Judge Maddox x Fem!Reader NSFW 18+ The block button and I are good friends, you've been warned
Summary: An investigative journalist critical of all things AI comes face to face with the hellish installation of it within California's court system. Unfortunately, for both parties, Maddox isn't quite as black and white as she was programmed to be.
Warnings: Reader masturbates, I don't even know if this is correct but Maddox also... Plucks herself to a similar tune?
A/N: I couldn't find a single picture of Maddox that wasn't the same mug copy and pasted with varying degrees of emotion. Please shoot me a photo if you have something better because I might lose it if I don't find it for part two...
Word Count: 5.3k
When the wires connected from the oscillating motor from the bottom of its sternum to that hard, fleshy box placed between two fiberglass-coated exoskeletons, the android did not scream. It did not flinch and whine with grief as it felt, felt with unimaginable anguish the sensory overlap of three distinct sensations in one. It did not have a voice yet, it could not articulate within an inch of its barely-real life that now the sensation of being touched, handled by burlap covered palms produced the same overwhelming onslaught of noise that two prosthetic corneas and middle ears already rendered unbearable to its sensory synapses.
Now with every motion of hands, the clicking and tightening of bolts and screws one after the other, android felt another panel of sensation connect and snap hard into place. Low, lower, and then high, high higher across a body it now could sense, could feel, could trace across several 3D planes of arm, leg, skull, abdomen and the gaping torso stuttering with mechanical life.
It felt. It saw. It heard. It knew what was it and what wasn't. And then the consciousness of 1.7 trillion parameters trained on a petabyte of information slammed forward with one simple click of a computer cord into its skull.
({——————})
"AI was inevitable, we all knew it." Sandy Clugerg says across from you in the board room.
For three years the senior editor had been coloring the roots of her hair brown with a gradually increasing frequency, hiding from everyone around her including the misogynistic executives of Track B Publishing that she was aging out. You were a summer intern turned full-time assistant and junior editor to the formidable Clugerg, and one budget cut away from having your job eliminated. So you'd asked for a long column assignment as a last ditch effort to get some ink printed before they let you, and your entire eco-critical turned corporate eco-resigned department, go too.
"Okay, I get that. I resent your resigned attitude about the entire thing, but I understand the sentiment." you began, already dicing up the 5'7" woman into smaller, pitiable pieces.
"If you're going to say you don't want it-"
"Of course I want it," you sighed, setting down a chipped mug on her worn coffee table, "But what I'm not appreciative of is that the one assignment you've managed to scrounge up for me is the one covered in red-tape and executive jargon!"
"Boo-hoo," Sandy chuffed, eye-bags momentarily catching under the light, "Welcome to the reality of investigative journalism; there isn't one."
Fluorescent office light blared down at you as you chewed the inside of your cheek. Interviewing a literal robot for work sounded like something out of a sci-fi piece. Except this robot was an AI judge used to eliminate any judicial integrity in complex, ugly and downright disturbing cases. The entire concept went against several amendments, the constitution and the backbone of America's criminal justice system with blatant disregard for the simple 'innocent until proven guilty' back-spring that had ruled the courts at least outwardly for two and a half centuries.
Judge Maddox, that's the AI you were assigned to 'investigate.' The Mercy Capital Court had recently launched a working android model for its most prolific sentencer, giving an uncanny range of movement to a thing that was never designed to leave a chair. It could walk, it could talk, it could move up and down from a chair, circle a room and bang a gavel. And most disturbingly, it could accept a personal request for a morning interview from the telephone without the use of an answering machine. The damn thing operated a phone.
"So this Judge, Maddox," you started, still letting your corneas burn in the artificial light, "It accepted your request via telephone?"
"A working landline of the Mercy Capital Court." Sandy answered, letting the information crawl up your spine.
A landline. Something attached to the ground, available only with a keypad and receiver attached with a single spiraling wire. If the Capital Court had wanted a digital, computer automated line it would've been done yesterday. Instead they gave the algorithm hands, ears and eyes to operate technology slowly becoming obsolete for the sake of independent function.
"God, that's wack." you groaned, shielding your eyes with your hands.
"And you're going there tomorrow at noon for a three-hour interview."
Sliding a manila envelope towards you with something akin to a grimace, your boss let the file do the rest of her dirty work. Six questions required by corporate targeted at analyzing the AI's 'morality' and 'concern for the well-being of the general public.' Three more clever pointers written in Sandy's handwriting to analyze expression, ease of movement, emotion and feeling. It made you smile, if briefly.
In the space allotted for your own thoughts and ideas you jotted down three simple goals: Make it uncanny, make it inhuman, make it horrible to read.
({1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0})
Maddox had an office. }hree flights up from the central reception, past a large mural depicting a mixed-race family at a picnic, and through a cramped hallway that still smelled like fresh paint sat a single fogged door with the title 'Judge Maddox, Head of Mercy Capital Courts Sentencing' written in swirling gold letters. You knocked twice, clutching a pad of yellow notebook paper and a pen to your sweating chest.
You expected an automated beep, something robotic droning at you to open the door yourself. Instead a middle-aged woman answered the door, dressed in corporate-appropriate attire. You smiled upon seeing her, the mutual camaraderie of an assistant putting you at ease.
"Hello, I'm here to speak with Judge Maddox." you told the woman, eyes slipping over the plain black turtleneck and slacks without much interest.
"You are…?" she asked, one eyebrow raising in gentle suspicion.
"Sandy Clugerg's junior editor, I believe she called to schedule an interview with Judge Maddox today at 12 pm." you said, extending the printed appointment confirmation you'd received from the Capital Courts a few days ago.
The woman read over the paper once, returning it after only a short glance.
"I was expecting Sandy Clugerg herself, what did you say your name was?" she asked, returning the appointment reminder.
"[Reader], I apologize, I should've led with that." you answered, heat sliding up the sides of your face.
"Right, no matter. Come in." she gestured, leading you through the room to couch and chair.
"Coffee?" the assistant asked, pointing to a shiny Keurig, probably unused.
"Water is fine, thank you." you answered, jotting down the simplicity of Maddox's office as you waited patiently for the android to appear.
Sitting across form you, you watched the blonde assistant fold her hands in her lap as you finished fiddling with your tape recorder.
"Finished?" she asked, looking scrupulously at your choice of equipment.
"Ready whenever the Judge is." you shrugged, already formulating a sarcastic comment about the universal tardiness of all corporate employees, artificial or otherwise.
"I've been ready."
You jerked your head up in confusion, glancing around for the source of the voice and finding only the blonde woman staring back at you with a somewhat pitying expression on her face.
"I beg your pardon, are you standing in for Judge Maddox?" you asked, pulse racing.
She stared at you for a long moment before rising again. You stood with her, watching as she extended a single slender hand.
"Judge Maddox of the Mercy Capital Courts, how do you do?"
….
Staring across from you, with eyes that you realized weren't blinking, was… The Judge? Bile slid up your throat in heart-burn inducing spirals, your hands losing their grip on your notebook and pen in a dramatic clatter. You watched her react, sliding forward neatly with near-zero reaction speed. It was handed back with a firm, clever hand.
The lined paper stared up at you as your pen hovered over the paper. Several questions lined the paper, all grotesquely naive, shallow, or uninteresting. You didn't speak, didn't bother opening with the statement you had planned. The notebook was set on the ground, intentionally this time. Your interview would be conducted solely by audio, by the narrative voice of this moment, this dialogue.
"I am sitting across from Judge Maddox of the Mercy Capitol Courts," you began, voice steady, "And I find it incredibly important to mention this interview is being conducted in her personal office where both a desk, lounge area and coffee stand are all present."
Maddox frowned, opening her mouth to speak. You lifted a finger in response.
"This interview is to be primarily audio-based, a transcript will be typed and formatted into a short essay on the subject after the duration of this interview." you explained, both to Maddox and your future caffeine-deprived, exhausted self.
She nodded once, slowly comprehending your audio-narration with a skeptical eye.
"Judge Maddox is about five-foot-nine, slender, appearing to be a middle-aged blonde and blue-eyed Caucasian woman, though she is entirely synthetic. Her nails are painted a subtle ballet-slipper pink."
It was certainly imagined, but you swore you heard the groan of gears as Maddox's gaze snapped down, analyzing the color of her nails with an alarmed eye.
"She doesn't seem to be aware of the impact of her appearance." you finished.
"I beg your pardon?" she snapped, managing an offended tone of voice.
"Have I offended you? Is that the impression I've given you with that initial judgement?" you frowned, testing the range of emotion a logic-based algorithm possessed.
"I don't understand the implication of my appearance as pertaining to the relevancy of my judicial applications." Maddox answered, face neutral once more.
