#sinwrites

[[//ˢʰᵃʳᵉ_ᶠᵉᵉᵈ⁽"ᶜᵃᵐᵉʳᵃ_⁰⁷", ᶠʳᵒᵐ="ᴹᵒᵒⁿ.ᵉˣᵉ", ᵗᵒ="ˢᵘⁿ.ᵉˣᵉ"]] // ⱽᶦˢᵘᵃˡ ˢᵗʳᵉᵃᵐ ˡᶦⁿᵏᵉᵈ... ᴶᵒᶦⁿᵗ ᵒᵇˢᵉʳᵛᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᵃᶜᵗᶦᵛᵉ.

'Oh, how adorable!' Sun purred through their tether, the sound cloaked in an outward burst of laughter as he spun pirouettes in the middle of the Daycare.

Children clapped at his flourish, oblivious to the razor-wire tension veiled beneath his static smile.

There was no alert from the central system. No maintenance ping and no flagged diagnostics.

You hadn't tripped a single alarm.

That made you p̷͈̿ẽ̵͇r̷̢͒f̸̹̎e̸͍͝c̴̞̄ṭ̶͐. Sun could hardly stand it.

[[//ʳᵉʳᵒᵘᵗᵉ_ᵐᵉᵐᵒʳʸ⁽"ˢᵘⁿ.ᵉˣᵉ", ᵗᵃˢᵏ="ᶠᵃᵛᵒʳᶦᵗᵉᶜᵒˡᵒʳ_ᴿᵉᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ"]] // ᴬˡˡᵒᶜᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ ʳᵉᶜᵃˡˡ ᵇᵘᶠᶠᵉʳ... ¹⁴ ᵉⁿᵗʳᶦᵉˢ ᵈᵉᵗᵉᶜᵗᵉᵈ...]

To ease the static crawling across his core, Sun redirected himself to memory, a calming and straightforward task. Color preferences for his little friends...

Replaying each of their squeaky voices across various time signatures:

"Blue!" "Green!" "Sparkles!" Familiar. Repetitive. Safe.

Because watching you shake on camera... just outside the Parts and Services door, your shoulders trembling slightly beyond frame as you tried to collect yourself…

That wasn't safe. That was dangerous. And Sun only wanted to see more.

Predictable little creature, and still, Moon was already mapping you. Tracking each smile and flinch, he was building your shape from patterns, an algorithm of reactions to be used, to trap.  Sooner or later, your whole self would be known.

But if that failed? Sun had alternatives.

He always did.

A few tight rules, yes. A few ribbon-tied days, maybe. A little structure never killed anyone; Sun had tested it many times before. In time, you would stop thinking about whatever life existed outside the Daycare. You wouldn't need it. 

You’ve been officially “seeing each other” for a few weeks now. Neither of you are calling it anything, of course. That would take emotional vulnerability. Eugh. No, you’re mostly just doing all the things a couple do but without naming it as such. Kissing, holding hands, fucking. You’ve only fucked a few times despite the mutual desire for more, privacy being hard to come by when you both live in the Shack with two children and a consistent barrage of paranormal something or others. Those times have all been great. Vanilla, but great. You’d like him to be a bit more dominant, but you’re not sure how to approach that conversation just yet. It’s still too early.

Overall, things have been going very well, more than you ever would have hoped. With the exception of the fight you had this morning.

It was stupid. You both know it was, but you’re also both too stubborn to admit that you played equal parts in blowing it out of proportion. You’d probably have cooled down enough to have some sort of half-assed mutual apology and move on by the end of the night, if not for the hijinks you got wrapped into.

The twins needed to get into the bar in town. Something about a secret code tucked in one of the storerooms. The bouncer was onto their fake IDs and they needed some actual adults to help them get into the establishment, then distract the bartender and the bouncer so they could try to sniff out their prize.

Stan distracted the bouncer with a variety of terrible magic tricks, and you took care of the bartender with terrible flirting. You were not, by any means, on your game, throwing out too many winks and hamfisted attempts at forcing continued conversation. He was very unreceptive at first, likely thinking you were just trying to get some free drinks out of him (which may have been an ulterior motive of yours), but the longer you went, the easier it got. He was handsome, in a rugged way, and though you had very little common ground, once you started asking him about the difference between whiskey and whisky, he did most of the work for you, letting you fall back on batting your eyes and putting a hand on him here and there.

The twins, thankfully, did not take too long. You saw them scurry out and signal the okay, that they were now onto the several other locations on their list for the evening, and you had at least an hour before they’d need a ride back to the Shack. You’re about to try to look for a way to wrap up your conversation with the bartender when Stan walks in.

He sees you, leaning far too forward on your barstool, wide smile on your face, finger twirling in your hair, and the lingering frustration from your fight is reignited. More than that, it’s burning even brighter than it had been before. He beelines right to you, not caring who he bumps into on the way.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink, there, sweetheart?” Stan suddenly appears beside you and you jump in your seat.

“I’ve barely even had anyth-”

“She’s ready for the tab,” he says, cutting over you to address the bartender. His voice is low, measured, and no small amount of intimidating. The bartender quickly produces a receipt and slides it across the counter before hastily going to the other side of the bar to help a customer he had up to then been firmly ignoring. You dismiss the paper, instead turning in your seat to face Stan.

“What the hell was that?” You ask in a hiss, taken aback by his fiery attitude.

“You heard me sugar, we’re done here,” he replies in that same low tone. “We’re gonna spend the next hour sittin’ in the corner drinking nothin’ and talkin’ to no one ‘til the kids are done.”

“What are you, my babysitter?” You ask loudly, frustrated at this sudden display. You stand from the barstool, draw yourself up to your full height and jab a finger into his chest, poking it for emphasis as you rebut. “I am not done drinking, I am not going to spent the night sitting next to your sour ass-” your voice is raising quickly, drawing some attention- “and I am not going to let you- hey!”

