I write for whoever my brain decides to hyper fixate on for the next month or so.
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does the companion ever think about, after being comfortable enough in his presence, requesting BB to drop his disguise out of curiosity? the monsterfucker in me is just YEARNING to see him fully hfghdshdgsh lol
btw i absolutely adore your writing, it's absolutely phenomenal and i'm glad that my friend told me about your fics hehe looking sm forward to the new parts soon!! but also please take care of yourself kat ♡
the monsterfucker agenda is REAL and I respect it deeply but we also need to talk about what this would actually mean emotionally because it’s not just “hey show me the goods.” it’s the most vulnerable thing you could ever ask bb to do. more vulnerable than the teeth. more vulnerable than the black eyes. more vulnerable than the purring and the baby and the good boy and all of it.
because every other moment of vulnerability between you has happened within the bobby suit. every kiss, every touch, every “say it again,” every time you crawled under his hoodie or traced his canines or called him pretty—he was always wearing the face. the safe face. the face that he knows you loved before you knew bb existed. the face that’s a guaranteed baseline of attraction because you fell in love with it on someone else first.
and there’s a part of bb (a quiet, ancient, deeply embedded part) that has never stopped wondering if that’s why. if the face is the reason. if you’d still reach for him with hunger in your hands if what you were reaching for didn’t look like bobby franklin. he watched you love the original. he STUDIED it. he knows exactly which angles of bobby’s jaw make your breath catch. he built himself to specification. and some part of him has always been terrified that the specification is the point.
the mr kitty thing helped. we talked about that. watching you reach for a faceless entity without flinching cracked that fear slightly. but cracked isn’t broken. he still wonders. every time you look at him with soft eyes he wonders if the eyes you’re seeing are the ones you actually want or just the closest available replica.
so when you ask (and yes, you would ask, eventually, inevitably, because you are who you are and who you are is a person who traces his teeth and bites his cheek and calls the void behind his eyes pretty) when you say “i want to see you. the real you.” his first response is stillness.
not the pleased stillness. or the processing stillness. the scared stillness.
and bb doesn’t get scared. bb has fought howlers and killed entities and made aspects of reality rearrange itself. bb is not afraid of anything in the backrooms.
bb is afraid of this.
“you don’t want that,” he says. quiet. bobby’s voice but with something underneath it. older and less certain.
“i do.”
“you want this.” he gestures at his face. bobby’s face. the cheekbones, the jaw, the blue eyes. the product. the carefully maintained performance. “this is what you want. this is what you like.”
and there it is. right there. the wound he’s been carrying since before you met him. since before he chose bobby’s face. the fundamental question of his existence: am i loveable or is the mask loveable? if i take it off does anything underneath deserve to be looked at? or am i just. the dark. the cold. the nothing that was here before the walls.
“baby,” you say, and the word does what it always does, tugs at something structural in him, pulls his attention back to you. “i’m not asking to see bobby. i’m asking to see you.”
and he’s quiet for a long time.
this wouldn’t happen quickly. this isn’t a single conversation. this is weeks. maybe longer. you bringing it up gently. him deflecting. you not pushing. him thinking about it in the dark when you’re asleep, turning the idea over in the dim. examining it from every angle. running calculations about risk and reward and the specific probability that you will look at what’s underneath and leave.
because that’s the fear. not that you’ll be afraid. he could handle afraid. afraid is a human response, afraid means you saw something, afraid can be worked through.
the fear is that you’ll be repulsed. that you’ll look at the thing under the bobby suit and your face will do the thing (the shutting-down thing, the pulling-away one, the thing bobby’s face used to do when he checked out) and bb will know, finally, definitively, that the face was the whole reason. that without it he is nothing you want.
but you keep asking. gently. patiently. with the same quiet persistence that taught him “baby” and “mine” and “good boy.” you don’t push. you just leave the door open.
and one night in the nest (because it would be the nest, it would have to be the nest, the safest place in the backrooms, the place he built for you, the place where every blanket and every adjusted light and every degree of temperature is a love letter) he says okay.
“okay.” barely a whisper. “but—not all at once. slowly.”
“slowly,” you agree.
and he starts.
the blue goes first. drains out of his eyes the way it does when he’s relaxed, but this time he lets it go all the way. doesn’t catch it. doesn’t pull it back. the black fills in completely and he watches you watching him and you don’t flinch. you’ve seen the black before. the black is familiar. the black is almost home by now.
then the face. the geometry shifts. cheekbones pressing higher, sharper, past the point where he usually catches them and reshapes them back to bobby’s template. the jaw sharpening. the brow ridge becoming more pronounced. the features sliding from “bobby franklin” toward something that was never meant to be human. something older. more angular. more alien.
he’s shaking. you can feel it. fine tremors running through his whole body, the entity equivalent of standing naked in front of someone for the first time. every instinct he has is screaming at him to pull the mask back on. to be bobby. to be safe. to be the thing he knows you love instead of the thing he’s afraid you won’t.
you take his face in your hands.
his real face. or closer to it. the face underneath the face. sharp and strange and cold under your palms and so different from bobby and so completely, unmistakably him.
and whatever you see (whatever the full scope of it is, the true form, the thing that was here before the carpet and the walls and the hum) we’re not going to describe it fully. because some things are private. some things belong only to the nest and the dark and the two people in it. what matters isn’t what he looks like.
what matters is what you say.
and what you say, with his real face in your hands and his black eyes searching yours for the flinch that doesn’t come, is:
“pretty thing.”
the sound he makes doesn’t have a descriptor in any language.
but the lights in the nest go luminous. and the air goes almost sweet. and the hum drops to that low, steady frequency that means home.
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Can’t really articulate it properly but. Something about Clark and the need for ownership being a repeated theme throughout the movie. Something about how he constantly emphasizing that it was his house, his store, his money that pays for everything. Or the way he refers to the copies as “furniture” and treats them as such despite the fact they do show some sentience. The way he treated Mary as a means to justify his not wanting to leave and his refusal to change. The fact that Clark eats from the copies and the Captain eats people.
The Captain’s “den” being filled with piles of clothes and pieces of the cardboard cutout it destroyed. The piles of furniture in the middle of rooms. Something about the Captain’s hostility at people that enter Backrooms possibly from seeing them as an invasion upon his space, his house, threatening change in a place he does not want it. Trying to gain control over your life by trying to own and control everything around you. Is this anything
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