(Again No married people...

Puppet is married to Foxy so no.

Puppet had prepared for this.

She truly had.

She stood in front of the mirror far longer than necessary, adjusting her sleeves, smoothing her hair (straightened, neat, controlled), and reminding herself:

This is simply a date.

You are composed.

You do not fluster.

She chose something understated on purpose — dark jeans, a soft oversized top that slipped slightly off one shoulder. Casual. Effortless.

Effortless.

She practiced her neutral expression.

She would be calm. Poised. Elegant.

Then the door knocked.

She opened it.

And Foxy just… stopped.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk.

He just looked at her.

Slowly.

Softly.

Like she was something precious.

Her entire mental rehearsal evaporated.

“Hi,” she managed.

He exhaled a quiet breath. “Lass…”

That tone.

“You look…” He paused, searching. “…like I’m the luckiest animatronic in the building.”

Her brain shut down.

That was not a normal compliment.

“That is an exaggeration,” she said quickly.

“It isn’t.”

He stepped inside just slightly, still looking at her in that unguarded way. Not playful. Not dramatic.

Just sincere.

She had to look away first.

“Are we leaving?” she asked, because logistics were safer than emotions.

He chuckled. “Aye.”

They decided on something simple — walking through a night market near the edge of town. Nothing crowded. Just warm lights strung overhead and soft music drifting from somewhere distant.

The air felt gentle.

Puppet walked beside him with her hands folded neatly in front of her.

She was calm again.

See? Controlled.

Then Foxy reached over and casually slipped his fingers into hers.

No warning.

No announcement.

Just natural.

Like it had always been that way.

Her entire system glitched.

Her fingers twitched in surprise, but he only tightened his hold slightly — thumb brushing over her knuckles in a slow, absent-minded motion.

It was such a small thing.

But it felt enormous.

She focused on walking.

Left foot. Right foot.

Do not combust.

“You’re very quiet,” he said softly.

“I am speaking at a normal frequency.”

He smiled. “Mhm.”

They stopped at a small stand selling sweet pastries. Foxy insisted on buying one for her.

When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed again — but this time he didn’t pull away immediately.

He let his claws linger lightly against her palm.

She froze.

He noticed.

His grin turned softer.

“Still composed?” he asked gently.

“I am extremely composed.”

She nearly dropped the pastry.

He leaned closer. “Yer hand’s shakin’, love.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

She stared at him, affronted — but her cheeks were warming.

He laughed quietly and guided her toward a small bench near the lights.

They sat close.

Very close.

Her shoulder brushed his.

She could feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and grounding. His tail flicked lazily behind him, occasionally brushing against her leg.

She tried to focus on the market.

Instead she became hyper-aware of:

The way his knee rested against hers.

The way his thumb kept drawing slow circles on the back of her hand.

The way he looked at her when she wasn’t looking at him.

Except she caught him.

She turned her head suddenly — and he was already watching her.

Soft.

Fond.

A little amused.

Her breath caught.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

He leaned back slightly, studying her as if she were fascinating.

“Because I like lookin’ at ye.”

That was unfair.

She blinked. “That is not a reason.”

“It is to me.”

Her composure cracked.

Just a little.

She turned forward again, but she could feel him smiling beside her.

After a moment, he gently bumped his shoulder against hers.

“You nervous?” he asked.

“I am not nervous.”

He hummed.

She lasted three more seconds before blurting, “This is highly undignified.”

He laughed immediately. “What is?”

“My inability to remain unaffected by you.”

That made him go quiet.

Not teasing quiet.

Surprised quiet.

He shifted so he was fully facing her now, still holding her hand.

“Unaffected?” he repeated softly.

“Yes,” she said, staring very intently at the lights overhead instead of at him. “You are… distracting.”

His expression melted.

“Puppet.”

She risked looking at him.

Big mistake.

He was closer now.

Not invading her space — just enough that she could see the softness in his eyes.

“I don’t want ye unaffected,” he said gently. “I like knowin’ I can make yer heart race a little.”

Her breath stuttered.

“It is racing?” he teased quietly.

She swallowed. “…Possibly.”

He smiled in a way that wasn’t smug.

It was tender.

Then, very slowly, he lifted her hand and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

Not dramatic.

Not rushed.

Just warm lips lingering for a second longer than necessary.

Her entire system crashed.

She covered her face immediately.

“This is catastrophic.”

He laughed — not loudly, but warmly — and gently pulled her hands down again.

