#also dealmaking
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alastor is such an insidious dealmaker because he's so reasonable. he doesn't ask for anything outlandish, especially not right out of the gate—he agrees to make a commercial so long as he's never asked to engage with anything tv-related again. he turns down charlie's soul and readily concedes to the stipulation that her favor doesn't have to hurt anyone. from the way husk describes their deal ("when you're down on your luck, you turn to anything to keep you afloat"), it heavily implies to me that husk went to alastor, not the other way around. alastor gets his foot in the door by making himself freely available, and by making it easy to tell him no the first dozen times he nonchalantly offers a deal, so by the time he starts angling for a deal he actually does want, you're less likely to notice immediately how predatory he's being, or how he's backed you into an inescapable corner. he makes himself an inevitability. you know he's a monster, you know that he's manipulating you—but he's also become your only choice, and so you don't even get the consolation of being able to say he tricked you, because you chose it
#which i think is why he can tell himself he has integrity or that he's an honest dealmaker even tho he's still incredibly coercive#he can also hold it over people's heads for eternity that he didn't MAKE them do anything‚ they walked into this eyes open#disregarding whatever manipulative role he might've played in distilling their choices down to only one option#in contrast to vox & val‚ who have to alter people's minds & senses to keep them under control#which is a more overtly violating form of manipulation that alastor can point to and say ''well i don't do anything like THAT''#alastor#hazbin hotel#vaggie#charlie morningstar#husk#husker
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throws up my hands in mock resignation but also a hint of frustration Okay Valentino is a cool villain I guess
He's like. Genuinely unsettling. Wish the show struck a better balance with his character sometimes (like sometimes when he's onscreen I have to skip over because I feel queasy and sometimes he's so unsubtle he feels more like a prop than a guy who's going to be a Huge Deal in s2)
#why yes I have been reading some phenomenal fanfiction lately#a lesser me would be agonising over my inability to ever come close to matching the#masterfully characterised works of these talented WORD WEAVERS#but envy is a spoilt housepest and we must spend less time unleashing it upon new targets#instead let's talk about how these fics discovered its possible??#to write Val as not only a 3dimensional character but a deeply horrifying person to WITNESS#to depict how he thinks and what he wants and what he contributes to the people around him#while acknowledging that his actions are supremely messed up#also without dumbing whatever the fuck is wrong with him down to just 'can't do math and needs a sippycup'#those jokes are funny but he's also a dealmaker#he doesn't need to be studied under a microscope! he needs to be gawked at in abject horror! Oh the Potential!#he needs to tell us more about how depraved hell can be by linking us to a portion of the culture full of the dead who cannot die!#anyways. rant over. uh I think I like valentino now? in the same way I like the old man villain from hunchback of notre dame.#just. (gestures) what is this dude. ew. oh my god#my post#personal stuff#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel valentino#is this anything#again I am entrenching on dangerous territory of 'expectations for this media I consume'#he really doesn't need to be written all shakespearean-like#too attached mayhaps#delete later#honestly worried that if the show does reveal his backstory or whatever it'll try to paint him in a sympathetic light#and then the online arguments will be a headache for a month#villain with tragic backstory ≠ sympathetic villain
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I was rereading chapter 12 of system rebooting please standby and I found it just a little sweet that spamton was excited to see Kris (even tho it wasn’t them lol). tho he mostly was hoping for Kris to save his hide, I also think he was just happy to see his friend since he’s so lonely at that point
im rlly glad you liked that bit!! :D spamton will always have his more selfish motivations, and i've tried writing him so that if he ever does want/need something from someone else he goes into salesman mode, playing nice and innocent enough to get what he wants. But like they're his friend!! his buddy!! :D!! they're a puppet just like him and they helped to free him even if it was obvious he was up to no good in the first place! someone like that to return to him in his extreme loneliness and confusion would be a godsend, but he doesn't get those often. so whoops it had to be an addison lmao
I'd imagine if kris were to return, he'd be hanging around them and their friends to the point where it got annoying but only because he genuinely cares now and they've given him a new purpose in the world he's forever fated for. Though it would genuinely surprise me if he appeared again in canon (i think he's just gonna get the jevil treatment and be a quiet close-to-nonliving item in your inventory), but in this au hed be harder than hell to get rid of (akin to actual spam) hfjsksksk.
#i'd imagine he forms strong connections with those who give him the time of day#like the obsession with swatch when they treated him with kindness#or giving the thorn ring to noelle in snowgrave as she clicked on his ads#both of them were cons to get what he wanted (access to the basement + neo)#but deep down i think he cares based on his pacifist ending#it's his nature as a conartist as well as someone so beat down by the world to equate genuine kindness to potential suckers#maybe he thinks that if they're dumb enough to be nice to him they'll be dumb enough to help him get what he wants#not a healthy mindset to have#with kris tho it's different cuz like they're puppeted by us#he has TWO beings to swindle but jokes on u buddy we chose kindness anyway#and maybe he can sympathize with that seeing as he was quick to offer the dealmaker to us to help us on our journey no payment necessary :')#god i can talk about his connection and character development with us and kris forever#i'd also imagine he gets increasingly desperate and delusional once the loneliness climbs#just hoping for the most wanted outcome#it's like a hopeless optimism that never dies#he's a living oxymoron#i need to stop writing essays in the notes srry lol#fanfic#asks
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@thebigshotman cont. x - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Years of adapting his vocabulary to fit the wide range of informercials has finally caught up with him , albeit his semblance of normality doesn't quite match to code . Parts of him lag between steps , even more when he makes a beeline towards the girl .
Among conversation from locals entering the building— she looks up . Eyes locking on the Addison as his voice cuts through whatever topic others had been talking about before , his endearing nickname being reason for her attention . Spau—
However , Spaul's ramblings would be met with silence . A delayed reaction on her part given how fast he was moving , well more than usual . His name barely slips before arms lock around her— weight tilting her back causing her to awkwardly slump against the synthetic brick .
Immediately she felt it , the pressure building in the back of her head , her vision blurred as lights from various buildings were dwindled into abnormal shapes . Whether it came from him or some other element she couldn't see quite clearly , barely making out the eager Addison as he retained his greeting . The static has returned .
❝ Spaul ? What's— ❞
Another twinge brought a hand towards her face , groaning . Terrible timing for one of these to start up . While the migraines didn't last for more than an hour , they were still incredibly painful .
#- ; *Narrator voice* twenty years later#- ; Fun fact this is a permanent side effect now for her thanks to his dealmakers <3#- ; Their static disrupted something so anytime she's stressed or encounters one of those lil' M!As with Spaul it gives her a headache#- ; It's also why she will NEVER put another pair of glasses on her face again lmao#- ; IC#thebigshotman#- ; Video killed the radio star ( Spaul )#。・:*:・゚❀ I'm on my way ( multiverse )
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Welp, I had an idea and it came out a lot different than I thought but it kept the same premise. However, warning now that this character is all about medicine, specifically in the form of pills, and addiction to said medicine (and will mention stuff like death and physical wounds, as well as mental health and mild religious talk, although none of the religious figures that are mentioned actually exist) so if you don't wanna here about it, I'd advise not to continue reading.
So, now to introduce...
Sarah! (a friend thought of a name)
Born with hormonal imbalances, she relied on medicine for most, if not all of her life. At some point of it, however, they were approached by someone who said they could give her the power to create life-saving medication out of thin air, if she was to help them out with something. She would've declined immediately, however the favor was actually pretty nice: donating to a charity to help trans people get gender affirming care. She had some spare change, as she recently got her paycheck, so she agreed, although confident they were just bluffing so she donated.
However, the next morning, a note was in her mailbox, which had some scribbled words that told her to recite some sort of phrase in the largest room in her house, which was the living room. Upon reading the barely legible text out loud, a large demon emerged from the ground, with a weird sigil as its portal. The demon referred to Sarah as their "client" and called themselves the Dealmaker. The Dealmaker mentioned that they already knew of her good deeds, and of what she was promised. So, a contract formed out of mid-air (no fire though, it just kinda appeared) and the Dealmaker asked Sarah to sign it, expecting her to be skeptical of the contract and read it all the way through. However, one of her medicines caused her to be a bit hasty to do things, so she blindly signed it.
Unfortunately, it specifically mentioned on the contract that there was a good chance a deity saw it and got mad. Which immediately happened. Due to this, she was cursed with immortality, but very bare-bones immortality; she would still age and feel pain.
For the next few years, the curse wouldn't mean anything, as she was still rather young at the time. During these times, she would go around, very jolly, and give her medicine to those in need: even just one pill could cure any wound! However, there were some limits to this power.
First, if a person didn't have what the medicine would fix, it would instead give the person the thing rather than cure it. It would also last however long it would naturally last, which could be forever depending on what they get.
Second, some things were incurable, mostly mental things like severe depression. However, these medicines would still help, as long as they were taken regularly.
And lastly, these medicines were a less effective on Sarah herself. This wasn't too bad for most things, as wounds would still heal rather quickly. The issue was that she needed to constantly take the medicine to help with more long-term or severe issues, most notably being, once again, mental illnesses and similar things. This is what caused her addiction to medicine, as she believed that if she took enough medicine, eventually she'll be normal again; she won't have her mental issues, physical issues, and she could finally regulate her emotions correctly.
...which brings us to now. A decade passed since that original contract was signed, yet she wasn't improving. Sarah was still stuck with the medicine, still hoping it would be alright again. Once a jolly person who used her medicine to make sure her mood didn't change suddenly, she now takes that same medicine to have an ounce of happiness at all. Without her medicine acting as painkillers, she would be in constant pain. Without her medicine acting as anti-depressents, she would be an undying husk yearning for the past. Without her medicine, nothing would be okay. But it's the medicines she creates that caused all of this. But what's just one more pill to try to fix it all?
#pixels lore#i made this backstory up as i went and now its one of my most depressing stories???#this was just because i listened to a vocaloid song a lot where did this come from#anyways next up are gonna be some patch notes so yippee#also the Dealmaker does have a relation to someone whos already here#someone that mightve given sarah that promise
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1, 2, 7, 8, 9
canon questionare. || NOT ACCEPTING
1. What made you pick up this character?
Answered!
2. How did you get into this franchise/fandom?
Answered!
7. What’s the best thing about the canon you are writing?
I've already gushed about the cosmic horror aspects in another answer, but I still wanna say that! Otherwise, I love how much detail goes into the games.
All the little easter eggs and tidbits hidde here and there and how so much of it actually has something to do with the story, I'm a sucker for theorizing!
8. What’s the worst thing about the canon you are writing?
That it's ongoing.
On one hand, I'm glad that we've still got so many chapters to look forward to! On the other, so many questions are still unanswered and who knows when or even if they'll get any answers at all! It makes writing a little weird sometimes, I end up winging it a lot.
I'm low-key terrified of the next chapter coming out and what it might have to say about the little Spam man. I doubt very much, but, you can never know.
9. Have you tweaked the character from canon? If so, what did you tweak?
Look. Look.
Aside from liberties when it comes to anatomy, I've maybe made him a little more likable and a bit easier to understand for the sake of everybody's sanity, but I'm trying so damn hard to stick to canon that I'm dying.
I'm always afraid that I'm writing him way too ooc, sometimes I go ahead and write him as being prone to sudden swings in mood and other times I go ahead and say "today I'll just be chill." I want to write more flashbacks and I haven't. I might even be writing him as too nice, but I'm justifying it as him being post-pacifist. My writing is contradicting itself on occasion and I know that, but I guess that works for a character that contradicts himself daily? His motivations are hard to pin down.
It's also kind of hard to balance "the ravings of a glitched man" and "i hope people understand what im writing." I go back and forth on how much of his speech thing I let him be aware of/control just for the sake of it making some kind of sense.
I'm waiting for the day somebody comes at me to tell me how ooc I'm being tbh
#nobully#WHO THE FUCK IS MIKE??? TELL ME. WHO. IS. MIKE.#HOW THE FUCK DOES HE KNOW PEOPLE IN ANOTHER DARK WORLD???#and Freedom won the vote so if the dealmaker ends up fucking TALKING???#im a dead mun#Meme Response#Old Meme#oh and also WHO WAS PHONE??? WAS IT GASTER?????#IT IMPLIES GASTER BUT FUCKING WHY BRO WHY#LOOK YOU DONT WANT SPAMTON IN YOUR EMO BAND
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an afternoon of pumpkin picking
pairing: sugar daddy!ransom drysdale x sugar baby!female reader
summary: you've convinced your sugar daddy to take you pumpkin picking—despite his reservations about spending any amount of time on a farm—and the perfectly autumnal date takes a turn when deeper feelings come to light.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), established sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship, smut, unprotected sex, masturbation (f), guided masturbation, piv sex, outdoor sex, creampie, filming/recording/taking sexual photos, oral sex (m receiving), light bdsm, free use, pussy spanking, panty sniffing, dirty talk, daddy kink, praise kink, light degradation, pet names (nixie, baby), love confessions (a bit of idiots in love), aftercare, happy ending, so much fluff
word count: 11.6k
a/n: this fic is inspired by this exchange about various babes as sugar daddies taking their sugar babies on fall dates. i loved the idea of ransom being a little grumpy about going pumpkin picking, and then it morphed into this because i decided i wanted to explore their deeper emotional connection so uh it ended up being a lot longer than i expected. but it's also very cozy and smutty and fluffy and perfect for this time of year!!! anyway, i had fun writing this, so i hope y'all enjoy reading it!!
Can’t believe you talked me into this.
The text from your sugar daddy, Ransom Drysdale, arrived on a brisk September morning as you were getting ready for the perfectly autumnal date you’d convinced him to plan. As you read the message, you could practically hear the affectionate exasperation in his tone, which made you smile to yourself.
It had taken quite a bit of your powers of persuasion to get Ransom Drysdale—the heir to the Blood Like Wine Publishing dynasty and the most blue-blooded Boston man you’d ever met—to agree to take you pumpkin picking out in the “boonies,” as he called anywhere beyond the city limits that wasn’t his “ancestral estate” (also his words).
But since you’d been seeing him for over a year, you knew all of Ransom’s weaknesses. And you’d used them to make a deal with your sugar daddy.
You’re going to have fun, I promise :) Don’t forget our deal.
