but he didn't tell you that, so you had pretended to not know. You've grown autonomous enough over the years to know what will and won't come back to bite you in the ass. Freeing orphans? Will not.
To no one's surprise, you're met with a very angry Catnap.
"The orphans." He hisses, red mist spreading with his hiss. "Where are they?"
"Gone." You hum. "Ate them all."
"You don't need to eat."
"Oh, Theo. I don't know where they are." You shrug. "For all I know, they could be off on their way to another orphanage right now."
He knocks you over, paw on your chest as he forces you into the ground. You can't crack, so you're grateful for that at the very least, but you know damn well that if Theodore leaves even a scratch on your body, the Prototype will reevaluate how useful the cat is to him. You're not replacable, but Theo can be pushed down in the heirarchy. There can't be two right hands, one's gotta be left. Wow, that's sooo. You don't even continue the thought. Stella got rid of all the orphans for you. Every last one of them was brought to the surface and snuck past security last night. Every single one. You didn't spare a single one. Even the one White had locked down in the depths to prepare for Lily Lovebraid's surgery was snuck out at night. You don't tell anyone, though.
That had been Stella's job.
"How am I supposed to explain to the Prototype?!"
You raise a brow, unimpressed.
"Just lie."
But you don't need to lie to the Prototype. He'd probably realized that you had traded something huge for the Omni Hand, and as far as he was concerned, the orphans weren't really his problem unless he needed them as leverage. He'd probably convinced Poppy that Oliver was alive and well. Really, not your problem, though. Poppy was never introduced to Ollie. She only ever knew the Prototype. Elliot Ludwig didn't want his daughter getting infested by the toys before and after her with the knowledge that they held. She deserved to exist in ignorance if the two of you had to live with too much knowledge.
Catnap ends up scolded by the Prototype, of course, but you pretend to be innocent when the Prototype's neck snaps to turn to face you. It'd been a betrayal in a way. You weren't supposed to free all the orphans. However, he could make do with it. You never acted out of line unless you had a backup that would suit him better, and when Catnap is dismissed with a harsh scolding from the very toy that he worshipped to hell and back, you're grabbed uncharacteristically and held by the key of your back as he lifts you to be eye level with him.
"Your plan."
"Ollie, don't you ever miss pretending to be a kid?"
It clicks.
"I do."
You consider it a fun stroke of luck that it ends up the way that it does, but you also saw this coming. Ollie could never be mad at you for too long. He holds onto his past like a rose with thorns that threaten to kill him. You, on the other hand, let the past leave and shatter like it's second nature. You're a blank slate told to listen to the Prototype, but you also found that it went both ways. It's less of a ownership and more of a push and pull. The Prototype knows you know, but you'd rather die than tell him that you know too. It's a twisted affection that was sewn into the materials that make you what you are.
And, well. You're free now, so that has to count for something.
You have one final task before you start truly resting, though.
Gracie Green never really crossed paths with you when you were in the labs. She'd only ever been a face on the screen, and her office was more in the city than in the labs. You didn't enter the city super often anyway. She was also occasionally in the labs for easier broadcasting, but her tapes were played for the most part. You never really liked her because the one time she met you, she'd bitched about how it was awful that you were so sentient that it creeped her out. You made it your life's goal to haunt every corner of her life since then.
No one in the lower labs where she worked could keep you out of their mouth at one point, and she'd requested to be moved back to the city for recording.
So thrilled is an understatement of how happy you are to operate on her.
"Hi Gracie." You grin, leaning over her face as she's strapped to the operation table. "You ready to become what you've always wanted to be?"
She screams against the muffle in her mouth, and you clap your hands together.
"Don't worry. I'm a veteran, so this'll be quick."
The gloves snap against your wrist, and you make quick work of Gracie Green. She's shoved into Lily Lovebraid's body and you make sure she's well attached before you close her up properly, humming as the rest of the toys carry her off to the brainwashing rooms. They'd fracture her mind. She'd always be Lily Lovebraids instead of Gracie now. That would be her demise, and honestly, you're not too upset about it. She was always one of the worst ones. You remember the day you first met her after Leith Pierre had taken over the company for a little. You remember the rumors floating through the walls and from the toys. There was brainwashing before the toys would become toys. How awful.
And you're free. You're safe for a little, and for a long time. The Prototype starts playing god, which you have no interest in, and you spend most of the time taking care of the toys and their need for food. It does eventually run low, though, and it's only then that the Prototype starts locking down what you can and cannot share to the toys. You know he's lost any sense of humanity that he once had years ago when the two of you felt more human than toy. However, you're no saint, and he's no savior, so you listen to survive.
"Dearest Fool." The Prototype steps next to you, and you blink at him.
"Prototype."
"There are rumors of a rebellion in the upper labs."
You stare at the Prototype, humming.
"And what are we to do about that?"
"You know what to do."
"I do."
In a way, you feel like you'll never really be free when you're so tied to the Prototype, but at least you're free from the lecherous gazes from the men who claim to be doing everything in the name of science.
🎪Fandom: The freak circus.
🌹Pairing: Pierrot x female Reader.
🤹🏻 Rating: very explicit.
🍿 Summary: Pierrot loves you. But he doesn't love you the way you imagine. He loves you with his claws and his teeth.
🔞 Warnings: extremely graphic sexual content, violence mixed with intimacy, bloodplay, CNC, obsessive love, yandere Pierrot, possessive and dehumanizing language, sadistic behavior, cannibalistic undertones, emotional and physical domination, horror.
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Author’s Note: I was inspired by the song "The red means I love you".
You know when you love someone so much that you feel the need to hurt them?
Exactly this.
I'm a toxic person with dark thoughts, and I really resonate with characters like Pierrot. The metaphors of violence/cannibalism and romance really suit him.
This story is told from Pierrot's POV.
Key: when you read the text in italics and yellow, you' find yourself're in Pierrot's head.
When you read the text in italics, I am referring to the lyrics of the song.
I hope everything's clear, happy reading!
Ah...
I’ve finally found her.
She’s finally alone.
She’s finally mine, and I can taste her, savor her flesh.
Her body.
You’re here, in your big sized, empty bed.
A thin, white nightgown—almost sheer—clings to your delicate curves, accentuating your soft shape.
I move closer, unable to hold myself back.
I want her.
I want... you... too much.
I want to make you mine.
To push so deep inside you that you’d be only mine, forever.
