#caretaker Fizzy

[boncorner]

So I've been playing around with the idea of making an ask blog for my fizzbot ocs (I'm not sure if there's an interest, but hey..), and for that, I wanted to update my fizzies' group picture with all their updated designs and what not, so I can more easily list them!

As always, we've got...

Factory Fizzy [FF-8842] || Loo Loo Fizzy [Pinwheel]

Doctor Fizzy [Doc] || The Manager || Therapist Fizzy [Thizzy]

Caretaker Fizzy [Ginger] || Undertaker Fizzy [Mortis] || Maid Fizzy [Mizzy]

Watch out for the blog ♡

[askthefizzyfactory]

Hey Fizzies! Did you come with those colors originally or changed them later on?

$ — As for myself, I used to look just like the standard fizzbot, save for a decorative monocle to show that I was an office-model. I've changed pretty much everything about myself since then. Being the manager has its perks.

[fizziefactory]

I decided to draw all the fizzies [+ @rollinpinwheel ] in their preferred casual outfits, the kind of clothes they'd not wear while out working (which some of them are able to do, while others never will)

Individual art, along with some notes, can be found here:

♡ Doctor+Therapist ♡ Caretaker ♡ Maid ♡ Factory ♡ Undertaker ♡ Loo Loo ♡ Manager ♡

[fizziefactory]

The little fizzy had settled down next to the other, her brows always furrowed, carrying a bit of a pout. It wasn't that she was mad or anything... one could probably call it a resting bitch-face if nothing else.

As Firefly raised their covered eyes towards the sky above, she too considered the idea of going to space.

Was the sky in hell even real? Did it work the same as the one on Earth? She had read about the sky up there... but what was the truth down here?

There was so much the fizzies didn't understand, and she found herself curious about a part of life she had never even considered before.

That... and going somewhere far, far away... where she could be free from this place... was attractive to her as well.

☽ "What's up there do you think..?"

SMELLS LIKE CHOCOLATE CHIP PANCAKES

☽ “Have you been to space, too?”

A faint jingle sounds as Firefly lifts up their helm from the collar around their neck, Ginger's reflection shining in the visor of their helmet to greet her. At first they say nothing, mostly to give her question some serious consideration. They're not usually asked any questions if they're to be honest, so they're not sure how to answer but after a moment of contemplation, they finally answer in a rather soft low voice, somewhat scratchy from misuse.

"No... Would like to go though..."

Firefly's helmet turns, glancing upwards towards the sky, "It's very... big." And far away from here.

$$ @fizziefactory

[pumpkin-pi-e]

Yanderes Aizawa, Hanzo, McCree, and Toji like to pretend you don't know what your clit is for.

I Ain't As Good As I Once Was

��This is your pussy. This is your pretty little pussy. You might have touched her before, but I’ll teach you how to spoil her.”

God, I love sad older men.

Content Warnings: forced cunnilingus (female receiving), overstimulation (female), c*mming in pants, fingering, kidnapping themes, self-flagellation (Hanzo), worship (Hanzo), dirty talk, mommy kink (Toji), implied gambling addiction, your implied age is -26 (Toji), Age gap, neglect on account of gambling addiction, breeding kink, pregnancy talk, (Toji) forced pregnancy? (Toji), dubious consent (Toji)

Not recommended for those under eighteen.

You try and touch yourself to show that you know how to make yourself cum. You've been doing this for years.

Aizawa

Aizawa swats your hand. No, no. You won't do it properly. You won't do it until you shake, cry, and run down your thighs. But he will. He won't overstimulate you if you don't want him to. He will work you through your orgasm, though. No matter how much you claw, beg, and squirm. You'd wanted to get off, and Aizawa will ensure you get every last bit out of this. He'll make sure you come in his mouth, make sure your cum slides down his chin. No matter how angry you are at yourself. No matter how hurt you feel. He can be tender—can make those thighs burn and those tits jiggle in a way you can't. "This is your clit, sweet girl. I'm gonna make it purr for you."

The last remains of his words drive into your ears as his mouth finds yours. The finger in your panties swept back and forth over the smooth, leathery skin of your clit the way a slow tide would swathe and flee a shoreline.

"Nn!" Fizzy pleasure bloomed in warm, scattered waves throughout your pelvis. You twitch forward the slightest amount, subtly humping yourself into a breathy, whining mess. "'s not a cat."

Aizawa draws a lazy circle around its sensitive edges, and your thoughts water.

"It can't—" Ah! "—caaan't purr." Your voice curled. It rose and wavered like a tilde symbol—building high and going all melted butter toward the end as you lurch into the wonderful crest of good he inspired. Your hips obeyed the spasms in your tummy and curled without decision or thought.

"It already is." It's practically vibrating. Singing.

"Can't you feel her purring?" Aizawa made the most agonizing, thigh-shuddering passes over your clit. You arch, arch (uhn, God!), arrrrrrrch into each one. Your clit is ringing, purring.

"Kitty's melting in my hand." She's really showing out for attention, wetting and trickling down his palm. Your small cravings are his responsibility, as were all your larger needs. He's your provider and caretaker. You rely on him for everything else, so why not this? When are you going to learn that Daddy does it better? He can satisfy them better than you ever could.

"Don't—don't call it that."

"But it purrs."

Oh! Oh, oh! It—it—oh, please, god, oh. He's using his nails, teeth, whatever he has. Aizawa sucks a bruise right into your neck. You shiver, squeal, and wriggle. How could a neck be this sensitive?

Aizawa doesn't budge. His heart thumps as you push at him, half-hearted. Enamored with any short amount of contact, Aizawa hums. You twist away from that, too, the sensation foreign on your skin. Aizawa takes a deep huff of your neck (your scent) and falls onto you like a dead weight. The new position traps his hand down the front of your panties and you underneath him.

"If it purrs, then it's a kitty. This cute kitty makes you a queen. And a purring queen means it's time for a litter." He's still working on you—working your clit and mons. You're soaking. You're hot. You arch into his hands, desperate, nearly out of your mind.

"Why do you have to be such a kinky bastard?"

"Because you like it." His stubble scrapes against your neck. Aizawa does it often, notably during 'quiet moments,' so you'll familiarize the sensation with safety.

Or so you suspect.

The brambly term of affection came often, but from what you gathered, it reserved itself for special occasions (you're convinced he stole it from his cats). When cramps left you withered and spent, Aizawa lifted you from the lonely little corner you'd carved for yourself underneath the kotatsu and reoriented you onto his lap for something to lean on—something to wring your grief into, should you need it. Shouta said he could take it—that he wouldn't mind—and had the scars to prove it, namely, the one beneath his eye. It was hard to argue in the face of something so tangible. Yet, it left a sour feeling of worms in your gut.

You're in pain. You don't want to be pain for someone else. You don't want to hurt him—he's never hurt you.

Just because he can doesn't mean he should.

He's pushing you forward, wanting you on your knees. "Because it gets your kitty panting."

It vibrated.

"W-who said I liked it?" Your tummy tremors and sweats as his fingers trace those hidden valleys.

"She did." Aizawa dove in for a quick, lascivious kiss. "She purred so sweetly." He lapped at your clit, hot and moist and delicious. "It must be love."

Calls your vagina 'kitty.'

He talks to it (which perturbs and delights you to no end). Cum for me, kitty. Isn't Daddy treating you nicely?

You know in your soul you aren't the 'kitty' he's referring to. Aizawa only called you kitty when you were topping. He had a habit of going into a deep mantra whenever you did. "Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty..." Aizawa sighed under his breath, sometimes moaned, and others thinly whined as you rode him and as he watched through sexed eyes progressively getting lower and lower until they would eventually close. He'd seize shortly after. And if you didn't stop, Aizawa gasped it (half-heartedly attempting to shuffle out from under you, gently pushing at your coasting thighs with jittery palms. Outside of that, you were 'kitten.'

When she obeys, Aizawa gives her kisses and licks—so many that you'd stammer and beg him to stop. He attacks with fervor, and with your weak-kneed body, he pins you there, grunts, and gives you mouthfuls of his tongue, which leads you to beg, this time more openly.

Aizawa repeatedly kissed the top of your vulva, where your clit lay beyond its folds. Such an obedient kitty. —kiss— Such a perfect darling. So good. —kiss— So perfect.

He doesn't torture you for too long. Aizawa (generally) won't overstimulate you unless you want him to. He'll even apologize. He just had to give his kitty her due.

The guiltiest (second to Toji) in pretending you're too naive and innocent to know what your clit is for, let alone how to use it. He'll smack your hand away (reawakening memories of your father swatting your chubby little hands when they had something they shouldn't).

You can insist you know what you're doing, and he'll insist you don't.

"Feel these?" You touch your outer labia. Aizawa's hand is over yours, guiding it. "These are your pretty lips." Gummy, soft, and perfect for his teeth. He'd use them for pillows if you'd let him. You wouldn't, though. There's no way Aizawa could get close enough to smell you without getting a taste.

"They'd look prettier curing my insomnia." In other words, he's telling you to ride him until he passes out, or rather, throwing out an invitation. Your lips have erased his dry eye and lifted his depression. Simply gorgeous.

"How would I..." How could your vaginal lips cure someone's depression?

"Simple," He's against your ear. His hair gave you shivers as it fanned your neck. "You sit on my face," Together, your hands rode parted lips. They kneaded love into your skin that settled in your ovaries. "and rut." Your hips went forward with a gasp, unexpected and on cue. No matter the situation, Aizawa never failed to sound like a college professor three years away from retirement. He speaks to you as he would his colleagues and students. There is no bedroom voice, growl, or husk other than his natural warmth—warmth that made you swallow from the very lips he made you touch. Made you restless on his lap.

"If you knead them gently," he says, "they'll make you feel nice." Your knees knock when Aizawa focuses on the entrance hidden in your labia, circling it. "But not as nice as this," Aizawa pats your pussy, sending ripples through your body.

Slap!

Something liquid-warm fires across your hipbones, following a path up your spine, reminding you of when Aizawa kissed you. You call his name in a panic. What is this, and why is it delicious? Unadulterated joy tore through you like a storm in Texas-May. It stole your tongue, and the thoughts it couldn't finish—stole the bones from your body. The ache reverberating in your core was a flash-bang replacing everything but Shouta's name with bright white. It rang like a bell from the ovaries out, telling the rest of your body it was in love. It scares you. "Shouta—"

Slap!

"You're alright, pretty. You're going to be a big girl and cum, that's all."