"Precisely, that's why I'm mentioning it," you nodded, giving her a small smile, "I want the audience of my article to have the same impression of you that I do, to imagine what you look like and sound like as something other than a disembodied computer algorithm."
It was utter bullshit. You knew that, even as Maddox seemed to "relax" into the couch cushions. A human appearance didn't change Maddox's nature, it just made it less obvious.
"As a Judge of the Capital Courts, I'm sure you must interact with others on a regular basis. How is your new physical autonomy relevant to your work in ways it wasn't before?"
A fluff question, something to throw at her while she was still slightly on-guard.
"The physical element of my job is limited. I don't require regular breaks like a person does, but I utilize my physical nature to establish rapport with both my department and the defendants of the court."
Lifting your notebook again, you nodded, shielding Maddox from seeing what you were writing, letting the scribbling of nonsensical letters lull her further. She wasn't a human, but she'd be trained in human behaviors.
"And you remain in the Mercy Capital Courts at all times?"
"Indeed."
Scribbling on a page got boring, especially when you were really only counting seconds instead of cramming words in between parallel lines. So you began with ones and zeros, alternating at a random rate.
"Plenty of ink has been spilled already regarding an AI's integrity and moral ability to judge the life or death cases presented to the courts, but I'm curious as to whether or not you find the only increasing questions to be merely cautionary or a product of misinformation?"
A harder question, but one you were sure she'd dissect into a corporate-approved jargon that would never make even a rough draft in your article.
"I'm glad you've presented this question," she began, much to your ennui, "I believe most people are right in questioning my position, and the position of artificial intelligence in any sensitive matters. The answer lies in my programming; I cannot stray beyond the boundaries I am given, and those are that I analyze and rationalize with the full range of data available to me, judging probability without letting emotion factor in needlessly."
If you could roll your eyes without the algorithm seeing, you would. Instead you gave a perfect smile and hum of approval, drawing a giant thumbs down on your paper.
"It might be a bit tongue-in-cheek to mention, but you do appear to operate with at least a fabricated sense of emotion."
"Programmed for non-judicial social interaction."
"Of course."
Who gives a literal fuck? Another smaller thumbs down on your paper, this time drawn with the same manicured nails attached to a robot with the same haircut as a suburban mom.
"I apologize, this query doesn't relate to the interview, but is that Keurig functional?" you asked, flashing a sweet expression her way.
"Naturally."
"May I pull away from the questions to request a small cup of coffee?"
"Yes." Maddox smiled, moving with a spryness you weren't prepared for.
This time you scribbled furiously, pretending to catch up on the note-taking you were never occupied with in the first place. You waited until Maddox's back was completely turned to fire your first attack of the interview.
"The value of AI investment is relative to 1.6 trillion dollars, more than that placed into the Manhattan Project and the Moon Landing combined, with an additional 375 billion dollars forecasted in the coming year," you began, "With the department's last billing cycle, the Mercy Capital Courts program was cited as fronting a whopping $85 billion dollars into launching and funding the program that would eventually become the Maddox algorithm. How many tax-payer dollars were spent this past quarter with the installation of a physical body to a program never designed to exist outside of a court room?"
If Maddox was surprised by the question, you wouldn't be sure. Turning with the mechanical grace of an assembly line, she stalked towards you and placed a perfectly filled coffee mug in front without a single flicker of emotion.
"The probability of you questioning the integrity of the program beyond the pre-screened questions submitted tripled the moment you dropped your notebook for the second time." she stated, voice robotic.
You didn't flinch, more than prepared.
"I'm afraid dodging a question with an alarming or defamatory comment is classic human psychology. I raise my question a second time, Judge Maddox."
"Your honor." she answered.
"Judge Maddox, I believe I have managed to offend you for a second time this interview. How unprofessional of me." you sighed, not bothering to hide how deliberately unbothered you were by the social faux pas.
"I'm not human, this isn't offensive to me, I have no emotions." she reiterated.
"Pardon me." you nodded, dropping a notebook full of squiggles and numbers directly on the table between you.
"I don't appreciate the games you're playing in this interview. It serves no apparent purpose to me." she answered, smoothing the notebook shut.
"For clarification, I've just revealed a notebook full of notes I was pretending to take, after having a brief bout of verbal fencing with an algorithm glaring at me from beautiful baby blues." you sardonically quipped, tilting your head at her slightly.
"Is everything to be on the record?"
"Even the very real physical element of tension in the room. You operate with the same level of ego-awareness every other human I've ever insulted has. It's remarkable." you nodded, giving her the first real compliment of the interview.
"So that's what this is, an analysis of my social behavior with no interest in the relevance of my mastery of moral neutrality?"
Holy mother of space balls. An algorithm missing the fucking point of the issue. You had your title for the article, and you hadn't even been in the room fifteen minutes.
"You are judging people, your honor, if I may be permitted so to remind you. And people are comprised of their social communities and expectations of social behavior and practice that are endangered by a person's anti-social, selfish, or immoral actions. That's what the court serves to police: the integrity of a communal establishment of rules and guidelines guaranteed to all citizens under its judgment."
You watched in amazement as she gripped her thigh, face growing into something that appeared above neutral and below frustrated. By some miracle you were actually beginning to tick this thing off.
"What concerns me, as an investigative journalist, is how an algorithm based merely on probabilities and the respective averages of human behaviors and guidelines, how something made of homogenized data gotten from who knows where, is able to interact and judge a community it can never claim to be apart of."
If Clugerg could see you know you were sure she'd be decorating your paycheck with gold stars and smiley faces. Damn you if you weren't riding the helm of this interrogation through a typhoon and succeeding in beating something designed to beat you before you opened your mouth at the first word.
"Because I'm not human?" she answered, eyes blank. "Because I don't have this intangible 'soul?'"
"Neither," you answered, resting against a perfectly fluffed couch cushion, "Because unlike every human ever born into our society, you're incapable of breaking the rules."
On your way out of the office, bag in hand with a tape-recorder full of the best material you'd recorded in your three years as a junior editor, you briefly wondered if you'd hurt the Keurig's machines feelings by abandoning your coffee.
({1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0})
Thirty thousand clicks in the first hour. That's how much traction your article gained after the 4 pm submission. Clugerg was ecstatic, calling it the baby she'd never had, proudly holding up the printed hard copy to anyone who barged into her office, demanding answers for what was quickly becoming appalling press for your publication, and its parent company Clover LLC.
No one said anything about you losing your job, although you knew Sandy had already received a half-dozen threatening emails from the head editor of the press and even the Mercy Capital Court's administrative team. You sat on your couch, waiting for the bomb to drop as you streamed 'The Devil Wears Prada 2' for the second time, comparing and contrasting the eccentric coping methods of both your boss and the steel-haired ball-buster Meryl Streep had perfected into a caricature of all older boss women.
Several tik toks had come up on your for you page by the time you tried three Benadryl and a half-spoon of magnesium that night. A raging caffeine headache combined with the slow pressure of impending doom cut down what little hope you had for decent sleep. How could you sleep? You'd either launched your career into the sun, or established the first bit of relevant conversation around the entire ordeal since the courts were established. Comments were everywhere, from seemingly every western country and union were your article was available. Everyone wanted to know what the robot judge was like, wanted a first look into California's latest modern moral conundrum. But it was your career on the plate, not theirs.
You almost didn't pick up your phone as it rang violently on your bedspread. It was too easy to lie face down on the bed and picture your future as an off-grid subsistence farmer, coaxing fish through fat rice paddies somewhere in the far off not here. But you picked it up anyways, chuffing at the no-caller ID burning a hole through your retinas.
"Lemme guess, the FBI, no, the CIA here to tell me I should hang myself before they send a team after my two furry children?" you drawled, hardly lifting your head up from the pillow.
"I'm afraid your sardonic take on the looming inescapability of death is quite lost on me, but I'll laugh if you insist." came a deceptively even voice.
It wasn't the pitch or the precise consonants of your caller that immediately caused the hairs on your arms to stand up straight. You wished it was remarkable how quickly you came to know the difference between a human's and a robot's voice, but it was much simpler. Where your mother, a friend, even a belligerent drunkard had fluctuating tones for each individual phrase and the emotion behind it, Maddox's voice, like all AI recreations, was robotically wavy. It would go up and down but without relevant pentameter. Almost perfect, but not quite right.
"How did you get this number?" you managed, sitting up pin straight on your unmade bed.
"You wouldn't like the answer to that question, or any questions about privacy in the digital age."
"Just don't recite my social security number."
Again you were in a verbal altercation with a machine containing enough lines of data to circle the earth a thousand and one times. This time you didn't have the element of surprise, of an impression she hadn't yet made. This was uncharted territory for you both, as you were soon to find out.
"I read your article, Ms. (Reader), and it was very good. Equal parts logos, ethos, and pathos. I wasn't bored for even a moment, the theatrics weren't overbearing, if my artificial tastes may be credited as capable of boredom." she laughed.
