#Love you Bertrum they could never make me hate you man

[devildarlindumbass]

shoutout Bertrum Piedmont we don't talk about that mf enough I think we SHOULD

[sailforvalinor]

Who doesn't like Edmund??????? HOW can they not like Edmund?????????? He's the best of the Bertrums!!!!

Well, to be fair, being the best of the Bertrams is not too difficult, lol.

But yes, a LOT of people dislike Edmund, like, probably the majority of the Austen community. I agree!!! It’s so frustrating!!!

Like, Darcy insulted Elizabeth’s family to her face and actively separated her sister from the man she loved, Captain Wentworth ignored Anne’s existence and courted other girls in front of her on purpose, Edward was engaged to another woman while courting Elinor, and we give them passes, but we come down so hard on Edmund for *checks notes* letting Mary ride on Fanny’s horse for too long.

Yes yes, obviously there was more to that incident, but the point still stands—Edmund has committed far less grievous mistakes than most Austen heroes, but he’s the most hated. Why is this??

There’s a couple reasons for this, I think: we never get to see him actually in love with Fanny, and, unlike most Austen heroes, he never gets to perform any sort of grand gesture to make amends for his mistakes. We know that he does fall in love with Fanny and that these amends must have been made (especially seeing how quick he is to apologize to Fanny when he realizes he's been neglecting her in other places in the novel), but Austen deliberately chooses to narrate these events without actually giving them to us directly. Admittedly, this frustrates me, but I understand why: Mansfield Park is not a love story. There is a romance in the story, but that isn't what the narrative is fundamentally concerned with--the narrative is fundamentally concerned with Fanny's development and strength of character independent of (you might even say in spite of) the other characters in the novel. Unlike Pride and Prejudice or Emma, Fanny's character development is not incited by the actions of the hero (which, to be clear, I don't have any issue with--Mansfield Park just has a different narrative formula). Fanny overall is what you might call a static character--not in the sense that she is not fleshed-out or well-developed, but in that she does not go through a lot of character change. Rather, instead of her arc being about changing to become a better person, her arc is about her struggle to remain the good person that she is in spite of outside pressure to change to become more like the rest of the world. (For a really good example of a static character arc, look no further than Captain America!) It's not that Fanny doesn't go through any character growth whatsoever, she definitely does, but this growth overall roots her more deeply into what she believed before, rather than inciting change. The more I think about it, actually, the more it seems like Mansfield Park is a typical "Austen" story told from the perspective of the love interest.

It is actually Edmund who goes through the more dynamic character arc that we associate with most protagonists--which is why I've been thinking for ages that a retelling of Mansfield Park from his perspective could be REALLY interesting. Because told from his perspective, Mansfield Park undoubtedly becomes a love story where it did not hold that status previously. And Edmund would make such a great protagonist!!! There is SO MUCH about his character that I find absolutely fascinating. He of course has a very strong moral compass, which is something I've always admired him for, and despite his attraction to Mary and delusion about her character, is never once even tempted to change his profession from a clergyman to earn Mary's love. We really don't give Edmund enough credit for coming out so well-adjusted and morally upright as he did, coming from a family like the Bertram's. He is also fundamentally very kind, but what's so interesting about him is that he is not, though he certainly tries, always the most attentive. He certainly never neglects Fanny on purpose and is horrified when he finds out that he has, but the fact still remains that he is not the most emotionally perceptive (I'm actually very tempted to draw some parallels between him and Catherine Morland here). Edmund possesses a lot of book-smarts, but is somewhat lacking in social intelligence--or, for lack of a better term, street-smarts. I don't know what textual evidence there is to support this, but I've always had the impression that up until the beginning of the novel, Edmund hadn't had much experience mingling in society, given how as soon as he finished college he was brought straight home to manage Sir Bertram's estate while he was away in Antigua. Regardless of whether or not this is actually the case, it's clear that Edmund is a terrible judge of character despite how morally upright he himself is, which is absolutely fascinating to me. (Again! Catherine parallels!!) Fanny makes a direct contrast to Edmund in this regard--she does not possess the same book knowledge or have the advantage of the education that he had, but she is, though unconsciously, the most emotionally intelligent person in the room and the best judge of character in the entire book.

It is this contrast, but with their shared beliefs about the world and what is right and good, that cements my belief in how well-suited they are for each other. Edmund does not challenge Fanny to change, but Fanny's steadfastness of character does motivate Edmund to change--when he realizes that she perceived what sort of person Henry Crawford was all along and that she was right to refuse him, it exposes to him just how blind he is to the character of others. Edmund basically goes through the same sort of arc that Austen's heroines go through, but this time the roles have been reversed! IT'S JUST SO COOL

Anyway, sorry for rambling. TL;DR, I'm not going to try to convince you that Edmund Bertram is on the same level as Mr. Knightley or Mr. Tilney, but PLEASE examine him critically before you write him off as trash, because he really isn't.

[hunterwritesstuff]

Alison?

Sure! :D

Pre-fall of studio:

Hunter: "It's okay, hon...you don't have to apologize for anything."(Family)

Sammy: "Treat him well, Lawrence."(Tension)

Joey: "Tom's been acting weird lately...avoiding talking about work, having panic attacks if he wakes up without me at his side...what's going on?"(Tension)

Rebecca: "Thank you, but I'm nowhere near comparable to the original."(Friendly)

Bruce: "A disgusting excuse of a man."(Tension)

Marcy: "WHY AREN'T YOU DOING ANYTHING?"(Tension)

Susie: "I'm sorry...so very...very sorry..."(Tension)

Tom: "Hey...it's okay, hon...I'm not going anywhere..."(Loved)

Wally: "He's funny!"(Friendly)

Kenneth: "A very entertaining man!"(Friendly)

John: "Please make sure my husband doesn't do anything rash, okay...?"(Friendly)

Henry: "I never really got to meet him, but...everyone seems to like him, so I like him too."(Friendly)

Norman: "He's got quite juicy stories to tell!"(Friendly)

Bertrum: "A grand man of grand reknown."(Respect)

Lacie: "Hell yeah, more women in the industry! I know it probably wasn't easy."(Friendly)

Mary: "Thank you!"(Friendly)

GENT(The company): "Why is my husband so jumpy?"(Tension)

Barley(Hunter's bio dad): "I've heard wonderful things..."(Friendly)

Grant: "Poor guy..."(Friendly)

Betty: "I'm glad you're so nice to Susie..."

Post-fall of studio:

Hunter: "You're still welcome with us, kiddo..."(Family)

Sammy: "What happened to you...?"(Feared)

Joey: "Liar."(Tension)

Rebecca: "It....It'll be okay..."(Friendly)

Bruce: "A terrible excuse of a father. Stepfather or not."(Hated)

Marcy: "You never did anything."(Hated)

Susie: "You always were beautiful...why can't you see that?"(Tension)

Tom: "Oh, hon...it's okay..."(Loved)

Wally: "Oh..."(Tension)

Kenneth: "You never deserved any of this..."(Friendly)

John: "oh...so that's what happened to you..."(Friendly)

Henry: "wow...he's so...kind..."(Friendly)

Norman: "They...they ruined you..."(Tension)

Bertrum: "God..."(Tension)

Lacie: "nobody deserves that fate..."(Tension)

Mary: "I wish we could go back...but I have a feeling you don't feel the same."(Tension)

GENT(The company): "You ruined my husband."(Hated)

Barley(Hunter's bio dad): "I hope I can match your bravery when the going gets tough."(Respect)

Grant: "..."(Tension)

Betty: "I'm sorry you had to get involved."(Tension)

[bertrumstrousers]

11 from part 2, ft escape au? I know it's been a while since you mentioned them, but I love your hc that escape au Bertrum has major vertigo/balance problems

Omg ABSOLUTELY 👀!!! I will talk about my escaped Bert and Lacie ALL DAY if you let me and Bertrum’s vertigo is an Important Part!!

uhhhhHhHh content warning for description of malaise and panic attacks.

One would think that after being freed from a machine whose only purpose was to spin, the spinning would stop. That held true for the Whipper’s riders.

It did not hold true for its years-long prisoner.

Lacie heard the unmistakable, shaky whimper from beside her in the darkness. She knew that sound and hated it with every fiber of her being—it was the only sound Bertrum could make during his late-night episodes.

From how Bertrum described it, in his vulnerable state, sound was torture. So was light. Movement. Even touch. The sight of a passing car’s headlights, wind making the house creak, even rain running down the panes. Everything caused him immediate, severe nausea. Cold sweats. But by far, the spinning was the worst. “You can ignore pain, dove, but when your body gets into an argument with itself, there isn’t much you can do.”, he’d told her.

When he first developed these awful vertigo attacks, she had no idea how to help. In the past he had snapped at her for turning on the bedside lamp and words of comfort just above a whisper made him scream, only exacerbating his misery. Bertrum, a man who would gladly drop whatever he was doing to wrap her up in a hug, now shrank away and sobbed quietly at the mere prospect of a gentle touch.

“Bertrum.” Lacie whispered. It was barely audible over Bertrum’s hyperventilating. “Hey.” She resisted the urge to touch him to get his attention.

Her whispers only made the vertigo intensify. Bertrum waited for a particularly harsh wave to abate before he whispered back, “…please be quiet…”

His own whisper and light turn of his head towards Lacie sent him into a violent spell. In terror, Bertrum grabbed onto the side of the bed for dear life, desperately holding on to stop himself from a fall that never came. Bertrum opened his eyes to ground himself, but he couldn’t stop them from twitching. Closing his eyes made it all the worse as he could not convince his mind what position he currently laid in.

“Make it stop.” He whimpered and grabbed hold of his head, but immediately regretted it as, within his head, that touch grabbed him by the neck and spun him hard. The sensation of rocks rolling in circles in his skull was blinding. He jerked that hand away and through a desperate sob, howled, “MAKE IT STOP!!”

“Shh, shhh…” Lacie whispered, hoping he would hear her through his shallow panicked breaths and cries of agony. ‘A distraction. He needs a distraction.’

Hyperventilating would only make it worse. Instead, Lacie whispered, “I need ya to breathe for me. Slowly – in and out.”

“I can’t.”

“Yer gonna have to. C’mon. One… two…”

She had done this with him before—it served as a distraction and a way to slow his breathing.

“…three, four…” She heard him take a quivering inhale. “Good. Hold it. Five… six…” Bertrum let out a high-pitched whine, but didn’t release his breath.

“Seven… eight.”

Bertrum exhaled.

“Good. Again.”

Lacie walked him through several more cycles. With each one it seemed easier, and she confirmed this when she found she could speak above a whisper without causing him more pain. By the end, she could speak clearly and comfort him with a soft squeeze of his shoulder. “Better?”

His sigh of relief said everything.

“Good.”

[adobe-outdesign]

TIOL LIVEBLOG: PART 5–7

Note: I will do a final review tomorrow to summarize my thoughts.

Spoilers under the cut:

Part 5, Chapter 1

in true New Jersey fashion, Joey never wants to go back to it

mud is only a few steps removed from ink when you think about it

Nathan pointing out that Joey misjudged him really points even more towards him being the Unknown, as he says he hopes to prove it soon. If he isn’t the Unknown at this point I’ll be legit shocked

Joey legit just outright calling himself a God is really hammering in those Joey/Ink Demon parallels again

Part 5, Chapter 2

yes but did Joey see the baby incubators

Part 5, Chapter 3

I could never decide if I liked the idea of Disney existing in the BATIM universe or not but it does support my favorite crack headcanon, which is that Henry went to work there after leaving JDS

I’m not sure if it was the intended implication but I think Grant comes in late and leaves late for the sole purpose of avoiding Joey as much as possible

love that Joey respects Wally. good boy deserves that much

“again, it is why I avoid the past as much as possible” [makes Henry go through the studio on loop like 500 times]

I’ve mentioned before that the Whipper-Will-O is likely the ride Bertrum is fused to. It’s mentioned here but without enough context to confirm (it is mentioned later that it would be the biggest one which does match)

Part 5, Chapter 4

Joey’s secretary has a name now, don’t think she did previously

Makes sense that Bertrum was retired, he’s like canonically 60

Grant probably hates Bertrum for no reason other than the sheer expense of his restaurant bills

Joey: “ultimately Bert knows I’m the boss :)” Bertrum: I Am Going To Smite You Off The Face Of This Earth

I wonder if Bertrum hates being called Bert as much as he does Bertie. probably (side note: “Bertie” is misspelled with a y here; if I’m not mistaken it was “ie” in the game transcript)

I know some people have said the “I’m not that kind of date” line is homophobic (which was probably the intention), but all he says is that he’s not the kind of guy to play hard to get, not that he isn’t a date

In things that only interest me, Bertrum is confirmed to be a heavyweight (or at least more so than Joey)

I love these two trying to out-ego each other. I didn’t think it was possible but Joey’s winning

nice to finally have explanations for the different lands, was wondering what the hell that was about

also the battleship stuff was for the Butcher Gang’s area, that makes sense

if anyone walked up to me and told me they “had a Whipper” I’d slap them

man this is the best episode of Defunctland ever

Side note: Bertrum is much more in-character here than in DCTL. While he’s still friendly towards Joey, that’s because they just met, so it makes sense in this situation (unlike in DCTL). He also corrects Joey on his name, something he never did in DCTL

Actually this kind of botches the timeline as DCTL has Bendyland just being developed and announced in 1946, while here that happened in 1941-1942. 1940 was the date on Bertrum’s BATDR teaser tape, so the later is closer to being right (still off by a year though). I’ll chalk DCTL up to Buddy’s bad memory.