Slap!

Oh, God.

"Intense, isn't it?" His chin sits in the crook of your neck. Aizawa watched you stutter after his hand and gently convulse.

Slap!

Your body hums like a Ford Mustang at a stop light. It lurched into each tap—tipping over the crosswalk markings in the concrete, eager and desperate for him to take you over the edge. Nervous foot on the petal, it waited for green.

"Come on, pretty girl. Almost there."

Slap!

Your thighs snap shut. Pleasure so soft and sweet spreads throughout your body. The ache becomes ecstasy, and the guilt becomes glee. It swells and sways like storm clouds in New Orleans, easily hitting your lungs and filling you with the finest summer rain.

Did you think for a second Aizawa wouldn't praise you? "Yes, kitten. Yes, kitty." He's agreeing with all your sobbed gibberish, rubbing you out because he knows you won't. His finger is hard on your clit when you buck and shimmy to escape the rush—the pleasure that won't stop knocking. Again, he won't take you past what you can handle, but you're riding that coaster to the end: no stops or pauses. You're getting every single clench, every tooth-chattering, leg-shaking, hip-raising flood of absolute 'God, yes,' that follows.

Aizawa was a decent man—was. It's wrong. It goes against every code, the oath he'd taken with the acceptance of his license. He made excuses for the inexcusable. Every day he went out and fought for freedom while ignoring yours. Swift on his legs when avenging the cries of the innocent, Shouta let yours fall on deaf ears.

Hanzo

Hnng. But forced cunnilingus. Dubcon, only because you're overstimulated, and Hanzo is stubborn. If you haven't squirted, he hasn't done his job. He had his pride as a man to uphold.

Hanzo raises your hand to his lips. He kisses it, clasps it, and restrains it to the bed. "Let me tend to you. So long as you warm my bed, you won't lift a finger." He kissed your neck and collarbone. "Not for your pleasure," Hanzo gently spread your labia. "Not for mine. This time it is for you, my queen."

A shiver runs down your spine. Your mind fills itself with visions of Hanzo taking you. He never has—claimed he could never 'defile' you. That didn't stop him from fingering your clit, drawing you to orgasm, or turning you into a mess of nerve endings.

"You are divine." You're a gift from the gods. Hanzo prayed they would keep him from succumbing to temptation, but it was useless. He had never been able to resist a challenge, and this time would be no different. His prayers didn't stop his cock from sliding against his expensive sheets, wishing it were your body his seed had coated, giving the legacy he'd spent a lifetime chasing.

His queen enjoyed testing him, denying him his duty as a husband. Why trouble yourself with matters such as these when he is so capable? He had solved many puzzles and navigated treacherous waters with ease, yet she seemed to think his skills were limited to a bow and arrow. Do you truly believe he cannot satisfy your needs?

Hanzo fondled your clitoris. "This is a husband's duty."

He moved down between your thighs.

"This is a wife's duty." He said as you whimpered. "To moan as a man pleasures you. To lie back and know your body is in his hands. To take your pleasure and offer your own." His tongue found you. You writhed against the bed, unable to stop your body's rhythm from matching his tongue's motions.

"Allow me." Hanzo touched your clit the way you'd tried to, his tongue deep in your core.

You wouldn't know the first thing about settling your body's aches. That was Hanzo's business. Your hands need only grab onto his hair when it all becomes too much for you.

Hanzo is skilled with a tongue, with a cock, with a razor-edged sword.

"Let me tend to what is mine."

Hanzo kisses your thighs, thighs that a man has never kissed. Thighs that tremble and shake so terribly you fear for your health. You can't breathe. Your heart is pounding, and you feel your mind slipping away. Colors bleed into the corner of your vision, static and buzzing like an old TV.

But Hanzo keeps kissing, licking. Your thoughts slur, and your tongue is no better.

'an...H-han.. c'n.. cn't... Your eyes roll—your back arches. Tears run into your hairline; Hanzo tightens his grip on your hand as your other one blindly scrabbles at his bedsheets. "H-han! Z-z—Oh, my God..." A wash of electricity ravaged your body. Pleasure so raw and sweet your voice croaks out hoarsely, love pouring from your lips in a flood of passionate syllables.

His grasp remains firm as you jerk into his waiting tongue. You try not to. You try and fight your body's natural curl toward the very thing bathing it in pleasure—foolish woman. Hanzo tongued harder and doubled his hold to keep you pinned throughout your cries and gurgles.

Cry for me, my Goddess, my queen, so I may worship you harder. Seek my hand if you are overwhelmed. Cling to me. I promise to be your source of strength and comfort. Security is the least of a husband's duties. Make me strive for the breath of freedom, then deny it to me all at once. Show me with cries that I am worthy, yet prove with the heat in your thighs that I am nothing.

Unable to praise you to the extent he'd like, Hanzo returned your moans from deep between your clenched thighs. He licks harder and faster, and he just isn't stopping. You deserve all this and more—to drown in your own wet and swallow hard enough to see heaven.

So beautiful. —Lick— So generous to me, my queen.

Your body is a waterfall that Hanzo would happily kneel underneath. Hanzo was no Buddhist, but he believed you could purify his wretched soul. In you, he'd find redemption. Your heat could make a blind man see. Surely, it could cleanse the stain of his past.

No matter how many passes his tongue made, you had more to give.

You scratch his sheets, and Hanzo has never been so jealous. The skin of his back tingles at the mere thought of hovering above you, thrusting into you - warm, soft, and perfect as you carve into his back and warm his ear with your crying breaths.

You can feel your breath swelling, becoming a low chant of pleasure as Hanzo continues to lap at the valley between your hips. Hanzo rewards your pussy for each hungry gulp as it comes and comes and comes by flicking his tongue over its pounding entrance. Wildly twitching, it swallowed deep and hungry—a trail of wet escaped. Hanzo licked that too.

"Can't… Hanzo, can't…." You reach out desperately for the headboard, using the bed covers to help propel you forward. When this failed, you mustered all of your strength and used your core to drive yourself forward, shoving his head with a surprising force. With each attempt, you inched closer and closer toward freedom.

His hand grabs at your waist, pulling you towards him as he licks and sucks. You can feel yourself trembling on the edge of something big—an adventure you aren't ready to take.

Hanzo watches you above your knees; he looks you in the eyes as you gasp and wheeze. You plead, and the archer licks your outer lips. Hanzo sucks your clit, hums. Your words gargle in the back of your throat.

The hand in his hair turns into a fist. Hanzo moaned.

At some point, he mumbled in your folds, snippets of "goddess" and "queen" as his hips repeatedly struck the mattress. The groans he's making have your ovaries flushing, your cunt fluttering. Hanzo's panting by the end, but he doesn't stop licking.

Hanzo, for all his dignity and grace, wants you to put him on his knees. Make him work and beg for air. Then, smother him.

Can you imagine Hanzo pinning you to the bed, claiming he's wronged you and needs to atone? You can scream that you forgive him, that it's unnecessary, but he won't accept it. What good is forgiveness if he doesn't earn it?

Or, he goes down on you before every Overwatch mission to "strengthen his mind and body" to better prepare.

"H-Hanzo. Why—" You bit your finger to keep from moaning (squirming). You don't need any bruises. Your hips still bear the thick shape of his fingers.

"Why not just—ah!—just train more?"

"You are the only meditation I need."

Hanzo’s bed once filled itself with women from all walks of Asia. Sojiro filled his bed with women from all walks of Asia. Differing accents, differing traditions. Same economic status. None of them would have been good enough for his father. The thirst for an heir may not have originally been his own, but the need still burned beneath his painted skin. The dragons grew restless, for Hanzo’s desire was their own. The dragon lord had never truly given up on his future children.

Unconsciously plays into your worship kink

Step on him

Physically a virgin, spiritually a whore

Not inexperienced, per se. The terms by which Hanzo lost his virtue weren't his own, so Hanzo ignored them.

Vanilla in theory and theory alone. Missionary, no anal. Ever. But he'd clean his spend from your 'temple' (inside and out) in gratitude and penance. First, for deeming him worthy of such a privilege. Second, for dirtying you and finishing without your consent.

He's kneeled at your feet, kissing them and offering his sacrifice.

It's all amusement and spectacle until he asks what punishment you deem suitable for his transgression.

Is he serious? You came three times in the last forty minutes.

You should be at his feet. You could never cum like that on your own.

Hanzo decides for you

You're shuffling off the bed when he reaches for his bow

He expects you to use honorifics after his name. You are his wife, and he is your husband. You must address him with respect.

Call him 'lord Hanzo' in jest, and the archer closes in on himself. Memories of a life he'd long abandoned close in on all sides. He kindly asks that you don't tease him in such ways. You know nothing of his past. Hanzo doesn't blame you for his reaction to your words; you only meant to play with him, as a wife should. Humor, and not ridicule. (Not that he thought himself undeserving of it. If a divine creature decided he needed humbling, who was he to feel any different?

Hanzo shies from titles that place him above you, "master, King, God, etc."

Jesse McCree

"Now," Jesse stood with his hands resting on his belt, the light from its buckle glinting off into your eyes and reflecting the terror you felt. His hips tilt to one side as he observes you silently. "Why doncha tell me again what you were hopin' to accomplish with them tiny little hands o' yours."

Panic flashed in your eyes because Jesse widened his stance and raised his hands.

You still scramble further up the bed.

"Nah, ya ain't in trouble," Jesse said as he removed his hat and tossed it on the side of your dresser. Always mindful of Ma's etiquette lessons, Jesse knew better than to enter a lady's room wearing his hat. Was impolite. You don't enter a lady's room 'less you come naked. "Pity she didn't teach me to knock," he added with a smile.

Confusion twisted your features. Jesse often said things that you weren't sure how to interpret.

His slow smile told you he was a man looking out after his own. It made your heart beat faster. He wasn't here to hurt you.

"Just show Uncle Jesse what you were up to 'fore I came in." He moved closer, the bed frame squeaking beneath his boots. "Lemme see what you got," he said. Jesse reached out, and you flinched.

But his hands only brushed a finger across your cheek, pushing away a strand of hair. "Ya got somethin' special in those hands," he said gently as his fingers pressed against your skin.

You become aware of the hands covering your modesty. You glance at your bare thighs out of habit when Jesse references the heat between them.

"Come on now, don't get all bashful," He said before you could try to hide under the blankets. You had a way of scurrying off like a little mole whenever he teased you too much. Shy, sweet, and gentle. He could eat you up for days.