“Look at me.”

She shook her head.

“Puppet.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her hands.

Her eyes were wide. Vulnerable. Flustered beyond recovery.

He brushed his thumb under her eye gently.

“You’re adorable when ye lose that cool little mask.”

“I do not have a mask.”

He leaned in slightly.

“You absolutely do.”

She huffed softly.

He kissed her cheek.

Soft.

Lingering.

And when he pulled back, she just stared at him — stunned.

“…You are doing this intentionally.”

“Maybe.”

She narrowed her eyes.

Then — very quietly — she leaned into him first this time.

Just slightly.

Her head resting against his shoulder.

His arm wrapped around her immediately, pulling her closer without hesitation.

They stayed like that, watching the lights.

Her heart was still racing.

But it didn’t feel catastrophic anymore.

It felt warm.

Safe.

After a while, she murmured against his shoulder,

“…I may not remain composed around you.”

He pressed his cheek gently against the top of her head.

“Good,” he whispered.

And she let herself melt into him completely.

Puppet was trying very hard to be serious.

They had wandered away from the busier part of the market and ended up near a quieter street where the lights were softer and the night air cooler. She stood beside Foxy, hands clasped behind her back, posture straight again.

Recovered.

Regulated.

Back in control.

“I believe,” she began calmly, “that tonight has been statistically more distracting than—”

Foxy kissed her.

Right in the middle of the sentence.

Not dramatic. Not deep.

Just a quick, soft press of his lips to hers.

She froze.

He pulled back just enough to watch her reaction.

“…As I was saying,” she tried again, clearing her throat, “the level of distraction is—”

Another kiss.

This one lingered half a second longer.

Her breath caught audibly this time.

She stared at him.

“Foxy.”

“Aye?”

“You cannot simply—”

Kiss.

Short. Precise. Targeted.

She made a small, helpless sound.

He grinned.

“Oh, I absolutely can.”

She crossed her arms, attempting sternness. “This is highly unproductive.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice.

“Then why d’ye keep startin’ sentences?”

She opened her mouth to retort.

He kissed her again.

She gave up mid-word and exhaled shakily through her nose.

“…You are doing this intentionally.”

“Aye,” he said cheerfully.

She tried again, slower this time. Measured.

“If you continue interrupting me, I will be unable to—”

Kiss.

This one was to her cheek.

She flinched like she’d been struck by lightning.

“—finish,” she muttered weakly.

Foxy laughed quietly, clearly delighted now. He stepped closer until she was backed gently against the railing.

“Say it again,” he said softly.

“Say what?”

“That ye’re unaffected.”

Her eyes widened. “I did not say—”

He leaned in and whispered directly into her ear.

“Yer heart’s racin’, love.”

She malfunctioned.

Full stop.

Her shoulders tensed. Her hands clenched at her sides.

“…You should not say things like that.”

“Why not?”

His breath was warm against her ear. His voice dropped lower, softer, intimate.

“Because you are aware of the effect they have.”

“That the point,” he murmured.

She swallowed hard.

“I am attempting to maintain dignity.”

He brushed his lips against the shell of her ear.

“Ye’re doin’ terribly.”

She let out a quiet, defeated sound.

“This is sabotage.”

He kissed her neck.

Not lingering. Just enough.

She gasped and immediately slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Oh no,” Foxy whispered, clearly amused. “Did I break somethin’?”

She turned sharply to face him, eyes wide, cheeks warm.

“You are weaponizing affection.”

“Aye.”

“That is unethical.”

He leaned in again, forehead resting against hers.

“Ye’re still standin’ here.”

She hated that he was right.

She tried one last time to reclaim control.

“Foxy, if you do not cease immediately, I will—”

He kissed her properly.

Slow.

Gentle.

Not teasing this time.

Her hands came up instinctively, gripping his jacket.

When he pulled back, she was breathless and very, very quiet.

“…I have forgotten what I was going to say,” she admitted.

He smiled so softly it almost hurt.

“Good.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then, very quietly, she muttered:

“…You may continue.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Permission?”

She looked away, mortified. “This conversation is over.”

He leaned in and whispered one last thing into her ear:

“Ye look real pretty when ye give up.”

She melted.

Actually melted.

She leaned into him fully this time, forehead against his chest.

“…This is deeply unfair.”

He wrapped his arms around her immediately, holding her close.

“Aye,” he said fondly. “But ye like it.”

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

Just once.