Part 5, Chapter 5

“I like me just fine” is really amusing and I’m not sure why

I LOVE how much Joey keeps hammering in how great Henry leaving is. cashing in my final “Joey is gay”

Part 6, Chapter 1

Neat to have an explanation for the Sillyvision thing. I didn’t get the impression from the Handbook that it was a process of sorts, but then again I might be misremembering

Part 7, Chapter 1

(Counting these as chapters even though they’re more of an afterwords thing)

figures Joey is a morning person

Nathan just wakes up and chugs a single cup of black coffee while not breaking eye contact

Joey enjoying Cheerios amuses me more than it should

Joey: “hey what’s today looking like Sammy” Sammy: I Am Going To Kill Something Jack: I am also here

I was pointing out that it was weird that Abby was a temporary art director but is still at it in DCTL, but I think the implication is that Joey fired Morris and replaced him with her when he got back. He seems to much favor her work

the “that others were lying to him instead of him lying to himself” amuses me as Grant has a log in the Handbook that is literally just “Joey we’re fucking bankrupt holy fucking shit please respond to this for once”

are the people in the music department like. okay

I like how Joey speaks positively about his employees but every single one of them hate his guts and I’m pretty sure he hates most of theirs too

Joey’s famous 2 hour lunch break has been pared down to an hour and a half, which is slightly better but not by much

Joey: [holds still for five minutes] Joey: [starts vibrating] nevermind

Part 7, Chapter 2

hey they kept this consistent with the excerpt from the Handbook, that’s nice

well, kind of. They kept the same copy but added stuff to tie it back into the previous plot. kind of makes sense though, as they wouldn’t include that stuff without the context in a reprint

Part 7, Chapter 3

that was a bit of an oversimplification of plot structure but okay

Part 7, Chapter 4

Joey does outright say here that he doesn’t intend to die, could point to him being BATDR Bendy

[realm-sweet-realm]

A Worthwhile Investment, chapter 2

Please enjoy this Shawn x Grant story. It is a part of my canon.

Thankfully, Shawn and Grant were able to sneak out undetected. Shawn knew the warehouse Norman had told them to meet at- the one Lacie worked in, roughly two blocks from the studio and not visible from it. From there, they called a cab to take them to a bar (as Norman had promised and Shawn had reminded him) and declared themselves safe.

“Uh, sorry the raid was a bust,” Shawn said.

“It wasn’t.” Norman held up a set of keys. “I can go anywhere I want in the studio now, whenever. And I saw Sammy Lawrence wearing a Bendy mask. I knew it. I knew he was a part of this. I’m gonna crack this if it kills me.”

“Sure you will,” Lacie drawled. “Mind telling us why this is your choice of hobby? Like, why are you like this?” Shawn could tell that she was using her friendly cold, judgmental tone, which was different from her genuinely cold, judgmental tone. He hoped Norman could, too.

“Like I’d tell you. What, you think I’d ask for your life story just like that?”

“I’ll tell it. I ain’t got nothing to hide. I was born to two crack-addicted pieces of shit, so I learned to rely on the parents of neighbourhood kids on days they decided not to care for me. It was like that basically my entire life before my sister sorted herself out and I moved in with her. But it taught me I could take care of myself, so I didn’t mind moving with Bertrum wherever he went, and I didn’t cry when he retired.”

“And it’s a good thing he retired, or I might not’ve met Lacie when ah did. Bein’ an immigrant, away from home for the first time an’ barely speaking teh language- it woulda been real lonely otherwise. Of course, Ah make friends easy, but I’m still glad she was one'a them.”

Lacie’s sharp eyes landed on Grant. They’d only met once before and neither had been too comfortable with the other. “And what about you, Grant? Anything interesting in your past?”

“Oh, no. Normal upbringing. Parents who loved me. Nothing special.” It was lame, but it was the truth.

The four of them kept chatting for about an hour.

How did I end up surrounded by the three strongest people I know? Grant wondered. Most of his friends growing up had been cousins or kids of family friends, and his social circle hadn’t diversified much since, until he met Shawn and Norman. Comparatively, these three were freaks. But they were all so respectable, and honestly, Shawn and Norman were some of the best friends he’d ever had.

Life in general had given Grant a lot to be thankful for as of late. The early thirties had been hard on him- after the stock market crashed, he’d gone through a job loss, the collapse of his marriage, some domestic abuse, his divorce, and losing custody of his children. But now? Things were alright. He had a new job, and the studio was, generally speaking at least, holding steady financially. Against all odds, his daughters seemed to be fine living with their mother- maybe she had been serious about working on herself for them. Grant cherished the time he did have with them, and though he hated to admit it, he was much happier divorced. And of course, now he had these two. It was while he was there, listening to the three of them talk, that he realized that he was currently the most content he’d been in years.

Shawn had had a few drinks by that point, and leaned on Grant as though he intended to fall asleep on him.

“I think I should take Shawn home. Norman, can we talk about something tomorrow? In the projector booth.”

“Of course,” Norman said. Something in the way he said it told Grant that he already knew what it would be about.

---

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Norman asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“It’s about Shawn,” Grant started. How much to say? He figured that Norman knew he was gay- very little escaped Norman’s notice, after all- but maybe Norman was only okay with that because he didn’t act on it.

“You know Sammy Lawrence?” Norman mused, looking through the window into the music room. “For a long time, he was dating his- very much male, I should mention- lyricist. I saw them making out once- this gorgeous pretty boy and this middle-aged marshmallow- I guess love is blind and all that. I’ve got no damning evidence of it, but I’d bet anything that Joey Drew is gay as well. And I could go on! This studio has more queer people than you would believe, and my powers tell me about more than just existential dreads.” There was a pause. Norman turned back to look at Grant. “So. As a living lie-detector, one of the best gaydars you’ll ever see on a straight man, and your best friend of over half a decade who would never betray you... you can tell me anything about what’s going on with him.”

Grant gave a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you’re okay with this. And yes, I’m considering dating Shawn.”

“Great. He likes you- I could tell.”

“Thanks. But I already knew- he kissed me suddenly about ten days ago. I didn’t know how to react, and I kind of froze up, and I told him that I liked him, but I needed to think about whether we could be together. Up until last night, I thought I’d tell him ‘no-’ I just hadn’t had the willpower to yet. And then I had an epiphany.”

“What was the epiphany?”

“I realized that I respect a bunch of very unconventional people- yourself included- so it’s okay that I’m not perfectly conventional. But... even if it’s not inherently wrong, the idea of acting on it still scares me. If my mother ever found out, it would break her heart. My father would be humiliated if anyone else knew about it, and he might not want to speak to me again. And if it got to my ex-wife, she’d do anything she could to keep me away from my kids- she might even report me. I don’t have to worry about any of that if I don’t act on it. I don’t know... is it even responsible to risk it? These are people I have obligations to. Is it worth it?”

“Well, only you can choose that. But don’t you want a chance at actual love? I mean, I sure like having a loving partner. Why give that up over the risk that someone else might find out?”

“I guess you’re right. Shawn could be my only opportunity for a while. I really don’t know if I want to get involved in whatever culture gay men have going on. If the stereotypes are true, I’d be walking into a group of dangerous people looking to take advantage of a naïve outsider. Of course, they might not be true, but I don’t want to just walk in without knowing. And anyhow, I wouldn’t know how to find anything like that if I tried.”

Norman nodded, taking some time to process everything he’d said. “Alright. Look- you’re overcomplicating a bunch of simple problems by rolling them together into one big problem. Just take it one issue at a time. You want your family to be happy? Make them happy, and don’t worry about something that won’t hurt them. Any partner you might have will know that this kind of thing has to be kept secret, and New York is a big city- you can hide it. You want to date Shawn? Date Shawn. I can tell he makes you happy. You don’t want to get into gay culture without knowing what it’s like? Then don’t. I don’t know anything about their culture, but you have no idea how many gay men are here at Joey Drew Studios. Plenty of people you can ask about it to decide if it’s your thing.”

“Wow. Thank you. You really made that all sound so simple.” Norman had a way of cutting straight to the point.

“Yeah. You’re gonna be okay. Heck, even if you decide not to have a love life after Shawn, I’m glad you’ll be doing it because you’re risk-adverse and not because you’re still ashamed.”

“Thanks again. Now I need to go find Shawn.”

In the end, Grant couldn’t find Shawn before it was time to get back to work, so the next day he left a note in his locker with some flowers. Like a schoolboy. Ridiculous. But that was how Shawn made him feel.

Over the next few years, their relationship went on, and off, and on again. They fought, probably more than the average couple. But overall, they were glad to have each other. It was worth it.    

[insane-control-room]

Birthday

cameos from @randomwriteronline‘s eska and @startistdoodles‘s charlotte <3

Ao3 link

Today was a special day.

Joey felt happy, even though normally on that day he did not. But in the past, the day had been marred by family ruinations or worldly problems. 

He changed from his pajamas, pausing after putting on his pants and belt to study the silvery scars on his arms. 

He smiled, slipping on his dress shirt, humming as he tied his tie, his custom jacket covering each. Joey clasped on his pin, and smiled at himself in the mirror. 

Joey thought he looked ok.

It made him smile.

He whistled as he made his way down the stairs into the studio. It was too early for anyone else to be there, so he slipped outside to his garden. His bees instantly swirled around him, vibrating in tune of Happy Birthday. He grinned, tearing up. 

“Thanks y’all,” he mumbled, petting those that landed on him. Some tugged on his shirt, some pushed him by bumping into him. Joey smiled, letting himself go with them. They brought him over to their apiaries. “What’re you gals up to?”

He opened the apiary, and gasped. They all had arranged rose petals into a beautiful pattern, and set them in crystalized honey. A few of them picked it up with an effort, passing it into Joey’s scarred hand. 

A tear slipped from his eye as he grinned widely, eyes crinkling with joy. He wiped them with his free hand. 

“Oh, you girls shouldn’t’ve,” he murmured. If the bees had cheeks, they would have blushed. Some passed their one of their hands in an ‘it’s nothing’ motion. “Oh, it really is something. Thank you so much… you’re all lovely. Oh, g-goodness, thank you.”

He fed his chickens, and tended to his flowers and plants, attended to by his bees. 

Once he finished with his outdoor duties, he placed the crystalized honey charm on the mantle. He looked at it for some time, feeling a happy glow in his chest from the panacea decoration.

The clock chimed, catching his eye. Nine.

He continued admiring the amulet, until he did a snapping double take. 

NINE.

He was late to work. 

Joey jumped up, running down the stairs into the studio. Curiously, no one else was around - not even Ms. Lampbert, who normally briefed him on his meetings. He checked his schedule. Nothing aside from ‘pub room’ was scrawled on it. Joey pursed his lips; he hated when people called the break room the pub room, sounded as though they would be drinking there, even though most alcohol was forbidden from the premises (aside from beer or other light drinks). 

Still, baffled, he made his way up to the break room, his light brown cane clacking as he walked. 

As soon as Joey walked into the room, the door slammed shut behind him, making him leap with a shriek. Heart pounding, he tugged on the handle, eyes attempting to adjust to the darkness. Even though his speed to adjust was higher than those without his color deficiency, he was not fast enough. Two hands grabbed each of his own and pulled him down the stairs slowly, he mute from surprise. Once he was on firm ground, the lights flashed on.

“Happy birthday!” the whole of the studio cried, laughing at his stunned expression. Shawn slapped a sticker onto Johan’s chest, it reading ‘bday boi’, which got a wheezing laugh from Willy, who gave his husband’s hand a squeeze. “Happy birthday, ye toll feck!”

“Ah-” was all Joey managed to say before Allison and Susie squished him in a bone breaking hug. Allison let go before Susie, who tugged Joey’s head down to ruffle his hair. He wiggled to try to escape, but her chokehold on him was far too powerful. She chanted, “Twenty seven! Twenty seven!”

She let him go when everyone joined in the chant, he snapping backwards. Being pulled down two feet is not very conducive to one’s back. He blushed, standing slightly awkwardly, not expecting this at all. He never even told anyone of his birthday.

“Happy birthday, darling!” Bertrum laughed, the ink kids clinging to him. Then the sextuplets jumped onto Johan, knocking him to the floor. “Happy birthday, Papi!” 

Johan teared up, hugging them all tightly. Words escaped him. Henry took his hand, picking him up from the floor. 

Henry gave him a small kiss. 

“Happy birthday, Joey,” Henry smiled. Joey blushed even more. “Took me ages to figure out that it was today. I called your brother for the information. Jeez, the lines to Night Vale are awful!”

“Yeah, they are,” Johan half lied. There are no lines to Night Vale. He furrowed his brow, about to speak, when speckled cinnamon arms wrapped around him. A carved wooden flower was placed into his hair. “W- Eska?”

“Good birthday.” The skeletal man croaked and nuzzled his head. “You’re not as bad as you could be.”

“Th-thank you?” Johan blushed and blinked. Eska vanished as his eyes were closed. Lacie clapped him on the back, sending him tumbling. She tapped onto hir glass to announce, “Cake time everyone!”

“I baked it with Dot and Buddy!” Linda excitedly grinned, and the older kids smiled behind her, waving. “Happy birthday Mr. Drew.”

“We made it dairy free,” Dot added, and hugged him. Buddy nodded, and then turned to Mr. Cohen. “And it’s kosher. We made it at my place.”

Joey sniffed, smiling, but on the verge of tears. 

Everyone who was able to hugged him within the moment. 

“Y’all are the best,” Joey said, his voice cracking, hugging all that he could. “I couldn’t ask for a better studio, a better family. I love you all!”

“We love you, too!” many voices chimed back. Henry, pressed to his chest, smiled at him. “I love you especially.”

The party went on for a bit, mostly full of laughter and birthday wishes. Johan was partially quiet, just soaking up the sweetness of the environment.

Some time later, when some were starting to excuse themselves to go to work, one person cleared his throat.

“We got you a present,” Norman, leaning against the wall, remarked, seemingly in a reminder to those around. “It’s outside.”

They lead him out to the car lot, and Joey’s mouth fell open when he saw his motorcycle. 

“We know you pawned it to pay for Shawn and Willy’s wedding,” Allison sheepishly told him. “And we know how much you love it, so we bought it back for you.”

“Y’all shouldn’t’ve,” Joey cried a bit, walking over to his bike in a bit of a dream. Sammy tossed him the keys. “Yeah, and Thomas fixed it up a bit. Some of the art department stylized it. Hope you like what they did with it.”

The toons were painted on it, making Joey cry even more. 