"Show me how ya touch 'er when you're all alone."

You pull your cami over your thighs to deter those mocha-brown eyes. Jesse raised a brow that was just as dark. "Ya ain't got nothin' to hide, girl. I already seen it all." He said. Good-natured, southern charm oozed from his every sentence. Yet, you still felt like you were standing in the principal's office and caught doing something wrong.

But Jesse smiled as though what he said was meant to make you feel better. He leaned down, kissing your forehead as if it were the world's most natural thing.

"I'm… I'm loud.." Your knees draw together.

His smile was lopsided. "Good thing all the gunfire and explosions drown out hearing." He said, referencing the hearing aids he wore in his ears.

Did you think a little thing like that would ever be a problem? Bless your sweet little heart.

You weren't sure what to say. 'I'm sorry?' Would he think you're pitying him?

But he just let out a chuckle and shook his head. "Don't sweat it, sugar." A large palm ruffled your hair affectionately. "Now, why don't you show Uncle Jess what you were playin' with?" He asked again, his voice a little more playful this time.

"You..you really can't hear?" You fidgeted with the hem of your cami, not wanting to make eye contact.

His grin widened, "Not a thing." Jessie lied. "I'll even take 'em out if ya want." He started to take off his hearing aids, but you stopped him.

"No, no! That's... That's not necessary." You said quickly.

"Well, alright then." He said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"How's 'bout you let this old cowboy have that weapon yer holdin'?"

Weapon?

"Oh, she's lethal." Jesse winced playfully. "One could take out a man if it's aimed properly."

"She?" You asked, curious.

Jesse held back the brunt of his laughter. "Yer pussy, sugar. It's a she."

Your expression has him losing his composure. He had the courtesy to turn away and chuckle. The insult on your face had him in stitches.

"Well, shoot." He said after a while, finally managing to compose himself. "I ain't mean to make no fun of ya. Just thought you'd like to know your kitty got a name."

Your body ran hot, and your heart thumped against your chest. You can't believe how Jesse made you feel with just a few words and one little joke. You could see the mischievous glint in his eyes and knew he would make you squirm again.

"Respectfully, I'm gonna need to see those hands of yours." He said, that same southern gentleness in his voice like before.

Jesse whistled as your hands lifted, low and appreciative.

"I'll be damned..." You're sweet enough to top his apple pie. If he had it, Jesse would've held his hat to his chest; those thighs could carry him through the Arizona desert.

"You can take my breath away any day," Jesse said with a grin. He drank those thighs ten times over before they'd self-consciously shut. He was drunk on you as he was on moonshine.

"Hands back on your holster. Show me how you use it."

With his boot planted firmly on the mattress, brown eyes staring you down, you touched yourself. You'd jumped at the first brush of a hesitant finger against the peach fuzz clothing your mons—prickly and on its way to growing—cold fingers startling skin that hardly ever felt a temperature change. You've never been more thankful for those stubborn hairs that always grew back despite your best efforts. It offered a level of decency—privacy—during a private act made public. You map your vulva, getting a feel for it. Your legs spread as you become more comfortable with the movements and sensations that kiss you nightly when the house is sleep—as comfortable as you could be with a man like Jesse McCree looming over you.

You were very aware of him—his presence, his smell. You could feel him in your veins as you touched yourself, and he watched. He dared not move a muscle lest it scared you off.

The situation might be foreign, but the sweetness in your abdomen isn't. The toe-curling warmth made you want to rock and hum into its beautiful calm. It took the stress out of a very stressful situation. How odd to find yourself tense in the middle of your go-to stress relief.

You moved with clinical precision, not for pleasure but to show Jesse you weren't helpless. You felt like the Tin Man—joints stiff, robotic, and locking together when thoughts of what you were doing and in front of whom caught up to you. The need to defend yourself from any infantilism oiled them and kept them going. Your breath gets heavier as the pleasure builds inside of you, regardless.

Could you even cum like this?

Doubtful.

There wasn't anything too exciting about tracing up and down your lips, still wet from the 'exercise,' Jesse interrupted. Your clit still pulsed despite cologne tickling your nose like spice (or maybe because of it).

He was so close.

With the scent of tobacco and leather on his clothes, Jesse Mccree had your undivided attention. You can't look at him, but the thought of staring into those deep brown eyes while you circled your clit and cried the prettiest you could make you swallow down below. Your clit throbs, and you massage it before you can stop yourself. You play with the hood, fragile and unsure. It isn't enough, but you don't want to appear indecent. God, if only you could throw open your legs and—

"That ain't how ya do it. Touchin' 'er like that, bet you don't even know what she's called."

Of course, you do. It's a vagina. Not a 'her,' not a 'she.' You told him so.

"Aw, now. You'll hurt 'er feelings. Tell me what you call 'er, darl.'"

"It… it's my vagina." You emphasize the word 'it.'

Jesse shook his head. Shoulda knew you'd call 'er somethin' dull and childish.

"Move aside, sugar." Jesse motioned for you to stand. A cigarillo was all that was needed to complete the toothy grin as he sat, cybernetic hand hitting his thigh. "Come sit on Papa's lap. He's gon' show ya what she's for. How to touch 'er."

You stood uncertain before him, blanket held to your sex. The red fabric pooled between your legs and onto the floor.

"I don't bite, sugar." He said. It's the softest you'd ever heard him.

Your lips thin to a pensive line.

This is a bad idea. But the prospect of this man sipping you like he did his whiskey was thrilling.

You look past him toward his hat on the dresser, and the blanket drops. So do Jesse's eyes. But that grin? It stretches to something boyish, handsome, and white. He savors, just as you'd hoped; he savored himself so fully your legs ache to cross over each other. He's fixated on your vagina. You hope he can't see it swallow.

"This is your little pussy." Jesse spread you open with two fingers. You squirm on his thick thighs. He's mountainous and warm against your back; you hardly cover two-thirds of his broad chest. He must spray cologne directly on it. Woodsy Pine and Old Spice took you to a campfire with marshmallows and Southern folklore. You don't think about the chestnut hairs peeking out of his flannel. You can't. You'll die.

"This is your pretty little pussy." He rubbed your fatty, wet lips with four fingers—rough and widened in a V-shape.

Your vag—your pussy clenches, tingly.

"You may have touched 'er before," He swiped your clit side-to-side, hitting nerve endings that had you bucking on his tan, human finger. "but I'll teach you how to spoil 'er." He dipped one deep inside.

"And fill 'er up."

Your cries are as helpless as your hips as they help him fuck your pussy open. He stretches her so good you can't recall when you began referring to her as a she. You fuck yourself on his fingers until pleasure gushes from your cunt.

An involuntary gasp escapes your lips as he collects his first load in his fingers. You're there.

"You wanna cum, and I can make it happen, sugar." Jesse held you as you shook. Robotic arm slung over your waist, he let you use his finger to draw out your end. He pumped into you occasionally—lazy and matching your weakening thrusts.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' greedy. Uncle Jesse will let ya have seconds if ya want 'em."

You just keep goin', doncha? You're a lil fighter—pushin' those shuddery hips forward even as you gasp and choke.

Ya weren't lyin'. Yer loud. Not in a cutesy way, either. You're raw, unapologetic.

Jesse loves it.

Nothin' worse than a woman who does all that dainty shit.

You cried so long and hard your voice tapered into a husk.

"These fingers were made for women. Made for touchin' 'em." Any internalized shame blew in the wind when Jesse used his thumb to swipe your sensitive clit. You groan like a cavewoman. Guttural, primal.

"Made for makin' 'em come. You gonna come for me again?"

You're already trembling, unable to get your tongue working as you tighten on his fingers.

"There ya go, sugar. Cum like I'm gettin' it in. Goin' six inches deep and cummin' hard on 'er lips." Jesse pumped his fingers deep again as you began panting, panicking—he was insistent on getting you off—a knot of orgasm tightened in your waist until you snapped like a whip against your backside and seized.

"Ain't nothing wrong with cryin'."

You can't stop shaking. Crying. Tears fall off your chin, and you don't know where they came from. At this moment, you're a helpless baby—wailing and hoping he understands. You need him to fuck the soul from your body. You need him to stop.

"I've got somethin' of a confession," Mccree said, his drawl thickening with each syllable. The thumb on your clit sent his words through one ear and out the other. He's knuckle-deep in your cunt and seated near your pleasure spot as he slowly curls into it. You curl with him, hot and whining.

"I may be aurally challenged, but I can still hear you, sugar." You're drooling in every figurative sense—mentally and emotionally sloshed from the pump of his heavy fingers. "Every time you whisper my name at night." He said, his tone low and warm.

Your thighs clamp around his hand.

Fiery shame swept like lava and left coals on your chest, leaving you with prickly, uncomfortable goosebumps.

Oh, now we can't have that.

You've stopped chasing his hand, chasin' that release you'd wanted so bad.

A gentleman, Jesse puts in enough work for both of you. If you aren't meetin' him, he'll have to try that much harder, won't 'e?

God, what would your family think? They'd shun you. Getting off to thoughts of your captor's big, impossibly wide hands instead of biting them.

This needs to stop.

Oh, but you can't. You're grinding on his finger again, helpless to stop. It's so good. It's too fucking good.

"That's it. Get it, sugar." Jesse starts flying in and out of your thighs. Something coughs from your throat like a drowned victim spitting up water. You grab his wrist for stability and don't make it halfway around.

"That's what I like to fuckin' see," Jesse growled.

Fuck it. You'd let him pull your panties aside and cream your pussy right there on your bed with your family in the doorway for them to see every desperate clench it made, each spasm in the base of his cock as it emptied inside their precious daughter, sister, and loved one. They could watch the conception of their grandchild and niece/nephew for all you care.

"Jesse! Oh god. Feels good!"

"Sounds even better up close." Mccree chuckled. Breathy, strained. As if it'd come through gritted teeth. His cock pressed into your ass—hard and hot. He made no attempts to relieve it.

"You come to Uncle Jesse when your pussy needs some lovin', ya hear?"

He pulled out, leaving you so, so empty.

You quickly nodded. No, no. Please put it back! He'd stopped touching your clit.

Jesse doesn't leave you empty much longer now that he has an answer. "You let ol' Jess handle it. I'll give the lil lady what she wants."

You're too damn polite. Callin' 'im 'sir.' He ain't no 'sir.' Jesse would tell you to stop if he ain't like it so much.