And Foxy kissed her again — uninterrupted.

She leaned into him, forehead pressed to his chest, breathing slower now — or at least trying to.

“This is deeply unfair,” she repeated, muffled slightly against him.

Foxy’s arms tightened around her, chin resting lightly atop her head.

“Aye,” he murmured fondly. “But ye like it.”

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

Just once.

That was his cue.

She lifted her head again, clearly attempting to reassert control. Her spine straightened. Her expression smoothed back into something dignified.

“I would like to formally state,” she began carefully, “that this interaction has exceeded reasonable parameters and—”

Foxy kissed her.

Again.

Mid-sentence.

She let out a soft, frustrated noise into the kiss before she could stop herself.

He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Sorry, love. Ye were sayin’?”

She inhaled. Slowly. Determined.

“I was saying,” she resumed, enunciating carefully, “that you are deliberately interfering with my ability to—”

Kiss.

This one was brief. Almost innocent.

She stared at him, blinking.

“…Speak,” she finished faintly.

“Aye,” he said. “That’s the idea.”

She pointed at him accusingly. “You cannot keep doing that.”

“Watch me.”

She opened her mouth to argue—

—and he leaned in close, lips barely brushing her cheek as he whispered:

“Yer mouth makes the prettiest shapes when ye’re tryin’ to be serious.”

Her entire body stiffened.

“…That was unnecessary information.”

He didn’t move away.

Instead, he shifted just enough so his lips hovered near her ear again.

“I can feel how tense ye get,” he murmured. “Like yer bracin’ for impact.”

She swallowed.

“You should not be narrating my internal state.”

“Oh?” he whispered. “Feels accurate, though.”

His breath brushed her ear again — slow, intentional.

“Especially now.”

She made a very quiet sound of distress.

“This is… harassment.”

He kissed just below her ear.

Light. Barely there.

“Affectionate harassment.”

She tried again. Poor thing.

“If you do not allow me to complete a single thought, I will be forced to conclude that—”

Kiss.

This time to the corner of her mouth.

Not fully.

Just close enough to feel unfinished.

Her eyes fluttered shut despite herself.

“—that you are enjoying this far too much,” she finished weakly.

Foxy laughed softly. “Oh, I am.”

She opened her eyes, exasperated. “You are impossible.”

He leaned in again, whispering so quietly she almost missed it.

“Say impossible again.”

“I will not.”

He kissed her cheek.

“Say it.”

“I refuse.”

He kissed her jaw.

Her breath stuttered.

“…You are impossible.”

He smiled and kissed her lips — quick, decisive.

“Thank ye.”

She sagged slightly against him, defeated.

“…I surrender.”

He tilted his head. “Fully?”

She nodded, mortified. “I am no longer attempting verbal communication.”

“Good choice.”

She frowned faintly. “That was not meant to encourage further—”

Kiss.

Longer this time.

When he pulled back, she stared at him, stunned into silence.

“…You interrupted my surrender,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he said gently, thumb brushing her cheek. “Didn’t want ye changin’ yer mind.”

She leaned into his touch again, voice small.

“…You are very distracting.”

He bent down, whispering right into her ear one last time:

“And ye sound adorable when ye admit it.”

She gave up completely.

No more words.

Just her arms sliding around his waist and her face hiding against his chest again.

Foxy held her there, victorious — and very, very pleased.

It's also up on AO3 if you wanna check out the old chapters:D

It happens hours after the Pizzaplex goes quiet.

FC can’t sleep. His processor keeps replaying fragments of that conversation—Foxy’s voice sharp with fear, words flung like knives because knives are easier than grief.

He sits on the edge of the couch, knees pulled to his chest, staring at nothing.

Puppet notices.

She always does.

She approaches softly, careful not to spook him. Her presence is warm in a way that isn’t physical—like a blanket laid over exposed wires.

“You’re running hot. What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He presses his thumb into a nick in the couch fabric, worrying it like a scab.

“Can I ask you something… without you getting mad?”

That sentence alone twists something in her chest.

She sits beside him, close enough that their shoulders touch.

“I won’t get mad.”

He swallows.

“During that thing… with the Stitchwraith. Why did Dad say I was a mistake?”

The world tilts.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just enough that Puppet feels like she’s standing on a floor that’s about to give way.

“He— he didn’t mean—”

“I know. Everyone keeps saying that.”

A beat goes by.

“But you don’t say stuff like that unless it’s somewhere inside you.”