“I love it,” was all he could say. “I love it, I love it.” 

“Take it out for a spin,” Wally grinned, elbowing Henry over with a wink. “Go on!” 

“I mean,” Henry swallowed, looking apprehensive, knowing how much of a speed demon his husband was. He smiled nervously. “If you want. For your birthday.”

“Yes!” Johan beamed, yanking Henry over to swing him onto the bike, hopping on behind him, his long limbs able to reach the pedals and gears even with his round love before him. “Let’s go!”

They were off like a shot. 

When they returned, Henry was dizzy but laughing, and Johan never looked happier, his hair splayed every which way due to the wind. They had gone out to dinner, both rosy cheeked from laughing excessively. Henry excused himself to hang out with some of the others, and Johan went up to his roof, just as the moon peeked over the tall pines. When Charlotte shimmered into existence, Joey hugged her tightly.

“Oh! Hello darling!” she hugged him back. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve t-turned twenty seven today,” he told her, smiling. Her brows rose, and she hugged him again, even tighter. “Happy birthday, Johan, goodness me!”

“Thank you, Ma,” he replied. “Would you like to come in for some tea?”

“I’d love to,” Charlotte happily answered, letting her son lead him inside (even though she could have floated through the walls). They talked, Henry and the kids joining them, even more laughter bundling into the day.

For Johan, this was the best birthday he had. 

Of course, he was always looking forward.

[queenofcats17]

Chaos

So I saw this post from @islandguardiantapumeme , and I knew I had to write it. 

Then I saw @blastmecaptcha wrote something and it was so good. So now I really want to write it. 

Edit: Now has a longer fic.

Henry let out a sigh of relief as the ink machine gave a last screech, something akin to the scream of a dying animal, and was finally still. He’d done it. The ink machine was no more. Whatever strange magic it had possessed was gone. Now he just needed to get back upstairs and get out. He started to make his way up the stairs, dragging his ax behind him. As he reached Level P, he saw someone stumble out of the room to the left. It was a man wearing a driving cap. He was rather disheveled and Henry didn’t recognize him.

“Who the Hell are you?” The man asked, taking a step towards him. He sounded Irish. Henry didn’t know any Irishmen. For a moment, Henry froze. This could be real, or it could just be a hallucination. He had been breathing in a lot of ink fumes. As the man drew closer, Henry screamed and darted into the Little Miracle Station to his right, slamming the door shut. There had to be a lock on this thing. 

“Hey! Come out! I asked you a question!” The man banged on the door to the station. Henry hunched down, hugging his knees. Maybe if he just stayed there, the man would go away. Unfortunately, the man didn’t seem to be going anywhere. The worst part? More people seemed to be gathering outside the box. 

“What’s going on?” Someone else asked. 

“I got no fucking clue.” The Irish man said. “I asked this bloke who he was and he ran in here.”

“Sir? Are you alright?” Someone else knocked on the box.

“Go away!” Henry pressed himself against the back of the station. 

“Sir, we’re just trying to help you.” The person who knocked said. He had a sort of droll, monotonous voice. “My name is Grant Cohen. Would you mind telling us your name?” Grant Cohen? That was the studio accountant. But...it couldn’t be. 

“Why’re you givin’ your name out?!” The Irish man yelled. “We don’t know him!” 

“Mr. Flynn, please don’t yell,” Grant said. “You’ll startle him.” Henry started to sob quietly. This had to be a dream. He had to be hallucinating. 

.

Joey was stuck. He’d been crawling through the vents, trying to find out where exactly Henry was, when he’d felt the magic of the ink machine fade. Suddenly, he was human again. He was considerably thinner than he’d been prior to becoming the ink demon, which made things easier for shimmying through the vents, but now his clothes were dragging him down. Given that he was much thinner now, his clothing was hanging off his frame, snagging on the edges and getting stuck. He huffed as he tried to drag himself through the vents. He was human again, so that was a plus, but on the other hand, it did mean that Henry had destroyed the machine and the other studio employees were human as well. They probably wouldn’t remember what he’d done to them, but just to be safe he knew he should probably get out and get as far away from the studio as possible. This was going to take some work, though.

.

Suse was woken up by the sound of fighting. 

“Franks, spit it out.” 

“No.”

“Wally, please, it’s unhygienic.”

“It’s mine and I love it.”

Susie sat up, looking around blearily. She was sitting in the middle area of the haunted house ride with a samurai sword at her side. A few feet away, Allison and Thomas were desperately trying to get Wally to spit out a...bone?

“Is that...a human bone?” Susie asked, blinking. Everyone turned to look at her. 

“Hi, Miss Campbell.” Allison smiled nervously. “How...How’s it going?”

“My chest kind of hurts, but I think I’m alright.” Susie returned the expression wearily. She should have treated Allison better. The girl really wasn’t that bad. She shouldn’t have been so cruel to Allison. Girls had to stick together. 

“Are you still...mad at me?” Allison asked, wandering over to where Susie was laying down. “I really am sorry about taking your role. I didn’t mean to-” 

“Sweetie, it’s alright.” Susie pulled her into a hug. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing. It wasn’t your fault Joey gave you the role. I shouldn’t have taken things as far as I did.” She didn’t remember everything she’d done to Allison, but she knew she’d been a bitch. “I’m so sorry, Allison.” 

“You...You really mean it?” Allison’s whole face lit up. 

“I do.” Susie nodded, pulling away. “I’ve been terrible to you.” 

“You have n-no idea how much this means to me.” Allison started to sniffle. “I always admired you, Miss Campbell. I just wanted your approval.”

“Oh, Allison.” Susie smiled softly.

“No way.” Wally’s mouth hung open and the bone dropped to the ground. Thomas scooped it up and stuck it into his pocket. 

“No, wait, give that back!” Wally whined, looking towards Thomas. “It was good!” 

“You don’t know where it’s been,” Thomas said. 

“So, um, how did we get here?” Susie let Allison help her up. “I don’t remember coming down here.” 

“I don’t remember losing my arm, but here we are.” Thomas held up his left arm, revealing it was now replaced by an animatronic arm. 

“Does it hurt?” Susie asked. 

“Nah.” Thomas shrugged slightly. Wally was trying to get the bone out of the other man’s pocket, but Thomas swatted his hand away. Wally legitimately made a doglike whimpering sound. They could almost see his ears drooping. Allison couldn’t help but giggle. Susie joined in. 

“Let’s get out of here, alright?” She suggested. “Maybe someone else knows what’s going on.” 

“Sure, why not?” Thomas headed for the door, which had a hole in it the size of a bumper car. As Susie looked around, the destruction was plain. It looked like some kind of fight had taken place there. Allison latched herself onto Susie’s arm, delighted that the two of them had made up. Wally followed behind Thomas, trying to get at the bone in Thomas’ pocket. Eventually, the other mechanic just gave up and handed it over, allowing Wally to keep gnawing on it. As they made their way out into the main warehouse, they found Lacie Benton walking out as well. 

“Benton, nice to see you.” Thomas smiled slightly and held out his hand. 

“Thomas Connor. How are you doing, you bastard?” Lacie chuckled and took his hand, shaking it vigorously. 

“Hi, Lacie,” Wally said through his bone. 

“Hello, Franks.” Lacie nodded in his direction. “What’s with the bone?”

“Dunno. Woke up with it. It tastes good!” 

“That’s nice.” Lacie sighed.

“What are you doing?” Allison asked. 

“Piedmont got stuck in his precious machine,” Lacie replied. “Wants me to get him out. Figure I’ll let him stew for a little bit before I actually get him out.”

“Ugh, Piedmont.” The group collectively said together. No one was particularly fond of Bertrum. He was just a real prick in general. A few more people were coming out of the various rooms that led off of the warehouse. They waved to the small group and continued on. The group waved back before saying goodbye to Lacie and heading out. Despite Thomas’ objections, they were headed for the elevator. Unfortunately, they soon found that that wouldn’t be an option. 

“Well, if we want to get out we should probably take the stairs,” Wally said, staring at the wreck of the elevator. 

“Always knew this thing would crash someday,” Thomas muttered. 

“At least I’m not wearing heels.” Allison and Susie said together. They giggled at the jinx. Thomas couldn’t help but smile a little at this. Wally was already starting up the stairs. It was going to be a long way up.

.

Bertrum didn’t know why he’d woken up in the central column of his carousel and he didn’t particularly care. All he wanted was to get out. It was cramped and dark and his arms were starting to hurt. He’d managed to convince that Benton woman to help him, but she’d left quite a while ago. He was starting to think she wasn’t coming back. There was probably a reason she wasn’t too eager to help him. Maybe he’d been a bit too cruel to them. He sighed and tried to wriggle around a little. He didn’t like being cooped up like this. All he could do was sit here and wait for Lacie to come help him. He hated depending on people like this.

.

Norman had been surprised that the first thing he heard upon coming back to the waking world was yelling. Specifically, the sound of Shawn Flynn and Grant Cohen arguing. He got up from what appeared to be an operating table and headed out. He had to go down a flight of stairs, but once he did he found a small group of people gathered outside a box. Shawn and Grant were standing in front of the box, yelling at one another. 

“What’s going on here?” Norman asked, pushing through the crowd. 

“Shawn saw someone run into this box and we’re trying to figure out how to get him out,” Grant explained. 

“He took one look at me and bolted!” Shawn said. “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

“You look fine,” Norman assured him vaguely. He went over to the box and peered inside. It was too dark for him to see the person inside, but he could make out a shock of white hair. 

“Hello? Are you alright?” Norman asked. The man inside started to cry as soon as he laid eyes on Norman. 

“What the....?” Norman took a step back. 

“Great, now he’s crying,” Shawn said. “We’re never going to get him out!”

“Mr. Flynn, please calm down.”

.

Sammy was awoken by the gentle sound of whispering. As soon as he opened his eyes, though, the whispering stopped. It looked like he was in the recording booth. How had he ended up there? He sat up and immediately screamed. Why wasn’t he wearing a shirt?! He quickly got up and got a good look at who had been whispering. The members of the band, all equally drenched in ink, had been watching him through the glass of the window. They were now trying desperately to pretend they hadn’t been watching him.

“Which one of you bastards took my shirt?!” He demanded, storming out of the recording booth and making his way over to the band room.

“None of us, sir.” The banjo player, Drake, said. “We all woke up like this.”

“But why am I not wearing a shirt?!” 

“We don’t know.” The piano player shrugged. 

“But we’re really enjoying the view.” The cello player giggled. Sammy went bright red and tried to cover his chest. 

“Sammy? That you?” Jack Fain stuck his head into the band room. “Where’s your shirt?”

“I DON’T KNOW, OKAY?!” Sammy snapped. “I AM VERY UNCOMFORTABLE RIGHT NOW!” 

“Mm.” Jack walked in, looking Sammy over.  “I never knew you were this...You know.”

“None of us did.” 

“I’m getting out of here,” Sammy muttered, bright red, and stormed out of the music department. 

“I’ll come with you!” Jack ran after him. “I’m sorry, Sammy! I didn’t mean to upset you!”

.

When Allison, Susie, Thomas, and Wally finally made their way to level P, the crowd around the box had almost filled the entire floor. 

“What’s going on here?” Wally frowned, chewing on his bone. 

“Mr. Cohen! Mr. Polk!” Allison pushed her way through the crowd. “What’s going on?”

“Some guy shut himself up in the box and we’re trying to get him out,” Norman said. 

“Oh dear.” Allison tried to peek into the box. “Sir? Are you alright?” 

“‘M fine.” The man inside muttered. 

“That voice sounds familiar.” Susie frowned as she drew closer. “Where have I heard it before?” As soon as she stepped into sight, the man in the box let out an ear-piercing shriek. 

“Guess he doesn’t like you,” Shawn said. 

“Yeah, I can understand that.” Susie drew into herself. Allison latched herelf to Susie’s side, trying to assure her that everything was going to be okay. Thomas just sort of stood there, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t too terribly interested in the strange man in the box. 

“D’ya think he wants a bone?” Wally asked, sticking the bone through the slat in the box. 

“Boris?” The man asked in a small voice.

“No. Wally.” 

“Boris, you’re alright.” Blue eyes appeared in the slat, pushing the bone away. 

“I just told you, my name’s Wally,” Wally said, taking a step back. 

“I-I’m so glad you’re n-not dead.” The man was starting to cry again, reaching a hand out to touch Wally’s face.

“Yeah, uh, me too.” Wally nodded slowly. “Being dead is, uh, real great.” Suddenly, a vent cover rocketed across the room, and a bedraggled Joey Drew climbed out. He was considerably thinner than he’d been the last time anyone had seen him, but it was definitely him. 

“Fuck.” Joey looked around at everyone in the room. 

“Hi, Mr. Drew.” The employees said together. 

“What were you doing in the vents, Mr. Drew?” Grant asked, walking over. “Also, I have some serious concerns about our expense reports.” Just then the door to the box burst open and a blue blur passed across the room. The man from the box grabbed Joey by his lapels and hoisted him into the air. 

“JOEY!” 

“Oh! It’s Henry!” Susie said, clapping her hands together. “He looks much older, though.”

“Henry? The co-founder of the studio?” Allison’s eyes widened. “Whoa. I never thought I’d meet him in person.”

“Should we get him offa Joey?” Wally asked. 

“Let him get his aggression out.” Grant and Thomas stopped him. Well, Grant stopped him. Thomas was holding Grant and Shawn’s hands and refusing to let them go. 

[barpurplewrites]

Catch - Chapter 8

It’s not quite what you were all expecting, but I wanted to post something on my birthday and this is that. Very woobie, but with a hell of a lot of promise. :)

(AO3) (Tumblr)

-x-x-x-

There is something strange about doorways. The transitional significance of a threshold appears to be built into every simple frame, and certain ones will throw you no matter how many you have just walked through without problem. Gold knew where he was with Belle right up until the moment they entered the suite, and then he didn’t know what to do, he wasn’t sure how to stand, or move, the basics of breathing appeared to have deserted him as well.

For a few awkward moments Belle was in the same situation. She stepped away from his side and fidgeted and couldn’t meet his eye.