You certainly hoped Ransom hadn’t forgotten about the arrangement you’d struck that ended up with him taking you pumpkin picking, especially since it was all you could think about that morning as you got ready and did your hair and makeup. Your thoughts kept straying to the deal you’d made, what you’d given him in exchange for the autumnal date of your dreams.
Ransom Drysdale was a dealmaker by trade, overseeing all publication acquisitions for Blood Like Wine. So after all your normal methods of persuasion had failed to convince him to take you pumpkin picking, you’d offered him a deal he couldn’t refuse. It was one that you knew you both would enjoy, but Ransom especially since it appealed to his nature.
A shiver of anticipation ran down your spine as you stood inside the walk-in closet of your Beacon Hill townhouse apartment—the one Ransom paid for, of course.
It had been a gift when you’d accepted his request to be exclusively his sugar baby. He was the only man in your life anymore, and he’d said he wanted to make sure you were taken care of, so he got you the apartment and set up an allowance to make up for the other relationships you’d had to end.
Truthfully, it had been an incredibly easy decision to accept Ransom’s request. He was easily the youngest and handsomest of any man you’d been a sugar baby to—and if you had the tiniest little crush on him, you’d been certain you’d be able to keep it locked down so you didn’t jeopardize your relationship.
After all, Ransom had been clear when you first met: He wasn’t looking to fall in love.
Unfortunately for you, over the year that you’d been seeing him exclusively, your crush had blossomed into full-blown feelings. It was hard not to care for the grumpy, sarcastic publishing executive. He made you laugh, he made you feel safe, and the sex with him was better than any you’d ever had.
More than a year into seeing him and it got harder and harder to hide the fact that you cared deeply for him. You wanted to bundle yourself in one of his sweaters and stay with him forever—but you knew you couldn’t let on about your feelings. You didn’t want to risk him finding out and ending your relationship because he feared you were falling in love with him…
Of course, there were other ways your relationship could end.
Your fingers toyed with the sleeve of a sweater hanging in your closet as you thought about your sugar daddy. A pit in your stomach opened wide as you considered, yet again, it was probably inevitable that one day he would grow tired of you and move on to someone else. Even if you didn’t tell him how you felt, he could still leave you.
It was what happened with these kinds of relationships—the men left when they got bored or tired. Or when they wanted to settle down. Or when they fell in love with someone else.
Add to that, you were keenly aware that you were getting old enough that a man as young as Ransom—who was in his 40s—might want to soon trade you in for a newer, younger model.
The thought broke your heart a little, and you had to push it away. You cut off the entire train of thought, knowing that it would lead nowhere good, especially when your sugar daddy was due to pick you up in just a short time. As you went back to getting ready, in your mind, you repeated your mantra to yourself: You would not love Ransom Drysdale.
It was a lie, of course, but you were hoping that if you said it to yourself enough times it would become true. It hadn’t worked yet, though.
Thankfully, your phone vibrated, distracting you.
Wear that skirt I like. And one of the sweaters you stole from me.
A huff of an affronted laugh escaped you at the brisk tone of Ransom’s message. You hated it when he barked orders at you like you were one of the interns at his office. Sure, technically you were his employee, but he didn’t have to use that tone—especially before a date.
You assumed he was cranky because he still didn’t want to go pumpkin picking, but that didn’t mean you had to put up with it. Or respond at all. Even if you did follow his orders, since that was part of your deal for the day.
Tossing your phone on your bed without replying, you pulled out the skirt he was referring to from your closet. It was a short, flouncy thing that swished dangerously around your thighs, offering tantalizing teases of your ass to anyone who might be looking at your backside.
Ransom loved it because it afforded him a sneak peek of what lingerie you were wearing. One of his favorite things to gift you as his sugar baby was lingerie. He loved seeing you in it, touching you in it, fucking you in it. And what he liked most was sneaking a peek of your lingerie from those glimpses beneath your flouncy skirt.
On that September morning, you selected a black satin matching set to wear beneath the skirt, then pulled a maroon sweater from the pile in your closet.
He may have been a spoiled, rich man, but Ransom was a gentleman, and if you were cold, he’d give you his sweater—which was how you’d amassed a small hoard of your sugar daddy’s sweaters. You never could bring yourself to give them back once they made their way into your closet. Nor could you bear to wash them.
In your loneliest moments, you’d pull on one of Ransom’s sweaters and let the expensive scent of his cologne comfort you. He smelled like whiskey and something spicy—something that matched perfectly with the fall and winter.
You’d never told anyone about wearing Ransom’s sweaters when you were alone in your Beacon Hill apartment, but your sugar daddy knew you’d collected many of them.
Ransom didn’t seem to mind, though. Or, at least, he never asked for them back. But sometimes, like that day, he’d ask that you wear one for him. It always sent a special thrill through you to wear your sugar daddy’s sweaters, like it meant he was staking a claim on you that was deeper and more like a typical romantic relationship.
A giddy, happy smile curled your lips as you got dressed and added jewelry before checking to make sure your hair and makeup were still done to your satisfaction.
You were just pulling on some black mary jane shoes when your phone chimed with another text.
Let me see, nixie.
Your traitorous heart fluttered at the nickname. Most of the sugar daddies you’d had relationships with called you by much more common pet names—sweetheart, honey—if they used them at all. But leave it to Ransom to pull a pet name from obscure European folklore.
You’d had to look it up after the first time he used it, and when you found out it was a kind of river mermaid who lured men to their deaths, you’d laughed to yourself. Ransom had essentially likened you to a siren, and at the time, you’d wondered if he believed you could lure him to his death. It seemed ridiculous, especially when you were the one in danger of getting their heart broken.
Sometimes, when he used that pet name, you wondered if Ransom liked you as much as you liked him. If that was why he’d chosen it, because he worried you’d hurt him somehow. But that was a dangerous thought and you reminded yourself it would only lead to heartbreak.
You tried not to have a reaction to the nickname. You tried to stop your heart from fluttering and your lips from curving into a smile. But it was impossible.
So to distract yourself, you did as Ransom had asked in his message. You snapped a quick photo of your outfit—the short, flouncy skirt paired with his maroon sweater and your black mary janes. You’d chosen to forgo tights because September in Massachusetts could get warm, especially with the sun shining as brightly as it was outside your window.
You sent the photo and began gathering your things to wait for Ransom to arrive for your date, but his response came back quicker than you expected.
Pretty, but I want to see it in person. I’m outside.
Your heart gave another flutter at the compliment, then flipped entirely when he said he was outside. Bounding to your bedroom window that overlooked the cobblestone streets of Beacon Hill, you grinned when you saw Ransom’s silver 1972 BMW coupe parked outside your door.
Ransom might not be as excited for your pumpkin picking date as you were, but he was early. That had to mean something, right?
You didn’t let that thought flourish any further, pushing it aside as you grabbed your keys and phone and shoved them in the bag you’d picked to match your outfit. Then you were flouncing down the stairs of your townhouse to the front door and pushing through it, pausing only to lock it behind you.
When you turned to the street, you were struck with the sight of Ransom Drysdale leaning against his BMW, a to-go cup of coffee in his hand. Your heart raced and your belly swooped—it felt like your entire body was having a visceral reaction to seeing Ransom dressed in an autumnal outfit that suited him so well.
A golden brown wool coat hung off Ransom’s broad shoulders, slightly obscuring the worn cream-colored cable knit sweater that covered his expansive chest. A purple and gold scarf with some kind of intricate design hung casually around his neck, adding to the look that was completed by dark slacks, brown loafers and a pair of sunglasses with gold rims that matched the rings he wore on his hands.
Despite his sunglasses, you could feel Ransom’s eyes on you and you bit your lip against a giddy grin, worried that your schoolgirl crush on your sugar daddy would show plain as day on your face if you let it slip free. Instead, you gave him an exaggerated onceover before letting out a low whistle of appreciation as you stepped into the narrow sidewalk lining the cobblestone street.
“Quit gawking and c’mere, nixie,” Ransom growled, using his free hand to grab your waist and pull you into him.
You landed against his broad, muscular chest with a light, “oomph,” and instantly wound your arms around his shoulders, enjoying the way he felt so steady and solid against you.
“You love it when I check you out, don’t you, daddy?” you teased in a soft voice meant only for him.
The street wasn’t busy, but it was so narrow that if any of your neighbors had their windows open to let in the crisp September air, they’d easily be able to overhear you. And you didn’t want anyone else hearing you call Ransom ‘daddy’—that was just for him.
“I do,” Ransom admitted in a rumbling voice, matching your low tone. “And I love looking at you in your pretty little outfit I picked out…” He trailed off, ducking down closer to you and nudging your nose to tilt your head back, ghosting his mouth over your lips teasingly when you canted your face to meet his. “But daddy needs a kiss, baby.”
The words were barely past his lips before you were surging up onto your tiptoes and kissing Ransom. He tasted like black coffee and cinnamon, and you couldn’t get enough of it. When his tongue slid across your lower lip seeking entrance, you were helpless to do anything but open for him, moaning softly as he plunged into your mouth.
The kiss had started out chaste enough for the sidewalk of Beacon Hill, but Ransom seemed to be as ravenous as you felt, hooking his arms around your waist and bending you backward with the intensity of his need to devour you.
It had your head spinning with pleasure, but you still gave him as good as you got, kissing him back with just as much fervor, your leg rising of its own accord to hook around his thigh beneath his open coat.
Gradually, Ransom slowed the kiss until his mouth was decadently nibbling on your lower lip before licking the sting of his teeth away. Then, finally, he pulled away and you were able to drag in a deep breath, trying to get your head on straight as you lowered your leg back to the sidewalk.
“Get in the car, nixie,” Ransom growled, though there was no anger in his tone, only a desirous heat that you recognized, since it was swirling warmly in the depths of your core. “Before I decide I’d rather take you back inside your apartment and fuck you in nothing but my sweater instead of taking you pumpkin picking.”
His free hand slid down your back and he groped the soft curve of your ass shamelessly over your skirt, right there on the street. Still, you couldn’t help but melt at his rough handling, a gasp escaping as his fingers dug ruthlessly into your flesh.
For just a second, you debated whether you wanted Ransom to deliver on his threat, but decided against it. The prospect of seeing your sugar daddy going pumpkin picking was too good to pass up.
“Ok, ok, I’m getting in the car,” you huffed on a laugh, your voice breathy in a way you couldn’t help as you squirmed away from Ransom’s groping hand. Your sugar daddy chuckled, but let you go, then turned to open the door of his BMW for you.
He waited until you were settled on the soft leather seat, your seatbelt buckled across your lap, then leaned into the car and handed you the coffee he’d been holding. You took it with no small amount of surprise, having assumed it was his own coffee.
“For you, your favorite,” he murmured before brushing a kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry for being short with you this morning.”
A stunned expression froze on your face, his words spinning around in your mind so loudly, you barely heard the thump of the car door closing. Your eyes flicked up to watch Ransom cross in front of the car, your heart racing like you’d just sprinted an entire marathon.
It was then that you knew, unequivocally, without any doubt, that you loved Ransom Drysdale.
Your sugar daddy slid smoothly into the driver’s seat and pulled his door shut before glancing at you. You gave him a weak smile, trying to hid the fact that you felt like a bomb had just been dropped inside your heart, and his expression twisted into one of annoyance.
“Don’t tell me they fucked up your drink,” he fumed, shoving his keys in the ignition and starting his BMW. He threw an arm around the back of your seat, his chest close enough to your shoulder that you could feel the warmth radiating from him as he carefully backed up, then maneuvered onto the street. All the while, he was muttering, “It’s a fucking pumpkin spice latte, they must make thousands of them a day. How can they fuck it up?”
When he merged into traffic at the end of the street heading in the direction of the local coffee shop, Ransom finally pulled his arm away from the back of your seat. You grabbed his hand before he could put it back on the wheel, squeezing it to get his attention.
“The latte’s fine, Ran—it’s perfect,” you assured him, even though you hadn’t taken a sip yet. Some of the anger drained from his expression and he executed a u-turn to turn in the other direction of the coffee shop, but his jaw was still ticking with annoyance and you searched for an explanation that wasn’t the truth. When you couldn’t think of anything else, you blurted, “I was just surprised you remembered my favorite coffee.”
“Of course I remembered,” he said after a moment of silence. His voice was gruff, like he didn’t know what to do with his sweet gesture being addressed so directly, but his mood seemed to lighten, his annoyance forgotten. Slipping his hand from your fingers, he settled his palm firmly on your thigh, giving you a playful squeeze as he shot you a smirk. “Though I don’t think that sugary nonsense should really be called coffee,” he snarked, giving your leg another squeeze to let you know he was only teasing.
You huffed an exasperated laugh and settled your free hand on top of his, holding onto him while he drove skillfully through the busy streets of Boston, heading toward the city limits.
Ransom’s joke washed away the remnants of whatever tension your revelation, and your need to hide it from him, had caused between the two of you. Of course, you still felt the knowledge that you loved him hovering at the edge of your mind, but it was easy to sink into Ransom’s comforting presence and, if not entirely forget about it, at least more easily pretend you didn’t know you were in love with your sugar daddy.
On the drive, you made conversation with Ransom, asking him about his work and his family. He’d spent time with them the previous weekend and hadn’t seen you as a result. But he skipped quickly over the family party he’d attended and instead focused on telling you about some of the books he’d acquired for Blood Like Wine.
You didn’t like Ransom’s family, based on what little you knew about them. And you didn’t feel even a little bit bad about it because you were certain they’d never like you, especially considering how you’d met Ransom. But it still made you sad to think about him facing them alone. Your heart thumped with sympathy and you curled your fingers more possessively around his hand on your thigh.
Ransom shot you a lopsided smile and turned the conversation around on you, asking about what books you’d been reading, and how the rest of your hobbies were going. He didn’t need to ask about your work because he’d made sure you didn’t need a job other than keeping him company—and especially didn’t need any other sugar daddies.
So you told him about what you were reading and all the other things you did to occupy your time while he listened and asked questions. He especially loved hearing your opinions on the Blood Like Wine books he’d acquired.
A little over an hour outside the city, Ransom’s BMW pulled into a gravel driveway beside a large sign that read Johnson’s Family Farm. There were smaller signs lining the drive advertising the farm’s apple orchards, hayrides, farm stand, and, of course, the pumpkin patch.
Beyond the windows of Ransom’s BMW, you could see the farm sprawling out toward the distant horizon, plenty of picturesque little red buildings and beautiful fields filled with various fruits and vegetables. But there was something off about the farm, and it took you a moment to realize what it was: The whole place was deserted.