He pretends to hate it, gives you grief about it, but let you come 'round askin' for somethin'. Jesse stops you mid-sentence and tells you to call 'im that thing he likes.

"Come on, honey. You'll make me feel old."

Your name might as well be 'pretty.'

"C'mere, pretty. Wanna show ya somethin' real quick."

Toji Fushiguro

It's one of those days.

Toji stood in your doorway, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He had a can of beer in his left hand and a race ticket in the other. You should be happy to see him. There's no milk, and your stomach could grow teeth and devour. Your heart drops instead. The paper had as many wrinkles as a white shirt straight from the dryer. Crumpled, meaning he'd lost. The one Toji wore was stretched and spent. He hadn't come home last night. A sour odor of alcohol told you why. Toji celebrated his losing streaks with bottles of sake at the bar. Usually, he'd be out looking for a job to 'make up what he lost,' as he'd always promised.

The hunt must've been unsuccessful if he had been back so soon.

Toji was bitter before he'd even come in the door. Catching you with your fingers in your pajama pants put him over the edge.

"What ya doin' touchin' what's mine?"

Toji scoffed when you continued giving him that owlish stare.

"Y'think I'm good for nothin', dont'cha." His posture remains loose and bored, his tone detached. The slip crinkled in his balled fist.

This isn't going to end well.

"Of course no—"

"You ain't gotta lie, Seven."

Toji was more superstitious than met the eye. He set you up in his home like a Maneki-Neko for good luck and fortune, laughable.

You aren't lucky. Trouble raced after you like tin cans on an exhaust pipe, with your situation to prove it.

Trouble stepped further into your room—swept across your floor like tumbleweed, kicking the ground with every slow, drunken step. Trouble knelt on your bed, knocked your plushies off to the side, and snatched your arm when you scurried.

"Y'think I'm a deadbeat." Trouble pulled you under him and ripped your pajamas off your hurling legs. His triceps bulged beneath his tee as his hips rolled into your cunt, wet and bare. He held you still to take each stubborn, mouth-watering rut. "Think I can't take care of ya anymore."

Toji's still beating the headboard into the wall as you quake around his thighs. Frantic hands tear at his upper back, tugging his shirt for him to go harder despite the worrying cracks and splinters of wood.

"'m gon' prove you wrong." Toji put his weight on his elbows and fucked you like he meant it. He'd buck forward and knock your eyes to your skull.

'God, yes,' is all you can think as he presses you into the mattress and shoves into you until you can't get air. 'More, more, more.'

"Gonna make you cum so hard you wet yourself," he growled in your ear. "Gonna make you scream and cry." And he did.

"Oh God, Toji!"

Toji rabbits at the first sign of tears. "I'm gonna fuck you right to hell."'

"Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God, oh—uhn!"

Spleck!

Your thighs squeeze and judder into his cock. Wetness dribbles past your lips regardless of how tightly you clench your legs. You cum hard—the spasms in your cunt deep and violent. So fucking slutty and messy.

"God!" The word tore from your throat in a ragged sob. Feral. Hysterical.

There's no way you should clamp this fiercely. It's been so long Toji let you tighten up. He needed to stretch you back out. This pussy should be loose and sticky always. A constant fullness to fill the pangs and help you forget your troubles.

You wanna be fucked.

You wanna be bred.

"A little girl like you don't know what you're doin'." Toji got between your thighs and licked you from slick perineum to juicy clit.

"Says you." In your head, you're pushing his face deeper into your sex, hand in his hair as you grind on his tongue. 'Show me, baby; show me. Show me what I'm too stupid to do.'

Toji eats you alive.

His fingers brush up your bum while he tongues you into orgasm. Toji piles your juices on his fingers and licks them clean, again and again.

"Lookit how excited she gets." Toji rests on his knees. The crotch of his sweatpants is a darker shade of black and damp from your sex.

"She can't quit talkin'." Spasming, spitting, and wetting.

His cock is visible, sitting on his lower left thigh, right above his knee. A footpath of the same dark shade runs down his left pant leg.

Did he cum? Did he cum just from eating you out? Was that fat, ruddy cockhead drooling over the very hint of your sex when he'd rutted against you before?

There's something so primal about him kneeling over you, your juices on his tongue, his cock jutting out so proudly, hung like a horse between your thighs. It makes you aware of just how filthy this whole act is, how raw.

You can smell yourself on him, and your legs self-consciously close.

"Still think you know how to get this pussy to clamp as she should?" Toji's voice was low and gruff.

"No." You whimpered.

"Then why the fuck are you playing with my clit?"

"I wasn't playing with it! I was just..."

"You won't even squeeze your thighs together without askin' when I'm finished," his lips close around your clit.

Toji licks every slippery skin fold and nibbles your clit until it's throbbing. You fuck his mouth with your hips, desperate. You reach deep, guttural tones no woman should.

Would nut if you called him 'sir.'

Call him 'sir,' and he'll call you 'ma'am.' Especially in bed. It's shamelessly kinky, given the age gap between you. Might just call you mommy if you're okay with it. You're still under your parent's insurance and barely have a driver's license. Your wisdom teeth haven't come in, and here this forty-year-old man was calling you mommy.

And if you are? Agreeable with it, that is? Toji does his best to make you one.

He missed out on Megumi. Thoughts of another child hadn't crossed his mind until he was deep in your green, twenty-something pussy calling you mommy in that aged murmur.

You love everything he's saying. "Gon' fuck a baby into your teenage pussy—get you pregnant." Toji liked to poke at your age. He'd call you a teenager when you're particularly difficult. Little girls can't talk to me like that. Those nights remained the same. Toji fucked you on the floor and bred you until you couldn't speak. Cum ran from your entrance in a thin, constant stream. Milky, thick-flowing, and filthy. You just need some good lovin'; that's all it is—needed attention. You didn't know how to ask for it without pitchin' a fit like a child.

Make-up sex where he'd hold your hands as your thighs shook. Toji made up for leaving the cabinets empty by leaving your thoughts emptier. Cramming you six inches full of excess and relief, Toji filled you over and over until debt became greed. He's slow, thorough—men his age typically were. Toji was no boy. Wasn't in no hurry to finish. Thrusting between your hips, deep and thick in your cunt and inches from your face, Toji murmured, "'m gon' set it right."

You love what he's saying so much your appreciation lands on the base of his cock and lower abdomen as you squirt. "Dirty little girl. Dirty teenage pussy, begging for her senpai's cum." He burns right through your chest.

The words, "What are you going to do about it?" sit on your tongue.

"Gonna breed that pussy good. Gon' get you pregnant. Get you knocked up." Toji tugs your legs up higher, pulling you into his body as he snaps his hips. He thrusts into you, quick and hard.

Give it to me, give it to me. Put a baby in me. Oh, God, fuck me!

"Pussy'll be so sweet with my cum between those pretty, swollen lips. Might just eat it. Might have to. Might be all the sugar I need."

Muscles jump in your lower belly. Toji grinned above you, rotten, when your pussy quivered. Toji is feral when he gets his face between your legs, unlike any man you've met. The enthusiasm for your pleasure as he dug, sucked, licked, and scraped with his tongue (all while his right hand held your slippery cunt open for him to discipline and drink down) was primal and terrifying. It had you there in minutes. He had no direction, no idea, and no technique. All he had was the hell-driven desire to please you—make you come fast and hard 'many times as he could before his tongue gave out.

Every little thing you told him to do. That's all he had. You asked for more, and he gave it. You tell him to scratch that itch between your thighs, and he knows exactly what that means—squeezing his cock into your too-small ass. From there, all you did was tell him what you wanted, and he performed like a dog with a bone.

Toji wasn't above holding you down so that you took your pleasure on his face, fingers, and lips.

No, this dog took every ounce of his strength and overpowered your body to ensure he got his pound of flesh. What sorta man was he if he couldn't please his woman? An embarrassment, that's what. You ain't gonna insult him and walk away with steady legs.

"Gonna ride that pussy, make it mine."

Ride me, baby. Oh, God, yes!

Toji hunkers over you—that thick, heady scent of sweat, cologne, and body heat. He smells good. "Bet this teenage cunt loves feeling like it's mature, getting filled and stretched into a mommy's pussy." He's telling you how you'll look so good with your freshly creamed pussy.

Wanna be slutty for you. Make this pussy creamy.

"Gon' get that cervix wet. You'd better drink up, girl."

God, you'll drink every last white drop of it. You're already spasming.

"There she goes talkin'. Swallowin’. She's thirsty." Toji tilts your face towards him. "Boy or girl? Which one ya like?"

You struggle—feebly pressing his chest with jellied wrists to get him up and off of you. Out of you. You have to keep yourself from melting outward and running onto the sheets when he snatches you up in his arms as if you were nothing and hemmed you to the bed, hemmed you to his chest in a bear hug, and fucked you. He caged you beneath him and held you there. You’re held down and bred. Pre-cum drooled out of you onto the pillow like the real thing. Each thrust sent your hips violently into him, bobbing, circling, and returning to meet him as you rubbed your slick folds against his cock when it slipped out. He had you humping his wet dick like a bitch in heat. That was you on him. He's covered in you. He hugged you so hard that the bed felt like a paper bag under you.

"Ain't no running. Y'gon' take this dick. Take this apology."

"Don't! Don't—" The fight to free your arms was heavy and impossible as he lined himself up just as quickly as he'd left. Eager to fill. Eager to please. Hands trapped between your sweaty bodies, you settle for pushing against his stifling weight despite rising to help him resettle himself. And God, do you feel like home. Comforting, warm. He can already smell Ma's cooking. Slick, like the blood of his bounties. 'Specially when his bosses demanded a trophy as proof of his service.

White. All you see are the whites of his eyes as Toji's cock overfilled you to bursting, assisted by your curved spine and lofted hips.

He does it so gently—sliding into you like a Spanish kiss. Indulgent. Letting you admire the breadth of him, the ridge of cockhead that made your walls flutter and sing as it moved through you like drugs flooding a bloodstream, peddling euphoria throughout every corner of your body until you were floating and light in the giddy breeze of his possession. He looks demonic, possessed. Your cunt groaned from how full it was, glutted. Feel-good chemicals left you gooey and barely conscious as he stroked into you, exactly where you needed him and weren't ready for him. The deep grinds into your G-spot had you losing your breath, but he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't stop fucking you.

Uhhhn, God. Your eyes flutter. Your walls squeeze him against your will. You could kiss him.