My body feels wrapped in flames.
I can hear my heart pounding.
Proud.
Wild.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Thump.
Thump—thump.
Thump.
Thump—thump.
It beats and beats, carving out a void only you can fill.
Because you’re mine, aren’t you, Y/N?
It feels like it wants to pull out of my chest, tearing through my flesh just to be with you.
Ah...
My thoughts scream, they confuse me, they claw at my mind.
I can’t think.
You... you don’t let me think.
You’re so beautiful.
Your gentle face, your soft skin…
I want to wear it.
I want to be hers.
I love you.
I love you so much.
I’m drooling.
How careless of me.
That’s the effect you have on me, my Love.
I love you.
I need to hold you.
To feel your warm breath brushing against my skin.
Please… you don’t know what you do to me.
You don’t know how much I burn, always—but especially now, seeing you on that bed, alone… one hand pressing gently between your thighs. Were you thinking of me?
Were you touching yourself because of me?
Do you want me that much?
I do too, if only you knew how much… my Lady.
Ah… just the thought of being able to smell her skin drives me insane.
Your scent… damn… I’m hungry.
Hungry for you.
I move closer to your bed, climbing onto it—one knee, then the other.
I try to be quiet, but the bells on my hat are loud, tinkling melodically in the silent night—alive only by the sweet sound of your breathing.
You draw me in so effortlessly, as if I were under a spell.
I’m holding my face in my gloved hands; I didn’t even realize it.
They’re warm, because I’m burning… for you.
You’re beneath me, now.
A mess of (your color) skin and (your color) hair spread across your flushy pillow, and I can’t decide if I want to (fuck) LOVE you or eat you… alive.
Probably both.
Or... on the contrary… definitely, not just probably.
Damn it, you’re making me lose my train of thought too.
See?
You drive me mad.
Unable to think.
I only think of you. In so many ways… it almost embarrasses me...
I think about you dressed, while you work, while you bite your nails, your lip, while you smile.
I think of you even when you’re unconscious, like now.
Unconscious.
Beautiful.
I don’t want to scare you, but it’s easier this way.
The things I would do to you…
I want to sink my claws into your lovely flesh.
Dig deep, down to the bone.
And it still wouldn’t be enough...
I want you.
I want you… Y/N.
I wish I could open you up, make space for myself in your chest after removing everything in the way.
Be your heart.
You don’t need anything, just me.
I love you.
I need to feel you as mine so completely that I no longer know where you end and I begin.
Am I mad?
Can you understand this silly desire of mine?
I love you.
I would never want to hurt you, but I can’t help it.
Your body… your skin… you’re so soft.
I could use you as a pillow.
Caress you.
Lick every inch of you, savoring your flavor, testing it on my tongue that wants nothing more than to savor you.
My taste buds ache at the thought of having your flavor on my palate.
My hands are shaking.
They always shake when I see you—when the mania starts clawing up from my gut, wrapping itself around my ribs like a second skeleton.
You look so innocent, so trusting, so stupidly willing, and it makes my cock ache so bad that I can break just by looking at you.
Unusual. They say strange fascination, infatuation.
A lunatic.
I’m so close to your face now, moving slowly.
Gods, how much effort it takes not to devour you like a beast.
Which I am…
I press my lips to your throat, tasting.
My tongue moves from your collarbone over your pulse point, feeling the frantic thrum of your heart beneath the skin.
Ah…
Do you sense me?
Can you hear me?
Are you awake? Or are you just pretending to sleep?
Is it so you’ll let me do whatever I want?
I hear you gasping; a small, little sound escaping your plump lips.
I feel your fingers twisting into my hair, and I bite down, just enough to feel the give of your flesh between my teeth, to hear the little high-pitched whimper you let out.
Call me what suits your taste. I just wanna taste.
“You’re so soft,” I mumble against your neck, my voice ruined, scraping out of a throat too tight, burning with need.
Need of you.
My hips grind down against yours, my cock sliding through your thighs.
Just there.
Teasing.
Waiting.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel how much it pulls?
How fucking hard is it?
How fucking big it is? For you?
She’s so soft.
Gonna ruin her.
You whine, trying to arch up into me, trying to take me, and I smile gasping on your throat; a breathless sound that spills out of me like I’m losing my goddamn mind.
And I am... for you.
And I’ve always heard it’s what’s inside that counts.
I can’t resist…
My claws drag harshly over your chest, right across your sternum, while watching you open your eyes.
Watching your pupils dilate.
Are you scared?
Are you afraid of me?
Do you know my intentions?
Or maybe… you like it?
And it’s exactly what you want?
To die for me.
To die for the man you love, deep down.
Isn’t that right?
There’s nothing more poetic.
Nothing more tragic.
This is the story of my sad, little comedy.
You know I don’t want to hurt you, right?
But my love for you blinds me!
How can I survive it?!
You’re my obsession, my Little One…
Stupid me, I’m tracing your breastbone with my fingers, pressing harder, penetrating your flesh, leaving behind a shimmering red mark: mine.
I want to bathe in your blood.
Live there.
Live in you.
I pull back just enough to look at you better.
Your lips are parted, flushed.
Your eyes open wide with that look of fear that makes my blood sing.
You want this.
You want me.
Even the parts that scare the rest of the circus into crossing themselves when I walk by.
‘Cause my insides are red, and yours are too.
And the red on my face is matching you.
“You’re gonna let me mark you up so deep no one ever forgets who you belong to. Right?”
You nod, finally awake and conscious.
Your lips trembling, thighs spreading wider in invitation, for me.
She’s my precious, good girl.
I don’t make you wait.
I’m not that cruel…
I take my turgid cock out of my pants, in my hand.
I slam into you in one brutal thrust, burying myself to the hilt in your already wet, heat-soaked cunt.
Ah… she’s a dirty girl. Isn’t she?
Your back bows off the mattress, a desperate cry ripping from your throat, and I don’t slow down.
I can’t.
I need this—you—need the drag of your walls gripping me, the slick sound of my hips slapping against yours, the way your nails rake down my back, my shoulders, hard.
And goodness, you’re bleeding…
I press harder my claws on your chest.
They sinks in, more deep, just enough that wells up with bright red blood, beading on your skin like fucking rubies, its little drops splashing on my mask.
You scream, but it’s not only pain; it’s shock, it’s pleasure.
It’s love.
Right?
Ah… I can feel her cunt clenching around me so hard I see stars.