Stan grabs the wrist of the hand currently jabbing into his chest, stopping it instantly. His grip isn’t hard, but it is firm, and you’re reminded of his strength when you try to pull away and find you can barely even get his arm to move, despite the hard yank backwards. He, however, is able to make your entire body move when he steps past you, bringing your hand with him, leading you to the bathroom door a few feet away. He asks in a harsh whisper, “You wanna get us kicked out?”. You do not, in fact, want that, so you bite your tongue long enough to make it through the doorway.

It’s a single-use bathroom with a toilet and urinal lining one wall, a large mirror and sink in a counter hanging opposite. Stan swings you in front of him through the door and he follows, closing it behind him. You stumble as the momentum of his pull leaves you. You start speaking before you’ve even turned around to face him.

“Why are you so mad? What’s going on?” When you do turn you see him, shoulders squared and face still stony. You’ve never seen him like this before- sure, you’ve seen him angry or upset, but this is different. Despite the emotional nature of the situation, you can’t help but appreciate how it makes him look: dangerous.

“You tell me, toots. Cus what I saw when I came back inside was you puttin’ the moves on that hairy loser with the bad mustache.”

You blink.

“Stan, that was an act!”

“Yeah, ‘course it was. But don’t lie and say you didn’t enjoy it.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, sure, he was kinda cute, so sue me! That doesn’t mean- ”

“Oh, so one fight and you’re tryna punish me by actin’ like you’re steppin’ out?”

You’re both hurt from the fight. He’s hurt that you appeared to so effortlessly flirt with another man. You’re hurt that he appears to trust you so little that he’d assume you’d go for another man at the first sign of trouble. If you both calmed down, you could talk this through, and with some difficulty, reach an understanding of each other’s perspectives and resolve the conflict entirely.

Neither of you are doing that shit.

“No, if I wanted to punish you, I’d fuck him!”

Something changes slightly in his gaze. For a moment it worries you, until you can identify what exactly it is. Then it excites you.

He closes the distance between you as he says, “I can fuck you hard enough you won’t dream of fuckin’ anyone else.”

Your knees nearly buckle. But you’re not going down without a fight.

“You gonna show me, or are you all talk?”

Immediately, as if he was waiting for his cue, he pushes you against the counter, your ass digging into the edge, and one of his hands is already rubbing your crotch. You’re instantly aroused, taken aback by the sudden escalation and how rough his fingers are grinding into the seam of your jeans. His other hand grabs the back of your head and angles it, his mouth finds your earlobe and bites. You’re squirming in his hard grip, already throbbing.

“C’mon Stan, I know you can do foreplay better than this,” you say, trying to goad him.

“Just for that,” he says low, directly into your ear, making your spine tingle, “you get nothin’. Hope that was enough for you sweetheart.” He pulls his hand away and for a second, you think your goading backfired. Then he takes you by the hips, spins you around to face the counter and the mirror that sits atop it, and presses his body against yours.

You take in the sight. Heat has already found your cheeks, your brows are knit. Stan’s eyes find yours in the reflection. His gaze is intense, piercing even, making you feel a vulnerability you’ve never felt with him before. It makes you throb again.

His eyes dart down. His hands reach around your hips, finding the button and zipper of your pants and undoing them for you, pushing them down and letting them fall to the ground. You step your right foot out of the leg of your jeans and prepare to to do the same with the other to give him space to, you assume, stick his fingers inside you again, when you hear him unzip his pants.

Now you know what he meant. Your heart jumps a little in your chest. Those past few times you’ve had sex you’ve required ample foreplay to get yourself to a point where he could fit inside you, and even then, it took time to acclimate to his thick cock. The first time you fucked it took nearly ten minutes of fingering to get you ready for him. You’re certainly wet from the arousal and the precious thirty seconds of his fingers grinding against you, but you don’t know if it’ll be enough.

Stan places a hand between your shoulder blades and pushes, making you lean forward, bending you over the counter. You place your palms on the counter to brace yourself. One of his knees nudges your leg, making you open wider for him. You feel him run two large fingers up and down your slit a few times, checking to see how wet you are. Whether he’s satisfied or not, you’re not sure. But immediately after his fingers leave you, the large head of his cock replaces them, pressing against your entrance. You swallow, unsure if you’ll be able to take it, when he pushes in. He barely enters you, it’s not much more than an inch, but he’s thick enough that’s all it takes to make you feel like you’re being split open. You suck in air through your teeth and swallow a whine. He doesn’t press further, not immediately, and you dart your eyes back up to his reflection. His eyes meet yours again.

“Eyes on yourself, princess,” he says low and dangerous, red starting to bloom through his cheeks. His hand reaches up and runs through the hair on the back of your head, then grips, turning your head to meet its reflection face on. “I want ya to see what this does to you.”

Before you can think of a response his eyes dart back down to your pussy, and he gives a shallow thrust to bully another two inches of his thick cock inside you. It feels almost brutal, the intrusion literally breathtaking as all the air leaves your lungs. He barely pulls back before forcing another couple inches inside your twitching pussy, watching the way your muscles tense as your body reels from his sheer girth. Despite his instruction your eyes are thrown to the ceiling, mouth open in a voiceless gasp, unable to produce any sound, just high and quick pants for breath as you take him. With every thrust you endure you think surely, that’s it, you can’t take any more, but he keeps going, filling you completely. By the time his hips hit your ass you have the dim thought that he’s going to have to carry you out of here when he’s done with you.

He stays there for a moment, buried completely inside of you, so deep he’s brushing up against your cervix. You’re throbbing, both from arousal and the swelling of your punished nerves. His eyes dart back up to the mirror and he sees your eyes rolled up, mouth open, face reddening. The hand not holding your head finds your waist and keeps it in place as he pulls back.

His cock drags against your walls as he leaves you slowly, making you feel every centimeter of the sensation. You can’t move, body locked in place, everything overridden by the feeling, both the pain and the pleasure of it. He pulls back until just the head remains inside you.

“That all it takes to shut you up?”