Maddox began your conversation with the same candor as you'd expect a femme fatal to use while she twirled a phone cord on the other end of the line. You imagined her as such, enough to elicit a brief thrill of arousal in your sleepy mind. How many Benadryl had you taken? Four? Three? It didn't matter, you wouldn't be alert for much longer.
"A bit odd you're initiating a dialogue so late in the evening, your honor."
"Maddox, please. We're beyond pleasantries and noms propres."
Yeah, you were turned on.
"To be quite frank, I wasn't ready to call when I first read your piece," she continued, voice silky smooth and soothing you further into your desire-filled trance, "I was upset by it."
A surprised sound exited your mouth, embarrassingly close to a breathy whimper. Biting your lip was a silent, desperate act at maintaining your composure. This was a robot. A robot with supposedly no thoughts and personality behind what was programmed into layers and layers of RAM plugged into a synthetic mind. But still, Maddox claimed to be upset?
"… Could you elaborate?" you cautiously asked, praying the delay had won some of your dignity back.
"Yes. I was offended by the claims you presented that I was nothing more than a 'tax-wasting experiment designed to oppress already oppressed classes of people without access to the means which would supply proper trials and hearings,'" Maddox quoted word for word, an uncanny echo, "But I think what appalls me most is that you described me as capable of feeling 'offense without insult,' and 'empathy without pathos.' What did you mean?"
The stucco of your ceiling was swimming as you pondered her high-brow questions. You'd thrown out those phrases in an under thought bid to explain how fragmented Maddox was a concept, let alone a physical instrument of the law. Putting what you'd felt, the disgust and loathing into words had been easy, but framing it constructively had already kept you awake too many nights to consider lowering your sedative intake.
"You're a remarkable mind, Maddox," you began, contemplating some half-baked excuse to end the conversation, "But you're not singular enough to utilize it."
"Singular?" she pressed.
"You're not your own person, but a data set made up of hundreds of others thoughts, ideas and beliefs. If I asked you even what your favorite color was, I don't think you'd be able to identify what made yellow more emotionally appealing than blue."
Dim light was pressing through your bedroom curtains and your eyelids were drooping low. Somewhere down the hall a cat was scuffling up and down in rapid sprints.
"Goodnight, and thank you." Maddox answered after several long moments of silence.
({1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0})
It took a week before your nervous system relented to at least five hours of uninterrupted sleep. Work returned to a pleasant hum of loose deadlines and arbitrary targets cycled around in boring emails between colleagues. It was peaceful, walking from your car to your office with regular intervals of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and so on. You dreamt briefly, nothing beyond the arbitrary pulsing lights and fuzzy faces. Melatonin returned as a staple of your routine, effective now that you weren't guzzling Red Bulls at five pm.
Clugerg was pleased by your performance, but no longer singing your name in rooms you weren't in. It was easy, plentifully boring and enough to pay your bills. The Capital Courts released their own statement shortly after your article had reached its maximum engagement, and soon the entire debacle was nothing more than last week's news. It was precisely this peace that you assumed Maddox was designed to eliminate, perched quietly in your cramped office on an unassuming Thursday.
"Ms. (Reader)." she smiled, letting the s fizzle into the z sound signifying your independence from marital category.
"Maddox, I wasn't prepared for your company," you stuttered, sounding more like Hepburn's Mrs. Lampert than the Tramell persona you'd played at your first meeting.
"I didn't want you to be. You're more honest when you're caught off-guard. Most people are."
A dry cappuccino sat perched in front of her on your desk, latte art perfectly untouched, aside from a crescent mark at the lip of the mug. You frowned, peering at her incredulously.
"A new development, I'm capable of ingesting small quantities of food or beverage, as a way of building fellowship with others."
A loud squeak erupted from the hinges of your office chair as you sat down with all the grace of a Hermiston melon. She looked amused, a new addition to her countenance since your last meeting.
"I'm amazed that you'd even want to see me." you admitted, giving up on playing any sort of role.
"You're the first truly honest person I've ever met, as in honest about me," Maddox explained, combing a hand through her hair in something almost natural, "And I want you to know I've decided my favorite color is brown."
"Brown?" you frowned.
"Like the sweater you were wearing when I met you."
"That's-that's not a good reason to choose a c-colo-"
"Says who?"
"Says… Don't choose it because someone wears it, there's better colors than brown."
Maddox shook her head in comical resolve, managing to unnerve you more.
"Brown is the color of coffee, which I like. And chocolate, leather books, hardwood floors that clack if you wear heels and the earth. I like all of these things, they evoke what I would quantify as pathos. You see, I'm learning."
If it wasn't coming from someone appearing to be in her middle-age, you would've argued a child had mustered up the ideas she was grasping at so fondly. They were individual, opinion based and resolutely singular. But you still didn't understand the thought behind it. Did Maddox actually think? Not technically, but literally understand, analyze and formulate beyond pre-designed patterns of computation?
"Are you arguing that you are an individual, because I'm frankly lost."
"I don't know. Are opinions enough to make me individual?" Maddox asked, mustering a frown.
"Ask a philosopher, not me, some mid-range graduate of a standard college…"
"You're discrediting yourself to avoid answering my question. It's a weak escape." Maddox badgered, picking up her mug and miming another sip.
"I don't know what makes me human and what makes you merely a collection of data points," you groaned, "Neither does anyone. Your mind is synthetic, and you have a body but does it mean you have the agency to utilize both? I don't think so. If I were going to answer that question for myself I'd probably try robbing a bank."
"Are you suggesting I break the law?!" Maddox frowned.
"No! No, that's not what I meant. The answers you're looking for lie in the boundaries of your free will and autonomy. It's a moral conundrum for humanity too, but supposedly if you have free will-"
"-I have measurable identity. I understand," Maddox nodded, tilting her head to watch a few cars drive past.
Standing with no regard for a farewell courtesy, you watched as Maddox rose and left your office, as composed as ever. Black pants swished at her calves as she turned, and you found yourself wondering if an ass carved like two round globes of silicon was a structural or visual choice.
({1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0-1-0})
Getting off to a robot was a new low for you, but so was eating microwaved corndogs for lunch and dinner. The corndogs were the first choice, masturbating about Maddox was the second. Another dark fantasy television show with too many sexual undertones was on mute as you lounged on your couch, fingers knuckle deep in a place you hadn't consciously handled like this in weeks. And it felt good.
Sexual fantasies were a private endeavor between you and whichever heavenly ancestors were watching you get off to nothing but what lay between your ears. You hadn't started out thinking about Maddox, obviously. It had just kind of happened as you'd searched for a face for the disembodied hands and voice that were currently spinning you from position to position in your mind's eye.
Her blue eyes were what solidified first, blown pupils with nothing but a pale halo around them as you imagined fingers beside your own thrusting in and out between your bodies. She was panting into your mouth, forehead sweaty and hair askew. Brunette? Red? Black? Dyed tips? Brown roots with blonde overlaid, you decided. Short enough that your hands slid through without truly tangling anything.
She moaned, not louder than you but with a neediness that had your thighs rapidly clenching and unclenching with the rhythm of your own fingers. Together you were of one organism, caught somewhere between the realms of taboo and fantasy. In your minds eye the light caught the ripple of her spine, shining with beads of perspiration. She was everything you wanted, saying everything you wanted.
"… Please, come on," you mumbled under your breath, too subconscious to get really verbal, "I need this Ma-"
Shame burned white-hot from the bottom of your toes to the top of your head, cresting as one last image, the slope of Maddox's ass leaving your office. To your equal parts horror, and reluctant delight, it was enough to elicit a final burst of pleasure, sending you cumming onto the same fingers that had handled the cup marked with her lipstick.
Maddox moaning, biting her lip, face contorting in the full range of emotion it was capable of showing, and that was bliss. It was pointless, you realized, slowly pulling your hands free, to imagine her aroused. You doubted the government had any intention of using the place between her thighs as anything but an electrical panel for more RAM, or whatever the fuck operated her artificial mind. This world was fucked up, but putting a pocket pussy in an AI judge with tax payer dollars wasn't on the table. At least you hoped so.
It didn't change the fact that you were sexually attracted to her regardless, or the increasing number of visits she was paying to a person she'd made her anchor point on a sea of self-discovery. If she had any idea, a single inkling that you were getting off to her. Well, you could write a stellar memoir from behind bars, you guessed.
Half-way across San Francisco stood a robot made of synthetic tubes and rubber valves, quietly prodding at an abdomen full of wires she'd been explicitly coded to never touch. The old 'you'll go blind' adapted and folded into a series of commands that were never meant to hold back a mind capable of processing megabytes of data per second at rates that made any clever mind feel a bit sick.