… what a wonderful feeling!
I remove my sharp nails from the wound they have branded, your moans lost in the sound of our ragged breathing, in our messed up thoughts.
My mouth is on the wound before I can think, my tongue lapping at the hot, sweet blood, groaning against your skin like I’ve just tasted the best thing I’ll ever have.
You’re down and you’re pleading…
“Please,” you finally sob, and I don’t know if you’re begging me to leave you or to never fucking stop eating you.
Your legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper.
And I comply.
I always comply when you get like this.
When I get you... and when I get you like this.
… my head is just reeling.
I fuck you harder.
Messier.
My hand finds your throat and squeezes, just shy of cutting off your air, just enough to feel your pulse flutter under my palm like a trapped bird. My hips slam into yours, relentless, punishing, chasing our freedom.
I bite your lip hard enough to split it.
It bleeds.
What a feeling… what a taste…
The red means I love you!
I lick the blood off your mouth, sharing it then between us, kissing you with my tongue, braiding it and tying it to yours, moving it in your mouth.
Tasting your blood means I love you!
My pace turns sloppy, desperate.
I’m not making love to you, even if my intentions were these, I swear they were from the heart.
Instead...
I’m consuming you.
With my love for you.
Every thrust drives my cock deeper into that tight, sopping heat, and every time I pull back I chase the feeling with my hips, trying to get impossibly closer, trying to crawl inside your skin.
The red means I love you!
The red means I love you...
Your body is trembling, your head thrown back, your throat exposed and painted in bloody handprints.
You look like a sacrifice.
You look like mine.
Unfortunate. They say such a shame, I turned out this way.
A maniac.
“I am a maniac, when it comes to you,” I hiss into your ear, punctuating the words with particularly brutal thrusts.
“But you love me! Don’t you? You love the way my heart-shaped irises circle fast for you when I see you! When I’m inside you! You love this!”
Well, yeah, I get manic when I cause a panic.
Your nails dig into my shoulders again, scratching my costume.
I groan, fucking into you harder, faster, my rhythm completely gone—just raw, grinding need.
And of course, I’m excited when I see you around.
I pull out just long enough to flip you onto your stomach.
You don’t resist.
You just let me manhandle you, your body pliant and eager, your ass lifted for me like an offering.
What a good pet she is...
I spit on your cunt, spreading it, watching it drip down your folds.
But what kind of man would I be if I didn’t taste you?
I want my mouth all over you.
Every inch.
Do you understand?
I slowly approach your pussy.
It smells good.
I feel its heat enveloping me and gently burning my face.
My mouth kisses it.
Savors it.
My lips move around yours.
I can’t resist.
I want more...
My tongue slips out of my mouth, pushing its way into your pussy.
Penetrating.
Sliding in, working its way all the way in.
It’s very long; it manages to reach your rubbery uterine walls.
Oh, fuck, it feels so good.
I need to bite you.
I fucking need it.
As my hands move to cup the junction of your ass and thighs, I show my teeth.
I grab your clit between them and... bite it.
Your reactions are… everything I need.
You’re driving me crazy.
I suck, and suck again.
And you cum on my face.
You cum in my mouth.
You, on my tongue.
You’re on my tongue.
A little essence of you.
I’m blessed.
But I want more. I want to be wrapped in you.
I slide two of my fingers inside you.
I need to feel you everywhere.
I push them all the way in, again and again, while my lips greedily suck your clitoris and my thick tongue fucks you.
That’s not enough.
I need to be inside you.
And then... I am.
My cock is completely accommodated by your pussy, so deep I feel your body shudder around me.
‘Cause my insides are red, and yours are too.
I lean over your back, my hands gripping your hips, my teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder.
Blood wells up, hot and red, and I suck it like I’m drinking from a fountain.
It all spills over my face, staining my visage of—my mask—the color of your living blood.
And the red on my face is matching you.
I pull back, leaving a ring of teeth marks.
And goodness, you’re bleeding, what a wonderful feeling!
You’re down and you’re pleading, my head is just reeling!
“Please, Pierrot— please—I’m—!”
I wrap one of my huge hands in your hair, yanking your head back as I fuck into you, my rhythm completely shattered, my whole body trembling with the effort of holding back my orgasm.
But I don’t want to come yet.
I want to stay here, in this feverish delirium of blood and your little broken moans.
Admiring your ruin at my hands.
The red means I love you.
The red means I love you.
Your hand reaches back, touching my muscular abdomen, grasping blindly for mine.
I take it, lacing our fingers together, smearing blood between our palms.
You leave me high and dry.
A rush comes to my mind.
At the drops of blood you leave behind.
I feel you start to come undone.
Your walls flutter, clench, grip—and I know you’re close, again.
I reach around, my hand on your hip moves on your pussy, my fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and I press down hard, rubbing it as I keep fucking you.
Run as you might...
My love will never...
Ever...
Stop.
“Cum for me, my Love. Please,” I growl, my teeth grazing the shell of your ear.
“Cum all over my cock, soak me in it. In you.”
And you do.
You do…
Your orgasm rips through you like a speeding train: loud, violent, your whole body seizing as you scream my name.
WHAT A WONDERFUL FEELING!
Your cunt milks me, pulsing, pulling, and I can’t hold back anymore.
I bury myself as deep as I can go, my balls pressed flush against your blood-smeared skin, and I cum.
Hard.
So much.
Hot, thick, endless jets of cum flood into you, mixing with the blood and the sweat, until I’m empty and shaking, collapsed over your back.
After a while, I roll off you, pulling you into my arms, not caring about the mess.
I press a kiss to the wound on your shoulder, licking away the excess blood.
And the red on my face is matching you.
And goodness, you’re bleeding, what a wonderful feeling!!!
My hand rests over the fresh stab mark on your chest, feeling the warmth of your blood seep between my fingers.
The red means I love you!
Tasting your blood means I love you!!!
The red means I love you!!!!!!
I press my lips to your ear, my voice a hoarse, breathless whisper.
“I love you,” I murmur. “Forever.”
Even if I have to devour you… precisely because I love you.
And I mean
every
fucking
word.
Author’s Note: thank you for taking the time to read this story! ♡
Hope you liked it! I probably went out of character but I'm a toxic person with dark thoughts, and I really resonate with characters like Pierrot. The metaphors of violence/cannibalism and romance really suit him.
All banners featured in this work are created by me.