It was a little early in the day, just after lunch time, but you were still surprised by how empty the parking lot was. And you didn’t even see any workers, or cars that might belong to them. It was just Ransom’s BMW and the deserted farm.
“Where is everyone?” you asked, turning in your seat to Ransom. “Are you sure they’re open?” It was the weekend, they must’ve been open, but you couldn’t make sense of why no one was there.
Ransom snorted, giving you a devious smirk as he put the car in park and turned it off.
“I bought out the farm for a couple hours, it’s just us and the pumpkins, nixie,” he explained, squeezing your thigh one last time before stepping out of the car and rounding the front to open your door for you.
You stepped out onto the gravel in a bit of a daze, still shocked by his words. You knew Ransom was wealthy—he was a high-level executive at one of the most successful prestige publishers in the country, not to mention the money he inherited from his family—but him buying out an entire farm just for your date was one of the most extravagant things he’d ever done. Your mind reeled as you tried to fathom how much that would even cost.
Ransom curled a finger beneath your chin and tipped your face up to look at him. He’d taken off his sunglasses, so you were met with the sight of his sparkling blue eyes. Paired with his devastatingly handsome smirk, your knees instantly went weak and your mouth parted in a wordless plea for him to kiss you.
He dropped a quick peck to your lips that was over too soon and swept his thumb across your cheek in a soothing gesture, your surprise melting into happiness as you realized you got to have Ransom all to yourself on your date.
“C’mon, nixie, did you really think I’d agree to go pumpkin picking—to go tromping through the dirt on a farm,” he scoffed, his tone warm even if it was a little derisive. “And deal with hordes of screaming children and their families?”
Ransom raised an eyebrow at you and you couldn’t help but snort a laugh as you rolled your eyes. You didn’t even need to answer, because of course Ransom wouldn’t want to deal with anyone else while he was enduring the absolute torture of going pumpkin picking. But then his next words distracted you from thinking about how spoiled he was.
“Besides, I haven’t forgotten our deal. I have plans for you, and we needed the farm all to ourselves for them,” he teased, his smirk turning impish as he ducked down and captured your lips in another quick kiss.
Your heart was racing with excitement, your mind turning over his words and wondering what he could have planned for you while Ransom grabbed your hand and led you into the farm. You shook your head to clear it of all the naughty thoughts that had popped into your mind, and focused on your sugar daddy, who was following the signs toward the pumpkin patch with a grim acceptance in his expression.
The September sun was warm on your shoulders, but there was a cool breeze, the lingering chill of the morning clinging to the day and you curled around Ransom’s arm while you walked. You tried to distract your sugar daddy from the eventuality of leaving the nice dirt path to wade into the pumpkin patch by chattering about fond memories you had of going apple picking and exploring corn mazes with friends when you were younger.
When you got to the area where you could pick your own pumpkins, Ransom paused at the edge, using your clasped hands to pull you to a stop alongside him. Your chatter cut off mid-sentence and you looked curiously to your sugar daddy, finding his brows lowered over his stormy blue eyes as he considered the haphazard spread of soft soil, scattered hay and orange pumpkins.
“I still don’t really see the point of this,” he muttered, giving the pumpkin patch a dubious look.
You couldn’t help but smile, thinking Ransom looked younger than his years in that moment—like a kid who was being introduced to something new and didn’t trust that they were going to like it.
You curled into Ransom’s chest, your arms twining around his neck while his settled easily around your waist. You looked up at him and waited to speak until he dragged his gaze from the pumpkin patch behind you to meet your eyes.
“Normally, the point would be to take some pumpkins home and carve them,” you explained patiently. Ransom narrowed his eyes on you suspiciously, as if he believed you were going to try to convince him to do such an unfathomably pedestrian thing, and the corners of your mouth flickered as you suppressed an even wider smiler. “But something tells me even my powers of persuasion aren’t strong enough to get you to do that.”
Ransom only snorted, his eyes flicking disdainfully to the pumpkins over your shoulder then back at you. ��Definitely not.”
But there was a curiosity buried deep in his gaze, and you wondered if one day—if you were together long enough—he might be willing to try some pumpkin carving.
Surprisingly, you could picture it. Ransom with his worn, threadbare sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbows, grimacing as he yanked pumpkin guts from inside a big, orange gourd. It almost made you giggle to think about.
Instead, you shook your head to clear the image from your thoughts, not wanting to get your hopes up that Ransom would be a fixture in your life long enough that you could convince him to carve pumpkins with you.
Although, maybe if you offered to blow him while he did… You shook your head again and met Ransom’s curious gaze, giving him a bright smile that was only a little bit fake.
“Then we can just pick out a couple pumpkins for my front steps,” you said sunnily, bouncing up onto your tiptoes to press a quick kiss to Ransom’s cheek. “They’re pretty decorations whether we carve them or not.”
You began to pull away, intent on starting your search for the perfect pumpkins, but Ransom’s arms tightened around your waist, like he didn’t want to let go yet.
“You’d be a much prettier decoration than any of these gourds, nixie,” he murmured, and you turned your face to him in surprise at the gruffness in his tone. There was some emotion laced through his voice that you couldn’t place, and before you could puzzle it out, Ransom’s mouth caught yours, sending your thoughts scattering as he kissed you deeply.
When you finally broke away for a breath, your body was buzzing with awareness of Ransom’s and a warmth that had nothing to do with the bright September sun had bloomed between your thighs. You had half a mind to drag Ransom back to the car and have him do something about what he’d started, but you were determined to go pumpkin picking.
Pushing aside the distracting hum of desire filling your body, you pulled away from Ransom’s warmth and began carefully stepping through the pumpkin patch. The smell of earth and the distinct scent of pumpkins surrounded you, calming some of the buzzy heat Ransom had stirred up, and you were able to focus on your search for the perfect pumpkins.
Once Ransom got over the fact that he would have to walk through the dirt in his nice loafers—which took a few moments of complaining—he began picking his way through the pumpkins. He kept calling out to you when he’d found one that was particularly deformed or ugly in some way, trying to claim they had “character.” But you knew he was just being a pest to make you laugh and smile.
To his credit, he was making you laugh, and the smile on your face was so wide it hurt a little.
Every time he held up a terrible pumpkin like it was a prize catch, you shook your head at him, but your laughter echoed across the fields of the farm. And you couldn’t help but notice that Ransom seemed to be having fun, too, his own smile staying fixed on his handsome face as you both made your way through the pumpkin patch.
“What about this one?” Ransom called, from a little ways away, having wandered off in a different direction. “Now this is a pumpkin.”
You stood up from where you’d been bent over, looking at some moderately sized pumpkins to find Ransom standing beside a massive orange thing. It was almost as high as Ransom’s waist, tipped on its side, but as you looked harder, something about it seemed off.
First, it was clearly meant to be part of a display set up by the farm, since it stood in front of an artfully arranged stack of hay bales that were topped with smaller pumpkins. The rest of the field stretched out behind the setup, and you suspected it had been constructed in an attempt to give visitors to the farm a photo op, where families or groups of friends could pose for the perfect autumnal pictures.
But as you walked closer to Ransom, and smoothed your hands over the large pumpkin, you realized something else was off about the gourd.
“Ran,” you started dryly, cutting your eyes to him, finding him admiring the pumpkin. “This isn’t a real pumpkin—it’s fake, for the photo op,” you said, waving your hand at the whole display.
Ransom seemed confused for a moment, then looked at the bales of hay arranged behind it as if he was seeing them for the first time. Since you were closer, you could see a little sign that had the name of the farm tacked into the hay, and had to give it to Johnson’s Family Farm—they seemed to know what they were doing.
“Figures the first pumpkin I actually like is fake,” Ransom muttered, turning to you and wrapping his arms around your waist as he curled his big body around yours.
You bit your lip against a laugh and stroked your fingers through his soft brown hair. “Don’t worry, Ran, I’m sure we’ll find something you like.”
His thick arms squeezed you tight and for a moment, the two of you just stood there, holding onto one another. It was a sweet moment—until Ransom’s hands began to wander down your back, stroking down your spine to the swell of your ass. But he didn’t stop there. His hands slid further down and under your skirt, groping your thighs shamelessly and kneading the soft flesh of your ass.
“Remind me again about the deal we made, nixie,” Ransom rumbled, his tone thick with lust as he used his big hands to pull you closer, his bulge pressing into your stomach.
Your mind was swimming with desire, your body arched into the bigger form of your sugar daddy, but you managed to remember the words of the agreement you’d made—the one that had finally convinced Ransom it would be worth it to take you pumpkin picking.
“I have to do everything you say,” you recited the terms of your deal, your voice breathless with excitement. “And you can do anything you want with me.”
Ransom made a rumbling sound deep in his chest, the vibrations teasing your nipples through your sweater and sheer lingerie. Your breasts felt heavy, aching to be touched, but you kept your arms around Ransom’s broad shoulders, waiting to see what he’d do.
“I think it’s time for you to pay up, baby,” Ransom murmured, walking you backward until your ass collided with the big, fake pumpkin. “I wanna take some pictures of my pretty sugar baby on the biggest pumpkin in the patch.”
The plastic was cold against your bare thighs and you sucked in a gasp, your body tensing in Ransom’s grip.
He seemed to understand your plight, though, because he uncurled himself from around your body—after giving your ass a lingering squeeze.
Straightening, Ransom’s eyes caught yours, his blue gaze sparkling with mischief and a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth as he shrugged out of his wool coat. He swung it around behind you, laying it down on the pumpkin before his hands fell to your hips.
“Need a boost?” he asked, his lips curving into a deviously handsome smirk as his hands settled on your hips.
Truthfully, you didn’t need the help. The pumpkin was only a little higher than your ass, and you could have easily hopped up onto it. But arousal was slinking through your body, making you feel heavy and achy and you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have Ransom’s hands on you for a little longer.
“Yes, please, daddy,” you said sweetly, giving Ransom your most charming smile and enjoying the way his eyes darkened at the honorific.
Ransom pressed close to you, his expensive cologne filling your senses as he pinned you against the pumpkin under the guise of helping you. But you could feel the hard, thick length in his slacks digging into your soft belly and you knew he was enjoying the excuse to hold you just as much as you were.
Slowly, he eased you up onto the pumpkin, the wool of his coat scratchy against the back of your bare thighs, but much warmer and softer than the cold plastic of the decoration.
When he settled you right where he wanted you, it took all your self-control not to spread your legs for Ransom. You bit your lip against a sultry smile and kept your legs closed, trying to look nice for the photos he was going to take.
Still, you couldn’t help but murmur a breathy, “Thank you, daddy,” that had your blood running even hotter through your veins.
Ransom seemed just as affected as you, but he managed to hold himself together, dropping a quick kiss to your lips before rumbling, “Good girl, nixie.”
Then he was stepping away, taking his warmth and delicious scent with him as he retreated a few paces and pulled out his phone. You arranged yourself in a pretty pose on the pumpkin, smiling for Ransom’s camera, and adjusting your legs or arms or the tilt of your head as he asked.
You’d been a little worried that giving Ransom free reign to order you around would lead to him barking commands at you like you were a dog. But he’d taken your words about not liking being talked to like that to heart—no doubt helped by the reminder of his text going unanswered that morning—and he kept his voice warm and light as he guided you through the poses he wanted for the photos he was taking.
It was more fun than you expected. You’d never done any kind of photoshoot, and you found yourself enjoying Ransom’s gentle commands helping you pose for him. He took so many photos of you perched on that fake pumpkin, you began to wonder what he planned to do with them.
But then his directions took a new turn, and you couldn’t help the smirk that curved your lips.
“Now spread your legs,” Ransom urged, bending down so he was crouched in the field, being careful not to let his pants touch the dirt. “Put your feet up—yeah, just like that.” Ransom’s eyes sparkled in the bright September sunshine as he watched you shift into the pose he wanted, his mouth pulled wide in a wolfish grin. “Let daddy see what’s under that pretty skirt of yours.”
Leaning back on your hands, you lifted your knees and spread them wide, balancing precariously on top of the big, fake pumpkin. Your skirt fell around your hips, baring your black silk panties for Ransom’s camera. Even a few paces away, you could hear his inhale of breath when he got his first glimpse of the thin slip of fabric barely covering your glistening slit.
Excited thrills zipped through your body, more wetness gathering between your thighs as you watched Ransom’s blue eyes darken. Your pussy was so close to being on full display in broad daylight, and even though you knew the farm was deserted, the possibility of somehow being caught still made the tension in you crackle deliciously.
But that was the fun of following Ransom’s orders—you’d known from the moment you offered it up for the deal that he would have you doing something naughty. You just hoped, as your core ached to be filled, that your sugar daddy would end the teasing soon and fuck you over the pumpkin he had you sitting on.
“Rub your pussy, baby,” Ransom rumbled, his voice pitching lower. “Let me see you make a mess of your pretty panties—all for me.”
His tone was drenched in a desire that made you even wetter, your body responding to his voice alone. You were so gone for him, you didn’t even care that no other man had ever made you wet just from his voice. You just wanted him to keep talking—keep ordering you to do more filthy things.
Putting all your weight on one hand, you slipped the other between your thighs, using two fingers to rub your clit through your black silk panties. You suspected they were expensive, just like all the lingerie Ransom had gifted you, but you didn’t think about how much they cost. You only stared into Ransom’s camera and let your eyes go heavy-lidded, your mouth dropping open in a silent moan as pleasure pulsed through your body.
“Good girl, nixie,” Ransom purred, shifting closer but staying down on his haunches. Soft clicks of a camera shudder came from his phone as he took photo after photo, capturing the way your fingers dipped down to your slit and pushed your panties ever so slightly into your dripping hole. “Fuck—yeah, just like that, rub that pretty pussy like a good little slut for daddy.”
A whimper slipped from your lips and a shudder wracked your whole body at the pleasure that suffused your entire being. Your fingers teased your wet slit while Ransom watched, his phone camera trained on you while he took photos of your lewd actions. It was headier than you would’ve expected, your thoughts scattering as your hips rocked gently, pressing your cunt against your fingers instinctively.
“Daddy, ‘m so empty,” you wailed softly, pushing your fingers into your pussy through your panties, whining desperately when they couldn’t go deep enough. The black satin was soaked in your juices, feeling good as it slipped against your wet lower lips, but you hated it in that moment because it was the only thing stopping you from being filled. “P-please, daddy!”