Everything was going horribly wrong.

Gold watched as Belle twisted her hands together. He stopped breathing entirely as she turned on her heel and fixed him with a look he couldn’t hope to understand. He gasped in a raged breath and was about to explain away their earlier flirting as good-natured comradery in the heat of the moment when Belle said; “Fuck it.”

Gold found himself shoved down onto the evil couch as Belle jumped into his lap, her wet jeans squelching against the leather. Her hands braced either side of his shoulders as she leaned in close and whispered; “If you don’t want this please tell me to stop now.”

His cane rolled to the floor with a dull thump as he slowly placed his hands on her hips.

“Please. Do not stop, Belle.”

She angled her head and closed the gap between their lips. There was a gentle heat to the kiss, but it was tempered by the chill of Belle’s lips. Gold pulled back and smiled at her; “As much as I would like to believe it is my kiss that is making you shiver, I know it’s the cold. We need to get you out of these wet clothes and warmed up.”

Belle nibbled on her bottom lip; “Is to soon to share a shower?”

A flash of panic stabbed Gold at the idea of seeing Belle naked after only a brief kiss, at least that’s what his rational mind told him, but the deeper coward in him was more scared of her seeing his scars so soon; “How about you have a shower and I warm the bed up?”

She gave him a smile; “Good idea that way you don’t have to see me try and get out of wet jeans, never graceful.”

She hopped up from his lap headed to the bathroom. Gold watched her go, very aware of the dopey grin on his face. She paused at the bedroom door and chuckled at him; “Get a move on I won’t be long.”

“You’re a bossy Madam.”

“You love it.”

“Aye I do.”

The moment that Belle closed the bathroom door Gold lunged for the phone.

“Room service? How quickly can you get a double slice of chocolate cheesecake and a bottle of champagne to my suite?”

“We’ll be there in three minutes Mr Gold.”

“Thank you.”

Belle would probably need at least three minutes to get out of her wet clothes, and considering how cold the lake was she’d most likely spend a good twenty minutes under the shower, so that gave him plenty of time to change into his pyjamas, get the room service and warm the bed up a bit before she emerged. As long as he had a plan he didn’t have to dwell on what might happen once they were cuddled up in that bed.

Gold striped off and threw on his PJ’s and then stumbled to a halt when he found Belle’s silly kangaroo t-shirt under her pillow. Oh fuck, she hadn’t taken her jammies into the bathroom; was she expecting to find him naked in bed waiting for her?  Before he could stress about this idea too much there was a discreet knock at the door. He limped over to the door and found a small army of people waiting on the other side. The concierge smiled at him; “Answer yes or no, sir. Romantic?”

“Erm. Yes?”

“Wonderful, the lady is in the shower? Good. Step back please, sir.”

Gold stepped aside in a state of shook and watched slack-jawed as the team of six arranged the desserts he had ordered next to the bed with the champagne and set up flameless candles on every available surface in the bedroom. He turned to the concierge in confusion; “What is…”

“I’m to tell you this is a gift from Mal and Gina. There are now hot water bottles in the bed and supplies you may need for later in the drawers of the bedside tables.”

Gold snarled, but the man gave him a wide smile and held up a hand; “The ladies also suspected that your response would end in ‘off’, I will deliver that message to them, sir.”

The romance enforcement crew scurried out of the door and the concierge gave him a sly wink as he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of the door before he quietly closed it behind him. Gold snagged his phone from the table and sent a rapid text to Mal.

“WTF?”

“Stop texting me and get into bed you idiot!!!!”

Gold had been planning to wait for Belle in the bed, he had promised he would warm it up for her, but there were hot water bottles doing that now, and with the candles and other things he suddenly felt awkward. He perched on the end of the bed and gulped nervously as he heard the shower shut off. He’d counted off four minutes in his head before the door opened.

“Wow! You did all this for me?”

Gold looked up from the bit of floor that had become his focal point, and his mouth went dry, Belle was wearing two towels, one around her hair and the other covering her from breast to mid-thigh. There was a lot of shower-warmed flesh on display, his first thought was that she was warmer now and that was a good thing, his second thought was rather more salacious and involved her legs and his hips. Gold realise that she was waiting for an answer and kicked his brain into gear.

“I ordered the cheesecake and bubbly, but Mal and Regina hijacked room service and did the rest.”

Belle somehow managed to hold her towel up and bury her face in her hands. After a moment she looked up at Gold through her fingers; “Guess we weren’t that subtle. Erm are you okay with everyone knowing that we’re, y’know, more than just friends now?”

Gold’s voice chose that moment to abandon him, and he had to watch as Belle panicked. Her eyes went wide, and she gripped her towel tight around her body.

“Oh fuck, you just wanted a casual fling, that no one else knew about. I’m so sorry I thought that this was going to be more than that. I don’t do one nighters. Oh fuck. I’ll get dressed and see if Emma will share her room. I’m sorry.”

Gold would never know how he got to his feet that fast, but he crossed the room and was stood before her in a heartbeat. He hesitated, not wanting to touch her, not wanting to coerce with a caress until he’d made his feelings clear. It hurt like hell, but he dropped to his knees before her and looked up at her with a shy smile.

“Belle. I don’t want a casual fling with you. I’m not a one night stand kinda man. I want you. I want a relationship with you. And I’m sorry Mal and Regina have interfered, I’ll go downstairs right now and chew them out about that. I want you, Belle, as much as you are willing to give me, I’ll be grateful for.”

He was offering his heart to her on open hands. It was terrifying to be this vulnerable, but the fear was quashed by the fact this was Belle, the woman who had protected and shielded him so many times this weekend, and now he was thinking about it many, many times since she had started working for the company. Even if she rejected him now she would be gentle.

Belle bit her lip and leaned down, her hand stroked his face and without thinking he turned into her touch and pressed a kiss to her palm. Her fingers slid under his chin and a gentle pressure tilted his head upwards, so they were eye to eye. Belle’s bright blue eyes were eclipsed by her blown pupils.

“I want all of that too. Can I have your first name before we get into that be together?”

Gold licked his dry lips and said; “Bertrum, but I hate it.”

Belle nodded and offered him her hands to pull him to his feet; “Okay Gold, shall we snuggle now?”

[insane-control-room]

The Sketch

Chapter four, segment one

Full chapter on ao3 here

Previous Chapter Part One

Previous (segment) - Next 

...

But I’m stuttering.

Henry hated seeing Joey like that. Hollow eyed, jittery, harsh breathing. Still, it was a reality that had to be faced, every now and then. The way that Joey would spill his tea in shaky hands, the way his eyes welled with blazing tears. Henry wished he could just hug him and will it all away, but he could not, so there he sat in front of Joey, his thumb rubbing the back of the younger man’s hand. Joey stared directly in front of them, not looking at their hands or at Henry, rather at a black stain on the table. Henry hated that it was his fault Joey was acting like this, restless and nervous. ‘Something’s wrong in the world, I can feel it,’ Joey had told him over and over. ‘Something is very wrong.’

Joey could not sleep when something was wrong. Henry always joked that of all the members of the studio, Joey should have been the one who slept the best, but it was never so, unfortunately for the lanky chicano. Too much kept him up; stress, memories, worries, inventions, family problems, money issues, so much, too much. Henry was one of those worries, but everyone Joey met became one of his worries. He worried for those he never even met, at that. A sweetheart with the biggest soul Henry had ever met, scattered in the stars and spread through whispers and will o’ wisps, a hushed secret of immeasurable power, the most gentle giant ever. 

Anyone could see it, and yet, he still, somehow, had enemies, those sworn against him by blood. Even his own step father fell into their number. But Johan had a new family now.

Bertrum joined them in the pub room, chatting with Allison. They poured themselves coffee and sat beside the doctor, making idle conversation. Joey had not slept enough to understand the words flowing from their lips with such ease, such grace. His own words were marred by an ugly stutter that chased after his tongue, tripping his syllables and bashing his own melody of noises. So he often preferred to stay silent, though words burned at his throat, shrieking to be let out. Most of the time his will lost against his desire.

He hated the sound of his voice coming from his mouth, and would much rather hear it played back through a recording instead of himself. Not that his voice was bad, no, it was… wrong. Something about it just seemed so very wrong. He, at one point, had attempted to correct it with cigarettes and coffee. The first time he had a cigarette he was very young, what, five or six? Atabulus had offered it to him, and the young boy had taken it out of curiosity, and found he despised it. Atabulus had laughed softly, patting his head, telling him that he might like it one day. And no, he never did get used to it, nor did he ever like it, but he would rather pay twenty five cents for fifty staved off meals than two full days of work for one meal. Yet the same thing that saved him was a vice, his body craving the nicotine within the folds of tobacco, demanding it, forcing him to keep buying until he locked himself in his office for two weeks until the cravings dropped, and by then he was so hungry and sun sick that Henry had to drag him up to his garden where he absentmindedly ate nana as he lay in the heat of day until Henry brought him real food.

And so he sat there in front of his friends and family in complete and utter silence, merely staring at the table as he wished he had a cigarette between his fingers. He flinched, and took a draught of his overly sweetened tea, the honey within bringing him back to the present. He forced himself to calm, then. It was okay, nothing was wrong. Nothing at all. Nothing. At. All.

Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

Johan jolted, looking over his shoulder to see if he could catch a glimpse of… whatever that was. Henry gave him a Look, and Joey shrank back in his seat. Bad look. Questioning look. Questions were bad. They meant something was wrong. 

No, no, no, calm down there. It’s fine. Just a little nerve wracked. Just a little bit.

There was a rumbling in his chest, an ache in his hands. He had to build.

It was an insatiable urge, he had to build it. But Henry! Henry forbid him!

At the thought of Henry’s order, the rumbling in his chest turned into a shocking pain lacing through his lungs.

He calmly realized he could not breathe. 

How very interesting.

His free hand rose to his lips, under his nose, as if to check if he really was not breathing. How odd! No flow passed through them, and his eyes watered slightly. The rancid taste of bile clung to the back of his throat, and he rose, and quietly left to the bathroom, and prompt expelled the contents of his mouth and stomach into the toilet.

Ink.

Huh.

Joey’s head felt very light.

What was happening? Why was he on his knees? Did that come out of him?

Seemed like it.

He shook, but only a little, and rested his head against the rim of the toilet, lest he feel the urge to vomit again. When the need fell still, he got up again, spruced himself up in the cloudy mirror (he would remind one of the Franks to clean it), and made his way back to the conversing others. He sat heavily, Henry’s hand and his meeting silently in the middle. Henry’s expression was nearly unreadable, but Joey could see concern. Then Susie spoke up (when had she gotten there? Probably while he was in the restroom), her voice a tranquil melody. So different to Joey’s, he wondered how she even beard to pretend to date him. And Henry as well, how could he stand to hear his record scratch tones while his lovely baritone ran deep and true?

“We need an organist, Mr. Drew, Dr. Stein,” she told them, something Joey knew very well, something he knew would be addressed eventually, but he had always dreaded the moment when the topic would arise. Henry pondered it for a moment, and then spoke, “What about Johnathan Derekson agai-”

“NO!” Joey did not know when he got to his feet, eyes wide and wild, teeth bared, shoulders arched forward in defense. Those around stared at him, and he felt his neck burn with warmth as he sat back down slowly. “S-sorry. No. Not… him. Never.”

Bertrum’s rusty gold eyes pierced Johan’s skin, digging into him, silent questions asked a million times with the mere raise of a thick, dark eyebrow. Johan closed his eyes, breathed in, counted to five, and let the air out. Best not to think of him. Best to remember that… the incident never occurred. It was in the, in a past life. Not this one. Here, now, he could start fresh. No fear in his veins at the thought of going to the music department. For there was no Johnathan Derekson there to prey on him. 

‘I do not mean to interrupt,’ Jameson signed to them after tapping Henry’s shoulder for all of their attention. ‘I know this one young lad, he works at a church as an organist, and he is looking for a better job. His name is Doe. Johnny Doe. An orphan. Good natured. Gentle. Not mute like me, but very quiet. Know how to sign very well. We enjoy each other’s company.’

So, Johnny Doe was called in for an interview, and he played beautifully. Joey was smitten by his stunning melodies and he and Henry hired him on the spot, to which they received a little bow and a grin from JJ. 

Nothing happened for a week, though there was an icy bridge between himself and Henry. They bumped into each other in the hall, and Joey nodded, about to head upstairs, but Henry’s hand caught Joey’s, pulling him into a different room.

“Why didn’t you want to hire Derekson?” he asked, puzzled. Joey felt bile rise in his throat, and his hands trembled. He shook his head. “Jo, you gotta answer me. We’re a team, right? And teams talk things out, together. What’s buggin’ you?”

“N-nothin’,” Joey lied through his teeth. Henry frowned at him, teal eyes roving over him sharply, so scrutinizing, Joey felt completely bare before the angel before him. His eyes were wide as Henry examined him. Be honest, Henry’s eyes chided him. Come on. Be honest. “D-Derekson… he….”

At the gentle but confused look in Henry’s eye, Joey felt a dam in his heart shatter.

Words spilled out of him faster than he could think.

Johnny first locking him in one of the art rooms, the fear that hung around him since that encounter, the meeting before that day, the day Joey broke. The last straw being Johnny on top of him, and he fighting.

Henry listened to Joey’s spill of emotions and sounds and record scratched stories, soaking up every word without a single sound of disgust or hatred for Johan.

Joey stared at his hands as the tirade ended, looking at the scars criss crossing them. He instinctively put a hand to his belt, confirming it were there. He shuddered as he felt Henry’s hand join his on the belt. But it was flat and warming, not gripping and chill. A hand came to the underside of Joey’s face, not quite his cheek, not quite his jaw. Henry guided him to meet his eyes, those gorgeous spheres of earthly glory. 

“I’m so sorry,” Henry somberly apologized, and Joey could see the regret in his eyes. “I never should have hired him in the first place without asking you. And you paid the price. He… he tried to… God, I’m so sorry, Joey.”