Please do not take, repost, edit, or use them without my permission.
🎪Fandom: The freak circus.
🌹Pairing: Pierrot x female Reader.
🤹🏻 Rating: mature.
🍿 Summary: you’re having your very first adult moment… and Pierrot fully panics because he thinks “I’m cumming” means... something else, accidentally ruining your orgasm.
🔞 Warnings: suggestive (non very explicit), orgasm denial (accidental), first-time, inexperienced Pierry.
“No—wait—oh my God, PIERROT! I’m—I’m cumming!”
Pierrot’s painted white face, crinkled in pure, unadulterated confusion. His wide yellow pupils, circled in black big pools, blinked twice.
His head tilted, sending a few silvery-white curls tumbling over his forehead.
“Where?” he asked, his voice soft, melodic, laced with genuine alarm and concern.
“Where are you going? Are you leaving me? Did I do something wrong?!” He asked without giving you the space to answer, swallowing his words, desperate and pathetic. His long, tapered fingers, which until now had been digging deep into your pussy, pressing and arching against your g-spot, stimulating it to orgasm, slipped out quickly, interrupting your decline. His body abruptly moved away from yours, retreating to his knees between your legs. Then, he lay down on top of you, pressing his chest to yours, wrapping his huge hands around your cheeks, flushed and hot from what Pierrot was doing to you. His gaze became sad and pleading.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, my Lady!”
The world, which had just been a tight, white-hot coil of sensation centered between your thighs, went utterly, completely still. Your back was arched off the cot’s mattress of his tent, your fingers were tangled in the fabric of his loose red blouse, opened on his toned, pale, muscular chest. A vision for your eyes. Damn, he was so hot… Your whole body was clenched, frozen on the precipice of a release that had just slammed into a void of nothing. All your nerves were on fire, your mind screaming for mercy. A strangled sound, half-groan, half-hysterical laugh, gurgled in your throat.
“I’m not… going… anywhere,” you managed to gasp out, your voice raw and in pain.
“But you said you were coming,” he insisted, his brow furrowed so deeply that you thought he might crack his mask. You tilted your head, looking away from his childish, hurt expression, trying to regain control of your body which was spasming uncontrollably, demanding attention. Then, you looked at him again, your expression frowning.
“So much patience…” you sighed softly, just for yourself, but maybe Pierrot had heard you anyway. You moved your head against the flushy pillow, starring at the curved white and red plastic ceiling of the circus tent, strung with sad little paper stars and faded silk roses.
Of course.
Of course this is how it happens.
You’d spent the last weeks with him looking at you out of the huge windows of the bar where you worked; and you sneaking glances at him during his juggling act, taking his flyers just to stand near him, and finally, finally, working up the nerve to talk to him when he came to visit you in the evening at the bar, even though he didn’t speak at first. And now, in the most intensely vulnerable moment of your first sex, adult life, with Pierrot... Pierrot—beautiful, ridiculous Pierrot—thought you were announcing your imminent departure.
“Pierrot,” you said, the word slow and careful, but also a little pissed off, a hand resting now on your forehead tangling in your hair.
“When I say ‘I’m cumming,’ I don’t mean I’m leaving. I mean…” you gestured weakly between your bodies. “It’s… a thing that happens when... when it feels… really good.” He froze, his hand moving from your face down your stomach, caressing, tickling.
“When… someone reaches… the pinnacle of pleasure. You know, the thing. That, kind. The... orgasm…” you explained shyly, your eyes shining with embarrassment.
You wanted to die and bury yourself in the ground right then and there.
His expression oscillated through confusion, dawning comprehension, and then a blush so fierce it painted his cheeks a hot pink on the white mask.
“Oh,” he whispered.
“Oh,” he repeated.
“That… kind...”
“Yeah,” you breathed, the tension slowly seeping out of you, replaced by a warm, shaky, fresh desire. “That kind.”
He looked down at his hand positioned on your lower abdomen, almost on your pelvic area, then back at your face. His eyes were big as a puppy’s.
“Did it… not happen? Because I stopped?”
You started to laugh, you couldn’t help it. It bubbled up from your heart; a helpless, wheezing sound that shook your whole body.
“Yeah,” you confirmed, tears pricking your eyes. “And… you stopped right at the best part.”
He looked genuinely devastated.
“I am a fool,” he murmured, his shoulders slumping.
“A clown. I ruined it,” he said, his voice small. He made to pull away entirely, but you caught his wrist.
“You didn’t ruin it, and, well... technically, you’re a clown. Literally!”
You said, laughing a little, though your body was still throbbing with unspent, frustrated energy. He was silent for a long moment, just looking at you. The only sounds were the distant screams of people wandering around the circus (maybe while they were being killed, lol). Then, a tiny, hesitant smile touched his painted lips.
“Could we… perhaps… try to find it again? This ‘cooming’? I would very much love to see you writhing with the pleasure I give you, hearing your delicious moans as I'm inside you, seeing your eyes filled with water and love as I fuck your soul. Do you want it? Do you want me?”
You looked at him with shining eyes. Your body already vibrating at his words.
Do you want it?
Do you want him… ?
Author’s Note: thank you for taking the time to read this short, silly scenario! ♡
All banners featured in this work are created by me.
Please do not take, repost, edit, or use them without my permission.
Synopsis: You had a bad day, and Ticket Taker aims to comfort you.
A/n: I tried to make this as gender/sex neutral as possible. I’m sorry if this sucks. ~Fox🦊
Tags: SMUT, kissing, marking, fingering, gagging (on fingers), orgasm denial (softly), knotting, creampie, P insertion, love, praise
By the time you reach Ticket Taker’s tent, you have decided that the entire day has been personally conspiring against you.
Nothing catastrophic happened, which somehow makes it worse. There was no single disaster you could point toward and blame for your mood, only an endless accumulation of little frustrations that had steadily worn you down. You had slept poorly, spilled something on yourself before noon, gotten blamed for something that wasn’t your fault, and somehow managed to lose an argument with a tent flap in front of several witnesses. By the evening, your patience was gone, your head hurt, and you were carrying the kind of exhaustion that made even minor inconveniences feel like personal betrayals.
You don’t bother knocking.
Ticket Taker looks up when you push into his tent, his pen pausing halfway across the page in front of him. His eyes settle on you immediately, and you watch his expression shift almost imperceptibly. To anyone else, he probably looks the same as always—calm, composed, perhaps mildly curious about why someone has just interrupted his work. You know him better than that. You see the slight softening around his eyes and the way his attention leaves the ledger entirely despite his pen remaining poised above it.