"N-noooo, you can't. Don't cum in my pussy." You moaned. "Don't—hnn!—don' cum..." Your arms close around his waist, hips arching and rocking like you couldn't decide what you wanted more, to push him off of you or get creampied in one go. Bred.

"Mommy, ya gotta tell me." Your pussy clamps. Fissures of resistance disappear like they never existed when Toji calls you "mommy" like it's a sin. He's whispering dirty in your ear as if he knew your secrets. As if he knew you were two pumps and one shuddery male moan away from pleading the exact opposite.

"Tell me, Mommy, so I can do it for you." Toji's voice had gone sugary-sweet and deep.

But no...no. Nnn. No. "You… can't...do that." It's cheating. He's cheating.

"Tell me how you want this baby."

God, it just feels so good. You want him to cream you. Breed you. You like the fantasy of it all (it gets you wetter than anything), but he isn't financially stable, and you're no mother.

"We can't! Not 'nough money." Your lips don't sing lullabies. They sang heartache and blues. Emotionally immature and mentally thin, you're no mother. The slightest inconvenience, and you're ready to cannonball off a bridge.

"Ain't what I asked ya." Toji put you in a headlock. Ears hot and pounding, you twist and thrash as best you can underneath him. He doesn't leave you much room to grapple—still bearing down on you with all his strength and thrusting. 'Overwhelming' couldn't begin to capture the wave of shivers washing over you. Toji scratches that itch inside of you so good it nearly hurts. God, it's good—the beating he gives that secret, special place you can never reach alone. Where fingers clench into knots, your womb feels like a fever. You're in heaven. Your thighs burn from all that friction. You're in hell. Your body wants nothing more than to let out a primal scream as you battle to cope with the intensity. It takes you a few moments to realize you are—hollering in absolute hysteria. You unclench your fingers long enough to shove fruitlessly at his chest, claw at his arms and pelvis.

The thick arms caging your head tighten. "Answer. Or I’ll put one in your backside."

"Girl!" You shouted—voice rough and strangled behind his grip.

"A lil princess just like 'er Mama." Toji bucked into you, closing his eyes with a groan. When they opened, they stared down at your hostile mouth. If there was one body part of yours Toji was fascinated by, it was your lips.

He's been staring at them while he fucked you, lust in his eyes. Toji watched them threaten and plead.

"You get off me, or I'll—" Your words clung thickly together, dragged in places they shouldn't as if they were moaned.

"I'll..." Your lashes fall to your cheeks as Toji moves down, nose rumbling softly with steamy breath as he latches onto a nipple and sucks.

Your cunt swallowed and sang; you rose to meet his next push. The way his tongue and teeth work together on that sensitive spot is enough to make you light-headed.

"I'll..."

Toji stared at you, expression unreadable as ever. "You'll what, Mommy?"

He watched 'em gasp and form his name. He needed 'em. Needed 'em more than his own mother's rotted eyes.

"You'll cum?" He ground into you, and you gasped.

"Yes." You wrapped your arms and legs around him. God, your skin was on fire.

Toji released your breast and latched onto your mouth instead, groaning against your lips. His tongue flicked inside, and you opened wide.

"H-harder. Toji, I'm—"

Ughn!

Toji hits it like he couldn't miss—rutting, grinding, and humping into that sacred spot. Your kiss had him rabbiting and murmuring, moaning, and biting. He was gasping. He was growing—swelling at the base of his cock. He was coming apart.

Seeing you thoroughly enjoy yourself and falling apart on his cock has Toji's hips faltering. Mama's never yelled for 'im quite like that before. He had mama screamin', had 'er eyes rollin' back. Had her thrusting on his cock like she wanted her green, little pussy filled—wanted his kid.

"Sound so good, Mommy." He's coming already, eyes shut as the first few spurts escape him. Toji's thrusts deepen each time you moan. He'd shiver, pushing hard into your g-spot. He spoiled it for every hunger pain while he was away.

"Hands." His voice shook with effort—the physical strain of staving himself off.

When you don't immediately respond, Toji's head rests on your shoulder—miserable like an old dog. "y'know I can't cum without 'em. Know I need 'em."

His breaths come in rough pants. "I'm gonna cum, Mommy. Imma go right up your pussy and spill my seed."

"Toji—" You squirm, "Toji, don't!" You'd damn near drooled as the first squirt of hot cum hit your pussy, unconsciously bucking into him for the umpteenth time.

You beg Toji not to cum inside you, hugging him and pumping those hips all the while. Desperately, at that. A man's gotta wonder.

"Let me apologize, mama," he said between labored breaths. "Let me give you this baby." His fingers pry into yours, clutching them against the mattress as he rutted and sighed into you. "Let me."

"No." You fight. "No, no, no, no, no! No. Don't!"

His thrusts pick up as you try and wrangle free.

"I forgive you, Toji! I forgive—"

Toji licked into your mouth, grabbed onto your hips, and emptied himself in a long, thick stream. He shivered in your arms through spurts and convulsions, letting you swallow his shuddered alphabet of husky groans.

You can't help but buck into each warm shot of his seed. You're a whore. And you're tired of pretending you're not.

You're still moaning for him not to cum inside you as he does just that, pushed up against your G-spot, gently grinding you toward an orgasm of your own.

He could've positioned himself at your cervix and got all nice and snug, but then he would've missed the sleepy look on your face. Eyelids hung low, mouth parted—sated, full, and still working that pussy against him, swallowing miserably around him because it hasn't cum. She will. He'll show ya he ain't useless, that he's good for somethin'.

Besides, they'll swim. He doesn't need to be lined up to hit a target. It'll be fine once you're shiverin' against him; you'll send 'em right where they need to be.

"Please don't, sir." You said, still thrusting through the zips and tapering shocks of your orgasm. Your arms are helpless, bumbling, and unresponsive.

'Sirs' nice and all, but he'd prefer 'Mister.'

Author’s Note: This was Valentine's gift for myself and I decided to share it. If this performs well, I'll finish the second installment. The next part will feature Erasermic, Bob Velseb, Daddy Dearest, Mommy Mearest, and a fourth character I haven't decided on.

Tips: Please consider tipping if you're well-fed. It would incentivize me to keep sharing. https://ko-fi.com/pumpknpie

©️pumpkin-pi-e | Do not copy, edit, paraphrase, plagiarize, translate, or borrow from my work. I do not give my consent for any of my works to be reposted. I only write on Tumblr. Should you find this anywhere else, please alert me because it was stolen.

For your listening pleasure:

The title was based on the song below.

Do Not Interact - Writers and blogs who actively write white-coded reader inserts (blush, turn red, a flush of color). I can’t eat at your table, and I don’t want you at mine. You will be blocked. Blank blogs will also be blocked.

[ethereousdelirious]

C-can I ask for Fizzmodeus snzcanons?

YEAH BABY! I don't retain a lot from stuff I watch but I THINK I have an okay handle on these 2 akshsja

I think they kind of have opposite sneezes??? Like Fizzy's sound too big in proportion to his body, and Ozzie's too small

....except that maybe Fizzy gets these crescendoing fits when he's exposed to an allergen. Perfume would be cute for him, I think, like certain perfumes and colognes. And when he's sick, he has these BIG sneezes that almost knock him over

And I think Ozzie has a really demure, almost polite sneeze. He's a coquettish little sneeze tease, if you will 😝 He seems like a stifler unless he's trying to make a point of taking up space, but I still think his sneeze is kind "...oh, that's it?" When you consider how big he is. Or maybe that's a result of some sort of subconscious stifling, and what he really needs is somebody who can tease his real, big, booming sneezes out of him 👀

As far as kink, stuff, I think Ozzie is more likely to have like? A caretaker thing going on?? Like he really truly does hate it when Fizz gets sick, but he kind of gets off on being a provider and a caretaker, and I'm sure that really confuses him until he talks it out with Fizz

And as the embodiment of Lust, I'm suuure he can find the eroticism in anything. I bet he loves to let Fizz tie him up and tease him with all sorts of toys 👀 I MEAN HE LETS FIZZ INDUCE HIM WITH A VIBRATOR

[fizziefactory]

The teens were either out or locked in their bedrooms, the dad was off working, and their mother was Lucifer knows where, probably getting drunk on tequilas and catching up with her girlfriends. This left Fuzzy, also known as their trusty Fizzy Companion Bot, in charge of the household.

The kids had started a food fight. Because of course they had. Screaming and snarling from imps and hell hounds alike was filling up the small kitchen, three children running around while shooting peas and mashed potatoes across the room, trying to hit each other for bonus points. The toddler was crawling around below the table, crying because of how noisy and rowdy everything was, and the littlest one, the baby, was sat in his high chair, smearing his food wherever he could reach.

Fuzzy was close to his breaking point, alas, he reeled it in. He kept pleading with the children to stop, he tried to soothe the toddler by kneeling down under the table, cleaning up the mess as it escalated and escalated...

When suddenly, a 7th person entered the room.

Completely stunned, the robot locks eyes with the stranger in his home. This intruder, this absolute scumbag who--

Didn't seem to pose much of a threat at all. He looked flustered, tried to excuse himself, to get away...

And Fuzzy was not having it. This was the straw that broke the camel's back. Straightening himself up, the glowing eyes began to swirl with rage, extendable legs doing what they did best, until he was towering over the little angel like a demon cornering a child.

☽ "No. No none of that. You're going to barge in here? Into our home? Like you own the place, then just leave?"

Grabbing a hold of the man's wrist, Fuzzy pulls him into the midst of the chaos, the children stopping for just a second to behold the new guest, whose wingspan nearly took up the entire kitchen.

☽ "You clean up this mess while I handle the kids, or I'm going to rip those gaudy feathers right out of your Goddamn Back."

@fizziefactory liked for a starter!)

When Lucid appeared out of the swirl of golden magic, the first thing the blue seraphim took in was the sheer chaos and noise surrounding him. It alarmed the angel, his wings puffing up as he looked about to identify the cause. Around him several Hellborn children ran about and an anxious disheveled robot appeared to be in hot pursuit.

Electronic eyes and blue celestial ones locked, the angel feeling a rapid sense of alarm growing in his chest. The angel held up his hands in mock surrender and stepped backwards. “I, uh! I-I seem t-to have entered the wrong household-“

[sickiesope]

Energy boost

Sickie: Taehyung

Caretaker: Jungkook

TW: emeto

Taehyung woke up tired today. He didn't sleep the best and just feels overall sluggish. Taehyung can usually hide that he's tired and is good at covering up his yawning in public. But he just hates that feeling weighing him down. They're filming a short dance number for army today and he needs a lot of stamina.