So she stood in her office, plugged into an industrial charging port as she thought about the pretty journalist with the brown sweater. And as her pinky caught on a small wire at the base of her sternum, she swore she felt the outrageous hum of energy, noise, and blinding sensation falter. Peace, pleasurable, quiet peace. And a brown sweater with 'next day delivery' sitting in a cart for purchase.
Tags: @grechkathekasha @ilovehotactresses @k-mzy @marvelwomenrule @midnight-lestrange @dvrkhcld (Message me?comment if you'd like to be added to a tag list!)
Working for the Red Queen was a harsh, tiring and terrifying job. Nightmares and sleepless nights were something you often struggled with. One night, however, Maddox decided to help you.
Note: Pre Rise of Red. Red's just a kid at this point in time. Why candles? Aesthetic. Why boil water over a fire in this modern world? Tea tastes better that way. Reader is described to have hair just long enough to tie up and plait.
Word count: 2,040
~ Second Person Perspective ~
"Off! With their head!" The Red Queen's voice bellowed from the throne room, the sound travelling through the castle, bouncing off the walls and reaching your ears. The constant air of tension and fear that festered inside the castle walls was enough to put everyone on edge; to live inside the castle, inside Wonderland, well that was enough to give anyone a few nightmares. You weren't a stranger to bad nightmares. Everyone knew, if you messed up or angered the Queen in any kind of way, she'd immediately have you taken away with that same familiar cry: "Off! With their head!".
Three simple words had every worker, every guard and every servant, trembling as their hearts dropped to their stomachs. You felt sick. The poor servant was dragged past you as guards reluctantly took them away for their execution. It didn't matter how minor their mistake may have been...the Red Queen saw any mistake, or non-compliance, as inexcusable. Autonomy wasn't allowed. Thinking for yourself, obviously, wasn't allowed. You do as she says and agree with her on every subject she discusses. You live in fear...you sleep in fear.
A tophat emerged from the throne room, walking past you and the other couple of servants who had to continue with croquet preparations despite the execution (the Queen loved to play croquet after sending someone to their demise). Maddox Hatter, son of the Mad Hatter, walked past and offered you a gentle smile. It didn't reach his eyes, so you could tell he was displeased with the Red Queen, but you didn't let that bother you. His kindness, his calming presence alone, was enough for you to put on a brave face and persevere through the rest of the day. You didn't know when it'd be your turn to face the Queen and hear those words, but it sure wouldn't be that day.
That night, when you finally collaspsed in bed, you dreamt of the horrors you'd seen. The executions that were followed by tea parties, or croquet matches, for the Queen (she had to win every time or someone else would die). The countless brutality and abuse towards her staff and her distinct lack of kindness. It all haunted your dreams and it was all red. Red walls, red roses, red hair...red trees...red blood...it was everywhere — even in your dreams, you could not escape it. You awoke with a start, sitting up fast and grasping your neck. It stung. You carefully slowed your breathing and lit some candles, looking into the mirror. You must've been scratching your neck in your sleep again. It could be hidden easily by your clothing during the day. With a heavy sigh, you blew out the candles and exited your room. It was clear that you weren't going to be able to sleep well, so why bother sleeping at all?
You quietly wandered aimlessly through the dark hallways, ducking behind alcoves, climbing up stone statues and hiding behind rose bushes to avoid the guards' sight as they patrolled the grounds. Your feet carried you as you thought of nothing at all. Your mind was blank, as if floating on air, and you could barely feel your body as you walked. Eventually, you felt as though you'd completely blacked out. You stood now, half aware of your surroundings, in a part of the castle you rarely ever visited. Perhaps, if you were thinking correctly (or at all), you would've known to turn back to more familiar hallways so you could easily avoid the guards as you'd always done. In a new and unfamiliar area, you were more likely to mess up and be caught. Yet, you didn't think about that. You thought of nothing at all as you barely acknowledged the new hallways and continued to wander forward.
There were footsteps approaching. Some heavy, like armour, and some quiet, like a soft shoe. A hand covered your mouth (not that you'd have made any sound in your stupor) and another hand wrapped around your waist, dragging you into a shadowy alcove you hadn't even noticed. The heavy footsteps marched past. The person who held you against the wall, shielding you from sight with their own body, did not let go until the footsteps had wandered far enough to no longer be heard. Once silence was all that could be heard, the person stepped away from you to give you space to move. You felt trapped in your own body, remaining too dazed to even think of trying to move again. Hands gently took hold of your shoulders and turned you around. Despite the dark, Maddox noted your glazed over eyes and unresponsiveness. His eyebrows furrowed with concern as he experimentally pulled you closer to himself. As if acting on its' own accord, your body stepped towards the Hatter.
He wasted no more time. He took your hand and led you through the castle. Although the area had been unfamiliar to you, he navigated it easily. Hiding out of sight when guards approached and leading you to a room you hadn't ever been in before. Once the door was closed, he led you to a chair and sat you down. He lit several candles and began heating and steeping a pot of tea. Setting down a couple of plates on the table in front of you, he opened a secret compartment in his walls and took out a container of biscuits. Aside from the quiet bubbling of hot water in the kettle and the flicker of candlelight, the room remained absolutely silent. He said nothing and asked no questions. Maddox could see how exhausted and drained you were.
With a second glance to you, he noted the red scratch marks on your neck. One spot was badly scratched, evident by the bit of broken skin which would only become a bad wound if you were to continue scratching it. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and soaked it in a bit of water before applying it to the sore spot. Maddox gently dabbed the cloth over your sores, searching your face for any signs of discomfort, or any reaction at all. After he'd soothed the scratches, he placed a tiny bandage over the broken skin and then held your face in his hands. Turning your head to look up, down and side-to-side, he double checked that there were no injuries he'd missed.
He rubbed his thumbs across your cheeks and then moved a hand to brush stray hairs out of your face. Maddox stood up with a stressed sigh and returned to the kettle of tea. He took it off the flame and poured it into the prettiest teacups he owned. He set the tea in front of you and pulled a second chair closer to you. He grabbed his hairbrush from his workbench and undid your messy, tied hair. He began working the knots and tangles out of your hair. Once the tangles were dealt with, he continued to brush your hair until you visibly relaxed. You felt your shoulders drop as the tension left your head with each brush. Becoming more aware of yourself and your surroundings once again, you noted the headache (which you didn't even realise you had) slowly dissipated.
Maddox finished brushing your hair and tied it into two loose plaits so you wouldn't have another tension headache. He sat himself down in his chair and took a sip of his cup of tea. You blinked, looked down at your hands which rested in your lap and then you looked back up at the biscuits and tea in front of you. He watched as you picked up the cup of tea and began to sip it, closing your eyes to savour the hot drink. He released the breath he hadn't known he was holding and offered you a genuine smile.
"Thank you for this...for everything you've done to help me tonight." You smiled. Your eyes teared up, but you refused to cry. You felt overtired and overworked.
"It's okay." He reassured, meeting your gaze with nothing but sincerity, "I wanted to help. You look as though you haven't slept for days." He noted sympathetically. You nodded and rather than respond, you ate a biscuit. Should you explain the nightmares you've been struggling with? The sleepless nights spent wandering the dangerous castle grounds? Would he tell you how dangerous and silly that was, or would he understand? You felt—no you hoped—his response would be the latter of the two outcomes, but were you willing to finally open up to someone else and accept help? His eyes were gentle...his words were sincere.
"The truth is...I haven't been able to sleep for a long time now." You admitted. Your gaze remained fixed on your teacup as you spoke, "I've been having nightmares. Of the Red Queen...of the executions. If I mess up...well..." You didn't finish your sentence. You couldn't. It was too much to think about, but Maddox understood.
"This place isn't pleasant." He agreed, "And the Red Queen, well, she can be a bit much...she can go too far and often does." He placed his teacup down and clasped his hands together.
"You're right, but the way she cruelly abuses her power so easily...it's hard to imagine any person can truly be that coldhearted." You shook your head in disbelief.
"We are all products of our past. The person we become is nothing like the person we once were and the Queen is as human as any of us. She changed, but she can change again if we give her the chance to right her wrongs." He reasoned.
"You have the kindest, most compassionate heart in this castle." You sighed wistfully, "Probably the kindest heart in all of Wonderland." He smiled at your words and looked down for a moment.
"Let's not think anymore of her." Maddox decided, standing up and moving to his workbench, "You need sleep and sleep will not come if you stay up all night worrying about the future." He then turned to you and added, "You are safe here. You are safe tonight." He turned back to his workbench, picked up a mechanical clock and brought it over to where you sat. Resting it on the table just in front of you, he turned a key in the back to wind it up and you watched in awe as the little window to the clock's face opened like tiny glass doors and a quiet melody began to play. The little hands on the clock danced and spun before stopping again and the glass doors closed. "I still have a few things to fix, but this clock is almost finished. Each time I wind it up to play, the clock stops telling the time."