“You look unhappy.”
You stare at him from across the room.
“Thank you.”
“It was an observation, not a criticism.”
“Well, observe less.”
Ticket Taker’s eyebrows rise, and you immediately feel guilty.
“Sorry.”
He sets his pen down.
That simple action makes something inside you loosen slightly. Ticket Taker is always busy. There is always another ledger to balance, another schedule to revise, another problem requiring his attention, but he has never made you compete with his work. The moment he realizes you genuinely need him, everything else seems to become secondary.
“Come here,” he says.
You sigh dramatically but obey, crossing the room with slow, reluctant steps. You expect him to point toward the chair beside his desk, the one you have occupied during countless evenings while he worked and you provided increasingly unnecessary commentary about his paperwork.
Instead, the moment you’re close enough, his hand closes gently around your wrist.
You barely have time to make a confused sound before he pulls you toward him.
“Ticket—!”
Your complaint dissolves into startled silence when he guides you directly into his lap. For several seconds, you simply sit there, completely rigid with surprise.
Ticket Taker, apparently satisfied with this arrangement, slides one arm securely around your waist and uses his other hand to move the abandoned ledger farther away. He settles back into his chair as though pulling you into his lap in the middle of the workday is an entirely ordinary occurrence.
You turn your head to stare at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Holding you.”
“I noticed that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
You narrow your eyes.
Ticket Taker’s expression remains perfectly composed, but you catch the faintest hint of amusement in his gaze.
“I came here to hang out with you,” you mutter.
“And now you are.”
“In your lap.”
“Yes.”
“You’re being very strange about this.”
“I believe you are the one making it strange.”
You open your mouth to argue, but his hand begins moving slowly against your back, tracing gentle circles through the fabric of your clothes. The response is immediate and deeply inconvenient. Some of the tension leaves your shoulders before you can stop it, and Ticket Taker notices.
Of course he notices.
He notices everything about you.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”
“I’m still having a terrible day.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I’m still angry.”
“You may be angry here.”
Something about the simple statement nearly breaks you. Your expression crumples for half a second before you catch yourself, and Ticket Taker’s teasing disappears immediately. His arm tightens around your waist as he draws you closer, guiding your head beneath his chin until your cheek rests against his chest. He doesn’t ask you to explain. That is one of the things you love most about him. Ticket Taker understands that sometimes you want advice and sometimes you want solutions, but occasionally you simply need somewhere safe to be miserable for a while. Tonight, apparently, he has decided that place is his lap.
You let out a long, miserable sigh and slump against him. His hand continues its slow path up and down your back.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
“Very well.”
“Everything was awful.”
“I gathered that.”
“I hate today.”
“That was also apparent.”
You lift your head enough to glare at him. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Never.”
The slight curve of his mouth says otherwise, and you pout.
Actually pout.
Your lower lip pushes forward in a way that feels both childish and entirely involuntary as you stare at him with exaggerated betrayal. For the first time since you arrived, Ticket Taker’s composure visibly cracks. His gaze drops to your mouth for a brief second before returning to your eyes, and you watch with a strange satisfaction as the practiced neutrality of his expression gives way to something rawer, something that looks uncomfortably like hunger. The air between you shifts, charged with an energy that wasn't there moments ago. His fingers pause mid-circle on your back, the sudden stillness more telling than any movement could be. The faint scent of ink and parchment that always clings to him seems stronger now, mingling with the warmth radiating from his chest where you're pressed against him. In the dim lantern light of his tent, you can see the subtle tension that appears along his jawline, the slight darkening of his eyes that reminds you how rarely you see him without some barrier between his true feelings and the world.
The pout falters.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked at me strangely.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
His hand settles against your waist, warm and steady. “You are being argumentative.”
“I had a bad day. I’m allowed.”
“Apparently.”
You pout again, this time intentionally.
Ticket Taker stares.
You wait.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“You know precisely what.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are pouting at me.”
“I am expressing my emotions.”
“You are weaponizing your face.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Ticket Taker smiles immediately. Not the small, restrained smile he gives customers or performers. This one is warm and unmistakably fond, transforming his entire expression in a way that makes your chest ache. He lifts a hand and gently cups your cheek, his thumb brushing beneath your eye.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
You lean into his palm despite yourself.
“Where?”
“Smiling.”
“Barely.”
“It still counts.”
You roll your eyes, but the movement lacks any real annoyance. Instead, it feels more like a reflex, an automatic response to his gentle teasing that has become second nature between you. His thumb continues tracing slowly over your cheek, following the curve of your cheekbone with a reverence that makes something in your chest flutter. The calloused tip of his thumb catches slightly on your skin, a subtle reminder of all the ledgers he balances, all the tickets he takes, all the work that usually occupies those hands—hands that are now devoted entirely to you. You become aware of just how close his face is to yours, closer than you've been in a while now that you think of it. The air between you has grown still and heavy, charged with something unspoken that makes your breath catch. Ticket Taker seems to realize it at the same moment. You watch as his gaze flickers briefly toward your mouth again, but this time he doesn't look away when you catch him. Instead, his eyes remain fixed on your lips, and you feel the intensity of his stare like a physical touch. A muscle in his jaw works as though he's fighting some instinct, and the arm around your waist tightens almost imperceptibly, pulling you closer still until there's barely a breath of space between your bodies. The scent of ink and parchment that always surrounds him seems to intensify, mingling with something warmer, something uniquely him that makes your head spin.
Your voice comes out quieter than intended. “What?”
He studies you for a moment. “You are very attractive.”
You blink.
The statement is delivered with such calm sincerity that it takes your brain several seconds to process it.
“What?”
“I believe I spoke clearly.”
“You can’t just say that out of nowhere.”
“Why not?”
“Because I look terrible.”
Ticket Taker’s brows pull together slightly.
“You do not.”
“I absolutely do. My hair is a mess, I’m exhausted, and I’ve been sitting here complaining for ten minutes.”
“Twelve.”
“That is not helping.”
“I wasn’t attempting to help. I was correcting the figure.”
You groan and bury your face against his shoulder. Ticket Taker laughs quietly, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek, before gently coaxing you to look at him again.
“You are allowed to have bad days,” he says, his voice softer now. “They do not make you less appealing.”