Henry could not bring himself to finish the sentence, and he shivered. Joey shivered right after him, but not a full body shiver, but a shudder that ran from where Henry’s hands rested on his body and foghorned outwards.

“Honeybee,” Henry crooned, leaning to rest his forehead against Joey’s. “You work yourself far too hard, darling. Why don’t we take some time to ourselves, yeah?”

“Too much t-to do,” Joey protested, but his body betrayed him, arms wrapping around Henry’s shoulders. Henry smirked, and Joey blushed. “In all seriousness, doc, there really is a lot to do. Paperwork f-for Johnny, storyboards for the next episode, and bills to s-sort thro-ooh, oh, ah, Hen, c-cut that o-out.” 

“Cut what out?” Henry asked innocuously with a smile pressed against Joey’s neck, where he placed little nipping kisses. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You v-very well are doing something!” Joey snapped back, then a hand flew to his mouth to keep himself quiet. As low as he could manage, he hissed into Henry’s ear. “S-stop that or else!”

“Or else what?” Henry questioned, his hands roaming all over Joey’s sensitive arms, making the dark man stiffen. “You’ve got an empty threat there, Jo.”

“I will suspend you in the e-elevator shaft,” Joey seethed, red and squirming. Henry only laughed, and continued. “For three hours!”

“Better make it six,” Henry’s voice so close to his jugular  sent shockwaves through him. “So that I’ll get out when work ends. Mmm, that would be pleasant, and then I’d spend the whole night getting some sweet, delicious revenge.”

“You’re a perverted bastard,” Joey grumbled, wiggling in Henry’s tight hold. Henry chuckled again, “That may be so, but you’re my muse, my sybaritic muse.”

The door burst open, and Jack and Wally ran in. 

“What is it now?” Henry asked with annoyance. “If you broke something, don’t care.”

“No, it’s, uh,” Jack seemed at a loss, turning to Wally, who gravely said, “It’s Sammy. He’s sick.”

[realm-sweet-realm]

Breaking the Time Loop chapter 12: Closure

The group found themselves in a hallway painted blue. "Where are we?" Lacie asked.

"Right outside Joey Drew's apartment," Henry answered.

"Perfect. Now we can bash his teeth in," Lacie returned, cracking her knuckles.

"Yeah," Susie agreed, "I'd love to give him a piece of my mind. I'm not leaving until he knows how bad he hurt us!"

"Or," Grant said, "we could handle this like adults and sue him for every penny he has."

"Well, how much could that be?” Bertrum asked, “We already know his empire fell. How is he doing, Henry?"

"Terrible. He's broke, sick, stuck in the past, and looks ten years older than he is. He's miserable."

"Then I say the world gave us all the revenge we could need. Let us be off."

"Yeah. I'll take you guys to a police station to connect you with your living family members so you can get back on your feet. But first, I need to go in there. He has some things I need." Henry stopped before the apartment door and took a deep breath. In the last few days, he’d done a plethora of neigh-impossible things. He’d come to think of himself as brave. But this was the moment of truth. If Joey said those evil words: “Henry, come visit the old studio. There’s something I need to show you,” then he'd be walking into that studio in a trance, just like every time before. It would all have been for naught.

A hand touched his, making him realize that it had been shaking. He looked back to see it was Sammy. “Scared, Henry?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? He must be like a hundred years old by now, right?

Henry smiled nervously. “Yeah.”

“I could come in with you. I want to be the one who handles the dimensional stuff anyways. It's my people, after all. I could even go instead, and ask for your things for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, “And sure, if you want the church to be your project, I'll respect that. But no. It's not about the things, Sammy. Until I face him, I won't know if this is truly over. I won't know if he still has power over me. And yes, it has to be alone.” Henry would never forgive himself if he let Joey hypnotize them both and throw them into the time loop.

Henry collected himself, entered, and marched right through Joey’s apartment. Joey looked up from his book, a look of awe and appreciation on his face. “Henry. You’ve finally done it. You’ve found the optimal ending. Oh, thank you so much! I would never have been able to save everyone without you.”

Amazingly, Henry could still muster some exhausted awe at how twisted Joey’s mind was. “You know what?” he began in a firm, but even voice, “I’m not even going to address every twisted detail of what you just said. I’m here for two specific things, and then I’m going to leave. Please don’t contact me after that.”

Joey’s face fell.

“First, I want the rights to Bendy’s character.”

“He hasn’t made money since-“

“I’ll tell you why I want it if and when I decide to.”

“Okay,” Joey conceded, and slowly began getting up from his chair.

Henry was still jittery- whether that was from nervousness or anger he couldn’t tell. “I’ll get it!” Henry cut in. He couldn’t have stood staying still any longer. “Where is it? And don’t tell me you didn’t keep it.”

“It’s in my filing cabinet.”

Henry knew the man’s home from having gone through it in his last two loops. He knew where that was. Thankfully, the cabinet was well-organized and he found what was looking for quickly. He took out a pen, crossed Joey’s name out and wrote his own before returning to the living room. “Alright. I don’t know what needs to be changed here, so you’re doing it for me,” he ordered, his confidence finally building up. Joey wordlessly obeyed.

As Henry watched, the realization settled in that this was actually happening. Joey wasn’t going to say those words. His confidence bloomed into boldness. Henry took a seat across from Joey, looking on as a king might look upon a subject. “After you’re done that, you’re going to write a letter of apology to Bendy. You messed him up pretty badly by isolating him in the ink machine for years. That would be considered torture if you did it to a human being. On top of that, you convinced him that everyone would hate him until he drastically changed his appearance. That is not okay.”

“Well, was I wrong? What should I have done with him? He was an abomination by anyone’s standards. You can’t just blame me because he realized that.”

“I don’t know,” Henry admitted. His old friend did have a point. “Just write the letter, Joey.”

A few minutes later, Joey handed the two papers to Henry. Henry gave the letter a quick read over to make sure it was appropriate, then, satisfied with its contents, put the papers away. He looked on at Joey for a moment. If he wanted to, he could have dressed him down, shoved his mistakes in his face until he cried. But for a single moment, all Henry saw was a frail, lonely old man. “Joey,” Henry said, sure to keep his voice businesslike. “You have people to visit you, right?”

“Yes. My sister and her granddaughter come once a week.”

“Good. Now, listen: a lot of the people I released are angry. If I were you, I’d get the best lawyer and the best home security system money can buy.” Henry got up to leave, taking the letter and the adoption papers with him. A small part of him felt that Joey was following, and sure enough, he felt the old man touch his hand to get his attention. “Don’t touch me!” Henry snapped, instantly regretting the hint of vulnerability he’d shown. He stopped, pulled his hand away, and curled it into a fist.

“I just wanted to ask one last thing of you.”

“What?” Henry growled.

Joey paused, taken aback by Henry's anger.

“What?" Henry roared.

“I could have put a SWAT team in a time loop, you know. I did it to you because you matter. Henry, what you think means the world to me. And now, you know everything about about my mistakes. Now that I- well, we, but I made it happen- now that we’ve saved everyone who could be saved, do you forgive me?”

All Henry could think was that Joey was pathetic. “You need to forgive yourself,” he sighed, not bothering to look back at his old friend. “No one else will.” Joey could hear the tiredness and disappointment in that gentle voice. Henry was sure of that. He left, closed the door behind him, and leaned wearily against it, feeling almost too exhausted to stand.

Bendy hugged Henry’s leg, which got his attention. “You looked like you needed it,” Bendy explained.

Henry smiled and stroked Bendy’s head. “Thanks, bud.”

“Can I see Joey now?”

Henry shook his head.

“Why not? He’d like me now. Right?”

“Well, probably. But trust me, Bendy, that man isn’t worth it. I was his friend and business partner for years, and the only good thing I ever got out of it...” Henry fumbled the paper in his hands and pulled out the adoption papers. “Was this.”

Bendy was awestruck. “Y-you mean...?”

Henry knelt down to meet Bendy’s eyes. “Yeah. I’ve warmed up to you, bud. I’m going to take you home and treat you like my own child.”

Bendy wiped away a tear of joy. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Ha, no problem. Now, let’s get these people on their way home, and go home ourselves. Linda’s waiting for me. I’ll explain everything, and if I know anything about her, she’ll be totally open to you living with us.”

The duo walked home hand in hand. Henry thought about the five people they’d released. Each of them had wanted something different from Joey. Some different form of closure. As for Henry, all he wanted was to never see him again.

As for Bendy, well, Henry knew what Bendy wanted, but he was hoping that he didn’t need it. That enough affection from people who weren’t twisted beyond belief would mend the hole that Joey Drew had left in his heart.

That evening, Henry put the apology letter in his bedside drawer. He never touched it again.

[insane-control-room]

The Concept, Chapter Three

Lobotomy

To lose a section of one’s brain via an outdated and inhumane, and clearly murderous surgery for mental illnesses.

Several warnings, dear reader; depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, murder, death, loss of limbs, blood, graphic description of a corpse, drowning, child loss, another attempted rape, and painful words.

Chapter One - Chapter two

He could not hold the ink vial steady.

Jittery, oh so shaky. His hands shook and trembled, and he constantly had to adjust his grip on the pen as he drew the cartoons. He tried not to scream. Every moment, every day, he tried to hold back the aching cry in his chest, clawing at his lungs.

He tried for so hard for so long, and he was so tired… so so tired… he could sleep forever… and ever… and never wake up….

He wanted to see Aramis again… he wanted to see his father again… he wanted to join them, wherever they were, he wanted to be with his family, his family that was torn away from him so quickly, so young… he was so young, and he felt so old, so tired, his bones creaking, his muscles failing, his head aching, his hands stiff and shaky, everything so ruinous and decimated. So corrupted, so disgusting.

What a waste of space.

Johan stayed as far away from the binary computer as possible, hiding in the corner of his bed as the bright, toxic, addictive green beckoned him, he hating every time he gave in to the temptation, giggling the night away as numerical dopamine filled his brain and limbs.

He would never amount to anything, only ones and zeros.

Henry filled his dreams, his, unreal, ghostlike, lips pressed to his, and Joey regretted ever allowing him to kiss him, now trapped by this reminder that they could never be together.

He drank often, now not only using the invisible drug but also the alcohol to drain away his emotions. Bertrum tried to get him to talk, Shawn tried to cheer him up (he accidentally snapped at the Irishman, guilt flooding his system, apologizing a day later), Susie offered to take him to a nice coffee shop (when was the last time he left the studio?), Grant asked if he wanted help with his math, everyone spoke quietly about him behind his back, discussing if anyone should go out and find Henry and get him to visit them, as Joey was clearly losing his grip on reality, if he ever even had one.

He was lost, confused, and more alone than ever, the loneliness of being surrounded by people you do not dare tell your problems to.

So many names flooded the desk with the computer on it, the ink machine always hungry for more souls to chip away at.

Black, black ink, swallowing him up, drowning him.

He drowned himself in his work, creating more formulas on his computer to help him do more work in less time, like the insomnia code, the two times speed code, all little bits and pieces to create the toons faster.

He hated Alice Angel.

Not really.

Hatred is when one destests something, as an eye color or a sickness, hatred is a severe aversion to something, as to the sight of blood or the mentioning of higher beings, hatred is a passionate desire to see something utterly removed, like competition or step siblings.

He did not hate Alice Angel. He felt melancholic toward her, feeling saddened and hurt.

She did nothing wrong, afterall, she could do nothing aside from what she was made to do.

It hurt to draw her.

Such a lovely character, such flow, such grace, so beautiful. Everything Henry made was so beautiful, so wonderful, such a stunning creation.

Johan knew he was losing touch with reality.

He put on a bigger and better act.

Be Joey Drew.

Be the man that would be better than you in every possible way.

Be confident, be intelligent, be suave, be smart, be cunning, and smile!

Smile.

Keep grinning, even though your smile is the most disgusting thing to darken the earth, such a pitiful and stretched smile.

Pathetic. Useless, unnecessary piece of scrapable coding.

The abuse he hissed within his own mind kept him smiling.

At least someone could tell how much of a burden he was.

Even if it was just himself.

People noticed his change in attitude, but quickly learned not to mention it.

A quiet, “Really now?” seemed more dangerous than any threat.

Were there not more workers here before?

Were there?

No one remembered that there were more workers.

Joey did not erase them.

He did not.

He did not.

He did not.

Please….

He did not.

He stared at the computer and the list of fired workers, fired for incompetence and lack of productivity, and he was terrified that he would delete them.

He did not want to, and he forced himself back from the thought of ever doing it.

Never. He could not give in to the addiction.

Then he realized what happened.

He no longer needed the computer to erase someone, he found that out much to his horror and abhorrence. He had been watching a worker, after doing nothing for a week, getting drunk in the public room. Johan was about to go over and fire, him, wishing to delete him instead, but not wanting to fall to the temptation, when the man was gone. Erased.

Without the computer.

Johan ran to his room, hiding from himself, shaking with disgust and terror.

He vomited. Blood, ink, and numbers spilled from his insides.

What had he done to himself?

What was he?

He shakily grabbed a knife, preparing to dig into his skin to find out what sort of demon was hiding in the body of a human, but threw away the knife as soon as the blade reached his skin.

It embedded with a crack in his mirror.

He stared at his reflection, nonchalantly noting that the knife was directly on his throat, cutting his head from his body.

It made him giggle.

Oh, what fun!

Lose one’s head?!

Fun! Magical, airy, freeing!

His giggle turned into laughter, and the laughter erupted into howls, the howls into sobs.

He dropped his head between his knees as he cried.

He felt the buzz of the drug being slipped into his system, and he jolted up violently, stumbling to the computer, trying to stop himself. He collapsed in front of the glowing device, removing the narcotic from his body.

He grounded himself.

He tangled his hair in his hands, screaming, screaming louder than he ever had, louder than when his father and later his son were killed, putting all his pain and frustrations into releasing through his mouth, screaming to say that yes, he was here, yes, he was hurting, yes, he needed help, god, please, help him! Someone, anyone, for the love of anything good, help him!

Help!

Please… help…

H-help….

Hel-

A knock on his door.

He leapt to his feet.