Taehyung doesn't like coffee at all and doesn't understand how Yoongi can drink so much of it. He can't stand the smell or the taste. He's trying to think of another quick fix and wound up buying an energy drink. It's strawberry flavored so he figured he'd try it.

"Since when do you drink energy drinks?" Yoongi teases.

"It tastes better than that burnt hot bean water" Taehyung sasses playfully.

"Maybe, but coffee doesn't make you crash like those do" Yoongi smirks.

Taehyung found it tasted pretty sweet; a little too sweet from what's he's used to but he drank half of it and already feels a little more perky. It gives him more hope about the day. When finished his stomach feels.. weird. He drank that pretty fast. His stomach gurgles with the fizzy drink bubbling up. He burps and pauses for a minute. He feels the caffeine kicking in and rushes to get prepared.

The guys stand in position and Taehyung tries to stay still. He's all jittery and his stomach keeps going off. He doesn't know if anyone else can hear it and palms it cautiously.

"Everyone in place!"

The music starts playing and the choreography is fast pace. Taehyung's body keeps up with the movements but he regrets having that energy drink. The liquid swishes and sloshes inside his stomach with each jump and turn. It feels like his stomach is a bottle being shaken and bubbling up, ready to go off. But he can't stop now, they're halfway through the song. Then his stomach burbles and Taehyung stumbles and hiccups, almost tripping.

"Cut!" They all stop and look at him.

"Tae, why'd you stop?" Hoseok asks.

Taehyung wants to say his stomach hurts but doesn't want to throw off the day. He already messed up and doesn't want people getting mad at him. "I-I'm fine--" *he burps mid sentence.* Taehyung covers his mouth, flustered.

They all look at him strange. Yoongi is looking with concern. That wasn't exactly a small sized can he chugged.

"Ugh, sorry.. I'm sorry, I can keep going." Taehyung says quickly. He just wants to get through this.

"Hmm okay, let's try again" Hoseok gestures them to walk back to starting position. Taehyung puts a fist to his mouth and descretely burps again. He wants to think it helps but isn't sure. His stomach feels queasy and he worries he'll throw up instead. The cameras are going again and he definitely doesn't want that.

On the second take Taehyung isn't as fast, his stomach hurts with all the movements and sloshing. His body can't handle it and his stomach lurches. Taehyung hiccups again and bends over, holding his abdomen. Suddenly he belches and his stomach opens the floodgates, spewing out a fast large wave. 

"Whoa Tae!" Jimin and Jungkook jump back, they were closest to him and just missed getting splashed. Taehyung can't say anything as his stomach is still forcing out it's contents.

The music stops and everyone is shocked at what just happened. Namjoon waves at the staff to stop the cameras and the members run to Taehyung. Taehyung falls to his knees clutching his middle. He sighs in disbelief but his stomach cuts him off with another hard retch. He pants and looks at the pink puddle on the floor. "Ugh, why did I have that?" Taehyung mutters.

Yoongi looks at the young vocalist sympathetically. "It's okay Tae, it could've happened to anyone."

Taehyung feels ridiculous and thought forsure they would scold him but everyone was benevolent and understanding.

-------

Taehyung wasn't thrilled about the car ride back. His stomach's still complaining after all that vomiting. He tries to rub it but he's so tired. Whenever the car hits a bump or a turn his stomach gurgles, making him moan quietly.

"Awwh hyung, that drink really upset your tummy huh?" Jungkook put his hand on Taehyung's stomach. Taehyung just nods as his sick stomach churns. Jungkook wants to help it and starts rubbing lightly "how does this feel?"

Taehyung hums approvingly, letting JK take over. The maknae's hands feel so nice. Taehyung yawns and leans on Jungkook closing his eyes. He's crashing. Jungkook looks and smiles fondly, shifting a bit to make it more comfortable.

[finnitesimal]

a lot of ppl don't seem to think so but i personally think takiishi is a spoiled brat. probably ND as fuck and out of his mind, yes, needs a caretaker for sure, but also spoiled. as. hell. his fries r overdone? hit endo. his drink is no longer fizzy? scream. didnt get the toy he wants from the kids menu? beat up the worker. his shirt has a tag he doesnt like? make endo burn it. he's SPOILED and a BRAT

Guy who heard this and went alright bet

I don't actually think he's like. A child though. He's more collected than his panels give him credit for, when he's being calm he's pretty much just any teenager with too many rock band shirts and thought tyler durden was meant to be a role model

His moments of violence seem to stem from the same impulses you get to grab and attack when you feel particularly hostile like when you've just been in an argument or when you want someone to shut the fuck up or your friend's being a dumbass except with zero impulse control and the force of a battering ram

I don't really see him acting out in public spaces or situations where someone clearly didn't mean to offend or hurt him. He's closer with endo and can afford to kick his ass with little repercussion but I don't see him going after people who have no interest in squaring up or ruining perfectly good stuff I doubt he cares about throwing a fit when it takes way more effort than just tossing it out or walking away

He's got piles of childhood trauma that completely rewired his defense mechanism to 9999% fight all the time I think. The backstory behind a dozen or so highschoolers seeing the pearly gates fighting a 10 year old will do that

But uh yeah I think he's just a very angry emu in the body of a traumatized teenage boy

[whumpdrivethru]

Hi there, can I get… uhh… maybe a drunk or drugged whumpee accidentally spilling their secrets to their friend/caretaker, with a side of whumpee x caretaker. And —hmmm— maybe some soft caretaking sprinkled on top of that?

Hi Anon! Let me get that whipped up for you!

Whumpee stared in awe at the way the light reflected in their drink. The way the bubbles fizzed incessantly and how the ice clinked lazily at the bottom of the glass. It was so… beautiful.

“Whumpee?”

It took a good ten seconds for Whumpee to register that someone was speaking to them. They swiveled their head around in the direction of the voice.

“Caretaker!” Whumpee slurred happily.

“Whumpee, you don’t look so good,” Caretaker said, brows furrowed, “how much have you had to drink?”

“Jus’ the one… it’s so pretty, just like you, Caretaker, look!”

Whumpee shoved the glass in Caretaker’s face. Caretaker examined how the bubbles were too fizzy, the way the ice had sank to the bottom. Their eyes widened in horrific realization.

“Whumpee, we’re leaving,” Caretaker said, taking them by the arm.

“Nooo,” Whumpee whined.

Caretaker ignored Whumpee’s protests, dragging them out of the bar and into the parking lot. Whumpee was quite unsteady on their feet, lurching forward and to the side with every step they tried to take. By the time they got to the car, Caretaker was practically carrying them. Caretaker helped them into the passenger seat.

“Hmm,” Whumpee said, reaching up and cupping Caretaker’s face, “so pretty.”

Caretaker’s face turned red.

“You’re not well,” Caretaker said, mostly to themselves, “that’s why you’re saying things like that.”

Caretaker buckled Whumpee’s seatbelt for them; they closed the door and practically ran to the driver’s side. They drove out of the parking lot and down the street.

“Wher’re we goin’?” Whumpee mumbled.

“Hospital,” Caretaker said, “you’ve been drugged, they can get it out of your system.”

“Caretaker?”

“Hm?” Caretaker asked, not taking their eyes off the road.

“I love you.”

Caretaker blushed again. As much as they wanted Whumpee’s words to be true, they knew they were only saying that because they were under the influence of some drug.

“You’re not thinking straight,” Caretaker eventually said, “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of this.”

…

Whumpee had passed out on the way to the hospital, which of course only served to worry Caretaker more. They now sat by their bedside, waiting for them to wake up. Caretaker almost dozed off when a groan roused them. They blinked awake and looked at Whumpee, who was blinking hard and holding a hand to their head.

“Hey,” Caretaker said, “how are you feeling?”

Whumpee turned their head.

“Caretaker?” they asked, “wha- what happened? Where-”

“You’re in the hospital,” Caretaker said, “you were drugged… do you remember anything?”

Whumpee’s brows furrowed in concentration. They opened their mouth, then closed it. They shook their head.

“I don’t,” they said, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, Whumpee, you-”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Caretaker froze.

“Uh, well, like I said, you got drugged… I came up to you and you were really out of it. I got you out of there and to the car, and I drove you here.”

Pink decorated Caretaker’s cheeks as they spoke. Whumpee tilted their head.

��…did I do something bad?” Whumpee asked.

“No!” Caretaker said quickly, “no, of course not. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Whumpee sat up in bed.

“I must’ve done something,” they pressed, “you’re acting really weird.”

“It’s nothing, honest! You just…” Caretaker sighed, “okay, you said you loved me.”

Whumpee blushed deeply, their face blank.

“I know you didn’t mean it though!” Caretaker added quickly, “it’s okay, I understand you weren’t in your right mind. I mean, do I like you, yes, but I know you don’t feel the same way so I never said anything, and… heck.”

Caretaker looked away, feeling embarrassed. Slowly, Whumpee took their hand.

“But I did mean it,” Whumpee said softly.

Caretaker looked back at Whumpee.

“What?”

“I mean, I don’t remember saying it, but I know I’ve felt that way for a while now. I figured you didn’t feel the same way, and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Caretaker stared at Whumpee, their mouth agape.

“So, um, now what?” Whumpee asked.

Caretaker blinked, shaking their head.

“How about, I take you home once you get discharged, and we’ll go from there.”

Whumpee smiled.

“Sounds good to me.”

Thanks for choosing the Whump Drive Thru, you have been served by Huffle!

[boncorner]

Ask me about my 8 Fizzy!Bot OCs I dare you (or follow my ask/rp blog at @fizziefactory )

[whump-me]

Martyr, Chapter 26: Gratitude and Dread

Chapter 26 of Martyr, a novel-length sci-fi whump story about a captured Martian rebel with a secret and the renowned interrogator who has waited a decade for the chance to break him. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: aftermath of severe injury, medical setting, restraints, ominous caretaking, wishing for death

---

Wraith

Wraith came back to consciousness in a series of jagged flashes. At first, it was pure white light. It was too bright, stabbing into his eyeballs even with his eyes closed, until his mind retreated into darkness again. But each time, the flash of light lasted longer, until finally he couldn’t retreat anymore.

Sounds, disconnected and meaningless, joined the light. Metal dropping on metal. A rush of footsteps. A muttered curse.