That’s when she realizes this isn’t a child fishing for reassurance.

This is someone trying to understand why love sometimes sounds like cruelty.

She feels the old memory claw its way up without permission.

She smells smoke.

Not real smoke. Memory-smoke. The kind that lives in code and nightmares.

Her father’s workshop door. The lock clicking. His voice shaking—not with rage, but with fear.

“You shouldn’t have gone near it.”

“You never listen.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

She remembers heat crawling up her legs. Paint blistering. Wood cracking.

She remembers screaming for him.

She remembers him screaming back.

She blinks hard, forcing herself back into the present.

FC is watching her now—really watching. He notices when adults go quiet like this.

“Puppet…?”

Her hands are trembling.

She doesn’t pull them away.

“My dad used to say things like that too.”

FC stiffens.

“Like… Dad did?”

She exhales. Slow. Measured. Like she’s defusing a bomb with her bare hands.

“He loved me. I believe that. But he was terrified of losing control. And when people are scared like that… they say things they can’t take back.”

Her voice drops.

“He locked me in a room once. There was a fire.”

FC’s eyes widen. Not horror-movie wide—just quietly devastated.

“Did he save you?”

She shakes her head.

“No.”

Silence.

It stretches. Heavy. Sacred.

“Then… how is Dad different?”

That question cuts—because it’s the one she’s always been afraid FC would ask someday.

She turns fully toward him.

“Because Foxy broke himself trying to keep you alive.”

FC frowns.

“When your dad thought you were gone—when the Stitchwraith had you—he said those things because admitting how much he loves you would’ve destroyed him in that moment.”

She cups FC’s face gently, thumbs warm against his cheeks.

“My father hurt me to protect himself.

Foxy hurt himself trying to protect you.”

FC’s eyes shimmer.

“So… he didn’t mean it.”

“No.” soft, fierce. “He meant the opposite.”

What she doesn’t tell FC is this:

Foxy’s words reopened a wound she pretended had scarred over.

Because a part of her—small and ugly and afraid—heard those words and thought:

What if this is how it starts?

What if love always turns into fire?

She hates herself for even thinking it.

She pulls FC into her arms before that thought can take root.

He clings to her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear.

“If Dad ever said something like that to you…”

Her grip tightens.

“He wouldn’t survive it.”

Not a joke. Not a threat.

A fact.

Foxy learns about the conversation by accident.

He hears Puppet crying in the bathroom at 3 a.m.

That alone sends him into a cold panic.

He knocks once. Opens the door without waiting.

She’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled in, hands tangled in her hair like she’s trying to ground herself.

“Hey— hey— what happened?”

She looks up at him.

And for the first time since the Stitchwraith incident…

She doesn’t protect him from the truth.

“FC asked why you said those things.”

Foxy frowns. "What things?"

"To the Stitchwraith.."

Foxy goes pale.

“I— I didn’t—”

“I know.”

Her voice is steady, but her eyes are wrecked.

“But it reminded me of my father a bit.” She said hugging her knees closer.

That word hits harder than any accusation.

Foxy drops to his knees in front of her.

“I would never—”

“I know.” Her voice breaking a little. “That’s what makes it hurt.”

She presses her forehead to his chest.

“Please don’t ever let fear speak for you again. Not to him. Not to me.”

Foxy wraps his arms around her like he’s afraid she’ll turn to ash.

“I swear. On everything I am. I’d tear my own voice box out before I ever let him think he wasn’t wanted.”

She believes him.

Hiii Everyone it's been a while hasn't it?

I missed you all🥹

So I did wanna talk about something but before that I wanna say that I have two weeks of midterms right now and I start on Tuesday so I'll probably be uploading the fics that I wrote during exams so yeah stay tuned🤗

I got like..a weird comment in my AO3 fic

I'm gonna be honest I didn't know what s3x offender is until like I looked it up and I just want to say like...I literally turned 18 a few months ago? Like..and I'm definitely not a predator..so like..yeah I don't know how to feel about this comment and my socials are idk not that wild so..idk?

I did report it as spam cause I didn't know how to reply or even what to do with it so yea..I don't know how to feel about that

I guess I got my first hate comment🥳

“I Would Walk a Thousand Miles Just To Get To You”

I'm still not back to 100% but I managed to scrape together enough braincells to make this because today is the anniversary of Puppet’s death 😭

(Yes ik I'm a day late)

I was going to write something for this day, but I will save it for another :3