Who the hell?

“Mista Drew?” Wallace, Wally Franks, asked, his voice muffled and uneasy. “Are ya alright?”

Joey stumbled to the door, dropping the facade, pulling it open and miserably collapsing onto the janitor.

“Oof!” Wally staggered under his height, not his weight, as the man hardly weighed a feather, and stood, stunned, as Joey shook on him. “Well, uh… alright? You okay? Something happen?”

“Wally, you’re such a good boy,” Joey sobbed, his mind registering the fact the man he was crying on was older than him by a year. But he felt so old… so so old… so tired…. “You’re always positive, you always make everyone around so happy, especially your boyfriends, and it’s so wonderful, you’re such a good person….”

“Ya not so bad either, Mista Drew,” Wally questioningly offered, awkwardly patting his boss’ back. Joey laughed a moment before breaking down into another wave of sobs.

“Oh, shit, what are the comfort words,” Wally muttered, scrambling in his brain to look for the right thing to say. “There there?”

Another strangled laugh escaped Johan.

Wally’s eyes wandered into Johan’s apartment, and he gasped.

“Your place is a mess!”

“S’not that bad,” Joey wheezed, gripping the darker man tightly. Wally shoved him carefully back into his home, settling Joey on the couch. Joey grabbed his wrist, looking at him with an almost intoxicated expression, breathing hard. “Please… please don’t leave me alone….”

Wally pulled his hand away, eyeing the cane on the floor. He set it beside the chicano, and got to tidying the room. He was startled at the lack of food in the fridge, he was uneasy at the amount of bottles lining the shelves, but worst of all were the sticky notes of just ones and zeros. The numbers clearly meant something to Drew, whose head was currently in his hands as he trembled with silent sobs.

The room was clean after an hour. Joey sat him down, and mumbled a, “Wait here.”

He came out of his room with two hundred dollars, giving them to Wally.

“Thank you,” he quietly told the janitor, and Wally’s chest constricted as he saw the absolute sincerity in Joey’s eyes. “For everything. You’re a great worker, and such a nice person. All my wishes for you are for the best.”

“Mista Drew, ya don’t need to gi-”

Joey cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t be silly, Wally,” he huffed with a light smile. He looked so tired. “Keep the money. I don’t have anything to spend it on, anyways.”

Wally reluctantly pocketed the bills.

He tipped his cap and walked out.

“I’m outta here,” he said, shrugging and smiling, “See ya tomorrow, Mista Drew.”

Johan came to wish he never did.

The next day started normal enough, with disgusting coffee (nothing he put in it seemed to make it taste any better, so he went to his computer with a huff and reset his energy from twenty five to one hundred percent), going down to his office, and reviewing the meetings he had planned for the day.

He met with the doctor, who frowned and informed him that he lost more weight and his polio was worsening. Joey had nothing to say in response, merely hanging his head in shame at such a pathetic body. The doctor smiled and tapped him, telling him to keep his chin up.

He said he would try.

He was informed of a mecha leak in the spider ride, followed by an ink spill in the same location, and how they would have to wait a day for the ink and oil to seperate to drain it.

He had another two meetings before the one he dreaded approached.

Jonathan Derekson.

Johnny the organist.

He tried animating to calm his nerves, tried drinking some tea, tried to breathe, but nervousness clouded all his actions. He was terrified. So he straightened his jacket, adjusted his pin, and sat down, stopping his pacing.

Johnny appeared in the doorway, leaning in it. Joey’s vision blurred, his memories meshing with the present.

“Hello, Mr. Drew,” Johnny smiled, looking down at the tall man seated and pale in his office chair. “My concerns are on the organ. So if you please, I’ll join you upstairs as you are bound to use the…” his eyes landed on Joey’s cane, and his smirk grew as Joey flushed, “elevator. I’ll take the stairs.”

“Alright.” Johan forced his voice to be clear and not meek. Not unassertive. He had to be strong, no matter how much he wanted to lash out and avoid this man. He made his way out the door, waiting for Johnny to leave first. “I’ll meet you there.”

He got up achingly, pushing himself up with his cane. So slowly, little steps, his eyes drifting shut with exhaustion. How did he run out of energy so quickly? Why was he so tired? So… very… tired….

“Joey, wake up,” a hand on his arm shook him out of his stupor. Grant was gazing at him with worry. Not concern, but worry. He was already on the elevator, when had that happened? “Joey, are you alright? You look… well, putting it frankly, really unhealthy. Are you sick or something?”

Grant reached up to feel the sides of his neck, checking for a fever. Nothing.

Johan looked at him blearily.

“I’m okay, just tired,” Joey sighed, and smiled (SMILE SMILE SMILE) at Grant. “I’ll see you in a few hours Mr. Cohen. As a quick go over, things are well, I assume?”

“Yes, Mr. Drew,” Grant smiled back and nodded. His smile was so much nicer, so much more real, so much purer and cleaner than Joey’s could ever be. “Far better than if anyone else ran this business. I’m honestly shocked by how much you alone make a week! Two animations for each one of the animators’, and running this whole place on top of it! It’s rather unbelievable.”

“Anything can happen with a little belief,” Joey remarked, forcing his smile wider. Just keep believing it will all be over soon. Grant nodded. Joey wanted to ask him for help, for comfort, for something, anything to ground him. Instead, he got off the elevator, and said, “See you soon.”

He drummed his knees, his useless knees, as he waited for Johnny in the organ room.

Being slammed to the wall, a hand on his che-

Stop.

Choking on something that absolutely should not be in his mo-

STOP.

Chuckles and grunts and wood in his hands, gripping his pants in silent ple-

S T O P.

His hands slammed on the organ’s keys, panting heavily as he leaned over it, his vision pulsing. Breathe. Breathe. It was over. It would not happen again.

It would not.

There was nothing to worry about.

Nothing. At. All.

He looked at the stark white keys against his black hands.

He was not a mexican of a proper, royal, spanish descent.

No.

He always was from the lower class, his ancestors being whatever slaves were left of Mayans, one of his predecessors was a wife to a conquistador, who fell in love with her as they established an encomienda. The wars and fights!

He hated them.

He set his fingers to the keys.

His father moved them to Night Vale when Johan was two, and he loved it. The town was so warm and inviting, even though quite frightening at first.

He loved Night Vale, and hated, absolutely detested, when he had to leave.

He was seventeen.

His son was killed in his arms not two months before.

He had to get out.

He had to.

Running away was so easy. He only got shot once!

The scar on his arm from it hardly bothered him anymore, most of the bullet fragments dissolved by the toxic ink flowing in his system.

It was picking himself up that was difficult.

Other people would not have such difficulty.

Something was so wrong with him.

So very wrong.

Wrong can mean so many wonderful things! Like something inside out, like a skin that did not fit, blistering and infectious. It can also define something avvering from the truth, a liar, a facade, a faker. Being improper, out of the norm, an outlier, queer, those are all wrong things. Wrong is when one is out of order, a mess, broken down, falling apart, lost. When your morals are turned on their head. When you no longer can control yourself. That is wrong.

Johan knew he was so wrong.

Such a blight.

A curse. A ruin. Broken. Queer. Wrong. Wrong wrong wro-

An off key note drew him back to the right reality, not the one in his mangled and twisted brain.

He swallowed, replacing his long, bony, macilent hands on the keys.

He trembled.

He needed help.

He needed someone, anyone, to help him.

He was terrified to ask.

He let out a sob.

“Let me introduce you to the voices in my head….”

He did not even realize he was singing.

He could not stop.

Tears splashed from his eyes.

He yelled the verses that just came to him, lines he was certain would be written in the future.

He sobbed, hoping someone would hear him as he played and sang.

“So won't you save me from myself right now,” he asked the universes, hoping one of them would have one being that could hear his cry, how wrong he knew he was, hoping something could fix him, repair his coding, make him feel better, not feel like he was in someone else’s spot. “'Cause I feel like someone else, somehow….”

His plea died down as the last key faded.

His shoulders shook, so lost, so conflicted, hurting and aching internally and externally, mentally and physically.

Arms wrapped over his shoulders.

“It’s alright, Mr. Drew,” Johnny hummed in his ear, his voice sending horror and pain shooting through his body. Please, never call him that again, that was not who he was. Please, leave him alone, there were only two people that he would rather not have around more than Johnny. Johnny slipped on the piano bench behind him, his legs on either side of Johan’s hips. His hand pressed onto Johan’s mouth. No no no not again, please…. Johan’s vision doubled over, Johnny was in front of him but he felt him behind him, and reality was phasing into memory and memory was smudging into reality, and he could not tell which was which. He suddenly felt like a wronged animal. He had to get away. He had to escape. He jolted in an attempt, but his legs gave out. Damn polio! Damn it, damn it, damn him! Johnny chuckled, flipping their positions, pressing Joey to the piano bench. Joey whimpered, unable to fight back or scream. “Come on, it’s not like you didn’t enjoy last time.”

Johan saw red, yellow error signs swarming everything.

“I DO NOT WANT THIS!” he screamed, his voice shaking the very core of the studio. Johnny looked shocked, then angered, but Joey was too far lost, to fed up, too fatigued and ill. He tried to escape again, but Johnny was so much stronger and held him down with an enraged ease, so all Johan could do was scream. “I DID NOT ENJOY WHAT YOU DID TO ME! YOU FORCED ME TO MY KNEES, YOU MADE ME GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANTED, I DID NOT WANT IT! I DID NOT LIKE IT! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! GET OFF O-”

Johnny’s hand pushed back onto his mouth. He cried out against it, writhing and struggling.

“I’ll make you like it, this time,” Johnny snarled with a feral grin, his free hand undoing Johan’s belt, making him scream again, muffled once more. Johnny’s hand felt him up, smirking at Joey’s discomfort and clearly hated unwilling pleasure as he struggled beneath him, tears blazing out of his eyes. “You can let yourself enjoy it, or I’ll force you.”

Johan struggled against him, a banging barely audible on the door.

He tried to call for help, but Johnny hit him, grabbing him by his lapel and slamming him onto the piano bench repeatedly, knocking the wind out of him, making him gasp and writhe. Johnny covered his mouth again, hooking a hand into his pants and trying to pull them down.

Johan saw hate.

Joey forced Johnny’s hand off his mouth, punching him as hard as he could.

“Get….” he felt pain and anger and hate hate hate hate hate hate HATE welling up within him, and power burst out of every pore, “OFF!”

There was a flashing, bright light, a miniature atomic bomb, rattling the walls of every building in the city. Johan could feel the ink pulsing out of him, he could feel his code rearranging and snapping into place, he could feel hate and PAIN.

He knew it was his own pain.

It was all wrong.

He whited out.

When he came too, there was the taste of blood on his lips. It was not his blood.

He dizzily got up, his ears ringing.

He saw the feet dangling in his pulsing vision.

Oh no… oh no no no….

He looked up.

Johnny’s body dangled before him.

Johnny was pressed into the organ, nearly flattened to it, his hands splayed with his fingers hanging limply in the skin, the joints dislocated, the metal of the piping warping around each visceral limb, as though an explosion forced him into the essence of the organ. His skull was crushed, his eyes forced out of and swaying from their sockets, his jaw slack and unhinged, his tongue slack and dripping red blood and clear saliva, a dark taunting pink. His blood splayed everywhere, his blood all over Joey, his black suit stained maroon. His blood was dripping in his hair and staining on his glasses, on his once white pants, and Joey? He turned over and retched. There was nothing in his system but ink and numbers mixed with acid, and blood.

Blood, the one liquid he hated most.

He vomited again, tears dripping onto the floor, coupling with the sound of Johnny’s blood doing the same.

He could hear pounding on the door through the ringing in his ears.

“Joey! Open this door! Johnny! Open up!” Jack’s voice barked, but he sounded so far away, like he was underwater. “Damnit, someone find Wally! Or his keys, at least!”

“Help,” Johan choked out. Silence suddenly took over the bable outside. “Help me… help… oh help… please… oh god, what did I do… help….”

“Joey, open the door,” Jack demanded, but in a softer tone. A strangled noise escaped the artist. Jack huffed in exasperation. “I’m getting Sammy.”

Johan pushed himself up, leaning against the wall, forcing himself not to look at Johnny’s mangled corpse.

He inched his way to the door.

“Joey, open the door,” Sammy’s soothing voice asked. “It’s just me.”

Johan gripped the handle.

“Sammy?” he whimpered, his voice cracking and high. A low hum of acknowledgement followed. “Please don’t get mad.”

“I won’t.”

Johan shut his eyes as tight as he could, pulling open the door, his head lowered in shame.

“What did you do?” Sammy gently asked him, Joey standing directly in front of the scene, blocking it from view. The blood glistened on his suit, and Sammy, suddenly sensing the urgency and (unfortunately, he did not notice) the delicacy of the situation, looked over Johan. His eyes widened as he beheld the gore on his employer’s clothing, how disheveled the articles were on his body from the molestation, and his head snapped up to look him in the eye, seeing the tears and the distress he was in. “What did you do, Joey?”

“I… I didn’t want to,” Johan whispered, and stepped back, moving to allow Sammy to see. Agonizing pain, guilt, anger, and loss drowned him as he tried to explain. “He… he was… he wanted… I couldn’t stop him… he wouldn’t get off… I… I….”

“What the goddamn fuck,” Sammy breathed, feeling disgust well within him. A fear of the unnatural joined it, and he spun to face Johan, gesturing at Johnny’s limp form. “What did you do?! What the fuck?! You murdered him, but how the hell?! What did you do?!”

“I-I don’t know, I’m sorry!” Joey stuttered, hunching over and gripping his head as it threatened to split. “I… he was… I couldn’t let him do it again, Sammy, I! He… ARGH! I don’t! KNOW! Please, please don’t tell anyone what he was going to do….”

“Everyone knows, Joey,” he informed him calmly. Joey stared at him in horror. Sammy pointed at the ‘Recording’ sign. The bright yellow ‘ON’ was lit up, making Johan’s stomach turn. “Everyone heard what was happening.”