One of Ransom’s hands dropped from his phone to palm his dick through his pants, and you whimpered louder with a wordless plea. You opened your eyes wider and pouted your lips, imploring him to put you out of your misery—either by giving you another order, or by sinking his fat cock into your aching pussy.
Ransom’s features darkened with desire, his handsome face twisting into an expression that was almost a scowl as he rose from his crouch to tower over where you were perched. Your own expression lightened and turned hopeful, sure he was going to tuck his phone away and fill you up, but instead, he chuckled darkly.
Skimming his free hand down your inner thigh, he groped you briefly, your skin tingling everywhere he touched. But then he ignored your pussy entirely and instead tugged on the hem of your sweater.
“Pull up your shirt, nixie, show me your slutty body,” Ransom rasped, his voice hoarse with his own need while he palmed his dick again, keeping his phone camera trained on you.
You whined and squirmed pathetically at the quick tease of his touch, but followed his order all the same. You tugged the hem of your sweater up, catching it between your teeth to keep it from falling down again before you went back to rubbing your pussy.
You knew how you must’ve looked—your legs spread wide, your shirt pulled up to show off both parts of your black silk matching set and your hand pressed between your thighs, rubbing your pussy shamelessly. You must’ve looked like a perfect little whore for Ransom, and by the way his eyes sparkled and his mouth curved into a satisfied smirk, he loved it.
“Good girl, nixie,” he murmured, soft clicks of the camera shutter coming from his phone as he took even more photos while he stood over you. “You’re such a good little slut for me, baby, such a perfectly obedient girl.” His eyes flicked from his phone screen to your eyes. “Doesn’t it feel good to do everything daddy tells you?”
With the soft cotton of your sweater in your mouth, you couldn’t speak, so you nodded, holding Ransom’s gaze as you did so. You wanted him to see it was the truth—it did feel good to do what he told you. Because you trusted him. You knew he’d never tell you to do anything that might hurt you.
Something shifted in Ransom’s eyes as he read your expression—something that looked a lot like surprise melting into a profound awareness that seemed to frighten him. As you watched, his eyes hardened just a little bit, the hand holding his phone dropping out of the way as he stared at you intensely.
“Are you sure you can handle it, sugar baby, doing everything I tell you?” he asked, a harshness in his tone that spoke to an underlying animosity you knew wasn’t truly directed at you.
You realized all of a sudden that you’d tipped your hand. You’d shown Ransom you trusted him, and, in the process, shown him that your feelings for him were deeper than they should be between a sugar baby their sugar daddy. His question was a challenge, and an offering of an escape at the same time.
But, for all that you’d avoided showing Ransom how you truly felt about him, you simply couldn’t run away from him. If you’d been able to do that, you would’ve parted ways with your sugar daddy already.
So you held Ransom’s glinting blue gaze and nodded resolutely. His expression hardened further.
“Spank your pussy,” Ransom growled, his voice sounding as rough as the gravel in the farm’s parking lot. “Show me what a dirty little slut you are and slap your cunt as hard as you can.”
Your whole body quivered with anticipation as you drew back your hand from your wet, puffy pussy. Your silk panties were soaking wet, and you knew the flimsy fabric wouldn’t protect your sensitive slit from the sting of the spank, but Ransom gave you an order, and you intended to follow it—to show him how much you trusted him, and cared for him.
Using the flat of your fingers, you slapped your cunt as Ransom instructed, as hard as you could manage. Electrifying pain streaked through your body, making you cry out and arch violently on the pumpkin you were perched on, your other hand gripping tightly to Ransom’s wool coat to keep you balanced. A deep, blazing pleasure nipped at the sensation’s heels and your cry devolved quickly into a debauched moan that was muffled by the sweater in your mouth.
It took you a moment to force your gaze back to Ransom, his eyes swirling with so many emotions, you didn’t have a hope of discerning them. But he held his phone up again, no doubt framing you within the screen and said in a gruff voice, “Again.”
That time, since you were expecting it, it was easier to brace for the sting of pain and the burning pleasure that swept the smarting tingle away. But your body still responded, your spine curving and your legs shaking wildly, your lips falling open in another muted moan as your teeth clung to the sweater so it didn’t slip free from your mouth.
Ransom’s camera captured the whole thing—you knew because he watched the screen instead of you, his mouth twisting into a depraved smirk.
“Does it feel good, baby?” Ransom rumbled, some of the warmth you typically heard in your sugar daddy’s voice seeping back into his words. He must’ve heard it, too, because his next words were harsher. “Does it feel good to spank your pussy like the dirty little slut she is?
“Uh huh,” you mumbled around the sweater in your mouth. You tried to tell him it felt good, but the words came out entirely garbled, though Ransom seemed to understand.
“Are you gonna come from slapping your naughty cunt?” he asked, his eyes darkening with hungry intent as he watched your face, waiting for your response.
Your pussy pulsed at his filthy question, and you thought maybe it was possible to come from spanking your puffy slit, especially if your fingers caught your clit with each slap. But truthfully, you didn’t know—you’d never tried. So you answered Ransom honestly, muttering, “Ionno,” around the sweater in your mouth.
Ransom huffed an impatient sound and reached for you to tug the sweater free from your teeth, his actions gentle even despite his obvious annoyance. “Say that again.”
“I-I don’t know,” you whispered. “I can try.”
The expression on Ransom’s face shifted again, but it became even more unreadable. He held your gaze for a moment, as if he was searching for something, though you didn’t know what.
“You want to try?” he asked, his voice soft, almost tentative.
You acted instinctively, pushing yourself up so you were no longer balancing on your hand and reaching past Ransom’s phone to grab his sweater to pull him down for a kiss. Your lips moved sweetly against his for a moment, before you pulled back and stared deeply into his eyes.
“I want to do everything you tell me to do,” you said, reciting the words of the deal you’d struck with Ransom, but changing them just a little, to tell him again that you wanted him, you trusted him. “I want you to do anything you want with me.”
A look of something almost like fury flitted across Ransom’s face, and then he was surging forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, as if he meant to brand you with his mouth. You moaned into him, which only seemed to make him kiss you harder, his tongue pushing past your lips to sweep into you as if he owned you.
In that moment, if he’d asked, you would have told him he did.
Just as suddenly as he’d kissed you, Ransom pulled away and he shoved his phone in the pocket of his expensive slacks. Then, before you’d even recovered from his kiss, he grabbed your hips and spun you to the side, guiding your shoulders down so you were laying draped sideways across the big pumpkin.
“Panties off,” he growled, his voice a low rumbling contrast to the sharp clinking of his belt buckle as he undid his pants. “Give ‘em to me.”
You were quick to follow his orders, hooking your fingers in the black silk panties and shoving them down your legs, pulling them off and then handing them to Ransom. You watched your sugar daddy hold them up to his face and take a deep breath, inhaling your scent as his other hand dove into his boxer briefs.
Because your head was hanging over the side of the fake pumpkin beneath your back, you had a front row seat to Ransom’s big hand stroking his hard length, your mouth watering with the desire to taste him on your tongue. A whine slipped from your lips and you squirmed, getting Ransom’s attention.
He chuckled darkly, tucking your panties into the pocket of his slacks that didn’t hold his phone and then shoved them and his boxer briefs down. His thick, fat cock fell on your face, making you flinch in surprise at the slight slap of it against your skin. But in the next breath, you were tilting your face up and kissing him affectionately, murmuring in contentment when his musky taste hit your tongue.
“Such a perfect little slut, baby,” Ransom rasped, his praise drenched in that warm tone that had your heart beating happily in your chest. He wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and slapped it gently on your smiling lips. “Open your mouth and spread your legs.”
Immediately, you did as Ransom said, parting your thighs and opening your mouth wide, then waiting for what came next. You weren’t surprised when Ransom didn’t waste any time before pushing the tip of his cock past your lips.
He let out a low, filthy groan as he thrust deep in your mouth, pressing into your throat until you could feel him bulging in the front of your neck. He held there, his balls nestled against your nose while you swallowed around him, trying to get used to the intrusion while he groaned obscenely at how good you felt.
“Fuck yeah, baby, take daddy’s cock in your pretty little throat,” he rumbled, his hand wrapping around the front of your throat and pressing down lightly, grunting when he felt himself twitching inside you. “You’re such a perfect little slut, ’s like you were made for me—all for me.”
You moaned around Ransom’s cock, hoping he took the sound for the agreement it was as you lay beneath him, your hips squirming and your pussy fluttering in the cool September air. Your wiggling seemed to get Ransom’s attention and he leaned over you, his big hand sliding between your thighs to rub your already messy pussy.
“So fucking wet for me,” he murmured, his voice sounding like sunshine with the affection clear in his tone. “You still wanna see if you can come from getting your pussy spanked?” he asked, a smirk in his words.
You nodded as best you could, your hips squirming and bucking, practically begging for him without using a single word—not that you could utter any with his cock buried so deeply in your throat.
His fingers slid teasingly against your clit and you bucked harder, grinding against him as best you could.
Your antics made Ransom laugh quietly as he muttered, “Alright, baby,” in a placating voice.
That was the only warning you got—that and his hand disappearing from your pussy. Ransom’s big hand came down on your pussy sharply, the flat of his fingers spanking your pussy much harder than you. Still, you could feel he was holding back from using all his strength, only giving it to you as hard as he knew you could take.
And take it you did.
A muffled scream clawed its way up your throat and slipped past your lips to be muffled against Ransom’s balls as white-hot pain flooded your body, followed closely by the all-consuming burn of pleasure. A tremor shook your limbs and you choked on Ransom’s cock, your throat squeezing him tight enough to wring a grunt from him.
“Fuck—did that feel good, baby?” he rumbled, his fingers dipping into your hole and rubbing your juices all over your pussy, paying special attention to your clit. “Do you like it when daddy spanks your slutty pussy? Because you’re squeezing my cock like you want me to do it again.”
His voice was drenched in warmth and humor and you whined in response as you planted your feet on the curve of the fake pumpkin and bucked your hips up against his hand, pleasure coiling tight in your core. You knew it was only a matter of a few more smacks from Ransom’s hand before that coil was snapping and you were going to come from him spanking your pussy.
“That sounds like a yes, but I wanna feel you nod, baby,” Ransom murmured, his other hand petting your cheek softly.
You couldn’t see him from the angle you were at, but you could hear the smile in his tone and you melted a little, your legs falling open wider as you nodded for him.
“Good girl,” he praised, his fingers stroking over the bulge in your throat while his others rubbled your clit, making your tight channel squeeze his cock tighter. “And what do you do if it’s too much? Show daddy,” he urged as his fingers trailed lower, until they dipped into your black satin bra and swirled around your nipples until they were stiff peaks.
Meanwhile, you reached back and patted the outside of Ransom’s thigh three times, the sign you’d established with him early on in your relationship for when you needed a break but didn’t have the capacity to use words.
“Good, you’re such a good girl,” he purred. His hand kept sliding lower down your body until he reached your thighs. He grabbed your soft flesh and pushed your legs open even wider. “Now, let’s see if we can make your pretty pussy come just from being spanked while I fuck your slutty mouth.”
You barely had a chance to moan your agreement before Ransom’s hand came down on your cunt again, the sharp, slick sound of his fingers slapping your wet flesh meeting your ears before the stinging pain and scorching pleasure sent your thoughts skittering away.
He rubbed your clit roughly and moved his hips, thrusting shallowly into your mouth, grunting and groaning at the feel of your moans vibrating through him and your throat squeezing him every time he slapped your pussy.
Ransom fell into a rhythm, spanking your pussy as hard as he thought you could handle, his fingers catching your clit every time, and fucking your throat while you lay draped over the big, fake pumpkin in that deserted pumpkin patch.
You were at the mercy of Ransom, and he seemed to know it just as much as you did—and he didn’t take it for granted. His hands were purposeful with every touch, every spank, his hips never pushing too hard against your head as he fucked your mouth. It was filthy and dirty and yet you could feel the depth of his caring in everything he did to you.
It wasn’t long before you were pushed to the precipice of your release, your body trembling uncontrollably, the coil in your core wound so tight, you knew it would snap any second.
Ransom must’ve felt it too, because he started up a constant refrain of, “Good girl, baby, come for me—come for daddy, baby. You’re doing so good, wanna watch your pretty pussy come, baby, c’mon, lemme see.” His words were so sweet and warm and wicked, you were unable to do anything but follow his gentle command.
On the next slap to your cunt, the coil of pleasure in your belly snapped, and your entire body went tight with white-hot tension before it burst free into decimating waves of pleasure. Ransom’s cock muffled your scream as you came, your hips bucking and pussy convulsing beneath his warm palm as you rubbed your soaking wet slit against him.
You were so consumed by your release, you didn’t notice the way Ransom had frozen, and you barely felt him pulling his cock free from your mouth. You only knew that suddenly you were able to pull in deep breaths and smell the crisp scent of the pumpkin patch.
Your head spun when Ransom gently pushed you to sit up and hauled you off the pumpkin, your feet hitting the soft soil of the field and your knees nearly buckling as your body still shivered from the waves of pleasure rolling through you.
Ransom sat heavily on his wool coat still draped haphazardly over the top of the pumpkin, his hands greedily grabbing your hips and pulling you onto his lap. Your knees bracketed his thighs while his hands grabbed your ass and guided you to sit up. Then you felt the tip of his cock slide against your still fluttering hole and you moaned, your head dropping back like you didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore.
“Can’t fucking believe you came from getting your pussy spanked, baby,” Ransom was mumbling, his big hands changing the angle of your hips until the head of his cock was pressed to your entrance. “Gotta feel it, gotta…” He cut off on a grunt when he pushed into your slick, pulsing pussy, his hands shifting to your hips so he could pull you down onto his hard, throbbing length.
Your hands found Ransom’s biceps and you held onto him, your fingers tangling in the thick weave of his cable knit sweater as you quickly sank down on his cock. He was so thick and long, it stung a little to impale yourself so fast without any kind of preparation, but you didn’t care. You were too greedy for his cock to take your time, a deep, primal instinct driving you to take him as fast as you could while your mind was still reeling from your first release.
“Oh fu-uck,” Ransom groaned brokenly, his head falling against your chest. You could feel his face pressing into your sternum, his heavy exhale ghosting between the swells of your breasts. It was against your bare skin, your heart racing just beneath the surface, that Ransom confessed, “I love you, nixie.”