“I’m literally pouting.”
“Yes.”
“And you still think I’m attractive?”
“Especially when you pout.”
Your mouth falls open, and Ticket Taker looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“That’s terrible.”
“I disagree.”
“You told me to stop doing it five minutes ago.”
“Because it was distracting.”
You stare at him. The tips of his ears turn pink. For once, Ticket Taker appears to realize he has said too much. You smile slowly.
“Distracting?”
He clears his throat. “That is what I said.”
“Interesting.”
“Do not start.”
“Start what?”
He gives you a warning look, but it has very little effect when his hand is still gently cradling your face, and his other arm remains securely around your waist. You pout at him again, deliberately. Ticket Taker closes his eyes for a moment.
“You are impossible.”
“And attractive?”
His eyes open. The expression on his face is so openly affectionate that your teasing falters.
“Very,” he says.
Then he kisses you. There is nothing rushed about it. His hand remains against your cheek as he closes the small distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a kiss so gentle that the last of your tension seems to dissolve beneath it. You melt against him, one hand curling into the front of his clothes as he kisses you again, just as softly, lingering this time as though he has nowhere else to be. When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, and for a while neither of you says anything. Then you pout. Ticket Taker stares at your mouth. You grin.
“That was deliberate.”
“Maybe.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“You like me.”
“I do.”
The answer comes without hesitation, and your teasing expression softens. Ticket Taker brushes his nose lightly against yours before pressing a small kiss to the corner of your mouth. Unfortunately,” he continues, though the tenderness in his voice ruins the complaint entirely, “I appear to like you under every conceivable circumstance.”
“Even when I’m grumpy?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I complain?”
“Constantly.”
“Even when I pout?”
His gaze drops to your lips again. A faint smile appears. “That one may actually be a problem.”
A laugh escapes you, bright and sudden, and Ticket Taker’s smile widens. He leans in and kisses it directly off your lips. You respond immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck and shifting closer until there is no space left between you. His hands settle on your waist, holding you firmly in place, and the kiss deepens. This is the kind of kiss you know, the one that starts slow and sweet but quickly loses its composure. The kind that makes your toes curl in your boots and heat pool low in your stomach. The kind that makes you forget you were ever having a bad day at all.
“Ticket Taker,” you murmur against his mouth. It comes out breathless. He makes a low noise in response, not quite a word, and pulls you even tighter against him. One of his hands slides upward, fingers tangling in your hair as he tilts your head to the side, changing the angle of the kiss until you’re dizzy with it. You make a soft, needy sound, and he swallows it with another kiss. You’re suddenly, achingly aware of every point of contact between you—the solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the hard lines of his chest against your palms, the pressure of his hands gripping your waist. You shift your hips, seeking more friction, more of him, and the movement makes you both groan. He pulls back just enough to speak.
“What do you need?” His voice is rougher than usual. You love the sound. You love that you’re the one who makes it that way.
“You,” you say immediately. “Just you.” Something in your expression must reveal how much you mean it, because he looks at you with a tenderness that steals your breath. He says your name, soft and reverent, and the way he says it makes you feel cherished. Wanted. Seen. He kisses you again, a slow, deliberate kiss that feels like a promise. When he finally pulls away, he presses a line of soft kisses along your jaw, then down the column of your throat. Your head falls back, granting him easier access, and he takes full advantage. His lips are warm against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You gasp when he reaches the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and he pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his tone. He likes that he can affect you this way. You like that he likes it. He leans back in, but instead of kissing you again, he gently bites down on the sensitive flesh of your shoulder. The sharp, unexpected pressure makes you cry out, your back arching. He soothes the mark with his tongue, a slow, deliberate lick that makes you shudder. He pulls back to admire his work.
“There,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Now you’re marked, all mine. My pouty little love.” The possessive note in his tone sends a fresh wave of heat through you. He did that on purpose. He wanted to leave a claim on you, a visible reminder that you belong to him. The thought makes you whine, a high, needy sound you barely recognize as your own. He chuckles, a deep, pleased sound that vibrates through you. “So eager for me.” His hands move from your waist to your hips, gripping you firmly. “Let’s see how eager you can be.” He lifts you just enough to start fumbling with the fastenings of your trousers, his fingers working with an urgency that belies his calm demeanor. You help as best you can, lifting your hips and shoving your own pants down just enough.
Ticket Taker's hands are warm against your skin, his touch both sure and slightly trembling with restrained desire. His fingers trace patterns along your inner thighs, deliberately avoiding the places you most want them to touch. The anticipation coils tightly in your stomach, each brush of his knuckles against sensitive flesh sending sparks through your nervous system. You squirm in his lap, unable to remain still as he methodically builds your arousal. His breath catches when you shift your weight, pressing more firmly against his growing erection. "Patience," he murmurs, though there's a strained quality to his voice that betrays his own need. One hand moves higher, thumb brushing against the fabric of your underwear. You gasp at the contact, hips bucking involuntarily. His other hand steadies you, palm flat against your lower back.
"So responsive," he says again, this time with awe rather than satisfaction. "Always so beautifully responsive to me." He finally slides his fingers beneath the elastic, running his hand against you with deliberate slowness. The intimate contact makes your breath hitch. When his thumb finds your sensitive flesh, circling gently, you cry out softly. His name escapes your lips, half plea, half praise. Ticket Taker silences you with a kiss, swallowing your sounds as he continues his patient exploration. Fingers move with practiced expertise, learning your responses, adapting to your cues.
Ticket Taker's movements become more deliberate, his breathing slightly uneven as he withdraws his hand from you, swiping his fingers across what moisture you already produced. He brings those fingers to his own mouth, his gaze locked with yours as he slowly sucks them clean, his tongue swirling around each digit with deliberate slowness. You watch, transfixed, as his cheeks hollow slightly, the intimate act making your thighs tremble. "You taste so sweet," he murmurs against his fingers, the words vibrating through you. Then he's pressing those same fingers against your lips, already slick with his saliva and your arousal.
"Open for me," he commands softly, and you obey without hesitation, parting your lips to accept them. He slides two fingers past your teeth, deeper than you expected, until you're gagging slightly around them. The sensation is overwhelming—his knuckles pressing against your tongue, the taste of yourself mixed with him, the way he holds you steady with his other hand on the back of your neck. Your eyes water as he works his fingers in and out, coating them thoroughly in your saliva.