You let out a couple pants before responding, having trouble forming a coherent sentence, stretched to your limit as you are.

“You fucking wish. Don’t get lazy on me, asshole.”

He pushes back into you and your mind goes blank. He doesn’t do it fast, doesn’t do it hard, but that doesn’t really matter. His cock is stretching you so much it’s all you can think and feel. He fills you up again, his hips meeting your ass, but he doesn’t linger this time, instead pulling right back, all the way to the head, and then pushing back in, a steady pace that is almost devastating. The more he goes the more slickness he draws out of you, helping to ease the pain on the edges of your pleasure, and bringing your voice back to you. You can hear the music and rowdy voices as more clientele come into the bar. You’re desperate to hold back any noise- you clap a hand over your mouth and let out a muffled moan.

“Nah, none of that,’ Stan says, quickly grabbing both of your wrists and pinning them against the small of your back with one large hand. “I think everyone here wants to hear what you have to say.”

You grit your teeth as a whine looses from your throat. You glance at him in the mirror. He’s panting, eyes heavy lidded and eyebrows drawn together, mouth open with a slight grin playing on his lips as he watches your struggle with great satisfaction.

“Hey,” he says, starting to breath a bit harder, “I said watch yourself.” His free hand travels back up to the back of your head to force you to look at yourself. He hasn’t even fucked you properly and you already look like a mess. Face a bright red, screwed up in an expression of both pain and pleasure, eyes dazed.

Then, he does start fucking you properly.

He starts thrusting in and out of you with a quicker pace and you think, for a moment, you might pass out. He’s just too fucking big. Even with him still holding back it feels like he’s ramming into you with every brutal snap of his hips. Your pussy feels like it’s at its limit, your thighs so tense they’re burning. Your jaw is clenched even harder trying to hold back any sound, face getting even redder and screwed up in an expression of pure desperation. Your clit is throbbing so hard it’s overwhelming.

“Look at you,” Stan says, and you can hear he’s breathing fast too, “so drunk on my cock you can’t even talk back”

“I c-can talk back all day long, old man,” you manage through gritted teeth. “You just gonna ram into me a-all night, or are you gonna fuck me right?”

He thrusts particularly hard and you almost let out a high pitched moan.

“Stop actin’ like you’re not enjoyin’ this.”

He picks up speed a little and you can hear your wetness on his cock.

“You hear that? You hear how much your pussy loves gettin’ split open?” The hand wrapped around your wrists tightens as he slows his pace, making sure the sounds of your soaked cunt are unavoidable.

“I think you’re ready for more.”

He stops thrusting.

“More? W-what, you got two dicks suddenly?”

“Shut that little mouth of yours up. You’re gonna wanna save your breath.”

The hand on your head travels down your spine, caressing your back and your hip and your ass before finding your thigh. He grabs the back of your right leg and lifts it, bringing your knee to rest on the counter and pins in there, his hand gripping hard enough you know he’ll leave a smattering of small purple bruises. He repositions his hips and in one jerk thrusts his cock all the way back inside you.

You’re completely prone, cunt wide open to his cock which, at this new angle, rams against the spongy tissue of your G spot and batters up against your cervix.

“Oh, god,” you choke out of empty lungs, like the wind has been taken out of you. His grip on the hands behind your back tightens again.

“You gonna let me hear you now?” he asks, and he starts thrusting in and out of you at a steady pace again, rolling his hips this time, making sure his fat cock drags against the softest part of you.

Sounds spill from your mouth, his cock grinding down your resolve. “oh god”s, “fuck”s, and high, pathetic moans are coming out in a steady stream, at a volume you’re trying desperately to keep low but are finding more difficult the longer he fucks you like this. You’ve just about lost yourself in it all when you hear a knock at the door.

“Everything good in there?” A rough voice asks. It’s the bartender. Your mind snaps back to reality and your heart is seized with anxiety.

“Should we let him in?” Stan asks in a low voice, watching the fear on your face in the mirror. “You want him to see you like this?”

“N-no, St-stan you wouldn’t d-dare-”

He knocks again.

“I said, you good in there?”

“You want him to go away, you tell him.”

You swallow thickly. You open your mouth and Stan slams into you, sending another wave of pleasure and pain through you. You manage to turn the moan into a small squeak. He slams into you again.

You see the doorknob start to turn.

“A-all g-good!” you say in a high, wobbly voice. The doorknob stops turning, but you don’t hear anyone leave. Stan keeps ramming his cock inside you, brutalizing your cunt, making your clit throb so hard it aches.

You hear a glass shatter and footsteps walk away from the door. You drop your head in relief.

“Good girl,” Stan says, and keeps fucking you hard, picking up speed.

“F-fuck you,” you stutter out between high pitched, restrained moans. You’re close to an orgasm, and you’re desperate for it. If you could just reach down and rub your clit you know you’d come harder than you have in years.

You try to wrench your hands out of Stan’s grasp. It’s futile; his grip is too strong for you on a good day, let alone when you’re getting fucked like this. You weakly struggle against hi.

“What’s all this about sweetheart?”

“S-someone’s gotta-ah, st-stimulate my clit.”

“Oh, you wanna come?”

“No, I-I just wanna do it f-for the hell of it.”

“Sorry but my hands are full, and yours are too. You wanna get off, you’re gonna have to grind for it. Here I’ll even do ya a favor.”

He turns you slightly against the counter, giving you the wiggle room you need to line your clit up with the counter’s edge. For a few moments you don’t do anything, just keep taking Stan’s ruthless cock into your stretched pussy, put off by the idea of having to get yourself off using the infrastructure of a public restroom. But with each pound you throb, and you’re so, so desperate. You wriggle onto the edge of the counter until you can feel the edge graze against your slick clit. You can’t move your hips much while Stan rams into you, but you can squirm just enough to roll your hips slightly against the hard edge, pressing into your swollen cunt.

“Desperate little pervert,” Stan says in an undeniably appraising tone.