At his words, you went deathly still. For an unending moment, your mind reeled and you tried to be certain you’d heard Ransom correctly. You were sure you couldn’t have.
It didn’t seem like he realized what he’d said until he felt you stiffen in his lap. Then, Ransom sat up slowly, his gaze sharp as it raked over your face, trying to gauge your reaction.
Licking your lips to bide you time to find your voice, you forced yourself to ask the question your heart needed an answer to.
“Do you mean it?”
Ransom’s expression tightened, his eyes going even more wary, but he nodded—a quick, dip of his chin—and you sucked in a breath.
A tingling warmth started at the top of your head and cascaded through your body, filling you with a bright, fizzling feeling. It took a moment for you to recognize it was happiness. But not just happiness—it was pure, unfiltered joy.
Your sugar daddy loved you. Ransom Drysdale loved you.
His expression was growing more and more distant with every second that passed without you responding and you couldn’t have that.
Squealing in delight, you launched yourself at him—not that it was such a far distance, considering you were in his lap—and he let out a soft, “oof,” when you collided with his chest, your arms winding around his neck and squeezing him tight.
“I love you, too, Ran,” you confessed on an exhale. It felt so good to get the words off your chest, that you repeated them. “I love you.”
“Oh, thank fuck,” Ransom said on a sigh of relief as he gathered you tighter against his chest. One of his arms wrapped around your lower back while the other braced against your spine so his hand could cup the back of your neck. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that, nixie.”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t love you back?” you asked softly before pressing a kiss to Ransom’s soft cheek because you couldn’t help yourself. The scent of his cologne filled your senses and you smiled against his jaw, kissing him again and again, like you’d never get enough of it.
“Wasn’t sure,” he admitted gruffly.
You giggled at the sheepishness in his tone, pulling back until you could see his face. He was blushing a little, a tiny bit of pink tinging his cheeks and making him look adorable. You couldn’t help yourself from cupping his handsome face in your hands and leaning forward to brush a sweet kiss to his mouth.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” you murmured, in between teasing kisses. “I love you when you’re grumbling about going pumpkin picking, and I love you when you’re spanking my pussy, and I love you when you’re bringing me my favorite coffee because you remembered what I liked.”
You kept kissing him until Ransom was chuckling, his hand squeezing the back of your neck in an affectionate gesture. He reeled you in for a deeper kiss, cutting off your list of all the times you’d loved him. But you and Ransom were smiling too much to kiss properly, your teeth knocking against each other and making you both laugh even more.
Your joyful laughter soon devolved into soft moans and grunts when Ransom rocked his hips, shifting his cock even deeper inside you. Your fingers threaded through his soft brown hair and you clung to him while you rolled your hips, grinding down on his stiff length until you were breathless with renewed desire.
“Fuck, nixie—nixie, ‘m not gonna last much longer,” Ransom groaned, his arms tightening around your back and holding you pinned against his chest while he fucked up into you. “Your pussy’s too perfect—too fucking warm and tight and good for me.”
“Come inside me, Ran,” you whispered heatedly, feeling his cock twitch at your suggestion. You moaned softly in his ear. Your clit was grinding against the base of Ransom’s cock, and it wouldn’t be long before you came for a second time. “Please, daddy, fill me up—wanna feel your come leaking from my pussy while we’re picking pumpkins, daddy, please,” you begged in a pathetic whine.
“I love you—fuck, I love you so fucking much, nixie,” Ransom growled, pressing his face to your cheek and nudging you to the side until his mouth found yours. He kissed you so long and so deeply, it made your head spin, and he fucked you all the while, pounding into your cunt hard enough that the pleasure he gave you was edged with just enough delicious pain that you were falling off the edge and coming in no time.
Ransom swallowed your screams of pleasure as you came, your pussy clenching his cock hard enough that he followed right after, grunting into your mouth so that it was your turn to muffle his sounds with your lips.
Coming at the same time was heady and all-consuming and you were so happy you felt like you could float away if it wasn’t for Ransom’s arms holding you so tightly to his chest. And you were glad for it, because you didn’t want to float away unless he came with you.
The two of you gradually eased down from your highs together, still kissing, still murmuring your love for one another as if you could pass the words between your lips as easily as you exchanged breaths.
Finally, your rocking bodies gently stilled and your racing hearts returned to steady, normal drumbeats. The September sun was bright, keeping you warm from the chill in the air as you snuggled into your sugar daddy—the man that you loved, and who loved you in return.
Your head was still spinning and trying to process everything you’d both admitted while laying against Ransom’s chest, your fingers playing idly with a loose thread in his sweater, when he finally broke the comfortable silence that had fallen.
“If we carve up some of these pumpkins, do I really have to clean out all the guts with my bare hands?”
His question, and the almost whining tone in his voice, had you choking on a surprised laugh. You leaned back, looking into Ransom’s face to see if he was joking, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was giving the pumpkin patch another dubious look, making you laugh again as you shook your head at him.
“No, you could wear gloves, and there’s usually a scoop that comes in the pumpkin carving kits at the store,” you explained to him, your tone filled with humor even as you kept it even and patient. “You don’t have to touch the pumpkin guts if you don’t want to.”
Your fingers stroked through the hair at the nape of his neck and he seemed to relax, though whether it was from your assurance or your touch, you couldn’t tell. You suspected it was both.
After a moment, Ransom seemed to reach some sort of decision because he heaved a deep sigh and met your gaze. His blue eyes were shimmering in the bright afternoon sunlight, and the affection in his gaze warmed you despite the chill in the air.
“Alright, let’s find some pumpkins worth carving,” he said, though his grim tone made it sound like he was suggesting you both walk into battle.
A smile spread across your face and you giggled happily. “You mean it?”
“Of course, nixie,” Ransom rumbled, leaning in and brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “There’s very little I wouldn’t do to make you happy—I thought that was clear when I agreed to an afternoon of pumpkin picking.”
You laughed softly, ghosting your lips over his in a teasing gesture as your heart fluttered in your chest, happiness swooping through your belly. But still, his words didn’t exactly match up to your memory of events, especially given everything you’d done to get him to agree to the date—including the deal you’d made.
“Silly me, and here I thought it was because of the deal we made,” you murmured.
“Mm, nope,” Ransom said, popping the ‘p’ in nope. “Woulda taken you pumpkin picking even without the deal—just liked watching you convince me.” He brushed feather-light kisses along your jaw, making you hum happily at the soft press of his lips after you snorted at his comment. “But now that you mention it, our arrangement extends to the pumpkin carving portion of this date, yeah?”
“Uh huh,” you mumbled, having a hard time following the conversation when he sucked gently on the spot just beneath your ear that had your head falling to the side to give him better access. You shook your head lightly and found the words to form a proper response. “Sure, it lasts as long as the date does.”
You felt Ransom’s mouth curve as he smirked against the side of your neck. “Good,” he purred, kissing down your throat until he got to the line of your sweater. “Gonna make you suck my cock while I clean out our pumpkins.”
Buzzy excitement and warm desie flooded through you at his words and it was your turn to smile. You remembered that you’d considered offering to blow him to get him to carve pumpkins just that morning, so you obviously had nothing against his suggestion. You were eager for it to become a reality.
“Whatever you say, daddy,” you murmured in your sweetest voice.
Ransom huffed an amused laugh before his mouth found yours again.
The two of you kissed for a little while longer, until your knees and hips started to protest sitting in the same position on that big, fake pumpkin for so long. Ransom helped you down from his lap and towed you back toward the farm stand, so you could clean up in the nice employee bathroom—though he refused to give you your panties back.
You spent the rest of the early afternoon picking out pumpkins with Ransom, then he carried them back to his BMW and put them in the trunk. While he drove you both back to the city, he gave you his phone and told you to pick out your favorite of the photos he’d taken of you.
You asked him if he only wanted you to pick from the lewd photos, and he told you to also pick one of the pictures he’d taken of you with your clothes covering you. When you asked him what it was for, he told you he wanted to frame it and put it on his desk in his office. Your heart fluttered when he grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles, admitting he missed you while he was at work.
If you hadn’t already known you were in love with him, you would’ve known then, your heart squeezing in happiness while your fingers tightened around his. Since you didn’t have to hold back your emotions anymore, you told him how much you loved him, and he responded by repeating the words and kissing your hand again.
The rest of the afternoon was spent at your townhouse apartment in Beacon Hill, cleaning out and carving the pumpkins you’d picked before putting candles in them and setting them on the steps outside your front door. Before the date was over, you even got Ransom Drysdale—your sugar daddy and the man that you loved—to admit he had fun.
Of course, you had to promise you’d never tell anyone. But you assured him you could keep it secret, so long as he loved you. He grinned, and promised you he always would, then he sealed the deal with a kiss.
And that was how an afternoon of pumpkin picking turned into a beautiful life together.
thanks for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡♡♡
#ransom drysdale#ransom drysdale fanfiction#ransom drysdale x reader#ransom drysdale smut#ransom drysdale x you#sugar daddy ransom drysdale#love confessions#sugar daddy au#chris evans#chris evans fanfiction#chris evans smut#chris evans characters#witchywithwhiskeywork
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
So personally I think Lucifer and Charlie aren't capable of breaking deals. This has nothing to do with power ... a deal is something different ...
I would also say not even God can break a deal. And for Luc - I headcanon him not being able to lie. So breaking a deal, is kinda lying.
BUT I do think that Luc has still the power to kill "everyone" just with his bare hands. So if the dealmaker dies "permanently" (so no regenerating) the deal is gone.
So yes. I think the only possibility to end a deal with force is to erase its power source (dealmaker).
Oh Alastor ......
But thank you for request and answers on the last post!
#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel lucifer#hazbin hotel headcanon#hellaverse#hazbin hotel comic#hazbin hotel fanart#hazbin hotel angel dust#hazbin angel dust#hazbin lucifer#lucifer morningstar#hazbin valentino#hazbin hotel valentino
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Y’all don’t have enough faith in Toby fox to bring all the deltarune secret bosses full circle
#i have no doubt in my mind the different endings have a significant consequence in the last chapter#like yeah I’m mad I don’t get more spam and jebil immediately however I have some faith in Toby#he’ll bring ‘em around in some way#whether it’s cursed or not#can’t say#might be very cursed#Walt talks#but those crystals aren’t just there as collectibles#I’m hoping that if you routed in the most pacifist possible given the circumstances#you get some villain redemption later on#because jevilstail and dealmaker are both like. visceral parts of the character#and devilsknife and puppet scarf are more or less just weapons#and maybe the actual parts of them will carry a weight later on#i could also be entirely wrong 100% but I have faith
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Oh no please no
I was gonna watch hazbin hotel right before i watch s7 of ouat... now i'm thinking it might not be a good idea
Pfft, like Alastor wasn't giving me enough Rumplestiltskin vibes, he went 'I'll do you something reaally, really specific. You'll owe me. A favour :)'
#i can't handle obsessing over 2 characters at the same time#also i already loved alastor in the pilot#how did i not notice the similarities between these two#apparently i have a thing for dealmakers lol#and also for overpowered and morally questionable characters but i already knew that#i hope someone understands this#ouat#hazbin hotel#ouat rumple#hazbin hotel alastor
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So we've seen Frisk's reaction to Dealmaker, could we also see their reaction to Jevil'stail? The flavor text says it gives the wearer "Devils Energy", so that might influence how Frisk reacts.
So a more "devilish" Frisk is basically just Kris.
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OMGOMGOMGOMG HOW WILL YOUR ALASTOR REACT TO LET'S SAY ONE OF ANGELS FRIENDS COMING UP TO HIM TO FLIRT WHILE WE JUST DOING(YOUR CHOICE)
I imagine you're speaking about my Al from Misconduct so imma go with that, for this imagine ya'll are in hell, also potential spoilers for Misconduct
Suggestive content
Alastor isn't dense, he knows when someone is flirting with him.
He may be manipulative in some ways, he has to be in order to be the dealmaker he is, but to manipulate someone through their romantic and/or sexual interest in him is NOT something Alastor would use to his advantage.
But the way you get so fucking jealous when anyone flirts with him? It makes him feel so elated, so loved, and Alastor never thought you could be even more beautiful than you already were.
Alastor will shut that shit down though if someone began flirting with him and you weren't there
If you are present as it happens though, he'll glance at you, making sure you're aware of whats happening, only to act oblivious to the flirting. The way you seethe at the interaction has his heart doing backflips and Alastor really wants to see what you will do next.
If you intervene civilly, hooking your arm around your lover, Alastor will hold you close before announcing that his darling has finally arrived before giving you a quick peck on the lips. He 100% forgets someone was even flirting with him once you touch him.
If you are perhaps, the type to run off crying at the event, he'll immediately regret his actions, only to shadow warp in front of you before you can even get five steps away. He will grab your hand, spinning you around before giving you a loving kiss, saying how he misses his lovely darling, that he needs to be by your side. Alastor will never act oblivious to someones flirting for the rest of his existence if this is your reaction; it kills him to see you sad.
If you're the type to get angry though, perhaps being confrontational or even going so far as to kill them for flirting with someone who is literally yours, Alastor would swoon, only to watch you endearingly as you show him how much you love him. He'd tell you how perfect you are, that every fibre of him belongs to you before pulling you into a passionate kiss, and perhaps more as the blood of idiot who flirted with him stains your clothes.
All in all, you're the only person- demon- being alive that Alastor loves, so don't fret.
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Who did Macaque make a deal with? - Theory (Spoilers)
I think I found out who it is.
But to understand how I got to that answer, we first have to answer some other quiestions:
Like how would Nine know Macaque even made a deal with someone?
Expext if he himself that getting chaos powers require you to make a deal.
Meaning... Nine also made a deal to get his powers.
Therefore to understand Macaque's deal/ powers, we should also take a look at Nine, and see if there is anything there we can use.
And oh boy... that little detail acutally helped me find our dealmaker.