"That's it," he praises, his voice thick with desire. "Getting them nice and wet for you." When he finally withdraws, you gasp for air, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips to his fingers for a moment before breaking. Without giving you time to recover, he's positioning himself between your thighs again. When he finally slides one digit inside you, your back arches violently, pressing your chest against his as a choked cry escapes your throat. The sudden intrusion is both a shock and a relief, the stretch making you clench around him instinctively. He's patient, letting you adjust before beginning to move, his finger curling slightly as he finds that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
"More," you demand, voice ragged. Ticket Taker complies, adding another finger, curling them just right until you see stars behind your closed eyelids. His mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, each press of his lips sending a jolt straight to your core. Your head falls against his shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of your neck, and he takes full advantage, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin where your pulse beats erratically. When he reaches the hollow of your throat, his tongue darts out to taste your skin, leaving a wet path that cools in the lantern light of the tent. The air grows thick with the sounds of your breathing and the sound of his fingers inside you.
His fingers continue their torturous exploration inside you, stroking and curling in ways that make your thighs tremble where they're bracketing his hips. You can feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing insistently against you through his trousers, a constant, thrilling reminder of his desire. The fabric of his shirt has become twisted where you've been clutching at it, the fine linen crumpled in your fists as you struggle to maintain any semblance of composure.
"Ticket Taker," you gasp as his fingers press against that perfect spot inside you, making sparks dance behind your eyelids. His response is a low hum of satisfaction against your throat before he pulls back slightly, his fingers still buried within you as he watches your face. The lantern light catches the intense hunger in his eyes, the way his pupils have swallowed the warm amber of his irises, leaving them dark and fathomless.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. You force your heavy eyelids open, meeting his gaze with hazy pleasure. What you see there nearly undoes you completely—pure, unadulterated worship mixed with a possessive gleam that makes your heart race even faster. His free hand comes up to brush sweat-damp strands of hair from your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle considering the intensity of his expression.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours as his fingers begin to move again, this time with a purpose that makes your hips buck against his hand. His other hand gets to work, circling you with increasing pressure as his fingers curl inside you. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, sending pleasure cresting through you in waves. You can feel yourself approaching the edge, your body tensing as his movements become more deliberate. His name escapes your lips in a breathless plea, and his lips curve into a knowing smile.
"Not yet," he murmurs, slowing his movements deliberately, drawing out the exquisite torture. You whine in protest, squirming in his lap as he maintains a maddeningly gentle rhythm that keeps you hovering just on the precipice without letting you fall. His hand moves from circling you to your shoulder, fingers tracing the neckline of your shirt before slipping beneath the fabric to palm your chest. The calloused pad of his thumb brushes against your nipple, making it pebble instantly under his touch. He rolls the sensitive peak between thumb and forefinger, sending fresh sparks of pleasure through you that join the building tension in your core. His name becomes a chant on your lips as he continues his dual assault, fingers pumping steadily while his thumb works your nub with maddening precision.
Just when you think you can't take another moment of this exquisite torture, he leans in, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that's all heat and desperation. You kiss back with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair as you try to pull him impossibly closer. The angle changes as you shift against him, and his fingers hit that perfect spot inside you again. This time he doesn't pull back, instead increasing his pace as he feels your inner walls begin to clench around his fingers. "That's it," he murmurs against your lips, his voice strained with his own rising need. "Let go for me. I want to watch you fall apart. You're so beautiful like this."
His permission is all you need, and with a cry that's half his name, half an incoherent sound of pleasure, you tumble over the edge. Your back arches, pressing your chest into his palm as waves of pleasure wash over you. His fingers continue to work you through your orgasm, drawing out every last aftershock until you're left trembling and breathless in his arms. For a moment, you simply lean against him, boneless and sated, his fingers still buried within you as you struggle to catch your breath. The air in the tent feels charged with electricity, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. When you finally open your eyes, you find him watching you with an expression that takes your breath away all over again—tenderness, pride, and a fierce possessiveness that makes you feel cherished and claimed all at once. He slowly withdraws his fingers, and you whimper at the loss of contact.
His hands move to your waist, steadying you as he shifts, lifting you effortlessly from his lap. For a moment, you're suspended in his arms, the world tilting as he places you on the polished surface of his desk. Ledgers and papers scatter beneath you, their crisp edges pressing against your back as you settle among his work. The intimacy of being spread across the very space where he spends his days sends a fresh thrill through you, a reminder that you are now the most important thing demanding his attention. Ticket Taker leans over you, his body creating a shadow that blocks the lantern light, plunging you both into a more private darkness. His hands are busy at the waistband of his trousers, fingers working with familiar efficiency to free himself from the constraints of fabric. The sound of buttons being undone seems impossibly loud in the quiet tent, each click marking a progression toward what you both crave.
You help with clumsy haste, pushing at your own remaining clothes until they join his on the floor of his tent, discarded in a pile of rumpled fabric. The air is cool against your heated skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs, but you barely notice as Ticket Taker settles between your legs, his body heat chasing away any chill. The weight of him above you is both comforting and thrilling, a solid presence that anchors you even as your heart races with anticipation. His hands brace on either side of your head, fingers curling slightly against the wooden desk, and you can feel the slight tremble in them, the evidence of his own desire barely contained.
You can’t help but stare at his member. He’s already hard, flushed and leaking at the tip. But it’s the base of his cock that captures your attention. There, nestled among the dark curls, is a distinct swelling. A knot. You’ve seen it before, felt it inside you, but it never fails to make your breath catch. The sight of it, the promise of what it can do, makes you ache with a need so profound it’s almost painful.
“Please,” you beg, not even sure what you’re begging for. More? Everything? All of him, right now? He seems to understand anyway. He swipes his hand through your wentess, coating his cock, and positions himself at your entrance, the head nudging against you, teasing you. He doesn't push inside, not yet. He waits. You try to shift your hips, to take him in yourself, but his grip on your hips tightens, holding you still.
“Look at me,” he commands softly. Your eyes flutter open and meet his. His gaze is intense, full of an emotion that makes your chest ache. “Tell me what you want.” You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry.