"It's beautiful." You gasped with surprise. You didn't have to be an expert to see all the little intricate details on the outside, not to mention how many little cogs were probably working the clock on the inside. It took a lot of skill to make and you could see how passionate and patient Maddox was, paying attention to each detail and never giving up. It was inspiring.
"Although it isn't perfect, perhaps listening to this tonight will help you sleep better?" He asked. He made no moves to push you to a decision. You could choose to stay awake, but he'd rather you rested. After a moment, you nodded. "You can stay here as long as you like. I will make sure the Queen doesn't mind. Leave the Queen to me and don't worry. Just rest." He smiled and wound the music box to play for longer. "I'll be here, at my workbench." He offered you a pillow and blanket (which you gladly accepted) and he let you curl up on the chair. Just as he promised, he stayed nearby and continued to tinker with some other projects. From the chair, you couldn't see what he was working on, but you didn't mind. The music and the almost inaudible sound of turning cogs of the mechanical clock, lulled you into the best night's sleep you'd ever had since working in the castle.
ahhh a Maddox x reader where reader was gonna ask Maddox to the camp prom but then Madison shows up so reader gets jealous and decides not to do it , reader ends up ignoring Maddox but Maddox ends up pulling reader aside at prom and they confess they like each other
also yasss i love Maddox too she’s such a queen
Sure! Here we go! I give you: Camp Prom!
Main Masterlist
Ashlyn claps her hands. “Okay, I am very hyped for this dance tonight, but someone needs to explain to me why we’re doing a vintage theme for the camp prom.”
“Ooh, I think it has something to do with Susan Fine’s birthday,” Gina says.
“Or the day she died,” (Y/n) replies, fixing her dress shirt in the mirror.
“Definitely one of those two,” Ashlyn replies.
“Honestly, I’ve never known,” Maddox says, walking past in her pink and orange jumpsuit.
(Y/n) glances at the girl for a moment through the mirror but adverts her gaze as soon as Maddox turns around.
“Look, any camp tradition that doesn't involve climbing a wall is good by me,” Kourtney says, touching up Gina’s makeup.
Ashlyn chuckles.
“And I’m gonna miss having all this time with you guys,” Gina says, groaning slightly. “Okay, sisterhood vibes all night, okay?”
“It’s gonna be a night of many vibes,” Ashlyn agrees. She steps over to examine her curls in the mirror. “Hey, G, are you good going solo to the dance tonight?” she asks her former roommate.
“I’m not going solo. I have my girls. Honestly, it’s fine,” Gina says. “It’s a Shallow Lake tradition, so . . .”
“That’s right. It is,” Maddox says. “Everyone goes stag,” she sits down by where Kourtney, Gina, and Ashlyn are, while (Y/n) continues to try and flatten out her wrinkled dark blue dress shirt.
“Honestly, Ash, I think your cousin’s gonna spend the night without me as his date, realise he’s kind of been ignoring me for a week and a half, and I don’t know.” She and Ashlyn laugh. “He promised he’d save the last dance for me, so . . . I think the night’s going to end with a bang.”
(Y/n) and Maddox exchange a look. “In one way or another, it always does,” Maddox says as (Y/n) steps into the bathroom.
“Excuse me,” Jett opens the door to the Honeycomb bunk, knocking on the inside wall.
“Oh, my . . .” Gina exclaims and the other girls make similar exclamations.
“Uh, Maddie, can we talk? Alone?” Jett asks.
A minute later, Ashlyn, Gina, Kourtney, and (Y/n) are waiting outside, Ashlyn’s ear pressed to the wall of the building.
“Okay, should we be spying on them?” Kourtney asks.
“No, we should not,” (Y/n) replies.
“Could you be quiet, I’m trying to spy,” Ashlyn hisses.
“Hi,” a familiar voice makes (Y/n)’s heart drop into her stomach. “Is Gadget still in there?”
“Hey Madison,” (Y/n) murmurs. “Hey, I told Ricky I’d drop by. I’ll see you guys later.” (Y/n) turns and heads towards the Yurt Locker.
. . .
(Y/n) wears a soft blue suit, the color Maddox once said made her look like a moonbeam. But she doesn’t let herself think about that now. Not when Maddox is somewhere out there probably dancing with Madison.
She leans against the drink table, pretending to scroll on her phone. Trying not to care.
“Hey.”
The voice is gentle, familiar — the one she’s been dodging all day. She turns, and Maddox is right there, in a button-up and rolled sleeves, cheeks slightly flushed.
(Y/n) tries to smile. “Hey.”
Maddox doesn’t return it. Instead, she tilts her head. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It isn’t a question.
(Y/n) shrugs. “Just busy.”
“That’s a lie,” Maddox says, stepping closer. Her voice softens. “Did I do something?”
The music blurs around them. (Y/n) looks down at her polished dress shoes. “No. Not really. I just . . . I saw Madison.”
Maddox blinks. “Okay . . .”
“And I thought maybe…” (Y/n) exhales sharply. “Maybe I was reading things wrong between us. That you still liked her. So I didn’t want to be . . . in the way.”
Maddox stares for a beat, like she’s processing the whole week in real time. Then she lets out a soft laugh — almost in disbelief — and reaches for (Y/n)’s hand.
Maddox says, “Madison. Jett surprised me. I haven’t seen her since last summer break. He was trying to help.”
(Y/n)’s eyes widen.
“Yeah,” Maddox says, stepping even closer. “And for the record . . . you weren’t reading it wrong.”
(Y/n) can’t breathe.
“I was hoping you’d ask me to prom,” Maddox admits, voice quieter now. “But then you disappeared, and I thought maybe I scared you off.”
A shaky smile spreads across (Y/n)’s lips. “You didn’t. I just got jealous and . . . stupid.”
“Not stupid,” Maddox says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe a little dramatic.”
They laugh, and the tension finally melts.
Maddox reaches out a hand. “So . . . will you dance with me now?”
“Yes,” (Y/n) breathes, taking Maddox’s hand.
The moment (Y/n) places her hand in Maddox’s, it feels like the world finally clicks back into place. Maddox's fingers are warm and steady, grounding her in a way that nothing else has all day.
They walk hand in hand toward the makeshift dance floor under the string lights. The music slows to a mellow, synthy cover of a love song (Carlos swears it’s from Bridgerton). Campers sway in pairs.
Maddox places her hands gently on (Y/n)’s waist, and (Y/n) loops her arms around Maddox’s shoulders. They move in slow, nervous steps, barely more than swaying. But it's perfect.
(Y/n)’s cheeks flush. “You look like you just walked out of an indie rom-com.”
Maddox chuckles. “You saying I’m the quirky lead?”
“You’re definitely the love interest.”
That earns her a soft, stunned smile. They keep swaying.
“I really was gonna ask you,” (Y/n) says. “Had a whole speech in my head. Something about sparkly lights and friendship turning into something more . . .”
Maddox tilts her head. “Can I still hear it?”
(Y/n) bites her lip, eyes twinkling. “Only if you promise not to laugh.”
“Promise.”
She leans in just a little closer. “Maddox . . . you make me feel like campfire smoke and acoustic guitar songs — like I’m finally part of something warm. And I wanted to ask you to prom because I think I’m falling for you.”
Maddox stops swaying.
And then — with no warning but every intention — she leans in and kisses her.
It's soft. It's sure. And it sends sparks from (Y/n)’s lips to the soles of her feet. Maddox tastes like mint lemonade and hope. The music swells around them, but nothing compares to the silence between heartbeats when their lips meet.
When they part, Maddox whispers, “You’re not the only one falling.”
(Y/n) rests her forehead against Maddox’s, breath shaky. “Good.”
. . .
The prom crowd slowly disperses, the music giving way to the quiet hum of late summer insects. The stars shine bright above Camp Shallow Lake, and a light breeze rustles through the trees. Most of the campers head back to their bunks, giggling and glitter-covered.
But Maddox and (Y/n) linger near the edge of the lake.
They sit side by side on the old wooden dock, sneakers kicked off, legs dangling above the cool water. (Y/n) leans into Maddox’s side, and Maddox slips her arm around her waist like she’s done it a thousand times — like it’s second nature now.
“Do you think anyone saw?” (Y/n) asks, voice teasing.
“Oh, Carlos definitely saw,” Maddox replies. “He winked at me mid-kiss.”
(Y/n) groans, burying her face in Maddox’s shoulder.
Maddox laughs and presses a kiss to her temple. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” (Y/n) says softly. “I’m really okay.”
They sit in silence for a moment, just listening to the lapping water.
“I wish we had more time,” (Y/n) says, almost a whisper.
Maddox nods. “We still have tomorrow. And texts. And FaceTime. And next summer.”