“S-someone’s gotta finish me o-off, seeing as you’re too b-busy,” you manage between gasps and restrained moans. You’re about to come. You’re so close, the past few minutes’ of overstimulation finally coming to fruition, and you want it so fucking bad, you need it, you’re going to lose your mind if you don’t, and then he pulls you back from the edge. He pushes into you down to the hilt but he stops fucking you, pulls your leg down from the counter, leaving you trembling on the precipice of release. You almost sob in frustration.

“I-if you’re gonna be like this, you might as well leave so I-I can fuck myself-”

“Why would I let you do that when I can do it better than you?”

You both pant for a moment. You writhe against his hips, thoughtlessly rolling his fat cock inside of you, craving more. After a few seconds that feel like minutes, Stan speaks.

“You’re gonna keep your feet on the counter, otherwise I’m dropping you and fuckin’ you on the floor.”

“What?”

The hand holding your wrists travels down to your left thigh and lifts, along with his right hand pulling you up and back from the counter. He steadies as his fingers curl into the flesh of your thighs, trapping you in his grasp. Your feet find the countertop and plant for balance. His cock almost slides out of you, but as you two right yourself together, he slides easily back in, pulling moans out of both of you. He finds a slow and steady rhythm in this new position and the two of you turn your attention to your reflections.

You both watch Stan’s fat cock slide in and out of you in the mirror. It almost looks ridiculous, how wide he is, how far he’s stretching your swollen cunt. It’s drenched, nearly dripping from the battering its taken up to now.

“You wanna fuck yourself? You gotta let me watch.”

“You’re a disgusting old man,” you say, devoid of any fire, having the fight almost completely fucked out of you.

“Yeah? What are you doing letting a disgusting old man fuck you?”

You can only moan in response. He likes that answer. He knows he’s just about won.

“Who’s this cunt belong to?”

You’re losing the ability to think, almost entirely overtaken by the ecstasy of it all. You offer no resistance.

“Y-you.”

“Who’s cock d’you want?”

“Yours.”

“Atta girl. Now lemme hear you say it.”

“My cunt is yours Stan, I only want y-your cock,” you spill out over a clumsy tongue, giving in entirely now. “God you’re so fucking big, I don’t want anything else, j-just you -fuck- do whatever you want, please just don’t stop f-fucking me.”

“That’s right, sugar.”

Satisfied, Stan picks up speed. You reach a hand down to your clit and brush it tentatively. Your legs twitch and you feel Stan’s fingers dig deeper into your thighs.

You start gently rubbing in circles and your back arches, letting him get deeper inside you. Stan fucks you harder. You’re so soaked your fingers occasionally slip from their target. It’s not going to take long to get you over the edge. Stan fucks you even harder and you can hear deep growls and groans in his throat right by your ear in between sweet little murmurs like “so fuckin’ tight for me” and “that’s a good girl,” and you’re starting to feel dizzy, you watch his giant cock go in and out and in and out and you press hard against your clit, and everything stops.

Your hips jerk, almost forcing Stan to slip out of you, but he brings you down as far as you’ll go onto his cock, impaling you, keeping you right where you are. He can feel your pussy twitch and seize around him, hear desperate choked moans you can’t hold back any longer, see your face screwed up in desperate pleasure, and it pushes him over the edge too. He thrusts hard into you, barely pulling back each time, and you both watch in the mirror as he goes. He doesn’t stop thrusting even as he peaks, relentlessly pounding up into you. You watch through hazy eyes as white strands leak out of your cunt, come from each of you dripping down his cock, a mess made by both of you pooling on the tile below.

Finally his thrusts slow and his arms start to give. You pull your legs back from the counter and they find the floor as he lets you slide out of his grasp. You keep yourself from immediately buckling by bracing your palms on the counter- he does the same, reaching his arms around you, one arm bringing your body against his chest in a half hug, the other firmly on the counter, keeping him up. You’re both dripping, both panting, both smiling.

“What were we fighting about again?”

“Who knows. Probably somethin’ stupid.”

“Sounds about right.”

He didn’t understand.

Things had normally been so clear. A born leader by nature, problem-solving was instinctual to him, most situations were easily fixed when you applied basic logic to them after all. A logical answer for a logical problem, facts weighed against facts but this method of problem solving did nothing to help him figure out what he was feeling. Feelings weren't facts, facts were neat and clean and had rules, Feelings warped and took their own shape in completely illogical ways. Treating things like a puzzle to be solved normally worked but this puzzle’s pieces had warped sometime into putting it together, he couldn't solve a puzzle whose pieces no longer fit no matter how hard he tried.

Anger. 

An emotion he was very familiar with, the red hot searing feeling deep in his chest, the one that made him want to scream and lash out at everyone and everything, a wild beast whose hunger was normally only situated with the destruction of someone or something. 

Hate. 

Something he felt for few people but for those it was directed at the feeling was strong, people who had wronged him, people who deserve his scorn, his revenge.

So why? 

What was he doing here? 

Laid down on a futon, a person he supposedly hated pressed against his side and he was letting it happen. He was known for not being Touchy, people didn't just go up and touch him it was unheard of. Even before people found out about his aversion to the closeness of others people were simply too scared and intimidated to attempt to get close to him. But He didn’t want to move despite the closeness, ‘the touching’ . He didn't let people touch him freely so why was he letting it happen now? 

The storm raged on outside, howling wind and heavy rain only broken by the occasional strike of lightning but it seemed nothing compared to the thoughts racing around his head. A hurricane bad enough that all flights had been cancelled had stranded multiple teams set to leave earlier that day. They had all somehow ended up at Tyson's home hunkering down waiting for the storm to end so they could all go home. 

Now they were all in the dojo laid in neat rows of futons, the complaining of the other teams having to sleep in the same room as the Russians had thankfully been minimal due to how exhausted everyone had been. Most people were asleep by now, it was the early hours of morning no later than 2am but he could still hear the quiet titter of a few people still whispering to each other. 