Smell came next. The sharp, sterile tang of bleach. The thick miasma of blood. The cooked-meat smell of a cauterized wound. His stomach churned. That sensation reminded him that he had a body, a realization he quickly regretted as fresh pains sprang to life all over. The worst was the one in his head, behind his eyes, throbbing with every heartbeat.

Why was his heart still beating?

He hadn’t thought it would take this long to die.

If the white light was here to usher him into the hereafter, it was sure taking its sweet time about it. And it was nothing like the gentle, welcoming light he had heard about. It was a weapon, driving into his eyeballs like a needle or a knife, so bright that squeezing his eyes shut didn’t fully block it out. He had thought the light was supposed to take the pain away.

And anyway, when people talked about going into the light, didn’t that mean it was whisking them away to heaven? He didn’t know much about what was waiting for him after death, but he could be certain heaven wasn’t it.

That thought, more than the pain, was what convinced him he was still alive.

That realization cleared away another layer of haze from his mind. He was still alive—otherwise it wouldn’t hurt this much. He lying on a soft surface—a bed? Not the cold floor of the interrogation room, that was for sure. His head swam in a way he remembered from too many post-mission visits to Gabriel’s medic. He had pain medication in his system, and a lot of it, if the seasick sensation in his head was any indication.

He winced at the thought. If the pain was this bad with medication, he’d hate to see what it would be like without it.

But he loved every bit of it. Every sharp stab when he tried to move, every dull ache, even the throbbing behind his eyes. He loved it because it meant he was alive.

There would be no noble end for him, no martyr’s death. No, he would go on selfishly drawing breath. Selfishly loving Gabriel more than Gabriel’s cause. Selfishness had never felt so good.

He drew in a greedy breath, even though the act of opening his lungs made a sharp pain shoot through his chest, so strong it brought tears to his eyes. Then he did it again. The air tasted of bleach and blood. It was the most glorious thing he had ever smelled.

A dark figure hovered over him, blocking out the light. He squinted his eyes open, but couldn’t make out more than a shadowed silhouette. Gabriel? he almost asked, and held the name back just in time. It couldn’t be Gabriel, anyway. Not in this place. If Gabriel was here, he had failed.

At least, if he was still a prisoner. Was he still a prisoner? And if he was, what did it mean that he was still alive?

It meant they weren’t done with him, that was what.

It meant Isadora wasn’t done with him.

A rush of cold spread out from his gut, chilling the fizzy joy of being alive. The throbbing in his head increased.

“Looks like you’re waking up,” came a woman’s soft voice as the shadowy figure spoke. Not Gabriel’s voice. But not Isadora’s, either. He squinted at her until more details resolved. She was young, with a kind face, and wore a crisp nurse’s uniform.

Could anyone who worked for Special Security look so kind?

He tried to answer. All that came out of his throat was a weak moan.

“You don’t need to talk.” A cool hand rested gently on his shoulder. He moaned again, in intermingled pain and relief, as the touch chased some of the heat from his skin even as her fingers brushed a tender bruise.

“That you’re awake at all is encouraging,” she continued. “For a few days there, I thought you might not make it. Rest. You have a long way to go before you’re fully recovered.”

Days? he tried to ask. And, Where am I? If he was still in the hands of Special Security, surely they wouldn’t have worked so hard to save him. Surely Isadora would have killed him by now.

But he had Gabriel’s name and location. They had been searching for Gabriel for a decade. Wouldn’t they do anything to keep him alive long enough to get that information from him?

“Where am I?” The question was more urgent this time. But his words came out garbled, unintelligible.

The nurse patted his shoulder. “Rest,” she urged.

He made a noise of protest. He had to know if he was safe. And if he wasn’t, he had to get out of here. Now. Before Isadora could get to him again.

He tried to sit up. Hands pressed him down on both sides, at his wrists, his ankles, his midsection. No—not hands. He was strapped down. He thrashed, then let out an animal yelp of pain as the motion jostled injuries he hadn’t known he had.

“Don’t move,” said the nurse. “Your body isn’t ready for that yet. You don’t want to set back your recovery.”

Was that the only reason for the restraints? But if so, why not just tell him where he was?

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep him sedated for now?” a cold voice asked from across the room. The sound sent a blast of cold running down Wraith’s spine. The chill traveled down his nerve endings, all the way to his fingers and toes.

He didn’t need to ask where he was anymore. He had his answer.

That voice belonged to Isadora.

“He’s still too badly injured,” the voice continued. “I don’t want to risk him damaging himself.”

“He’s been unconscious for several days already,” the nurse protested. “It’s important for him to have some moments of wakefulness as soon as possible. The longer he stays under, the more difficult his recovery will be, especially mentally.” Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. The shape of her body blurred as Wraith’s brain stopped paying attention to her. The only important thing in this room was Isadora.

But one detail stood out on the nurse’s chest. The emblem of Special Security—the planet Earth with a golden star to either side.

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor. Isadora, her hair pulled back in a severe braid, looked down at him with ice in her eyes. He didn’t struggle against the restraints anymore. With her eyes freezing him in place, he didn’t remember how. But a full-body quiver ran through him. His body remembered her. It remembered what she had done to him.

And his mind knew she had kept him alive so she could do it again.

He closed his eyes, but unconsciousness didn’t rescue him this time. He knew she was waiting for him on the other side of the blackness behind his eyelids. He could hear her tightly controlled breaths and the frigid crispness of her voice as she argued with the nurse.

He was alive. But now that thought brought him nothing but dread.

He had no desire to die for a cause, but suddenly, he wished he had died that martyr’s death after all.

---

Tagged: @straight-to-the-pain @soheavyaburden @gala1981 @whumpacabra @sacredwrath @suspicious-whumping-egg @sonder35 @decahedron-crabclaw @seasaltandcopper @tremendousenemyhideout @bloodinkandashes @whumplr-reader @whatiswhumpblog @delicateprincepaper @sunshiline-writes

Ask to be added or remove from taglist.

[fizziefactory]

♥︎ Updated Caretaker!Fizzy [Fuzzy] Look & HCs ♥︎

I wasn't really all that happy with the former design of Fuzzy, I think I just lacked creativity when I made him... and I saw this??? Beautiful fizzy in the commercial?

And I just.... that one. I'm taking that.

This does make him slightly more patched together than before... I'm also leaning more into some of the kids actually being fond of him (one of the teenagers did his makeup). The kids don't hate him... many of them like him quite a lot, the baby even calms down from the sound of machinery, rather than a heartbeat, because it's more used to Fuzzy than its own mother. The reason he's so stressed out is because it's 7 goddamn kids. Even if most of them mean well... it's gonna be rough. On top of that, the parents also expect... attention.

I'm also realising that while Fuzzy is an anxious, tired and stressed out mess...

Whenever he interacts with anybody outside his household? He's got extremely little patience

[Old Art]

This is a pattern at this point that I've noticed when writing him. He can be sweet, and when he gets to talk about the kids he can be really excited... but most of the time, you're just wasting his time that he could spend looking after this family instead.

He has a love-hate relationship with his lot in life... he loves the kids a lot... but he just feels like he's not enough. He's torn to shreds, not just physically, but mentally as well. He's going to grow impatient, he's cranky when he's low on battery, sometimes he just wants to shut down for a day or five.... but he can't.

This leaves him very resentful towards anybody who was involved in his creation.

Therapist!Fizzy is desperately trying to book an appointment with him but there's never any opening-

[askthefizzyfactory]

MEET THE FIZZBOTS

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Model: Therapist Fizzy

Height // Pronouns: 4'6" // he/him it/its they/them

Nicknames: “Therapist Fizzy”, “Thizzy”, "TF-1856"

Location: Sloth Ring

Function: I provide therapy for hellborne in one of the newer clinics Mammon has opened up in the Sloth Ring, a wing of a larger hospital called the “Fizzy Clinic”. I work alongside many other fizzies at this place. I mainly do psych-evaluations of other fizzies, somehow this has become my priority... I’ll be providing the profiles of the following fizzies after me.

History: I’ve been working here for a couple of years by now, I’m still around so I must be doing something right.

Behaviour: I like to think that I’m straight to the point. I’m not here to sugar-coat things for you, if you’ve got a problem I’ll tell you, you can have the drugs you came here for, then get out of my hair. Some say I ask too many questions, but it’s what I’m supposed to do, so… cry about it.

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Model: Doctor Fizzy

Height // Pronouns: 4'6" // he/him it/its they/them

Nicknames: “Doctor Fizzy”, “Doc”

Location: Sloth Ring

Function: Does first aid, surgeries, dentist work, assigns medicine and whatever else might be needed to keep you in good(?) health. I wouldn’t say he’s great at what he does though…

History: Me and Doc go way back, we got booted up the same day. It’s always been a hard worker, but I would claim that it doesn’t put quality over quantity. Then again, that’s not part of our policy. This health care is cheap, and he just wants to have fun…

Behaviour: I don’t know. It’s probably the happiest fizzy I’ve ever met, the energy it possesses rivals that of the Loo Loo Land fizzy. I wouldn’t trust this guy with my pen, let alone have him mess around with my insides… Luckily for me, that’s not something I have to worry about. He seems to think we’re best friends, which is starting to become a problem. He’s extremely… clingy. I don't think he's fully reached sentience... perhaps it's better that way.

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Model: Companion Bot Fizzy

Height // Pronouns: 4'6" // any pronouns, but has a preference for she/her

Nicknames: “Maid Fizzy”, “Mizzy”

Location: Pride Ring

Function: Companionship

History: Used to belong to an imp called Burnie Burnz. When found after said imp’s sudden death at Mammon’s Clown Pageant, the model was nearly broken beyond repair. Memory Card has been mostly wiped of the past experience to prevent inability to perform its tasks.

Current Situation: Belongs to a self-proclaimed “otaku”-sinner in the Pride Ring who got her on sale, playing the role of his maid, dress up doll, sex toy and servant in every way. While the life of a companion fizzy isn’t easy, she… seems relatively at peace since her owner always spoils it rotten, despite being a basement-dweller.

Behaviour: Overly chipper and excitable, bordering on concerning. It called itself “kawaii”? Despite this, the bot is very obedient, and its owner doesn’t have any complaints. Satisfied customers is what it’s all about. However, we do regular check ups on it to make sure that no memories resurface…

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Model: Caretaker Fizzy

Height // Pronouns: 4'6" // any pronouns works

Nicknames: “Caretaker Fizzy”, “Ginger”, “Fuzzy”

Location: Imp City

Function: Main tasks include watching over infants, babies, toddlers and children, as well as chaperoning teenagers. Can also help out at home with things such as cooking, buying groceries, wait in line for you, cleaning, giving your teenagers “the talk”, drive them around, etc etc.