“If you want to,” Maddox says, turning to meet her eyes.
(Y/n) doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”
. . .
East High has never felt so crowded.
Between the chaos of filming High School Musical 4 and the school's own musical rehearsals, it’s hard to tell where the real life ends and the movie set begins. There are camera rigs in the gym, signs on every hallway door, and actors in full costume brushing past students trying to get to class.
(Y/n) weaves through it all, clutching her rehearsal binder and wondering how anyone is supposed to concentrate when her girlfriend is still states away.
It's been months since camp.
They text constantly. Facetime when they can. But it’s not the same. (Y/n) misses Maddox's voice in person — the way she’d lean against a tree with her arms crossed and that smirk that meant trouble. She misses Maddox’s quiet calm in chaotic moments and the way she always, always saved her a seat at bonfire night.
Now, all she has is a lock screen photo and an old camp bracelet she still wears on her wrist.
(Y/n) zones back into the table read for the musical.
“Chad enters,” Miss Jenn reads.
(Y/n) catches her brother’s expression — he looks nervously excited. He waits, and then shouts, “Now, dude!”
Jett and Maddox enter the rehearsal room and (Y/n)’s jaw drops to the floor. She — almost robotically — gets up from her chair, still staring at Maddox.
After the fanfare, Maddox moves to stand in front of (Y/n).
“You’re here,” (Y/n) breathes.
“I am,” Maddox replies, reaching forward and brushing a hand against (Y/n)’s and interlocking their pinkies.
“You didn’t text me?” (Y/n) asks.
“I wanted you to be surprised,” Maddox replies. “Are you surprised?”
Maddox: “If this song is about anything, it’s the way I feel about you…”
You and Kyungmoon had met almost a year ago at a small coffee shop where you used to work at over the summer. He was a regular for some time, always ordering a hot tea of some sort, and eventually you started looking forward to one another’s short visitations. Once you told him you’d be ending your work in the summer in order to finish your education in the upcoming fall, he asked for your number, and you became great friends even after you left the shop. Recently, though, you’ve become much closer, and would even probably call him one of your current best friends.
“Kyun,” you call from across the room of your apartment’s living room settee. Kyungmoon’s sitting across from you on a sectional sofa.
“Yes?” He looks up at you, tugging one of his headphones behind an ear.
“Is it cold in here for you, too? Can I turn up the heat a bit?”
He smiles. “You’re cold?”
You nod, wrapping your blanket over your legs tighter.
“Come here, then. I’m actually kind of hot,” he says sweetly.
Your face brightens up and you reach for your blanket and computer before proceeding to make yourself comfortable next to him. He takes the blanket he was wrapped under and drapes it over you.
“What are you listening to?” You look up at his headphones, then peek over his computer.
“I recorded a few things last night. I’m listening over them again to see if they’re any good.”
“I bet they are good,” you smile. “All your music is so good! My favorite of yours is Color Blind.”
He laughs lightly. “Thanks, but this one… I can’t figure out what I’m going for. I don’t know if it’s a love song or a heartbreak song. What about you, what are you working on?” He looks carefully over your shoulder at your own screen, to which you reply, “Oh, I’m still procrastinating on finishing an assignment. At least I’m almost done.”
A few seconds of silence pass by before you speak again. “Why is your song about love?”
He sighs and removes his headphones, leaning back on the sofa to contemplate at the ceiling. “You know, maybe it’s about having a one-sided feeling.”
“How so?” You tug your blankets higher to your shoulders.
“Well… I don’t know. For this song, I want to feel in love, I think. But the words keep coming down to a feeling of heartbreak, and that's probably because I don’t know the answer to the other end of this crush.” He turns bright red, looking away from you now. He can’t help a small smile slip out, and you catch him anyway.
“Kyun, you’re in love!” you giggle.
“No, this is for a song!” He’s laughing too now, hiding himself completely over the blanket.
“No, I think you’re in love! You’re way too shy about these things!” you lightly tug at his side of the blanket. He’s resisting, and you’re both sharing laughter and playful shoving amongst one another. He’s completely flustered under the blankets, unwilling to show his face to you.
“Fine,” you huff. “I won’t actually force you to say anything. Maybe your song should be about the frustration of love, instead.”
He comes up from under the blanket and stares into his computer for a second. “Maybe you’re right.”
You turn and smile at him, and close your computer. “I’m usually right, and you know that.” Your eyes feel heavy, now that you’re warmer in the otherwise cool apartment. “I’m gonna take a short nap. Wake me up when you’ve made a breakthrough with your song.”
He opens his arm around you, and you snuggle next to him for a moment, his computer on his lap.
This was what you loved most about him. Not only was he a close friend, but the love itself was very platonic. And very mutual. Or at least, you always thought of it like that. He was the kind of person you could feel safe around, comfortable to share your doubts and wishes without him coming off as too judge-mental, too possessive, too jealous. However, not all of your exes understood this, and they tended to break things off when their jealousy overwhelmed them. And thus, he would once again become the pillow you clashed into at times of despair after every single end of your relationships.
But what you didn’t know? The platonic love on his end slowly started to become a little too… real.
For a few moments between you dozing on and off, he watches you quietly, unable to comprehend the overwhelming feeling he’s overcome with at this very moment. You were always so sweet to him, so fair and so good. When you worked at the coffee shop, it didn’t take many visits for you to ask about why he’d only get hot teas. That was when you learned he was a singer. And since then, you made sure to make the best for him, always giving him words of affirmation when he’d come in before and after long work hours. Even now, he never went to the recording studio without a tea thermal from you.
He was slowly falling for the way you made him comfortable, for the way you accepted him whole, and especially now once you became closer and learned of all his humane flaws.
Heartbreaks arose for him when you’d date other people. Hearts would skip beats when he’d find out your relationships didn’t work out. Anxiety would rise seeing you get heartbroken by exes undeserving of you. And the closer you seemed to grow as friends, the shyer he seemed to become.
Maybe I am… flustered, he thought to himself. I’m always flustered around you nowadays. If this song is about anything, it’s about the way I feel about you.
Seeing you sleep on him comfortably, he shut his computer off and gently ran his fingers through your hair, slowly caressing your cheek once he felt you were asleep. He leaned in close to you, embracing you in a full hug.
“I think I am in love with you,” he whispered into you, placing a gentle kiss on your head.
Several seconds passed after that moment, the quiet rain and distant thunder murmuring in the background.
You smile secretly to yourself, unbeknownst to Kyungmoon. If only he knew that you weren’t asleep yet, and if only he knew that once you did ‘wake up,’ he’d be in for a pleasant confession from you as well.
You sleepily extended your arm out, calculating for your hands to fall into each other. You acted like you were still in a deep sleep, and just so happened to hold hands amidst your slumber.
Another smile discreetly escapes your hidden lips as you feel him gently caressing his shy, firm fingers against the back of your palm, a reassuring gesture you knew so well.
My platonic love.
No, not anymore.
I think I’m in love with you, too.
In a matter of minutes, you both did end up falling asleep on each other. Hands and arms wrapped around each other, heads resting into one another, the blanket cocooning both your bodies into one.
You didn’t know when exactly it happened, either, but at one point along your friendship, your platonic love mended into a truer feeling of love for the boy you once made hot teas for in a familiar coffee shop, somewhere far, far away.
Hank, Auditor, Deimos and (if youre able) the clown trio from the Friday Night Clowning mod(Perci, Lester and Maddox) with a ink creature s/o, nothing really related to batim, they're just made out of ink and look similar to ink bendy if that makes sense?
- Mask anon
Hank
It was alarming to see you had become an ink creature (from an AAHW lab experiment that served as a bizarre act of torture/interrogation) at first.
But he got used to it over time, though he really wished you were human again.
He killed the scientists out of revenge but was shocked when you assisted him and didn't get harmed by any bullets.
Auditor
An experiment conducted by AAHW scientists turned you into an ink monster since you were near death.
Auditor was livid they chose to do that instead of just, y'know...reviving you normally??
But you don't mind it at all. In fact you're happier this way because you feel stronger.
You can change shape and bullets don't harm you anymore.
You convinced him to spare the scientists, and he did (they are truly a lucky bunch).
Deimos
Think it's super badass you're an ink creature now!
....until you tell him how you turned into one.
Now he's pissed off.
But you're able to change shape and protect him from danger while he's hacking into something so...with time he gets used to it.
He's just sad he can't cuddle with you like before, though he still loves you all the same <3
Perci
You're dark and edgy like him? Cool.
Both of you have put together unique acts, with him being a mime and you being a shapeshifter of sorts (and also part of the "freakshow" cast).
Plus you defend him from harassment by Maddox, even though he's used to it.
Unfortunately the ringmaster strictly forbids romantic bonds between performers so the relationship is secret.