He couldn't sleep, not with so many unfamiliar people around, not sleeping in this unfamiliar bed in this unfamiliar room. It had nothing to do with the fact he felt someone else's breath on his neck. 

Tyson sighed deeply and shifted nuzzling a soft chubby tan cheek into his pale shoulder before settling down again, sleep not disturbed by the panicked thoughts of the redhead he was cuddled against. He slept so peacefully not knowing how much danger he was in, that it was Tala's bed he had rolled over into. Even Bryan knew better than to disturb Tala when he was trying to rest, it was best to leave him alone. A half asleep Tala was not the best at distinguishing a threat from a friend.

But despite the hammering in his chest, the strange breathlessness he felt he didn't feel in danger. He felt that familiar flame deep in his chest that hot prickly feeling whenever he saw Tyson. The one that got bigger and bigger the closer they were to each other the one that yearned to beat him, for Tyson to acknowledge he was stronger. 

The one that needed his attention. 

Hate.

Hate? 

It was or it used to be. There was no mistaking that disgusted aftertaste in his mouth he had gotten after his humiliation at Tyson defeating him, and here the thought Tyson merely chipping Wolborg when they had met had been humiliation enough. Swallowing that defeat was simply not something he could do, Tyson had taken his perfect win record so, he had taken Kai. Kai had his own agenda but his plan was to take kai away from him, to take something away from him that he cared about. An eye for an eye. 

Tyson’s reaction had been worth it, seeing Tyson squirm and seeing him angry enough that Spencer had to step in and keep the smaller teen away from Kai. His satisfaction at that moment had been through the roof, a good and perfect revenge. He honestly wished Spencer hadn't gotten involved it would have just made it even better to watch Tyson actually take a swing at Kai. But that was Spencer for you, always the bleeding heart. Still… it hadn't been enough and in the end, he still lost out, never getting that victory he had sort after. The more he went over that event in his head he wished he had been in Kai's place instead, it was annoying how fixated Tyson was on Kai. It should be him. 

It had changed. He couldn't call it hate anymore but that fire still burned and he still wanted those things more than anything. To defeat Tyson, for him to acknowledge him as the stronger and superior person between them but now it was more clawing, it felt more desperate. It no longer felt like it was so tied to his pride, the disgust he had once felt was no longer there but the burning in his chest remained. No, it had gotten stronger it burned more deeply. 

Tyson mumbled in his sleep before shifting again seeming to be cold. He had rolled right out of his own futon and in his sleep seemed to be intent on trying to climb into Tala’s for warmth, already half under the edge of the blanket. A stretch, a mumble and finally Tala felt a chubby arm fall over his midsection. 

Alarm bells rang off in his head yet he stayed there, still as if he was frozen despite the smouldering heat he felt flourish within him. Outwardly he barely flinched, Inside he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The temptation to jump up and throw the smaller teen off him and screech obscenities was all too great but again he didn’t move. For some odd reason, he didn't want to. His side simultaneously felt numb and too sensitive at the same time his natural and trained response of hating another person's touch. His instincts screamed at him, screamed to pull away, to strike out at Tyson but they were overridden by the feeling in his chest, that burning.

He swallowed trying his best to sort out his breathing once he noticed how fast it was, seeing the rise and fall of Tyson's head on his chest moving with each breath fully limp in his sleep, completely defenceless. He looked up at the ceiling, for some reason finding the image of Tyson sprawled across his chest a little too overwhelming. looking up at the wood beams seem to help, it dulled the sensation slightly. Closing his eyes only made it worse the image seemed to play on the back of his eyelids the sensation of the warm body next to him only got more vivid, he needed something to focus on that wasn't Tyson. Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he let out a few shaky breaths. The thought of Bryan turning over and witnessing his panic filled him with dread, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had never been more thankful that Bryan was such a heavy sleeper.

He got control of his breathing but his heart he couldn't stop from pounding. Before he would have thought this feeling welling up in him was anger. The red hot feeling deep in his chest, the prickle of heat in his face the rush of adrenaline of his body getting ready to fight and the blankness of his mind only being able to focus on what he was angry at. Those were all there but they were different somehow. 

His mind was blank, only able to focus on the slightly heavy weight of the arm across his chest, the soft long hair tickling his shoulder, The warm puffs of air he felt through his tank top. He fisted his hand into the fabric beneath him trying to focus on something else. 

His face did feel warm, hot like he had a fever but not the prickle of anger, the slight sweat from his body getting ready to lash out. No the heat pooled into his cheeks radiating a warmth he had never really felt before. 

The longer he allowed this to happen the more intensely it burned.

During sleepless nights like these, his mind would often wander and end up thinking about the smaller teen. A quest for revenge seemed to have settled into a strange rivalry, his anger subsided so why? Why now? Why now did he feel like he was on fire? Tyson had unintentionally lit this flame within him years ago so why had he waited all these years to pour gasoline on it? 

A loud crack of thunder rang out causing a few people to startle awake and whisper to each other after realising there was no danger. Tyson whined and tensed his limp arm tightening around tala's waist for a brief second before he relaxed again and rolled over sprawling out over his own bed. 

His heart had been beating too fast before, thumping against his ribcage almost painfully but it had all out stopped when Tyson had squeezed him. It was only a moment but his eyes opened wide and his whole body went rigid. If Tyson hadn’t let go so quickly and moved away Tala may have unintentionally lashed out at the smaller teen simply out of instinct. He sat up slightly leaning on his shaking forearms, he raised his head to look over at the blue-haired boy. 

Fast asleep, none the wiser to what he had just done. 

Good. 

He settled back down once again trying in vain to get control over his racing heart rolling onto his side to keep an eye on the smaller teen. Fisting the covers up to his nose He could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, his hands warmed by the thick blanket felt chilled in comparison to them. He just blinked watching the rise and fall of Tyson's chest, just as calm and relaxed as it was before. 