“Sammy, please, then help me cover this up,” he begged. Sammy shook his head. “Then keep people away while I deal with it!”

“Joey… you need some help.” Sammy firmly stated, taking his wrist. Joey yanked it away violently, his eyes wide and fearful. “Come on. I’m turning you in to professionals.”

“Sammy, no!” Joey gasped, trying not to choke on his tears. Sammy scowled and took his wrist again, more staunchly. Johan, yanked on it as the music director began pulling him out of the hall, attempting to force him to the infirmary. “Don’t you know what they would do to me!? Sammy, haven’t you heard of how awful those places are?!”

“You need to go.” Sammy insisted, turning to him with a blank expression. Johan’s heart shattered again as he took in his mask. “You’ve gone too far.”

“I won’t even make it to the institutions… Sammy, they’ll take me to court,” he whimpered, even as Sammy dragged him further, no longer planning on the infirmary, but heading straight to the police. Allison and Susie stared at the two men, Thomas joining the women, exchanging a look, then the three of them collectively making their way to the pair. “Then they’ll kill me. I’ve got a low intelligence, I’m mexican, and I’m gay, Sammy, I’ve murdered someone in self defense, but they’ll kill me….”

“Take it as a mercy, then.”

Johan snapped, feeling… feeling… feeling….

He saw the coding flash before his eyes.

Just numbers.

Move some from here to there.

Do it.

Do it, everything will be better.

Everything will be okay.

You have no choice, move the numbers, NOW.

Johan gasped as reality sank back in. His hand was on Sammy’s shoulder, and the musician….

Sammy dropped to his knees, his jaw hanging open, and his eyes wide and dull.

Suddenly, shrilly, he shrieked, his hands tugging on his hair.

“BETRAYED! ABANDONED!” he shouted, anger and hurt simmering out of his enraged and distraught voice. “LEFT TO SUFFER, LED TO SLAUGHTER!”

Johan stared at the man he turned insane. He did this. He backed up as Sammy continued his screams of loss and forsakenness.

This was how Johan was feeling.

Sammy was merely out putting the data.

A hand slammed Johan’s head against the wall.

Thomas glared at him when the sparks died down.

“What the hell did you do, Drew?!” he snapped, gesturing an arm at Sammy. “What is this black magic bullshit!?”

“Hk… hhh….” was all Johan managed to choke out, tears and blood clotting his throat. Thomas smacked him again, letting him slide down the wall, and stormed over to Allison, taking his best friend by her arm. Sadness filled Johan at the sight of Susie reaching to her beloved, everything sounding so far away as his head spun from it’s abuse. Thomas was tearing them apart… stop. Stop! “Tom… you’re hurting th’m… stop….”

Thomas rushed at him, anger blazing in his eyes.

The kick landed on Johan’s skull before he could even register he was near.

Blood and numbers splattered out of his lips.

“Don’t you fucking dare start,” Thomas hissed as he coughed and wheezed. “I’ll be back for Sammy and Wally.”

Johan only was aware of the stress levels in the room rising higher and higher, Susie and Allison gesturing toward him in distress, Thomas adamantly shaking his head, and he grasped Allison’s wrist again, pulling her away.

Johan saw the stress rise.

He was hurting them.

Tom was hurting them.

All they wanted was to be together.

“St’p,” he slurred again. Thomas did not listen, and Johan felt anger build up in him. He pushed himself up to stand against the wall. He could only hear Allison and Susie’s upset voices. “Stop!”

There was another flash of all the numbers. Without thinking, Johan pushed the glowing ones and zeros into the blinking slot, shoving back the menacing, dripping ones, the ones that reminded him all too much of a fallen angel.

Another bang.

Allison was no longer in Thomas’ grip, as he slammed back into the wall, shattering something.

She looked at her hands.

With her, at the same time, Susie looked at hers.

There were only two hands.

The amalgamated being shrieked, stumbling back over a chair, slumping into in a faint.

Johan stared.

“Heh… haha… hehehehehesssssssskkk….”

What the hell was that?

“Ha! Hahaha! Heh, hehehe-HK!”

Johan slapped a hand to his mouth.

He shook with silenced laughter.

Thomas peeled himself off the ground. A shattered halo hovered above his head, holes cut into his hands, nubs of horns on his head. A fallen angel.

He charged at Johan with a cry of anger.

Johan no longer was where he stood, standing by the fuse.

Thomas whipped around to face him, dashing toward him, Johan vanishing one moment before impact, Thomas’ eyes widening as he realized the grave mistake he had made, skidding in an attempt to stop himself from slamming down the steps. He crashed into the door at the bottom.

Johan gripped the rail to the projection booth, panting heavily, breathing harder when he realized he did not feel the air entering his system, in fact, he choked on it, doubling over and coughing on the air.

He choked on a foreign object around his neck, dragging him back and up the stairs.

He was pushed down to the floor of the projection booth, Jack’s angered visage entering his vision, and Johan blearily realized the man was using his hat to force the air out of him. One of his hands moved to pin Johan’s wrists above his head, the other going and gripping his hair as the younger man thrashed to escape.

“Enough, Mr. Drew.” Norman’s voice thudded against his head, his large hands landing firmly on his throat. “We’re putting you down.”

If Johan had access to his windpipe, he would have laughed.

Putting down.

Like an animal.

Johan kicked and writhed to get out of the two enraged older mens’ grasps, but he could not, their combined strength out weighing his futile and weakened physical state. When was the last time he ate something? Air. Focus on air. Blackness swirled over his vision, pulsing and inky.

More glowing numbers.

He resisted the urge to use them, fearing the result, knowing only more pain and anger will follow the action.

Do not. Give in.

Can not give in.

Need air.

No no no.

Do not….

Please, no….

A rending sound filled the air as his hands moved of their own accord, moving the object on his right and swapping it with the one outlined in red before him.

He gasped in air, the pressure gone.

“Oh my god! Norman!”

Johan coughed and looked up, his blood freezing in his veins.

The projectionist’s head was now the very thing he dedicated his life to, his body slumping onto Johan’s, blood spurting where the projector met his neck. Joey scrambled back onto Jack, knowing full well he was moving out of danger back into it, but he needed to get away from the corpse. A dripping caught their attention, blood slowly seeping down the wall of the booth. Johan and Jack slowly both turned to look up.

Norman’s head, with wide, empty eyes, a clenched jaw, and look of shock, sat where the projector had been. His blood drained from his decapitated head, ever so slowly.

Jack stared for a moment before letting out an uncharacteristic wordless scream, having lost his two closest friends, one to insanity and the other to whatever madness this was, grabbing Johan by his collar, lifting him and slamming him down over the rail to the orchestra below. Johan let out a strangled sob, his hands scrambling against Jack’s chest in an attempt to stop him. Johan found no opening for mercy, and so, he pulled them both over the banister, the momentum pushing them apart. Johan landed on the piano, Jack on the floor. Without thinking, the taller man stumbled up and away, Jack getting up with a shout of anger. A shadow appeared over his head. Everyone in the room looked up.

And watched the piano fall.

The sound it made almost was funny, the keys all hitting at once with a dull thud, and the sound of multiple bones being snapped and crushed discordant beneath the tones.

All the musicians in the room at once turned to face the giggling Johan.

Why was he giggling, he had not even used the drug that kept him numb, this should not be funny, nothing in this situation was funny!

All of them charged, knowing this, this thing needed to be removed as quickly and in any manner possible.

Johan felt… lost, alone, cold, comfortless, searching for something.

Thus the first wave of searchers were borne of ink and pain.

He ran out of the orchestra room, feeling nauseated and sickening.

Thomas and Sammy were arguing, the once blonde director now with ink black, dripping hair. Wally stood between his two lovers, trying to appease them, but the man turned angel was hearing none of it.

Johan watched as the wrench came crashing down on the young janitor’s arm.

He slipped away, covering his ears and trying to blot out the cries of pain and torturous emotion ripping throughout the three.

Poor Wally.

He always was a good boy.

The lost ones began appearing as he sprinted away from the music department, the other floors becoming unstable and corrupted, ink leaking from walls as he passed, walls and floors ruined.

A hand shot out from a doorway, stopping him by his mouth, dragging him into the toy department. A pale Irish face looked at him with disdain, Shawn’s entire department behind him.

“Fuck ‘im up!” Shawn roared, and Johan lost count of how many times he had been kicked, struck, smacked, slammed, punched, hit, and otherwise beaten. He was shocked none of his bones had broken. He was on the floor, his arm twisted murderously behind him, leaving him gasping and shaking.  A hissing Irish voice filled is ears. “Say it.”

“Say what?” he wheezed. His head was smacked to the floor.

“Say yer sorry, ye arse!”

“I’m sorry! I am! I don’t know what happened, I don’t know what is happening, I, I… I’m sorry….”

The man shook with sobs, every motion bringing more pain.

“I don’t believe ye.”

“Please, Shawn, I swear, I don’t know how to control this!”

“‘Nuff o’ it.” Shawn barked, making Johan cry out as he pushed his arm up higher.

Bang.

There no longer was a pressure on Johan’s back, and he scrambled away, crashing into a shelf, Bendy plushies collapsing over him. He shrieked and clammored away, so sick of smiles.

An entire room of lost ones, searchers, and bloated ones looked at and regarded him solemnly.

He backed out, running, and running, until his useless, lame, pathetic, weak legs sent him sprawling down to the ground.

He curled up and cried.

He wanted to cry, at least.

He wanted to feel something, anything.

Nothing.

He stared at his hands numbly.

He knew where he could find alcohol. Shawn had alcohol. But there was no way in hell that he would go back into that room.

Grant also always had some form of it in his desk.

Joey pushed himself up, slowly stumbling down more, shaky steps going down, down, down….

He paused by the accountant’s door, knocking in case he was within.

The bottle greeted him, smashing over his head.

Wrong shoes wrong shoes no no no no no no he was not gay please do not smash the bottle over his head again, please no, you were supposed to be a good person not a beast, stop st-

The insanity transferred to Grant.

Joey slammed shut the door as cackles and howls and garbled words slipped out.

“What… what would HE SAY?! WHAT WOULD HE SAY?!”

Joey vomited again.

His own words echoed back to him for the third time that day.

He crawled to the lift.

Lacie greeted him on the lower floors, she and all the workers of Bendy Land.

This time, Johan was not just surprised none of his bones were broken, he was shocked.

The pain was unbearable, he felt his limbs beaten and torn at, he felt his clothes rip and he felt his muscles burn, he felt pain and pain and pain and pain.

Lacie grabbed him by his hair, raising an arm to punch him.

“Wait,” he croaked. “Please….”

“No,” she growled, hir fist flying to his face, and energy burst from him moments before the hit landed, and the blast rattled everything, from the games to the rides. “What the fu-”

Lost ones surrounded him once more, and there was a hollow thud as Lacie’s body landed on the animatronic she had been working on, Bertrum and hir together.

Bertrum was the only being still standing, walking delicately through the crowd of inky monster turned beings.

Bertrum stared at him, shock and terror in his eyes, replaced with sadness and sorrow.

He extended a hand to the man he saw as his nephew.

Johan stumbled onto him, shaking and sobbing onto his shoulder.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Bertrum asked him. Johan shook his head. Bertrum sighed, taking him to another room. The filled spider ride loomed over them. “Johan… go to your machine, upstairs, and undo all this mess.”

He stared at him. No one should know abo-

“Yes, the computer, dammit!” Bertrum rubbed his forehead. “I know it must be hard, but you’ve flown too close to the sun, and it’s time to reset your wings and try again.”

“You don’t know what I’m going through!” Johan yelled, tears pouring down his face. “I killed everyone! I killed Jack and Johnny and Shawn and Norman, I made Grant and Sammy go insane, I don’t even know what I did to Susie and Allison, Wally is dying and Thomas is a toon, and I don’t know what to do, I miss Henry and I’m crazy! I killed Lacie, Bertrum, your fucking spouse, I fucking killed hir, don’t you understand, I don’t know what to do!”

“Calm dow-”

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me to calm down! You should!”

Both of them were suddenly by the open top of the spider ride. Bertrum’s terrified eyes met his as he plummeted down with a splash. Johan screamed, his arm reaching down and into the inky and oiled abyss.

He struggled, Bertrum’s arm grasping his.

The ink splashed onto Johan’s bloodstained clothing, both men struggling against the slippery substance. Bertrum was the closest thing to family had since Aramis had been killed, he had grounded and stabilized him, and now he was literally slipping out between his fingers. Johan could not let more pain in. He was alone and afraid, and could not be more alone than he was, he needed some support, and he loved Bertrum. Bertrum was good and kind and protective of him. And he was his Uncle Bertie.

He had to save him, together they could fix this, Bertrum could help him fix his mess.

“Hang on,” he gasped, pulling on the older man, both striving to get him out of the ink and oil. “I’ll get you out of there!”

The world flicked again, Johan no longer feeling solid.

Bertrum slipped out of his hands.

The last thing Johan saw was his face, choking on the ink, drowning in the oil.

The green glow of the computer kept him up that night, as he re wrote everything.

And again. And again. No pattern seemed to work. Nothing he did was good.

Failure. No wonder Henry left.

Disgusting freak.

Johan stared at the numbers, and merely rewrote one line of code.

Save.

He scribbled a note.

He went downstairs, ignoring the glowing pained eyes of the lost ones.

He limped into the organ room.

Johnny’s body was gone, his entire code replaced within the organ’s.

Johan sat and played a note.

A moan of pain welled from the instrument.

“We come full circle, don’t we,” Johan hollowly laughed, enunciating each word with a note. Another groan. “Johnny… I hate this. I don’t hate you, how could I, with what I had done to you? But you… you! You wanted to me to make you moan in pleasure, but what about the pain I would go through?! Why not moan in pain, like I have!? Nightmares and terror are all you gave me! I closed my eyes and saw you in my horrors, I could not sleep, I could not eat, I cannot and will not forgive you! I will not apologize! I can’t! I can’t! You stripped from me the last shred of humanity I had, and now you, you, take the lack of humanity on yourself! I… I hope… that you can forgive me. I’m not apologizing. But I hope you can.”