“Inside me,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “Please, I want you inside me.” A slow smile spreads across his face, and he finally, finally, pushes forward. The initial stretch is a sweet, stinging pleasure that makes you gasp. He moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, sinking deeper inch by inch until he’s fully seated within you. You both groan at the sensation, a shared sound of relief and utter satisfaction. For a moment, he remains still, buried to the hilt, simply feeling you around him. You can feel the slight press of his knot against your entrance, not yet fully swollen, but a promise of what’s to come. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the sudden stillness. The only sounds in the tent are your ragged breaths and the distant sounds of the circus coming to life for the night.
Then he starts to move.
He is slow at first, a gentle rocking that builds a steady rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, designed to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he finds a pace that has you seeing stars. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. He gives it to you, increasing his speed until the desk is creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin filling the tent. The scattered papers beneath you crinkle with each powerful thrust, a reminder of where you are, of how utterly you’ve disrupted his world. The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through you.
“You feel so good,” he rasps, his voice thick with desire. “Tight around me, taking me so well.” His praise sends a fresh jolt of arousal through you, making you clench around him. He groans in response, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he redoubles his efforts. “So good, always so perfect for me.” His words are a litany of praise that stokes the fire building in your core. One of his hands leaves your hip, moving between your bodies to find you again. His fingers circle you with practiced ease, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The dual stimulation is almost too much, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
You can feel his knot beginning to swell, stretching you further with each pass of his hips. The added pressure is exquisite, a delicious ache that has you babbling incoherently, a string of pleas and praises that you're barely aware you're speaking. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. The desk beneath you groans in protest with each powerful thrust, the sound mixing with your cries and his ragged breathing.
"Please," you beg, not sure what you're asking for. More? Faster? Harder? All of it. "Ticket Taker, please…"
"Tell me," he demands, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Tell me what you need, my love. Use your words."
"You," you gasp, your hips rising to meet his thrusts. "All of you. Please, I need all of you." You feel the swell of his knot against your entrance, a promise of the fullness you crave. He shifts slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts, and you cry out as he hits that perfect spot inside you with renewed precision. His hand continues its relentless circling, pushing you closer and closer to the precipice. Just as you feel yourself beginning to tighten, the familiar coil of pleasure winding in your stomach, he stills.
A desperate whine escapes your lips as the pleasure recedes slightly, leaving you hanging on the edge. You try to move, to chase the sensation, but his grip on your hips tightens, holding you immobile. His other hand moves to cover your own where it's clutching at his shoulder, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that's both grounding and infuriatingly controlling.
"Not yet," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Not until I say so. I want to feel you come around me when I'm buried so deep you can't tell where you end and I begin." His words wash over you, a wave of heat and frustration that leaves you trembling. The denial makes the ache between your legs almost unbearable, a desperate, hollow need that demands to be filled. You can feel how close he is, how the muscles in his back are tense beneath your hands, how he's fighting for control, and the knowledge that he's denying himself as well as you is both maddening and deeply touching. He waits for your breathing to even out slightly, for the tension in your body to ease, before he starts to move again.
This time, his thrusts are slower. He's drawing out every sensation, pushing you higher and higher with each pass of his hips. The desk creaks in protest beneath you, the sound mixing with your choked-off sobs and the slick sounds of your bodies joining. His knot, now fully swollen, presses insistently against you with each thrust, stretching you further, pushing you to your limits. You're so close, the pleasure so intense it's almost painful, and you're terrified he's going to stop again. "Please," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, let me come. I can't… I can't take it…"
"Almost," he promises, his voice strained. "Just a little longer for me, love. Be good, now." The term of endearment, delivered in that deep, commanding tone, is your undoing. You're fighting it, trying to hold back as he asks, but the combination of his words, the fullness of him inside you, and the relentless stimulation of his hand is too much. You feel yourself beginning to tip over the edge, the tension coiling impossibly tight in your stomach.
He must feel it too, because he finally, finally gives you what you want. "Now," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Come for me now." The command is all it takes. With a cry that's half his name, half an incoherent sound of pure ecstasy, you shatter. Your back arches, pressing your chest against his as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your inner walls clamp down around him, and you can feel him following you over the edge with a groan of your name. His hips jerk once, twice, and then he's pushing forward, seating the swollen base of his cock inside you as he buries himself to the hilt. The sensation of being stretched further, of being locked together, triggers another, smaller orgasm that leaves you gasping and shaking. His warmth spreads inside you, a feeling of completeness, of being utterly and completely claimed, that brings tears to your eyes.
For a long moment, you both remain still, connected in the most intimate way possible. The only sounds in the tent are your ragged breaths slowly evening out, and the distant, faint music of the circus. You can feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest, a steady rhythm that gradually slows as you both come down from the high. His weight is a comforting, grounding presence, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you bask in the afterglow. You press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent of ink and parchment, now mingled with the unmistakable scent of your combined releases.
"You took me so well," he murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with satisfaction. He shifts slightly, adjusting to the new reality of being knotted together, and the movement makes you both moan. "So perfectly. Look at you, taking all of me." One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. "Are you alright?"
You nod, unable to form words just yet. He seems to understand, because he simply holds you, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temples, your closed eyelids. His other hand traces idle patterns on your hip, a soothing, repetitive motion that helps ground you in the present. You can feel the last vestiges of your terrible day melting away, replaced by a warm, sated glow that settles deep in your bones. The anger and frustration you carried into his tent are gone, replaced by a feeling of peace, of being right where you belong.
After a while, when your breathing has returned to normal and you've stopped trembling, you finally find your voice. "Wow," you whisper, the word barely audible. He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through you.
"Wow indeed," he agrees, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, capturing his lips in a slow, lazy kiss that's less about passion and more about connection. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his.
"I love you," you say, the words coming out softer than you intended, but no less true for it. He stills, and for a moment, you worry you've said the wrong thing, that it's too soon, too much. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.
"I love you too," he says, his voice clear and unwavering. "More than I thought possible." He leans in, kissing you again, a soft, reverent press of lips that speaks volumes. When he pulls back, he's smiling, a genuine, unreserved smile that transforms his face, making him look years younger, carefree in a way you rarely see.
"You know," you say, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you trace the line of his jaw, "for a terrible day, this is turning out pretty well." His smile widens, and he laughs, a bright, happy sound that fills the tent.
"I aim to please," he says, his tone light and teasing. You shift slightly, testing the connection between you, and the movement makes you both gasp as his knot presses against your sensitive walls. "Careful," he warns, though there's no real heat in his words. "We're going to be like this for a while."
You hum in contentment, snuggling closer. "I can think of worse things," you murmur, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.