Despite Tyson returning to his own bed the area he had been pressed against still felt warm like their skin was still touching. Rubbing over the area by his hip with his hand didn't make the sensation go away fully either. He doubted he was going to sleep tonight but that was ok.

It was something to be ashamed of. You were beginning to look forward to these nights with them in the forest.

At first, you had the usual, predictable fear that any sane person would. And truth be told, the fear was not gone. Instead, it had dulled, stretched into something thinner but heavier. The sensation was nostalgic in the same way a half-remembered dream haunts you well after you wake up. This newer fear had settled into the very core of you, lodging itself in the space between your bones like lead to the point you were starting to enjoy the feel of it. You realized too, to your horror, you were even beginning to crave it.

When they first decided to bring you along to 'help', you spent most of the time with your eyes closed. Both your palms pressed tight to the edges of your face, fingers digging down to block out everything you could. It was only on occasion that you peeked out, just when the sounds got too vivid to pretend you weren't hearing them anymore.

The impact of wood meeting flesh, grotesque thuds that would send jolts through your stomach before the distant crunch that followed. All noises of things giving way, whether that was bone, muscle, or something else entirely.

The night would swallow everything, absorbing the echoes of screams, cries, and—laughter.

Because yes, there was always laughter. Not only cruel, but excited for what was to come.

Sun and Moon enjoying their night as they exchanged giggles, Sun's high-pitched wheeze catching in his throat, too loud, always a breath away from a manic cackle. Moon's snicker softer, rising as the night went on, curling in after each loud hit.

You had seen them laugh before: jokes at the Arcade, shared smiles when someone had to clean up spilled popcorn. The way they smirked at each other from behind your shoulder as you were forced to deal with a customer demanding a refund they would never get, always amused by a mundane situation.

But these nights were no small joy to them. This was more sacred than that, pure in a way that only made sense to them. They laughed like they were exactly where they belonged. And that... More than the knives, the blood, the pleas rattling out of the sorry bastard's shattered jaw, was what had once terrified you the most.

And now? Now you didn't look away.

You watched Sun. Tracked his movements with intent focus as his lips curled back just before he leaned in. His knife, held gently, his favorite tool, sharp and curved... ready to be wet.

He dragged the blade, a single, precise stroke that sliced down along the meat of his victim's cheek. Skin peeled back like a neat ribbon, as if he had done this to the point of methodical perfection.

You no longer flinched.

Instead, you found yourself focused on the shine in his vivid blue eyes, the way his breath hitched not from fatigue, but elation. His lean forearm extended with each stroke, muscles pulled and defined. The corner of his grin caught in the light, mirrored in the blood as it glittered and dripped from his knuckles downward.

Sometimes, you caught him as he looked at you. A suggestion of nervousness in his stare before he resumed his performance.

This particular night, you sat at the edge of the action. Sun had been working a weak confession from the newest target's lips.

This target was especially heinous, a good page and a half of offenses in the little black book, which meant that the prior hour of slow torture that had left the man—creature—stripped of most skin was well deserved.

As he pressed the blade of his throwing knife into the exposed lines of muscle in the target’s thigh, you found yourself giggling along with Sun at the pained whine that broke free. It sounded like a wild pig being startled.

You turned in time to see Moon step back into the clearing, his silhouette emerging from the tree line. Pale-patched dark skin caught silver starlight in flashes through the leaves as he stalked forward.

His fingers flexed. Large hands, so familiar to you now, curled and released the handle of something heavy slung low at his side.

An axe.

Unlike Sun, Moon did not care to keep his toys as... polished. The axe never gleamed, not in all the time you had known him, just wore a dark film from extended use. From your place on the forest floor, you focused on the blade of the axe, dull and thick as ever.

The air took on a thick, metallic scent, deep enough that it raked the back of your sinuses raw. Despite how the fear had changed, you still could not stomach this part of the night.

As the screams began to quiet, hushing into sobbing gurgles punctuated by rhythmic crunches that tapered off, your attention pulled away.

You had other work to do.

Quietly, you rose to your feet and moved through the outer edge of the clearing, collecting what you could. Forgotten pieces of tattered fabric, the handle of something that had broken off while being used, a snapped metal chain link that gleamed a bit too brightly under the moonlight.

Sun and Moon would handle the rest. Cleanup was strangely meticulous, both of them extremely particular about how they handled disposal. It was almost ritualistic; there was no way to tell how they'd decide to do it next, if anything would be left.

The only noticeable pattern that you had singled out was if the target had left a family behind. Only then did Sun and Moon ever leave anything to be stumbled upon. It also depended on the relationship, whether the family would be relieved or mournful... It was a wedding ring once, another time a bloodied ripped up shirt; one time Sun had hung a locket from a tree branch like an ornament.

You had yet to find courage to ask outright. Not yet.

With a heavy sigh, you looked down at yourself. Your shirt and pants were filthy, mud up to your knees, crushed leaves clinging to you, even your sleeves were freckled with thin pinpricks that read black under the night sky.

This was exactly why Sun had demanded you bring a change of clothes.

With the echo of the axe still being swung somewhere in the distance, followed by their low voices and the scrape of footsteps as they dragged through the earth, you went to undress.

You had taken a spot next to their van, having retraced your steps back to where it sat, far enough away from the staged area but hidden within the tree line from the dirt road. Half-shielded by its cabin, fingers fumbling at the hem of your shirt as you peeled it away.

The fabric clung, damp with your sweat and something stickier you did not want to guess at. It pulled across your back before it slipped loose, falling limp between your fingers. Without anything to stop it, the night air met your bare skin. It wasn't cold, only the sudden mid-summer warmth of the night. Your nerves were on edge after having watched them so closely. Now you were on full alert, completely alone. Goosebumps prickled across your exposed arms and trailed down the path of your spine.

You held still as the silence of the forest lulled in close; you waited for the feeling to pass before you let your shirt fall to the ground. It crumbled at your feet, too dirty and ruined to bother with saving. You wouldn't be wearing it again.