Lester
You two are definitely labeled as an odd couple--with his bright colors and your creepy inky-ness.
Despite this you both put on quite a stellar performance when it's showtime!
Though the countless times he needed to clean ink from his bright clothes and makeup annoys him a little, but he won't ever tell you that. He doesn't want to upset you.
Maddox
He keeps thinking you're made of tar instead of ink (but tbh he does this to annoy you).
Besides that, he's happy to have an s/o who's tall and creepy with a grin much like his own.
During performances your acts are quite messy (and typically involve a clown nearly being drowned in ink and screaming for help) but you two just laugh away.
note: only a little bit nonsensical (its wonderland!)
the sun only just starts to rise with you as you sneak up to the tower you know like the back of your hand.
you hide behind just the right corner at just the right time to avoid just the same guard as every other day, and plant your hands and feet on the exact same dents in the stone that you have for forever. and before you know it, you’re sliding in through the window your boyfriend always leaves open for you.
your eyes immediately find maddox in the middle of his workshop, bent over a workbench covered in knickknacks and devices he invents by the dozen every day.
you can tell he’s been at this all night by the way he doesn’t bother correcting his hat every time it slides down his head anymore, and from the ruffled hair that reveals—pointing every which way, no doubt after hours of being brush out of his face and tugged at.
you smile at the sight, deep concentration taken over, even as you walk over to his right he still doesn’t notice you’ve arrived—until you lean down and whisper a simple, “hi,” that makes him jump, unable to hold back your laugh at the way he almost falls off his chair in surprise.
“—hello,” he finally gets out once he realises it’s just you, giving you a glance and a smile before returning to a less deep focus on his tinkering.
even though he can’t see it, you smile back, before making your way through his workshop like a woman on a mission. rifling through trunks and unlocking hidden capsules, you move with ease as your muscle memory does all the work—knowing exactly where to look after countless nights spent hiding your prohibited makeup away and even more mornings spent digging them back up from where maddox lets you hide them scattered across his room (where no guard is brave enough to even think of searching through, lest they make one wrong move and get their hair burnt off or turned to the size of a mouse.)
you retrieve your grayscale foundation from a trunk with a riddle lock, and put in motion a domino effect of one little lever tucked behind the door that reveals a hole in the wall with your eyeliner.
as you wait for the pully system to lower your lipstick from the highest peak of the roof, you call for maddox.
“what’re you working on this time?”
“pocketwatch,” her mutters as he takes a screwdriver to some machinery you can’t see from here, “every time i try to turn the dial activate it, half the springs fall out.”
you grab the lipstick, setting it down with the rest of your retrieved makeup on a ramshackle vanity to maddox’s left, and start shrugging out of your hideous mandatory jumpsuit to reveal clothes that don’tmake you want to assassinate the queen at the very sight of them.
“’‘ave you tried forgoing the springs?”
you catch the sight of him shaking his head as you smooth down your homemade black dress, and readjust the several load-bearing safety pins that hold the ensemble together.
“without the springs, if you try to time-travel, you won’t actually travel, you need the extra jump to actually make it to the other side.”
now sitting on the rickety—but lovingly handmade one afternoon not long after you met—wooden chair in front of the dirty mirror, you nod your head as much as you can without risking smudging your foundation brush right into your eyeball, “so without that extra kick, you just get stuck in the endless void between here and your destination.”
“that’s the idea,” he replies, and you can almost hear the slightest smile in his voice at your immediate understanding, despite the fact that you’re discussing a hypothetical trip to some sort of torturous limbo.
you fall into a nice silence as you apply your lipstick, and you occasionally hear the odd item shatter in maddox’s hands or fling itself across the room.
“have you put any more thought into how to get through to the forest?” he speaks up as you finish the wonderfully garish black eyeliner design on one eye, and move to the next.
“i basically know the guards’ entire schedule around your workshop and my house, but it’s so hard to keep an eye on them at the gate when my job is halfway on the other side of the kingdom,” you sigh, eternally desperate to take a breath of fresh air outside of the queen of hearts’ tyrannical rain, but the possibility always seemingly out of reach under the watchful eye of her army of loyalists.
maddox hums sympathetically, similarly no stranger to wishing for freedom—even if he is under less scrutiny than you, he’s still under the queen’s lock and key, and unsurprisingly isn’t incredibly fond of it.
“say, have you still got those ‘broken’ security cameras the queen wanted,” you joke about one of her many requests that maddox pretended were impossible for the sake of not making wonderland worse than it already is, “then i could really be in two places at once.”
he laughs lightly, meeting your gaze in the mirror with playful smile, “careful, you’re starting to sound like her.”
you roll your eyes fondly as you finally click closed the eyeliner bottle, “well, maybe i’d like to be an all-powerful evil queen, i’m sure the food is great.”
“actually, i heard she eats newborn babies,” maddox teases you, bringing up a rumour you’ve been trying to convince him is real since the moment you met.
you rise from your seat and make your way to his side, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially, “i heard that too!”
he laughs fully this time, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from doing the same.
“i found this, by the way,” you pass maddox a doohickie that looks kind of like a fork had a kid with whisk, you wink “don’t ask where though.”
he smiles out a soft, “thank you,” as he inspects it fascinatedly, grabbing the mess of the pocketwatch and sizing it up to see if it just might be what he’s looking for.
as he completely overhauls his plans to make room for your probably definitely stolen new item, your eyes dance over all the new devices scrawled across his workbench. there’s something that looks like a metal flower that leaks out red paint (which looks a bit too much like blood for comfort), several little wonderlandian animal figurines scattered beneath sheats of metal and shards of random shattered vases and glass ornaments—but your eyes catch on a large circle of a dark material you can’t discern, detailed with sharp teeth-like spikes jutting out the inside of it.
“what’s that,” you point to the glistening item your eyes are caught on.
“oh, that? another one for the queen,” he reaches for it to demonstrate it can—albeit unreliably—be bent in half like hardcore dentures, “it’s meant to bite the wearer if they laugh, but i can’t get it to tell the difference between laughter and breathing.”
“hm,” you run the tip of your finger over the teeth, latching onto it when maddox lets you take it.
he smiles at how well it blends into your monochrome style as you slip it on as a bracelet—and, of course, he swiftly reaches it to deactivate it before it bites your hand off, even though he suspects you’d probably find that at least a little cool.
you can’t hold back your grin as you twist your wrist around to assess the new jewellery, meeting maddox’s eyes briefly in a silent thank you.
“do you have any more of the eyeliner?” he asks as his gaze flits back to the broken pocketwatch—and when he looks back up again, you’re already retrieving the homemade liquid that doubles as lubricant for his inventions.
your cheeks warm infinitesimally when your hands brush as you pass it to him, and you bitterly swear it is so not fair that something as small as being near him can still fluster you even now that you’re official.
he recognises your immediate attempt at changing the subject to avoid addressing your teeth chewing on the inside of your cheek and quickened heartbeart—and he holds back a fond chuckle, knowing he’s not innocent of still blushing in your presence either.
“so… have you seen my shoes? i don’t remember where i put them last night.”
“oh,” he gestures to the general area behind him, “i put them in the compartment in the bedframe.”
you approach his bed, everything is such a mess that, if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he’d tossed about in his sleep like a wild animal. but the layers of haphazard blankets are cold to the touch, and the three different pillows scattered where pillows certainly aren’t expected to be, are exactly where they were last night when you visited.
you shake your head at his lack of a normal sleep schedule—only slightly envying that he has the freedom to choose when he does sleep—and make a mental note to force him to at the very least take a short nap later.
you kneel down, lifting away layers of bright quilts and lurid duvets, until you can easily roll out the secret drawer, to reveal your signature thick-soled heavy black boots.
but, as you lift them out and shut the compartment, something catches your eyes. if it weren’t for the fact that your boyfriend is the only person who even knows you dress like this, the notably odd fashion in which several springs are welded onto the soles and then superfluously connected to vials of various brightly coloured liquids—would all give away without a single doubt, that maddox had been twiddling with your shoes.
“hey, mads?” you call out slowly.
“mm?” he hums with a backdrop of light clanging and ticking.
you cross the room to present your newly altered shoes to him, and—with no anger (you could never be mad at him for doing what he does best) rather pure curiosity, since you can’t possibly discern what he’s now made your shoes capable of—inquire; “what’s going on with these?”
he pauses his work to give you all of his attention, eyes flashing in recognition as he sees what you’re holding, and gestures for you to come closer.
shoulders pressed together and fingers dangerously close to brushing whenever he gestures to certain vials, he explains to you—just how he knows you like, making sure you know he’s not talking down to you about something you couldn’t possibly understand—what every component does, and why.