And all that I explain here:
youtube
Btw in the video I mention @jedineedlove @power-up-girl @lu-zijing! (Link in the description of the video to their theories)
#lmk#lego monkie kid#lmk theory#monkie kid#lmk season 5#lmk macaque#lmk analysis#lmk six eared macaque#six eared macaque#lego monkie kid macaque#monkie kid macaque#macaque#lmk liu er mihou#liu er mihou#lmk shadowpeach#shadowpeach#lego sun wukong#monkie kid sun wukong#sun wukong#lego monkie kid sun wukong#lmk sun wukong#lmk wukong#xiang liu#lmk nine headed demon#nine headed demon#lmk xiangliu#lmk season 5 spoilers#lmk nuwa#lego monkie kid nuwa#nuwa
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Local Cryptid Spamton EX
Spamton didn't just control the NEO suit; he fused with it. NEO was completely reliant on the wires, so their combined being compressed into the Dealmakers after the bossfight. As Spamton, in his puppet form, tried to recover, NEO used any energy he had to grow back into their combined form. Horrified about his body changing against his will again, Spamton used the last of his energy to try and heal himself, resulting in NEO compromising his brain function in an attempt to continue growing. He shambled around like a feral animal as he grew larger, forced onto all fours from the weight of the wings dragging behind him. While he does eventually recover, he already gained a reputation as Castle Town's cryptid.
Or: Peeled Spamton NEO (Lobotomized Edition)
more art and 8k word lore dump below
LORE
Today's vocabulary terms (These WILL be on the test)
Pin feathers: also known as blood feathers, they are the undeveloped feathers that appear on baby birds and adult birds when they molt. Each pin feather is covered in a protective keratin sheath that resembles a quill. Once the feather has matured, the sheath can be broken off, allowing the new feather to unfurl. Pin feathers have a blood supply that they lose once they develop into full feathers. A damaged pin feather can cause heavy bleeding.
Flight feathers: The longest and stiffest feathers that make up the outer tips of a bird's wings (and tail, but that doesn't apply here). Birds can't fly without them.
Preening: The act of cleaning and rearranging a bird's feathers. Preening also includes the process of breaking sheaths off of matured pin feathers. Preening can be a group activity, especially to clean areas that a bird may have trouble reaching. It's generally a relaxing process for a bird, especially when done by someone else.
Content warnings:
body horror, transformation horror, many mentions of blood, amnesia, general blorbo suffering idk
Now reading “Some Assembly Required”
NEO's intended lightner user would've been able to freely enter and exit the suit at their will. However, because Spamton’s a darkner, and therefore made of the same darkness as NEO, his code combined with the body itself when he entered the disk. Spamton initially couldn't move after the disk was inserted into NEO. His code—organs, bones, fur, muscle, anything available—was spread and warped in order to rapidly fill the incomplete metal husk around him. The wires, acting as a bottomless source of magic power, burrowed into his body, reforming his veins, and allowed his code to stretch and intertwine with NEO's own, creating a new being entirely. Spamton and NEO, two incomplete messes of code, came together to form a new being, a conglomerate of flesh and metal: Spamton NEO.
Spamton's magic yield was far too low to support such a drastic size increase, so this new being was almost entirely reliant on the artificial power source of the wires. Spamton NEO fired off powerful attack after attack at the Heroes of Light, each a combination of NEO's and Spamton’s own magic. As the turns passed, he could feel the heavy strain in his weak, rapidly developed limbs, but, with the wires, he could do anything. Driven mad by his desperation to escape the only thing keeping him running, he wouldn’t acknowledge the way his feathered wings drooped and the way his arms and legs swung limply, even despite the assistance of the wires. Unaware of their true purpose, Spamton NEO was ecstatic to find only one wire left. It was the thicker, central one, which traveled under his skin and through his spine. It was the only reason he wasn't fully paralyzed yet. And so, when the final wire was cut, he collapsed to the ground within an instant, shaking the earth.
Without the wires, NEO was completely reliant on Spamton's magic capacity, and he would've been too weak to move even if he hadn't been using countless attacks. Most of NEO'S code purposefully became dormant so they wouldn't die. The tiny puppet, now heavier with his new code, was strung up with vines in an attempt to wake him up. He managed a small moment of clarity, enough to accept what must be his death, but even that was too much exertion. Fully prepared to die and serve the lightners, Spamton collapsed into an even smaller form: the Dealmakers.
As a pair of glasses, Spamton couldn't feel or perceive anything. He was left on the nightstand of Kris's room in the castle, oblivious to the outside world. Eventually, he stirred, unceremoniously reappearing in his puppet form and falling onto the plush carpet, gasping like he had just been held underwater. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest as he fell to the floor. He awkwardly shuffled until he was against the bed, breathing heavily. Where the hell was he? He'd uploaded himself onto the disk, hadn't he? This clearly wasn't the basement. Had Kris bailed somehow? He struggled to ignore the deep ache coming from his chest, as though his very SOUL was itching. He partially unbuttoned his dress shirt, trying to scratch at it, but his blunt plastic fingers did nothing. He felt a seam across his chest that was not supposed to be there, then, a click, and suddenly his cracked soul forced its way out of his chest.
Normally, Spamton's soul forcing its way out would result in a giant bloody hole in his chest, but there was nothing but a small opening hidden under his shirt. Spamton tugged on his soul's chain, forcing it to look at him. It was then that he noticed a disk forcefully lodged into his SOUL, clipping through its eye socket. THE disk. How did this happen? Did the transfer process go wrong? Spamton immediately tried to pull the disk out, but the pain that shot through every nerve in his body stopped him. His own SOUL angrily nipped at his fingers and retreated back into his body, The painful itch worsened, and Spamton passed out again.
Spamton slowly adjusted to, well, whatever happened. The blue coloration of the bedroom he woke up in reminded him of his room in the mansion, so Spamton tried to escape as quickly as possible. He soon realized that it wasn't actually the mansion, but he didn't particularly enjoy being in a foreign castle, either. After a daring escape (hugging the walls and stopping to take a break every 10 seconds), he was weary of the unfamiliar darkners outside. He essentially returned to being homeless as he tried to adjust to this new environment, more focused on avoiding people than attempting to sell anything.
Fortunately for Spamton, Castle Town was a little less capitalistic than Cyber World, and the Card Kingdom darkners weren't prepared for tiny puppets rummaging around in the trash. His only plan was to hopefully see if NEO had been brought here. If the disk was here, then surely the suit itself had to be somewhere, right? He hoped to find it and make it take its damn disk back, or, better yet, take him. In the meantime, Spamton kept trying to remove the disk, but any progress was reversed by severe glitching fits that made him pass out everytime he tried to yank it out. He wanted to bide his time until he could get more information. He also wanted to bide his time in hopes that the perpetual headache and static covering most of his vision would dissipate on its own.
But, something started to…change. The random panel allowing his soul to pop out should've been a dead giveaway, but Spamton wasn't exactly fully aware of his surroundings at this point. Eventually, while scratching at his furiously itchy neck, the shot nerves in his fingers finally registered that there was now fur growing out of his neck. He tried to forcefully rip it out, but the uselessly blunt tips of his fingers had no grip. The strands he did manage to pull out were colored a dark black, lacking the greasy, matted texture of the rest of his hair. The first new growth he's had since his fur and skin had fallen off 20 years ago.
Spamton panicked. After being transformed into a puppet, unrecognizable from what he had once been, the idea of anything more about his body changing against his will scared him. He hated being a puppet, but at least his body had stopped warping at a certain point. Now, though, something was wrong. It wasn't his addison fur growing back; the hair was just as black as his once-dyed-but-now permanently dark hair, forcing its way through his plastic exoskeleton rather than skin. No matter how many clumps he ripped out, it seemed to just grow back. He could feel it spreading, tickling his chin and spilling against his collar as the strands grew longer.
The fur got worse, but Spamton did his best to ignore it, just as he did when he was turning into a puppet. He continued trying to pull the disk out of his SOUL, but that was getting more painful by the day. Spamton also continued to search for NEO, now with the hope that it might reverse whatever was happening. Once long black claws split open his fingertips and new digits wiggled their way out, though, he could no longer ignore it.
The fur wasn't the strangest thing. He did have it as an addison, even if it used to be white. And, he did once have blunt, chewed claws, but not these shiny 2 inch long black talons. Somehow, he could feel that they were only the beginning. He really needed to find NEO; he knew from experience that no doctor could fix a supernatural transformation like this. NEO was the only hope he had when he was turning into a puppet, and it was the only thing he could pray to now. At least it was easier to tear open garbage bags now that he had miniature knives growing out of his fingers.
The fur continued to spread. Trapped underneath his clothes, it became tangled as Spamton ignored it out of spite. An ache, different from the one plaguing his SOUL, spread across his body. He could hear his plastic frame creak as something he couldn't identify slowly grew. One night, curled up inside of the small cave he had started living in, his jaw cracked open and formed new joints at the cheeks. This couldn't be traced to puppet feature or an addison feature. This was something horrifyingly new. As much as he wanted it to be just another nightmare, he was left with no other choice than to adapt to the tender muscles that now attached his mouth to his face.
It quickly became apparent that the aches he was feeling were a sign of change. His jaw ached, and then it formed new joints. His feet ached, and then claws matching his fingers split them open. His gums ached, and new teeth grew in. His spine ached, and now the tail he lost 20 years ago was starting to grow back.The fact that the ache in his upper back had done nothing but grow worse without anything actually popping out was getting deeply concerning. Whatever was causing the changes, it must've been corrupting his code. He's heard of Cyber World darkners with code so corrupted that tumorous limbs grow out of their body, and the idea terrified him. Could something like that even be cured? Who would actually bother to help him?
It was only a matter of time before the things starting to twitch under his plastic skin broke free. The sickening feeling of something scraping from inside, of being trapped in an ever enclosing box, desperately trying to push against the advancing wall. Spamton curled up in his empty cave. He missed his dumpster’s pillow; all he had now was dead moss. Unaware that he even could control them, the two things trapped under his back tried to flex with each heartbeat of pain. Eventually, two sharp hooks finally cracked through the thinning layer of plastic, and the rest forced its way through. Thin plastic bones, now exposed to the cold air, shakily wrapped around their owner. Spamton passed out with the new pair of bloodied, featherless wings shivering against his tattered suit.
When Spamton woke up, it didn't take him very long to notice the highly sensitive wing bones twitching behind him. And, with his now concerningly flexible neck, he could see them in full detail. Spamton didn't recognize them as wings. Once he found enough water to clean the blood off with, he saw that they were pure white and ball-jointed, just like the rest of him. Well, except for the tiny black spines already growing out of them: pin feathers. He mistook them for more hair. Convinced he had somehow grown a pair of malformed arms out of his back, Spamton was becoming desperate for any sort of cure. He had tried to find NEO using what little energy he had, but Castle Town was dense, and he didn't know where to start looking outside of the castle he was definitely not allowed in. Was it ever going to end? Was he doomed to mutate into an unidentifiable mass of broken code?
Spamton started picking at the lengthening pin feathers. It was clear they weren't hair, but he didn't want to think about what else the protrusions could possibly be. It had been just a day, and they were already all over the wing bones. Of course, he ended up breaking one, causing black blood to immediately start pouring out. He panicked as he failed to stem the bleeding, eventually trying to summon a healing spell. Static buzzed in his vision as he coughed out a tiny cherub. It was covered in so much of his own blood that it couldn't fly. He pressed the weak thing against the wound, hoping his healing magic would just work already! The cherub finally attempted its only job, and the migraine stabbing into his eye socket grew exponentially as the tiny angel disappeared, leaving a drying bloodstain. Spamton collapsed onto the ground.
(2)
NEO was as unfinished and buggy as the man who merged with it, and it was never designed to execute a task like this. It had been draining all of Spamton's magic reserve in an attempt to reform Spamton NEO again. The healing spell had used up the already extremely little supply he had, and NEO decided to sacrifice part of Spamton's mind for the sake of maintaining its rate of progress. Now forced into power saving mode, Spamton lost most of his ability to think. He began to operate on emotions rather than solid thought. Perpetually hungry from the constant drain of his body growing, all he did was scavenge, eat, and sleep. Anytime he digested something, he curled up in pain as NEO immediately used any energy he gained to continue growing. He had no ability to regain his mind until the transformation ended.
Spamton mostly relied on the instincts he had gained from living on the streets for so long. He avoided any darkners he saw, and would react violently if approached in an attempt to hide his severe weakness. This led to the first cryptid allegations. His glowing eyes (glasses), scruffy body, and extremely distorted yet humanoid face made him stand out to both Cyber World and Card Kingdom darkners. And so, his existence had become a rumor shared between a few. He wasn't a feral animal, but his mannerisms and the fact that he could barely speak even if he tried made him seem like one.
Because Spamton's recent memory had been compromised, he didn't remember what was happening to him and assumed he was just sick. He neglected his fledgling wings as they sprouted down feathers and grew larger, not registering that they even existed outside of angrily scratching at the itchy pin feathers. Because he never exercised them, the weak wings began to limply drag behind him. When the flight feathers grew in, they quickly became shredded from being dragged against concrete. He broke many pin feathers in the process, coated his wings in a layer of sticky blood. While he disliked the heavy “blanket” he thought was covering his back, Spamton decided to mostly ignore it. It wouldn't fall off no matter how hard he tried. Eventually, his increasingly top-heavy build forced him to start crawling on all fours. He became disoriented as the world around him seemed smaller and smaller and his tiny cave, lined with bloody feathers, had turned from an easy fit to a shoulder-scraping doorway.
As Spamton grew larger, other darkners actually started to fear him. His limp wings made him look much bigger despite the fact that he was perpetually hunched over. Staticky, heavy breaths came out of his voice box as his throat reformed to accommodate NEO's white energy spitting abilities. With his claws and fur, most darkners assumed that he was some sort of beast rather than an actual person. He growled and blindly swiped at anyone that got too close to him, eventually resulting in a blurry photo of his shadowed form making it to the first page of Castle Town's local newspaper. Although his nose and glasses were the only thing that could be made out, Swatch instantly recognized who the “cryptid” was. Though, they naturally assumed the witness account was a bit exaggerated.
Castle Town was small, and it would only be so long before the two encountered each other. One night, a swatchling taking out the trash was unfortunate enough to find a half-transformed Spamton eating out of the dumpster. Upon recognizing his face, the swatchling tried to enact the usual dumpster puppet removal protocol, but Spamton had nearly doubled in height already and was difficult to scruff. He scratched the swatchling during his wild thrashing, causing them to drop him. He slammed against the dumpster, crumbling into an unresponsive pile of fur and feathers.