Johan returned upstairs to his computer.

He picked up the note, and hesitated, but searched for the file.

His heart pounded.

Undo everything, Bertrum?

No, he will one up that.

Delete himself.

The file finished loading.

He swallowed saliva he no longer needed, and pressed delete, and felt everything change.

He felt ones and zeros ebb off of him in waves, he felt his form break, he heard the whispers and the taunts louder than ever, he saw more shadowy shapes than before, and he felt…

Error.

Pain shot through his system and he scrambled through the code.

Where did it go wrong!?

All he wanted to do was sleep forever.

Error, duplicate code, unable to delete Joey Drew.

But… he did not try to… there was no….

There was no Joey Drew.

He deleted Joey Drew.

Error, corrupted coding, cannot make changes.

What is happening?

He searched for Joey Drew.

All his coding, at first. Then branching off. Strains of Johan’s coding appeared everywhere in all sorts of small interactions, anchoring him.

Joey Drew was not Johan Ramirez anymore.

But some parts of him, the glimmers of humanity, were, and so, since Johan was deleted, the coding refused to allow him to edit the world, but since some parts of him existed in the man the only existed from his fears, he remained.

Everything reset, going black, and Johan was alone, afraid, and nonexistent.

Joey Drew woke up in an upscale apartment in the heart of Brooklyn.

Johan Ramirez hated him, the deepest kind of self-loathing.

[insane-control-room]

Broken Back and Forth, Monster To and Fro

Bertrum was... complicated. He never was human to begin with, and now... 

monster.

(set in the optic ink au [my horrible interpretation of it at least], inspired by Mechanical Heart by @queenofcats17​)

Back and forth.

Bertrum paced the small room, his arms folded, the others going back and forth. He had more than two arms, and he hated the six extras. All they did was destroyed, crushed, and wrought ruin as they snapped back and forth.

He hurt everyone around him and pushed them away, and then he’d let people in and they’d die, and it was back and forth.

It always hurt. Not just his physical, heavily modified body, but an additional emotional longing. Just to be liked, or cared about, yet at the same time a desire to be left alone. A back and forth. Bertrum never was the person to have many friends, and most he had, he had also seen them fade away and vanish, die and be killed. Back and forth, people came in and out of his own long life. He lived and could live much longer than any human could, and his outlandish lifespan was extended by Drew’s… little project.

A ride?! And his least favorite at that, the one he slaved over the most for balance and imbuing it with all his power, the one he absolutely wished was a simple project despite his love to challenge himself, the one he argued over the name with for ages, him wishing to call it the Spider and Joey deciding on the Whirling Willow (Wilbur had been unimpressed). It went back and forth. He could not always feel the inked appendages behind him, but he always heard the mechanical screeches and saw them flinch before him every so often. Back and forth. When he could feel them they hurt and ached, and burned to move.

He was alone for a long time.

And then Lacie came back to him. She was changed as well, looking like a circus actress but made of metal. An animatronic.

He cursed himself for even thinking up such a machine.

But she did not mind, she never cared. She was with him in the then and in the now, and now their lives could or would be the same length until they would rust.

He was uncertain how he felt about it.

Forth…

On one hand, he was overjoyed. He loved hir with all his heart (or mechanism), and was glad and thankful to spend any time with hir at all. She was his rock, his lifeline. And he loved hir.

And back…

On the other hand, he was distraught and self persecuting. He always wanted to live alongside hir, and near their deathless demises, they had lived together, in the same house, but were just carefully edging around each other, still friends, both torn between having each other as more or remaining at the balance they had found. Was his wish that she could live for the same amount of time as him the cause for their robotic shift? Was it his fault she no longer was human?

A whirl snapped him out of it, his extra limbs creaking and jerking. Back and forth, faster and faster. Pain shot through his back with their motions, collapsing him to his knees on the floor. He gasped, ink spilling out of his eyes in agony as his ‘arms’ lashed out, writhing and wreaking anything in the room.

Back…

Not again!

He always broke everything.

He was broken. A fallen god. A torn goddess. Bertrum and Hedon--

And forth…

Bertrum. Bertrum Piedmont. Alive.

He shook as he waited to ride out the anguish, falling forward into a bow as mechanical limbs shattered glass, tore up floorboards, and destroyed cloth.

Back…

Monster.

That’s all he was. A monster. Back and forth. Doomed to desecrate and desolate.

He gripped the ground as his tears formed a puddle beneath him, seeping into the wood, and spilling back from his eyes, renewing the inky splotches. Back and forth.

And back…

Twisted.

He once knew for certain that he was not Hedone, and never should have been her, but now he could not tell if this was the other gods’ punishment for not being who he was.

He grit his teeth, hating himself for even allowing a sliver of doubt to slip past him just for one small pain.

Forth…

No. He. Yes. Male. He, him, his. Back and forth. That is who he is. Not she. No. Hedone was a mistake. He was Bertrum.

And forth…

Lacie helped him keep that a part of himself. She kept him going and repaired him, and sometimes he could return the favor for hir.

An arm shattered a lightbulb, shocking pain lacing up into his body, back and forth, in and out, making him scream. He covered his mouth, shaking and crying. Footsteps came close, in and out of his ringing hearing, obscured by his screeching limbs, and all he could do was curl in on himself and wait to be found, and he was terrified that whoever might find him would get hurt. He would tear them apart without wanting to, in and out. So he was immensely relieved when the extraneous limbs tired. The footsteps hurried toward him, and he felt panic rising. He was a monster, he could kill them.

“Hey, uh, Bert?”

No no no Wally go away, you’re going to get hurt….

“Mr. Piedmont?”

Thomas, run, you foolish mechanic, please save yourself….

“Are you alright? Can I get a yes or no?”

Why are you like this, Sammy? Go, be happy with the loves of your life, and write amazing and sweet songs, don’t get torn to shreds….

“GO AWAY!” he shrieked, finally jolting up and scrambling back, the mechanical appendages screeching alongside his voice, in and out. “STAY AWAY FROM ME! I’M A MONSTER, RUN! BE SAFE, GO AWAY!”

The three boyfriends flinched back, Thomas and Sammy gripping Wally’s hands with their gloved ones (to avoid getting inked).

“Let’s get Lacie,” Thomas quietly suggested. NO, do NOT bring hir! “She usually can calm him down, right? I… I’m honestly worried about him….”

“Don’t worry about me, just go and leave!” Bertrum shouted, his false arms snapping to the wall and cracking holes in the wood, in and out. “Go away, I’m going to hurt you!”

“We’re goin’ an’ gettin’ Lacie,” Wally replied, pressing a kiss to the top of Thomas’s head (using his new height to his advantage). Bertrum yelled incoherent protests, drowned out by his limbs’ screaming. “C’mon Sammy. Or do you wanna stay an’ try ta keep him… in this room.”

“Nope,” the musician squeaked in a plain answer, gripping Wally’s arm with all his might. Which was a lot. “Let’s go find hir. Like, right now. Bertrum is… Bertrum is scaring me.”

“I SHOULD BE!” he roared, his arms crashing into the walls and leaving more gashes, twitching back and forth. “I’M DANGEROUS, STAY AWAY!”

“We’re getting help for you, Bertrum,” Thomas told him. The man-turned-park-ride inhaled sharply with a strangled and choked noise, appendages retracting to attack the ceiling and writhe around their owner. “Please just stay here. We’ll be back, we promise.”

“NO!” he shouted at them, his rear arms poised to strike, in and out. “Do not come back! Never come back! That’s how you can help!”

“Well,” Sammy looked at his boyfriends. “We’ll be bold enough and let you know we disagree. You need some real help.”

“Monsters. Don’t. Need. help.” he growled, mechanical ligaments snapping to and fro. “I’m a monster. You need to take care of yourselves and each other, but not a monster!”

“Ya ain’t a monster, Mr. Piedmont,” Wally solemnly retorted. “You just are in a lotta pain. We all are. We’re gettin’ ya Lacie now.”

As they left, the door became covered in ink.

“It’s for your own good, Mr. Piedmont,” Thomas’ voice was muffled. “You’re not locked in there, but we need you to stay safe.”

He tore into the floor and walls, ink stinging his metallic bones. They boxed him in. He screamed, ripping apart everything he could.

He eventually curled up next to the door, like a caged animal wishing to escape but without the strength or means. A while later, he paced the room again, back and forth, the door no longer covered in ink. He should run, in and out, he knew he shouldn’t put anyone in danger, but a part of him anchored him there.

The door opened, Lacie rushing in. Bertrum yelped and his robotic limbs jerked toward hir menacingly, but he rushed back before they could reach hir and tear hir apart screw by screw.

“S-stay away!” he ordered, but his voice wavered and broke, back and forth. Lacie approached him a little more, glancing at the three men in the doorway. She shooed them to go. “I’m warning you!”

“Bertrum.” She walked slowly and steadily. “Are you alright?”

“NO! Stay back! I’m a monster!”

“No you’re not, Bertie.”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

“What should I call you, then?” she challenged. “Monster?”

“That’s what I am.”

“Prove it,” she demanded, smirking. The smile faded as Bertrum’s secondary arms acted as legs, lifting him above the ground to loom over hir, back and forth. She forced a laugh. “Ha! See? You’re not a mon-STER!”

Bertrum had grabbed hir by the straps of her overalls, hauling hir in the air. She stared at him with wide eyes, and he looked down at hir with a blank and empty expression.

“Say that again, I dare you.”

“You’re not a monster,” she replied. He ripped through the floor, stalking to a wall and shoved hir against it, holding hir in place. “You’re still not a monster, Bertrum.”

Roaring, he tore through wood and metal and destroyed whatever he hadn’t already in the room. He was breathing harshly, still pinning hir to the wall.

“I don’t see a monster, Bertrum. I see the same you you were, lost and lonely and hurting. You don’t have to be lonely anymore.”

His hands shook, so he gripped the denim and aluminum tighter.

He used his mechanical arms to sit hir against the wall, removing his personal hands. Back and forth. Lacie looked back at him. He pushed some of hir curls from hir face.

“Try telling me I’m not a monster now.”

His lips pressed against hirs, soft and rough all at once. His air was hot on hir cheek, his moustache tickling hir slightly. One of his hands held hir wrist, tight, the other resting on hir side, his thumb going back and forth gently. Behind him, his highest of the extra arms shaped a heart. She stared at him. Bertrum Piedmont, the man of no feelings (a blatant lie everyone pretended was gospel), was kissing hir, and she wasn’t responding?! Blasphemy!

Just as he was about to pull away from Lacie, she wrapped hir free arm around his neck, pulling him back to hir lips, slightly opened. Back and forth. He felt black tears running down his face, staining his cheeks, the ink dark and cruel, but she still, despite his monstrous body and tortured being, she kissed him.

They pulled back after Lacie needed air. Bertrum’s inverted eyes studied hir, worried for hir mental health and spilling self loathing. She cupped his cheek, wiping away black tears with hir thumb.

“Ya not any monster,” she told him, and he gawked at hir, shocked. Then he growled and slammed their lips back together again, biting and nipping, all teeth, but still soft and gentle, not wanting to hurt hir in the slightest, giving hir ample room to back out. Hir heart ached as he hesitated before pressing back into the sweetest of kisses. Did he think that letting his pent up emotions out made him a monster? She ran hir hand, released from Bertrum’s grip, through his hair, calming him. In and out. He rested his chin on hir shoulder. She ran hir hand over his back in little soothing circles and through his ink like hair, ruffling it and pushing it back. Back and forth. “Showing that you care doesn’t make you a monster, Bertrum. Showing how you feel makes you… well, a person. We all have needs and desires, and when they’re not met, we get upset. It’s okay.”

His knees buckled, his hand gripping hir sleeve as he sank, sagging against hir, his head slipping down to press his forehead against hir shoulder in sobs. She pressed a kiss to the side of his head, trying not to cry hirself. His shaking slowed, turning to little tremors.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his tears spilling down his face. She hugged him tighter. “I’m sorry I’m a mons--”

“Nope,” Lacie cut him off. “You’re not a monster.”

He wrapped an arm around hir, pulling himself up to hug hir.

“Please… please help me,” Bertrum whimpered. She nodded, hugging him back tightly. “I-I love you, Lacie.”

“Aw, Bertrum…” she rocked with him, back and forth. “I’ve known for a long time, my Bertie….”

“Y-you’re not mad?” he wondered, incredulous, pulling back to look at hir, his gold eyes drowned in black searching hir desperately. “D-do you… l-love me too?”

“Yes, Bertrum,” she murmured, kissing his brow. Bertrum stared at hir before crumbling into tears of pure emotion. She rocked him, back and forth, holding him close. “Bertrum, I love you.”

She lifted him in hir mechanical arms, holding him aloft bridally, him resting his head against hir bicep, hir immense strength and power grown exponentially in her animatronic form. Lacie carried him down the halls with a brisque nod to the trio that retrieved hir, swaying back and forth with Bertrum, setting him down carefully on the bed they would swap every other night (or when they’d assume it was night), in and out. Bertrum immediately curled up, making himself into a ball, using his extra limbs to pull the blanket over himself. He always slept like that for as long as he could remember. Lacie thought it was adorable. She chuckled softly, laying down beside him, pulling him close, tucking his head under hir chin, pulling hir knees up to cradle Bertrum.

Lacie let hirself shut down when Bertrum’s rushed breathing and quieted sobs faded. They let each other comfort themselves.

Bertrum woke groggily on his back instead of side, still tired enough to sleep, but a pressure was on his chest, warm and rising and falling. Lacie’s head was pressed to his neck, hir warm processed air gently tickling his collar. He wrapped his arms around hir, his true arms, kissing the top of hir head. As for the rest of hir body, she was splayed over him, limbs on either side of him. He slowly raised them both on his back arms, the blanket still on top, and began rocking them both back and forth, like a child’s basket might.

Just to and fro. Back and forth. Breathing in and out.

He fell back asleep to the genteel motion and Lacie’s breath.

Maybe his extraneous arms could be used for something after all.

Back and forth.