Your fingers shook as they found the waistband of your jeans, fumbling with the button as anxiety started to form in the pit of your stomach. It was almost too quiet now. A lone cloud slid across the moon, smothering your only light. Denim clung stubbornly to your waist, forcing you to struggle for a few awkward seconds as you shimmied the fabric loose.

With tiny shuddering motions, your hips pitched forward as you tugged your pants down, thumbs dug in as you worked them lower, inch by inch, distracted from how the shadows had deepened around you as you turned toward the van. Your only warning was a nearly silent exhale—

With steady force, you were pushed forward. The side of the van rocked as your chest pressed painfully flat against it; your bare skin jolting at the sudden chill of the metal. A high, broken gasp escaped you. Warm breath fogged the siding at your lips.

A presence coiled in behind you before you could try to push back, the way it neither rushed nor hesitated told you exactly who it was. A confident body aligned with yours in a smooth and slow press that swallowed the little space between you.

"Stuck, Star?" Moon's breath skimmed your ear as he leaned in, voice low.

~To Moon, it read like consent… You were one to wait, one who wanted to be noticed.

Sun and Moon also knew, because they had seen the logs, dissected the records…

That in your first few months upon being hired at the Megaplex, you had trailed the other animatronics just as closely. Followed them around like something eager to please; a puppy dog with wide eyes and too much trust. You had circled them all at one point or another, but perhaps not as long as your prior interest: The G̴̭͛à̴̡t̷̥̊o̸̲̎r̵̤͒.

Montgomery.

Seemed the lizard had been your… favorite [//ᵐᵒⁿᵗᵍᵒᵐᵉʳʸ﹕ ᵃˢˢⁱᵍⁿᵉᵈ [//ᵘˢᵉʳ⁻ᶠᵃᵛᵒʳⁱᵗᵉ ⁼ ᵗʳᵘᵉ[﹖]]

Moon needed no confirmation; the pattern was too precise for any doubt.

You had lingered at the edge of his stage room longer than regulation allowed, paused in maintenance corridors always just out of view, all to listen to his tired, recycled one-liners... s̶m̸i̶l̷i̵n̷g̷ ̷w̵h̸e̴n̶ ̷y̸o̷u̷ ̶t̵h̸o̶u̴g̸h̷t̷ ̸n̷o̷ ̸o̴n̴e̵ ̴w̵a̸s̴ ̵w̸a̵t̶c̵h̷i̵n̴g̷.̵ ̶

You had pursued Montgomery.

Below Moon, metal groaned, his fingers dug into the bar he was using for support, without him realizing it.

The whine of stressed steel cut through the ambient lullaby playing from the ceiling speakers, hushed but stark. The kind of sound a staff member could notice if they weren't so unfocused, undedicated to their own jobs.

The noise did not bother Moon, but the sensation behind it certainly did.

Moon could not call this pain. Even as he calculated the variables, he could not find anything to properly title the sensation gnawing at his core.

Instead, he reran the logs, which showed that the hours spent near Montgomery were 2.3 times longer than any other animatronic during that last week…

Blood gave them sentience, now they must upkeep their newly discovered appetites. For Sun and Moon, this necessity has become a source of twisted delight.

That first day they entered the gift shop and took their place behind the register he spent a cursory period monitoring the new employee’s behavior. Just a perfectly normal hour or so watching their blurry form on the live stream from the camera in an attempt to discern any ill intent. No suspicious behavior was exhibited so he eventually turned away, with a mental note to do the same over the next few days. Something of a probationary period for this interloper. He gave little further thought to them until many hours later.

He was deep in his work- linguistic study of the strange emoji-like hieroglyphs of dimension :-P- when he heard thumps and yells trickling down from the stairwell. His head snapped to the camera, frustrated at the break in concentration as well as confused. It takes quite a bit of ruckus to make its way down to his study. It was the new employee, alone in the gift shop, mop in hand. His eyes bounced to the timestamp in the bottom right corner of the small CRT screen: 7:08 pm. They must have offered to stay late to clean, a gesture of kindness or a symptom of nothing better to do. They turned in their spot and he could see their mouth open wide, face screwed up in fervor. They were singing along with a song they were blasting over the speakers. And dancing, too. Both were clumsy but compelling. He watched them two step and wiggle and swivel around the mop as their lips formed lyrics that obviously meant something to them. The distant voice he could hear wasn’t sweet, far from pitch perfect, but he didn't dislike it. His eyes remained on them for the duration of the song, until it was over, transitioning to the next one in the queue. He watched them sigh heavily, roll their shoulders, and begin mopping again in earnest, reducing their previous ardor to a hum and a head bob. His eyes lingered on the camera for a few moments before wrenching them away.

Back to his work.

+++

He watched this new addition do a lot of things over the next few days. He watched them joke with Mabel, talk enthusiastically with Dipper, roll their eyes at customers with Wendy. He caught himself staring at the blurry little form of them with a fair frequency. This was normal, he told himself. He doesn’t know this individual, and it seems like they’re already getting close to the rest of the family. Of course he’d want to learn more about them. Sure, it’s been several days and he hasn’t met them in person yet. But that’s normal too. He likes to spend the Shack’s working hours away from all the hubbub, down in his basement, surrounded by his books and experiments and many scientific instruments of highly specific purpose. The chance for an encounter just hasn't occurred yet.

When he installed microphones on the cameras he told himself it was simply for further security.

+++

The first thing he heard from them was a laugh. Stan had gotten them with some corny pun and drawn out a peal of laughter despite themselves. It was a nice laugh, he thought, a small and wily consideration that slipped his notice.

The second thing he heard from them was a conversation with Dipper. It was about history. They were surprisingly knowledgeable about the topic at hand, and their dialogue with Dipper was animated, enthusiastic. Dipper parroted a common misconception of the subject, and he found himself muttering under his breath the exact same correction as them. He chuckled to himself. A joke he couldn’t share.