When Swatch was called to the scene, he was understandably baffled by the fact that this… thing was Spamton, but the man's head and clothes were clearly attached to it. The lightners had informed Swatch about what had occurred in the basement. From his own personal investigation, Swatch surmised that NEO had been completely destroyed after the fight, as he found no remaining evidence of its existence. And, hearing that the only remnant of Spamton himself was his off brand glasses, Swatch assumed that the man had died alongside it.
Clearly, Swatch's hypothesis was incorrect. And, somehow, Spamtom was even less recognizable as the addison he once was. But, with NEO gone, and an entirely different café under Swatch's management, he wasn't technically required to forcefully remove Spamton from the premises anymore. Swatch really didn't like the guy, but they weren't cruel enough to leave a heavily injured and unconscious man on the concrete.
As a feathered darkner himself, Swatch was appalled by the state of the wings Spamton apparently had now. Covered in a strange mess of adult feathers and dark gray down, tattered fluff shed from his wings like spores. Swatch tried to coax Spamton's wings into folding shut as they half carried / half dragged Spamton inside, but they remained limp, showing the lengthened upper arm portions of the wings and the sharp hooks sprouting at each wrist joint. Every bird-like aspect of his new form was warped, like a failed replica made from memory.
Did Swatch mention that Spamton was covered in his own blood? They were going to have to sanitize the entire building after bringing him in. After half a stack of disposable rags and possibly an entire bottle of disinfectant, Spamton was mostly clean (can't be too sure when his hair and jacket are the same color as his blood), aside from his wings, which appeared to be the source of the majority of the damage. The base of each one was caked in a layer of dried, flaking blood, revealed by two relatively small tears in the back of his jacket. Swatch couldn't imagine shoving feathers through holes that small; no wonder Spamton's wings looked like they had been put through a wood chipper.
The group of fretful swatchlings hovering around them cooed in concern at the sheer amount of broken pin feathers, but Swatch wasn't generous enough to spend several hours preening the monstrosities hanging from Spamton's back. He figured that he should remove the loose feathers, lest their swatchlings had to sweep more crusty Spamton-colored fluff off the floor. As Swatch removed entire clumps from the wings, the muscles underneath twitched in response, but couldn't muster much movement. Well, at least Spamton's wings weren't completely paralyzed.
Eventually, Swatch's persistent touch was too much, and something moved in Spamton's chest before shoving its way past his lapel. It was Spamton's SOUL, cracked and corroded nearly beyond recognition (how was this guy even still alive?), with a very familiar disk lodged through it. Two smaller, disk-less copies of his SOUL popped out, taking turns glaring at them. Oh. That was where NEO went. NEO would explain the fact that his heart(s) could just pop out now. It kind of explained the wings, but all these feathers, claws, and fur must be connected to Spamton himself. Swatch raised their palms and stepped back as the main SOUL snapped at them, the chain rattling noisily. Swatch didn't know how NEO would've reacted to a darkner attempting to use it, but this was definitely not his first guess. Apparently pleased with their submission, the cracked hearts disappeared back into Spamton's chest.
Spamton slumped forward, falling off the bar stool Swatch had placed him on. They half expected him to still be unconscious (did he have a concussion from hitting the dumpster?), but a staticky groan confirmed that he was awake. Swatch tried to question him, but the only response they got was some sort of growl. Spamton shakily rose to all fours, his wings forming a ragged cloak behind him as they dragged. He frantically looked up at the flock of swatchlings around him through pink and green lenses, steam billowing from his jaws as he produced garbled sounds. Spamton charged through the still unlocked back door, clipping his wing on the way out and ripping out another massive chunk of dead feathers.
Swatch no longer assumed that cryptid witness account was exaggerated. The fact that Spamton hadn't produced a single decipherable word was, for Spamton, a sign that something was very wrong. He had acted like an injured animal. Swatch decided to inform Prince Ralsei about the situation, who was surprisingly relieved that Spamton had been found. Apparently, Spamton had somehow transformed into a pair of glasses, then went missing just a few days later. Ralsei was interested in giving him a room in the castle, since he had technically agreed to help the Heroes of Light..
Swatch kept an eye out on behalf of the prince, but it would be a while before they saw him again. Spamton didn't really remember that he had even been there, instead just mindlessly wandering across the streets in search of food. As he got larger, gaining more and more of NEO's strength, the cryptid allegations got worse. He hadn't physically hurt anyone, but if how easily he punched a dent in a dumpster was evidence of anything, he could. The feathers he was leaving behind by now were far larger than could be explained by any normal darkner species; finding the biggest, least damaged feather of Castle Town’s Cryptid was a fun challenge for some darkners. There was plenty to go around, as Spamton was constantly molting and growing more feathers as his body grew.
Mentally, Spamton hadn't been able to recover. He thought he was still in Cyber City, and was distressed about not recognizing any landmarks. But, with the constant hunger that plagued him, he didn't have time to dwell on it. He still despised the weighted blanket that dragged against the ground and forced him to crawl on all fours. But, he got a migraine anytime he contemplated why the “blanket” was physically stuck to him, or why he could feel how itchy it always was, so he stopped bothering. He was frustrated that his little cave had shrunk; only half his body actually fit in there anymore. The dumpsters here were weirdly small, too. The darkners in general were like… half? a third? of what they were supposed to be. The distress from that thought also gave him a migraine. The shredded remains of his suit were the only bedding he had other than moss and his own feathers.
Of course, Spamton wasn't the only secret-boss-turned-item up and about. Jevil enjoyed joining the heroes of light as the DEVILSKNIFE, but did poke around Castle Town a bit. He was genuinely too tired after the fight to enact too much violence, but not tired enough to not take joy in harassing Spamton once he found him. Jevil hadn't seen Spamton since his big shot days and was very curious about his new near unrecognizable form. Spamton wasn't opposed to slapping Jevil out of the air but wasn't coordinated enough to land a hit. When he got too tired to swat at Jevil, Spamton would (attempt to) ignore Jevil while he played with Spamton's wings.
Swatch did coincidentally meet Spamton again. They had noticed increasingly large feathers showing up in the streets and on the local news (they did find it hard to believe that someone had actually found an 8 foot long flight feather), but assumed that it was just Spamton's wings developing, not the rest of him. So, Swatch was admittedly startled when he witnessed a much larger Spamton neck deep in their dumpster a month later. Spamton's chest heaved with each breath, his neck twisting backwards until he met them at eye level despite the fact that he was currently quadrupedal. His wings, still pinned to the ground, were longer than the building itself. He grumbled something that almost resembled a sentence, then entered a violent coughing fit, leaking an unhealthy amount of steam. Swatch decided to go back into the café and grab some expired leftovers. They did not want to deal with rotting food spilling into the dumpster because of a certain someone currently ripping the bags open outside. Predictably, Spamton ate everything Swatch threw at him. Swatch couldn't make out what he attempted to say, but they could imagine the sales pitch he was coming up with in an attempt to “trick” them into giving him more. At some point, Spamton keeled over as his body processed the nutrients, NEO in the final stages of forming their combined body. Most of what was left was internal, so Swatch didn't really know what was happening and let him be. Even if they could help, they didn't trust Spamton not to hurt someone when he was this large.
Eventually, the transformation was complete. Without its armor, NEO relied on Spamton's code to form as close to a complete version as it could; Spamton EX. Spamton was alone in his cave when he finally regained his mind. It felt like gradually waking up from a deep sleep, groggily coming to his senses. He first remembered what happened before he entered power saving mode, then…the NEO fight. He had merged, he had gained its power, he used it, it was HIS and—the strings. Everything was so heavy, but he was supposed to be free! A shock down his spine, then… nothing. He thought he was dying, but he woke up, still a broken puppet. That—that damn disk! Taking NEO from him wasn't enough; of course it had to corrupt his code in the process, causing… whatever was happening to him.
Spamton tried to get up, but his center of gravity was completely off. His back ached, but it was a normal ache, not the unnatural one that preceded a transformation. The pain traveled further down the—oh, the disfigured arms that popped out of his back. They could shrivel off for all he cared. Spamton forced his eyes to fully open, then froze at the vertigo that struck him as he saw how far away the ground was. His neck twisted in on itself like a snake as he recoiled, which did nothing but make him want to vomit more.
Spamton pressed against the cold ground, his deep yet shallow breaths disturbing the feathers littered across the ground. Where did he find those? When did he find those? This was obviously a different cave than the one he passed out in, right? He tried to take a deep breath, but was quickly disturbed by the fact that his lung capacity had somehow tripled. Okay, he had definitely transformed more since the last time he was awake, as much as he would love to pretend he was still asleep. Spamton awkwardly rolled onto his side; he didn't think he could handle trying to sit up again right now. Time to assess the damage.
When Spamton looked over his shoulder, all he could see were feathers, the same color as the ones scattered across the floor. He noticed the random spikes sticking out of the limbs, alongside the long hook at the wrist. The arms he grew; they were wings. Nervously, he tried to move them. They twitched, and he could feel that they were alive and attached, but nothing happened. He tried again and again, but the wings wouldn't move. Spamton grabbed the wing's wrist with his hand, pausing at the sight of his jacket-less arm. He tried folding it in and out with his hand, but the wing refused to hold a pose. Spamton could've spent an hour trying to get the things to move, but all they did was weakly twitch. Just that made him feel like he had sprinted across the entire city twice.
Spamton couldn't sit there forever. He was unfortunately already growing used to the long neck after fretting over his useless wings for so long, but the height was still an adjustment. The best he could manage was a kneel before the weight of his wings would knock him over. Why had he been given the gift of wings if they couldn't even move? Was it some kind of punishment? They were feathered, like an angel…a gift from NEO? A gift that had been blackened, losing all its color because of him. Him and his broken, broken, broken code, managing to corrupt even the wings of a god. A cruel joke. Can't fly to heaven with paralyzed wings.
He was starving, and what choice did he have but to go back to the disgusting lifestyle he was trapped in? Spamton tried to take a few experimental steps, but his legs shook the moment he took his hands off the ground. A plume of steam escaped his jaws from the effort, and he sputtered at the weird, warm taste. Something unidentifiable in his throat moved independently, and—he really did not want to think about that right now, or the faint trails of steam coming from the vents(?) slashed across his ribs like gills. This transformation was far more than skin deep. Distressed at how much easier it was to walk on all fours with his now digitigrade legs, Spamton hobbled toward the town.
Any progress Spamton made getting used to his new height was destroyed the moment he reached civilization. If he could actually stand up, he would've been taller than some of these damn buildings! He hated being a tiny puppet; it was one of the many reasons he wanted NEO, but he hadn't really considered the logistics. Could he even fit in a dumpster anymore? Not that he'd thought he'd have to hide or scavenge as NEO, but…he was still so weak. No armor, no arm cannon, no phone-hands, no bullets—no wires. That was good! He wasn't strung up anymore! Just dragging around broken wings, unable to support his own body weight, limbs strained from trying to crawl for more than a few minutes—he's fine! He doesn't need the strings, he can live without them, he can, he doesn't need them, he's just…tired.
Spamton lugged his upper body over the edge of a dumpster, shredding open the bags easily. The long claws poking out of his fingertips were a bit more proportional now that the rest of his hands and arms had grown, but just as sharp. Perhaps it was a good thing he had an external layer of plastic instead of skin; he would've accidentally sliced himself open already if he didn't. Spamton ate his fill, but it barely impacted his hunger. He wondered what time it was as he looked for more dumpsters. Without a color-changing sky-grid for him to look at, it could be 3 am for all he knew. Spamton was still learning where the quietest alleys were in this town, so it wasn't surprising that he almost immediately ran into another darkner; something not from Cyber World that he didn't care to identify. God, they were tiny. He smiled at the fact that he had to look down, not up, to make eye contact. Before they could finish fearfully backing away from him (That was a bit extreme. He wasn't even doing anything!), he decided to be productive and ask for the time. 8pm? Could be worse. He asked if the darkner had any kromer, and, after he said several synonyms, they dropped a good amount of it before sprinting away. Hmmm, this could work. He wanted to be feared as NEO, but in a “groveling at his feet” way, not whatever that was.
Regardless, the fear meant that Spamton was alone as he embarrassingly adjusted to his new form. He had managed to almost stand up with the assistance of a tree, but had no luck on his own. It was getting a little easier to hold a crouch, but walking was out of the question. The wings were as useless as ever. All they did was respond involuntarily to his emotions, which was uncomfortable to experience. The legs, the size, hell, even the tail wasn't the worst to adjust to, since he had one as an addison. But the wings were completely alien to him. He wouldn't be so frustrated if they didn't hurt and itch all the time! He found out that the hard spines growing throughout his wings housed feathers, but only sometimes. If he tried to force one open, it would start gushing blood. He thought feathers would grow in like hair (those damn swatchlings clearly didn't have quills growing out of them like he did!) but, apparently they were far more complicated than he thought. Regardless of their broken, bloodied state, he lost track of time while using his hand to open and close his wings, mesmerized by the way the feathers fanned and folded. As useless as they were, he couldn't bring himself to hate them.
While looking for food late one night, Spamton stumbled upon a familiar café. He couldn't remember ever being here, yet he somehow remembered that it had a lot of food. The dumpster wasn't too out of the ordinary, but food was food. He nearly choked when he heard Swatch's voice. What the hell was feather duster doing here? Unlike everyone else he'd encountered, Swatch was not fazed in the slightest. They seemed curious about the fact that Spamton seemed coherent now, explaining that he had been… growing for at least a month, unresponsive aside from growls and crawling on all fours. When Swatch disapprovingly pointed out that his wings were still dragging, Spamton bluffed about the fact that he physically couldn't move them. He got defensive when Swatch asked if they could inspect his wings. They bribed him with food that was going to be thrown away anyways, and Spamton reluctantly agreed. He promised to crush Swatch if they tried anything, but Swatch was still frustratingly unaffected by the threat.