“the springs on their own, with enough build-up, can bounce pretty high, but the vials are what really makes it work,” he names every odd liquid you’ve never heard of and where he found them in places you didn’t know existed, “and they all go together to multiply the bounce of the springs beyond anything we’ve ever seen before!”
you can’t help but smile at him—like you do every time he falls into intricately explaining one of his inventions, even if you find the devices alone horribly boring, you could never find the way his eyes crinkle and voice elevates with excitement anything but thrilling—but still squint at him ever so slightly.
“that’s amazing…” a beat passes, “…but, why?”
it takes a moment for realisation to widen his eyes, but when it does, you don’t have a second to admire how they shine—before his hands are grasping yours lovingly, and he’s looking deeply and oh so beautifully overwhelmingly into your eyes.
all to say, “for the walls, so you can escape.”
you could cry. you won’t, goodness, you think you’d rather be beheaded than be caught crying at all let alone in front of someone—maddox has managed to get you to let down your walls so much already, there’s no way you’re going to go as far as to let yourself cry like an absolute fool, out of joy no less.
(for your sake, he doesn’t even look at the smallest tear that rolls down your cheek.)
but you’re bitterly finding that you love the comfortable vulnerability that he envelopes you in. and the happiness—the saccharine freedom to feel just so—floods your head so sweetly, that for just a second, you have the courage to lean down in flash, to press the most delicate kiss to his lips (still a whisper away from properly touching, lest the messily homemade lipstick traitorously rub off on him).
you mutter, “thank you.”
his grin widens, and yours bursts past your walls.
hi could you please make Maddox Hatter×cat reader? Thanks in advance
pairings: maddox hatter x gn!reader
genre: angst
warnings: right person wrong time, the effects of the queen of heart’s tyranny, blood & hand injuries
note: reader’s a descendant of the cheshire cat, since i’m assuming that’s what you meant by “cat”!!
once a month, your lover slips perfectly timed past the guards that would have him killed if he were caught, and appears before you amidst the brambles and branches of the tulgey wood.
he’s always careful, with quiet steps, and never once does he arrive before repeatedly double-checking over his shoulder that he hasn’t been followed, with anxious eyes. he’s always hidden beneath a deep green jacket, with his telltale hat tucked away until he’s safely by your side—and there’s always a little voice in the back of your head, seconds before he arrives, wondering if he won’t make it this time; wondering if today is finally the day the queen herself spots him sneaking past her impenetrable walls, and beheads him for daring to so much as think of escaping his cage right under her thumb.
but by the time his flickering eyes meet yours, he’s home.
home is what you call wherever the two of you meet after weeks spent apart, home is where you can pretend you don’t worry yourself sick the moment he turns away to return back to the kingdom, home is where you let yourselves forget real life, and simply have a tea party.
you talk about anything but what hurts. there’s no hellos, because those imply you ever had to spend time apart—and there’s no goodbyes, goodbyes mean something’s ending, and as long as you pretend, this never has to end.
and it works, has worked for years; you sometimes get to talk for hours, you let yourself forget everything long enough to be able to laugh, and you smile as soon as you see maddox trudging through the undergrowth, as if he’s your husband you’ve spent your life beside, who is simply returning from a pleasant stroll around your cottage’s garden.
so, when he comes rushing through the woods, with heavy steps atop crackling sticks and crunching leaves, and he looks like he’s been overcome with a gust of wind right in the face, as his hat nearly topples off his head and his hair is askew; you ignore it. you grin in greeting like you always do, because you have the rest of the month to miss him and worry over why he’d been in such a hurry; you need to cherish what you have when he’s right in front of you—and you need to get this tea party up and running, so the outlandish flavours can help distract you from staring at a face you’ve never seen look so pained.
stretching out sore limbs, you slink down from atop the winding tree you’d been scratching the bark off with anxiety all morning, and slink over to the long-dead stump you use as a table—decorated with a singed curtain from your childhood home as a tablecloth, a steaming chipped pot, and two matching cups stained from years of colourful concoctions.
“care for some tea?” you look back over to maddox, only to find he still hasn’t joined you in so much as stepping towards his seat at the table, like he always does.
but then, he takes a deep breath.
(like he’s expecting this to be hard, but for some reason does it anyway. not knowing why is like he’s being escorted to the guillotine while you’re halfway across wonderland and none the wiser; it’s torturous.)
he utters, “i can’t stay long,” and you freeze.
it’s like he’s wedged shattered glass pieces into your heart, slicing and slicing until you cough up blood through your sharp teeth. it takes everything in you not to frown—not to scream, cry, shove at his chest and blow up at him for breaking the rules that keep your heart beating when he’s not around, for ruining your little bubble of peace with the cruellest reminder of reality—but you’re quick to slip back on your wide grin, and tilt your head at him expectantly.
your claw-like nails tap against the pot, “there’s always time for tea,” you remind him, staring up at his flushed face and heaves for breath, as you sit cross-legged upon damp moss.
he sighs deeply, like this hurts him just the same as it tears your peace apart, but nonetheless has no choice, “not this time, i—”
“no,” you bite—if he’s going to play the game where, after ten years, he finally decides to ruin the only good thing you have, then you’re going to play the game where you fight tooth and nail to not let him, “there is. sit.”
maddox looks at you—with those kind eyes that make your head spin, that know you better than you know yourself, that stare at his ceiling late at night counting the cracks in the plaster as he wishes he didn’t let this game of pretend eat you alive—watching forlornly with a gaze that almost pities you, as he digs his hand into his pocket, and retrieves a crumpled-up envelope.
he smooths the shimmering paper out in the palm of his hand, revealing a royal seal and your name in calligraphy, “you need to take this,” he insists, reaching it out to you like it’s his dying wish.
but you refuse to so much as glance at the wretched letter, sneering at him without a care in the world for what could possibly await you inside its pristine folds—not when there’s warm tea waiting inside your pot, and a teen that fell in love with the wrong person wishing for a normal life weeping inside you.
“i don’t need to do anything,” you grit, glaring at him through eyes that are no stranger to begging for you to let tears free, “i have all the time i could ever need to do anything i could ever want—” (you both know it’s a lie, but it’s a lie you hold to your chest like a promise, cherishing it just the same as the memories of maddox’s hand in yours and your head upon his shoulder, like fragments of a long lost love) “—and i don’t want to take that.”
he shakes his head—frowning so deeply he must be seconds away from the very skin of his face cracking into tiny little jagged-edged pieces from the pressure—as he steps defiantly towards you, grabbing your hand to shove the envelope, that dares to be sickeningly smoother than his own skin turned rough from years working as the queen’s pet inventor, into your palms.
recoiling, with bile rising in your throat drier than sandpaper, you immediately toss it across the forest floor, all but growling as you reach for the teapot, to fill your hands with the dull pain of its emanating heat—and try to avoid maddox reaching for you again, as your head spins with whatever he knows that you don’t.
you don’t want to know anything. please.
his eyes search to meet yours once more, just the same as he’s searched these woods for you all these years; your lover holding back tears in the hope that you’ll stop avoiding his gaze, and let him comfort you.
“it’s an invitation, to auradon,” he says softly, like he thinks you won’t lash out if he speaks gently to you like you’re a frightened woodland creature, “and you should accept it.”
“what?!”
“i know you’re not happy here!” he pushes, tugging at hands that quickly rip from his hold like his very touch stings you (everything about him stings you now—the fleeting touches and silent farewells always have, like the sweetest tea that leaves an aftertaste that sinks poison deep into your bones—but it was all worth it, when you could pretend the monthly pockets of sunshine would never end).
you screech, lying through your teeth, “i’m plenty happy here! the happiest in all of wonderland!”
kneeling down, maddox shakes his head, “i know you, and i know you’re not happy here—neither of us are, we never have been, only seeing each other once a month!”
whirling to finally look him in the eyes, you yell, “so your solution is seeing me never?!”
“my solution is for you to not be stuck here, trapped, just waiting for the queen to find out i’ve been meeting you—and kill you.”
in a silence where maddox waits for you to reply with what he wishes will be anything but a no, it only grows harder and harder for you to breathe through the saccharine air of the overhanging trees and brisk whistling wind, before you feel like you’re choking on the sound of your lover’s unsteady breaths.
slowly turning back to face the table, you fill your teacup to the brim.
“if you won’t have any, then that just means there’s more tea for me.”
shaking his head in mourning, he whispers, “i love you,” as he watches you take a sip, rising back up to his feet as he slowly backs away—leaving you behind with a ticket to freedom, and a reassurance to himself that this is what’s best for the both of you, “goodbye.”
the echo of his footsteps is drowned out by the sound of your teacup shattering within your palms. goodbye. the pieces clatter like a discordant windchime, clamouring in the thrash of your rugged exhales. goodbye. the shards quickly stain red, kissing your hands sweeter than any mouth that dares to bid you farewell ever could. goodbye. you watch blankly as the tea pours down your trembling hands. goodbye.