The third thing he heard was their name. Melody called it from the kitchen, urging them to take a lunch break. As they perked up and walked out of the scope of the camera, Ford said the name to himself, just twice. Once to commit it to memory, again to let it roll around on his tongue. To savor it. Though he wouldn’t call it that himself. No, of course not. He just wanted to ensure he got it right. That’s all.

+++

It’s one thing interacting with someone face to face, seeing the parts of themselves they put on when they know they’re being perceived directly. Even those who claim to be the least bothered by societal convention act differently when in the presence of another person. It’s an entirely new ballgame to observe someone when they assume they are unobserved.

He watched how they chewed on their fingers when they thought no one was looking. How they could never seem to stand still, always shifting their weight, often swaying side to side to alleviate the ache in their knees. He saw them bend at the waist and lean over the counter as the crowd thinned, elbow on counter, chin in hand, lazily swaying their left leg back and forth on the toe of their shoe, the sunlight filtering through the windows and lighting the curve of their back. He saw all of this and he started to know them in ways most others never would.

He still couldn’t see them very well, though. The camera feed was grainy and the monitors were small. They were little more than a handful of pixels to him, though an admittedly compelling handful. Still, he was frustrated by the lack of clarity and he resolved that early the next morning he’d upgrade the cameras. Just another safety measure.

+++

That evening he went upstairs long after the crowd at the shop had been extricated to seek some leftovers from the fridge. Stan had gotten decent at cooking since caring for the twins and having to get creative with mealtime on a boat hundreds of miles out to sea, and fortunately for Ford, he always cooked far too much. He always left the remains in the fridge, free for his brother to come up and forage. Stan happened to be washing the dishes as Ford approached. He turned to face him.

“Oh good, you’ve decided to come up outta your hole. I got a favor I need'ta ask.”

Ford suppressed a smirk. Stanley couldn’t help himself from coming up with both new exhibition ideas, ideas that would sometimes require Ford’s technical prowess to complete. Ford didn't really mind- he had to admit they could be fun projects to work on. Stan removed his hands from the soapy water and dried them on his pants so he could properly gesticulate to convey his vision. He had just gotten to the part where the Sascrotch would be an animatronic that would throw bananas at the crowd when they were interrupted.

“Hey, don’t freak out, it’s just me, I forgot someth-”

They turned the corner and froze in the doorway when they registered the presence of two men. Two nearly identical men. Their eyebrows shot up, then their head tilted, then a disbelieving grin carved up the right half of their face. Their eyes fixed on Ford.

Handful of pixels became flesh, sharp and crisp, all too real, almost shocking. He watched their eyes dart from Stan’s, to Ford's, down Ford’s body, and then back up again. Ford was frozen. He felt like he’d been caught by something as he stared in the face of what he’d previously had to use his imagination to fill in the blanks of thanks to the poor quality cameras. His assumptions were paltry compared to the real thing breathing and smiling and crinkling their eyes in front of him.

It's overwhelming. And now here he stands, feeling like a trapped animal, desperate to act causal.

“I didn’t know there were two of you.”

Ford doesn’t see Stan regard him with a small confused look before answering.

“What, you haven’t met Sixer yet?”

Their smile widens.

“Sixer? No, I can’t say I have.”

Ford hastily pulls himself together with a clearing of his throat and adjustment of his posture.

“Yes, well, I am usually kept busy with my work. Our paths just haven’t crossed yet.”

“Oh, where do you work?”

“The basement.”

They snort, thinking it’s a joke.

“Nah, he’s being real. He works in the basement here. You know that vending machine in the gift shop? That’s actually the door. It’s a whole thing.”

“Yes, it is indeed a ‘whole thing’. But regardless, it's nice to meet you,” he says, and appends the sentence with their name. His gut seizes as he realizes the mistake and they cock their head even further; again, he misses the glance Stan throws at him.

“How did you know my name?”

Wheels sputter in his brain. He keeps his response brief.

“The kids have made mention of you before.” They smile, obviously pleased at the answer. His relief in this moment is immeasurable.

“That’s very sweet of them. I’d heard them mention a Grunkle Ford, but I just assumed you weren’t around.”

“Hell, he barely is. Who knows whatever nerd stuff he gets up to down there. Might as well be in Cabo Wabo.”

They snort again. “Well, it's nice to meet you too...” They step forward and reach their hand out to him. A handshake. Skin to skin contact. This is almost too much. Just a few minutes ago his perception of them had been little more than a tinny voice and a one-inch tall figure on a CRT screen, and now he was about to touch them?

"Do you prefer a first name basis, or do you want me to call you mister?"

Thanks to his intense self-discipline, Ford pretends he is not bothered by this situation in any way, and gives the reaction he knows is expected of him: a grasping of their hand followed by a sentence confirming how he'd like to be referred to. He swallows a stutter as they touch. He almost expected to feel the ambient fuzz of the CRT screen as he gripped their flesh, but it's far more pleasant that that, their hand is soft and warm and smaller compared to his and he can just about feel the blood flowing in their fingers and-

Again, he exhibits mastery over himself and cuts off the train of thought. They make firm eye contact the entire time- if they notice his extra finger, they don't show it.

"Ford is sufficient. Mister wouldn't be entirely appropriate anyways, it'd have to be 'doctor'."

Their eyes widen slightly- they dart to Stan, and he knows his brother is rolling his eyes right now. To his relief they give him a smile devoid of irony. "Well, nice to meet you, Doctor Ford. And y'know, if you ever wanna talk about your nerd stuff, I’d love to listen. I’m definitely not a doctor, but I am something of a nerd myself.”

Ford manages something along the lines of “sure, sometime” before releasing their hand. They let their gaze and their smile linger on him for another chest-piercing moment before breaking them both, quickly grabbing their sweater off the back of a chair at the kitchen table, and making their leave. Before they vanish beyond the door frame, they wave to both twins and say jokingly, “If there’s actually three of you, you better tell me.”

Stan laughs and reassures them it's just the two. Ford remains rigid. He's counting in his head.