Spamton sat outside, since his wings were absolutely not fitting in there. Apparently Swatch was running a new café not associated with Queen, which admittedly relaxed him a bit. His relaxation was ruined the moment Swatch made it blatantly clear that he was only helping Spamton because Spamton’s wings were disgusting enough to be an insult to all feathered-kind (give or take). Spamton glared intermediately at Swatch, folding his arms like a pouting child as they prodded at his left wing. They asked him to try to move it a few times, inspecting the plastic “bone” of the wing as his muscles tensed and relaxed with no wing movement. They were prodding at the ball joint connecting the wing to his back when their finger suddenly dug into the ball joint’s slit. Spamton yelped, and his wing briefly flapped in response, the gust ruffling Swatch’s feathers. Spamton was torn between yelling at him and trying to get his wing to move again. Swatch said that his theory was that Spamton’s wings were underdeveloped. Assuming Spamton hadn't been using them at all in the past month, the muscles had adjusted to their lack of use and never grown properly. Considering how much Spamton had already grown, he could probably get the wings to develop if he kept exercising them. How the hell was he supposed to exercise if he couldn't even move them!? Spamton was about to storm off when Swatch mentioned that Prince Ralsei was looking for him, as he had prepared a room for Spamton in the castle. Who? Wait…that was one of Kris's friends, right? And, technically the ruler of Castle Town, Swatch pointed out.
Spamton contemplated it for days before eventually deciding to accept Ralsei's offer. He was a bit suspicious of the kid's generosity, but if Ralsei was stupid enough to give even that damn clown a room, Spamton was going to take full advantage of that naivety. He was way too big for the bed (and the room in general), but it felt like heaven. The Castle had food! And showers! It was the first time Spamton had seen his face since… before he met Kris, actually. The green lens was new. The same bright, acid green as the wires. He thought it was a weak connection, but as he washed away the dirt caked in his joints, he could see them. Green veins, trailing through the gaps between his ball joints, spread across his entire body, pulsing with faint light. Leading to the interior of his chest panel, traveling up the chain of his SOUL, and illuminating the broken eye socket of his heart, the socket that corresponded with the green lens. The very fiber of his being had been permanently altered, his own blood traveling through NEO's wires. It wasn't his, no; he was it.
After the topic was awkwardly brought up, Ralsei made him a green sweater. Well, Spamton assumed it was custom made, because it was baggy even for him and had wing holes in the back. He was hoping that it would stop darkners from thinking he was some kind of animal. He was well aware of his “return to fame” as a cryptid, and hoped to move past it. Actually getting the knit sweater on was another ordeal, as his limp wings were not very helpful. He snagged his claws damn near every time he touched it, and tried filing them down to more manageable blunt tips. The claws grew back to their full length the next day. Apparently, NEO didn't understand how hair and nails work, as it regenerated anything he trimmed to its original unruly length as soon as possible.
Spamton was a little more comfortable leaving the castle once he had gotten better at walking. He was still hunched over enough to look like a velociraptor, but at least he was back to being bipedal. His wings were actually getting better! Most of their movement was involuntary (he refused to listen to Swatch’s advice to exercise them), but that was enough to stimulate growth. Each wing joint could actually manage a few degrees of motion. But, they were still constantly itchy and in pain. Spamton tried washing all the dirt and blood off of them, but having waterlogged wings somehow made him feel even worse. No matter how many he ripped out, loose feathers would follow him anywhere he went, since NEO regenerated them as fast as it regenerated fur and nails.
Desperate (because he completely refused to speak to Swatch), Spamton summoned one of his F1 angels in an attempt to study it. He was a little nervous, considering what happened the last time he produced one, but it came out perfectly normal, if not confused when it saw what its creator now looked like. Spamton made it sit in his palm while he observed the way its pristine wings folded across its back. He gingerly pulled its wings open with two claws, watching how they opened and closed. He was tempted to destroy the angel after it started biting at his fingers in response, but decided to keep it around for observational purposes. He used his hands to manually fold his own wings closed, surprised at how much better they felt. Perhaps he should've expected it, but the tiny angel he kept didn't know how to keep its wings clean, either. The feathers he accidentally plucked out of it showed no signs of regrowing, and the leftover feathers looked progressively worse by the day, so he eventually put the thing out of its misery.
As one could imagine, learning how to properly fold his wings and making an active effort to keep them from dragging on the ground quickly improved their health. His involuntary twitches became actual flaps. His wings started to naturally bend when he wasn't actively extending them. And, finally, they could support their own weight. He did it! He had fully functioning wings! He could finally fly too—he experienced a new terror—what if he couldn't actually fly? The shredded mess of feathers attached to each wing hadn't actually generated enough lift when he tried to ascend. Even if they were in perfect condition, was it enough?
In the meantime, Spamton tried to go back to selling junk. Capitalism still ran through his veins, whether those veins were green wires or not. He wasn't actively using the fear factor to get more kromer—okay, he might've been taking advantage of it a little bit. These cowards deserved it for treating him like filthy trash for decades! He's finally BIG. Let him enjoy it a little bit! Now he gets to be the one picking up little slimes by the scruff. He found (cornered) some Card Kingdom darkner who made clothes and asked (threatened) them to make him blazer in his size. And, because they weren't some petty addison, he actually (scammed) paid them! He needed something Spamton-y, not just a green sweater. This wasn't the comeback special he had planned for NEO, but he was starting to enjoy it. He always had food and a place to sleep, even if he didn't make any sales. But, he actually was making sales (scamming people)! And he was doing it all by himself, no strings required! What else could he want? He… he wasn't lonely. He doesn't need friends…
For absolutely no reason in particular at all of course Spamton decided to spend some of his new funds at Swatch's café. He just needed to rub it in their face how great he was doing, yeah. After definitely not struggling to fit his shoulders through the doorway, Spamton made the elective decision to sit on the floor rather than try and fit on a chair. He smugly flared his wings (once everyone found an excuse to leave the moment they saw him), but accidentally bashed them into the walls. To Spamton's chagrin, Swatch was not impressed whatsoever. They couldn't understand how he was fine keeping his wings in such a disgusting state. Hey! He washed them! H–his wings are fine! Swatch realized that they were getting nowhere by insulting him, so they asked Spamton if he knew how to preen his wings.
Preen? Spamton just said he was cleaning them! Daily, in fact, with how many loose feathers he had to pull out. Swatch tried to explain that it was more than that. He demonstrated with his own arm, showing how the feathers had to be arranged and layered, especially for flight. Spamton pretended he wasn't highly invested as he finally ordered the drink he came here for. He sat in the furthest corner, frowning as he looked at his own wings. Because his mere presence was driving away customers, Swatch could easily see that Spamton was trying to mimic what they did with their own feathers. They still weren't friends, but they could respect him if he was going to make actually paying for his food a habit. They would hate to see NEO's potential go to waste because of user error.
Okay, fine, he'll admit that bird brain knew more about feathers than he did, and his wings were looking better now. But, god, why did they need so much damn maintenance? He signed up for a mech suit, not this. Alas, now that his wings didn't look and feel like moldy shower curtains, Spamton knew the next step: flight. He summoned another angel to study. The laws of physics did apply to it at least somewhat, so it was a good starting point. He was back on the rocky outskirts of Castle Town, so he really didn't want to fall. He was nervous, but, now that he finally had a full set of flight feathers, it was possible. Probably. He hoped.
He cried the first time he truly flew. He was clumsy, constantly changing altitude, and practically crashed when he tried to land, but it was euphoric. It felt like the sky was where he was meant to be all along. The thought that he could fly straight up to heaven crossed his mind, but he knew he couldn't. He'd suffocate, or he'd run out of energy long before he reached it. But, he got a taste of the sky. Just enough to indulge, more than enough. It was beautiful.
Spamton has settled in the castle. He finds any excuse he can to go out flying, as it's easily his new favorite hobby. The novelty of scaring people into giving him money has worn off, but he'll never not enjoy scamming people out of money. He's still a spam program at heart, no matter how much his code has been changed. Outside of his exterior changes, Spamton kept NEO'S ability to spit white fireballs in the shape of his face, which is the root cause of the steam that leaks out of him whenever he's frustrated or has overexerted himself. He has three hearts, his own SOUL and the two smaller ones from NEO, that support his larger form. And, of course, the wires are now threaded through his body, powered by his own life-force. Spamton is definitely still lonely. Despite all his faux confidence, he's nervous around darkners both new and old, and keeps to himself when he isn't selling something. His life is far from perfect, and his deep-rooted issues haven't gone away, but he's more content, safer, then he ever has been. He just wishes that people would stop bringing up the whole “cryptid” thing. He'd rather forget that ever happened.
END
I hope that was an enjoyable read! Originally, I kind of forced myself to make a Spamton EX when chapter 2 came out, because everyone else was doing it. But, he wasn’t that fun to draw and didn’t have any story associated with him. It took me a while to come up with the idea for a “cryptid” Spamton EX, and even longer to create a story/setup I liked. I didn’t know whether to make him gremlin sized, comically large, or something in between (I think you can tell from the 41 ft wingspan which one I picked). I also wasn’t sure whether he should be completely unaware of his transformation until the end or mentally suffering the entire time. A mutual of mine suggested “why not both,” which led me to the final story here. Hooray! Maximum Spamton suffering!
I did try to make a happy ending, but it's hard to do that with a character like Spamton without making a multi-novel length fanfiction. He’s still very lonely, but he gets to fly so eh, he’ll probably be fine. I choose not to include the addisons at all, since my other AU (Wormton) is so focused on them. And, idk how to feel about the canon addisons considering that they seemingly knew that Spamton was both homeless and puppetified. I at least mentioned Jevil, but I’m honestly not sure how much he cares about Spamton, since all we know is that Spamton hates him and Spamton hates everyone he used to know, sooo… I didn’t plan for Swatch to be as prevalent, but Spamton definitely needed someone who actually knew how to care for feathers. I’m not a Swatch expert, but hopefully they aren’t crazy out-of-character or anything.
THIS WAS FUN! HAHAHA I LOVE TRANSFORMATION HORROR A VERY NORMAL AMOUNT
#spamton#spamton fanart#deltarune#deltarune chapter 2#deltarune fanart#spamton g spamton#spamton deltarune#cheesycatz art posts#cheesycatz text posts#spamton neo#spamton ex#TRANSFORMATION HORROR MY BELOVED#TOH owl beast core spamton#coexisting with the unspeakable horrors in the denny's parking lot at 12 pm#can you tell I was completely obsessed with NEOhyde
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One of Biden's strengths as a politician who has been around since forever is that he seems to be very good at low-key/behind-the-scenes dealmaking and negotiation. In an era where Congress is uniquely dysfunctional and the Democrats have had to depend on marginal coalition members like Joe Manchin, he got the IRA passed, and that's quite impressive.
But that trait is the opposite of the kind of attention-grabbing charisma that's needed to sell people on your (very real and very important!) political accomplishments, and unfortunately he is kind of old, he is quite prone to sticking his foot in his mouth, and he is a member of a party that seems to have really weird and bad political instincts. So it would be ironic if the thing that makes him good at his job is the thing that also keeps him from getting reelected.
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Alastor As A Father (Daughter Version)
- Boy howdy, this man plays NO GAMES about his little girl. From the moment she was born, he vowed to burn the world of anyone even thought about looking at her the wrong way.
-He treated her like his personal porcelain doll. You swore this baby had more clothes than you'd had both alive and dead. He shoes were always shined, her socks had little ruffles on them, and there were bows EVERYWHERE ON EVERYTHING!!
-Over time, Alastor quickly learned that his daughter was a bit different. When she took her first breaths, she didn't cry. In fact it was rare for her to cry at all. She also had a fondness for black objects, sharp shiny things, and something that concerned him the most was that she hardly ever smiled.
- Even as she got older, he never caught her smiling nor giggling as typical toddlers do. Instead she was a stoic little one. Cute as a button, but as monotoned as a black and white painting. Even her voice didn't change in tone very much unless she was trying to express something urgently.
-Alastor brought this up to you and you tried to assure him that everything would be alright. You knew how much smiling meant to him and he felt somewhat sad that he couldn't share that with his daughter.
- After 4 years of no smiling, Alastor finally talked to her about it and found that they had very different ideals.
- Apprently your daughter had a different phlosophy compared to Alastor and believed that her Dad's ideas could be applied in the same way to a face that was unchanging. Openly she expressed to him that she didn't agree with his philosophy and that she would prove her idea to be just as good, if not better than his.
- On one hand, Alastor was proud of his daughter showing the promise of being a potential Dealmaker. On the other hand, he was concerned and slightly offended that she couldn't see the beauty or the power of smiling 24/7. He truly believed he'd never see her do it.
- Until one day, he took her with him to Rosie's Emporium in Cannibal Colony. He enjoyed some coffee and a chat with his dear friend while his Little One played with the other children. Everything seemed to be going well, until it wasn't.
-Out of the corner of his eye, Alastor saw a young boy push your daughter out of the sand box.
-A high pitched whine shook the air, but before he could do anything about it, your daughter had swiped the lad's arm clean off. The same filthy arm that had decided to push his little darling in such a bold move of audacity.
- Horrified screams filled the air as the boy ran off to his mother who seemed to be in a state of distress. The other children rallied around her and started thanking her for what she'd done. Turns out that boy was a big bully to the other children, but was also the strongest on the playground.
- Happy at the attention she was receiving, she ran too him with her little arms up in pure excitement. It was her first real fight and Alastor was so proud, but what made it with all the more was the beaming white smile she gave him.
"Daddy Daddy, I got the bad boy! Did you see?!"
"Yes my little Bambi! That was quite a clean cut, right at the joint just as I've shown you before!" He beamed right back at her, hugging her close and poking her nose.
- Of course all the other parents were slightly concerned, but who was going to come up to him and complain and ruin his babygirl's precious moment? He fucking dared them...
- Of course, you didn't find out about this juicy little story until her 12th birthday when she let it slip and you held both her and Alastor captive by the ears until they confessed.
- After that day though, Alastor and your child grew closer as he prided himself on showing her more techniques for disarming a potential threat. He also showed her everything she'd ever need to know to both care and protect herself. She could shoot, cook, bake, sew, dress fashionably, summon her magic, clean, and was even sword trained all before 13 years old.
- "Daddy's going to make sure you are a strong independent young lady! That way of some vile man comes along thinking he can take you away from me, you won't be impressed by any of his mediocre skills." said Alastor, growling at that last part as if your marriage to this idiot was irrelevant.
- Even though she was a die hard Daddy's Girl, she also enjoyed spending time with you. Baking, crocheting, and anything artsy she loved doing by your side. You even had dedicated days where you'd sneak out of the hotel to go shopping while Alastor was away.
- All in all, she loved you both and swore to be the best version of herself she could be. P.S She also promised her Father that any of the men that tried to court her or broke her heart would end up on the dinner table.
Hehe Oops :D
#alastor#alastor x reader#alastor x you#drabbles#drabble#writers on tumblr#hazbin alastor#hazbin hotel
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