History: Belongs to a large imp/hellhound family with a mom and dad who’re barely there, 1 baby, 1 toddler, 3 children and 2 teenagers. This bot has been working for them for over a year already.

Behaviour: Neurotic and overworked, we’re looking into booking an appointment with this fizzy before it snaps like a rubber band, but it always says there’s no time. I’d avoid this one to be safe, she has a temper.

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Model: Undertaker Fizzy

Height // Pronouns: 6'6" // he/him it/its

Nicknames: “Undertaker Fizzy”, “Undertaker”, “Mortis”, “Mort”

Location: Wrath Ring

Function: Its main function is to handle and bury the remains of hellborne that have passed away, a job not many in hell consider necessary. While it’s mainly working in Wrath, the place where many casualties happen to take place, it can be rented out to handle autopsies, preparations for funerals, and burying bodies on both bigger and smaller scales in other rings as well.

History: There’s not much to say. It buries bodies and holds funerals in Satan’s name. It’s seen a lot of gruesome shit, and it’s not really shaken by the deaths of the breathing anymore, if it ever was. It’s got a job to do, and if you just let it get it done with an occasional smoke break, he’ll be riding off not soon after.

Behaviour: Keeps things brief. Doesn’t say more than needed. He seems stable, one of the very few fizzies I can say that about. A model employee if you will.

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Model: Original model was an Office Fizzy, it has been vastly modified at this point

Height // Pronouns: 6'1" // he/him it/its they/them

Nicknames: “Manager Fizzy”, “The Manager”, “Bozzy” amongst certain fizzies (like me)

Location: Lust Ring as well as the Greed Ring

Function: The manager at the “Fizzy Factory”, he used to excel at guiding new Fizzies to their stations, give them the information they needed to integrate into society as a companion bot or other, and handled all the paperwork that comes with it. Now it mostly does the latter. While the factory is located in Lust, it belongs to Asmodeus, and Mammon drives the production forward, he’s the one in charge of the factory itself at this point.

History: Having proven itself as reliable, it has a hand in almost every part of the factory, and has history working directly under Mammon. It is one of the older models, once part of the office that handled the paperwork or any kind of law suits coming in. I’ve heard some call him “Ratty” for “Office Rat” at some point… but I never saw that fizzy again.

Behaviour: I’d rather not go into some kind of psychoanalyzing of this guy… but I can tell you that he’s smug, confident, efficient, and a condescending prick. I think he thinks he owns every fizzy out there… or something more paternal… here I go, asking too many questions again. Just pray you don't get him knocking at your door, asking you to return a fizzy whose contract has been breached. He has his ways to get what he wants. To say he's unhappy with Fizzarolli's retirement is an understatement.

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Model: Factory Fizzy

Height // Pronouns: 4’ // they/them, secondary he/him. Does not appreciate it/its the slightest.

Nicknames: “Factory Fizzy”, “FF-8842”, “88”, “4-2”

Location: Lust Ring

Function: Produces, assembles and ships out new fizzies to the public, albeit production has been put on hold as of writing this. They may be called in to do maintenance on other fizzies that arrive to the factory if needed, and scrap them if that is required as well.

History: This particular fizzy is barely a month old by the time I’m writing this, and there’s not much to say about its… their experiences. They have only ever known the inside of the factory, and, most likely, it will remain that way. Unless it finally gets scrapped, that is.

Behaviour: Eyes cast down. Shoulders held high. Seems displeased with their situation at the factory. Nothing new. The Manager tells me that they’re asking too many questions though, and that their production quota wasn't as high as the others’… so we’re looking into that.

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Model: Loo Loo Land Fizzy

Height // Pronouns: 6' // he/him it/its they/them

Nicknames: "Fizzy", "Robo Fizz", "Loo Loo Fizzy"... but those who ask his name when Mammon isn't looking, will get the name "Pinwheel". Considering he's not active anymore... it doesn't really matter what you call him now.

Location: Greed Ring, specifically the remains "Loo Loo Land"

Function: Singing and dancing, entertaining kids, and performing various circus tricks for an audience. It's more athletic than the average fizzy-model, more sturdy and durable, and has a built in security-program that it utilises during and after hours, to make sure that no demons with nefarious intentions cause problems at the park. Unfortunately... this very robot caused plenty of problems all on its own.

History: LLLF-001 was the very first fizzy model to be presented to the public. About a decade old, it was once a novelty you could only see at Loo Loo Land. These days, anybody can get a fizzy, especially after the big blow out sale... yet this fizzy remained at the park, until he took the place down with him, together with an unknown imp. Where he is now... beats me. He was already falling apart before the destruction of the park... Well, I could not care less. I hope he's dead.

Behaviour: LLLF-001 is, in the lack of any other word... rancid. He's energetic and violent, has no limits or reservations on how to treat the guests of the park, and he's quick to insults and making a joke out of you, even if he's the only one laughing. Some children and demons found him entertaining from afar, because they simply did not know better. This bot hates everyone... but then... after falling into disrepair in a park for 10 years... I genuinely can't say that I blame him.

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Model: Advertisement and Seller Fizzy

Height // Pronouns: 4'6" // he/him they/them it/its

Nicknames: "Ad Fizzy", "Andrzej", "Addy", "Andy", "Anaconda" it doesn't matter what you call him, he's not picky, he'll answer to insults as well I've noticed.

Location: Primarily the Greed Ring, however he will frequent whatever Ring he needs to record or make sales in

Function: Makes commercials, infomercials and so on to sell Mammon's products when Mammon is not available to record. TV, radio, it doesn't matter, if you hear a very nasal fizzy with a lazy New York accent, then it's Andrzej talking. His focus is mainly on the fizzies, and he also runs auctions for pre-owned fizzies. He has been Very busy during the Blow Out Sale, the Fizzy merchandise will be selling for years even if nothing new is produced, and fizzies are being returned and sold at lower prices left and right right now. He'll have plenty to do until the very last fizzy in hell shuts down.

History: Despite being one of the oldest fizzies out there, the only one I can think of rivalling him being the Loo Loo model by a few months maybe..there's not much to say about him. He's been doing this for so long, and he hasn't changed much since the beginning of it all. He's still an absolute drag to talk to. It's almost admirable.

Behaviour: Ugh... Andrzej is known to never stand still and never shut up. Yes, I am aware that most fizzies are like this... but this guy is just something else. He is always trying to sell you something, be it the latest merch, pre-owned Fizzarolli sex-toys, fizzies for consumers, or even trying to get fizzies to ask for upgrades from their owners. Despite being steeped in the business-side of Greed however, he doesn't have the same venom that Greed-fizzies like the Manager have... I think, despite everything, he's managed to remain himself for so long, without losing himself to the misery of what it means to be a fizzy.

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[scratchandplaster]

Markings

CW: recapture, gore, tattoo/skin removal, intimate Whumper, body modification

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The scalpel blade dug deep, making its way through the first thin layers of skin. The cut continued to grow, angled slices here and there let their whole body quiver, signed with memories of its past life. They hoped to never meet them again, to leave the ghost of their captor behind. Fate at other plans, clearly.

"Hideous, sweetheart. That doesn't suit you at all," the shadow behind them muttered, lost in thoughts and always careful to avoid any crucial areas.

Laying face down on the mattress, covered by plastic sheets to avoid any pesky stains, Whumpee knew that bleeding out on the spot would be the merciful option. Their host chose another, more tedious one.

Finishing with a quick slice, the blade emerged from the inked piece of flesh, accompanied by drops of blood now welling from the exit point. 

The numbing cream they were granted beforehand was an unexpected mercy, and they were thankful, truly, because in secret they knew Whumper to be far more resentful. The horrified expression that shadowed their reunion was proof enough. Before Whumpee was brought here, before they gave up fighting again and again.

Even though the tearing pain was hidden deep, the fizzy sensation of Whumper's gloved fingers against their skin still brought shivers up their neck. Not even thinking clearly, Whumpee pulled on their restraints again, tightly wrapped around the headboard, at least acting like there was any fight left in them.

To no avail, Whumper got a hold of the incision and with a quick pull the colorful mandala across the shoulder blade of their beloved just gave way.

Whumpee was glad they didn't have to look this time, but the nauseating tear of skin and tissue made their head spin nonetheless. They had seen the process before, thigh and forearms already covered with the stitches they got immediately after the procedure. Whumper made them watch, loudly complaining about the tattoos on their body.

How could you? I nearly didn't recognize you anymore... Was it Caretaker, did they force you to disfigure yourself like this?

They froze as the scalpel carved the first line, pleading and begging their captor to leave it be. Whumper was caught in a toxic mixture of joy and shock, not able to process how the sweet person who just slipped out of their reach was reunited with them. Changed but still, here at last and ready to learn from their mistakes.

The crow on their thigh was first to go, a beautiful composition with fine lines to cover up the scars they were given in the first place. Whumpee remembered the sting of the needle, the color shifting in the gun while their artist was so focused on the delicate sweeps of the plumage. It was the first one they got, Caretaker holding their hand every second of the way.

Now, the only color on them came from thousands of crimson pinpricks, left behind by the dead chunk of sweaty skin Whumper had tossed carelessly to the side. As they merged together into a never-ending stream of blood that trickled down their legs, Whumpee had once again begged for a break.

With the protective layer above now gone, the exposed tissue just a breath above the muscle twitched and burned in the most agonizing way. Like a deep itch just waiting to flare up and spread all over their remaining body, yet their pleas fell on deaf ears. They were left too drained, too exhausted from blood loss and anxiety. It didn't matter anymore.

Whumper knew better than to leave their most prized possession to writhe and cry in misery. Pinching the borders of already burning skin together, they carefully bridged the gash with thick strips of surgical tape, securing their work. They would be mindful to avoid building infections or abscesses, even though the thin bond between the weeping flesh threatened to rip with every breath.

All that was left were the tear tracks along Whumpee's cheeks and a bloody line where once had been a piece of art, a shared memory with Caretaker now forever undone by oh-so gentle hands stroking their back; cutting away the freedom they fought for not long ago.

Piece by piece, Whumpee felt themself dissolving.

The mandala was a tipsy thought born out of the special offer of a small shop, old and stuffy; but for ten dollars there was no room to complain.

Whumpee remembered that day at the pier so vividly, carefree bliss dulling the needles that pressed pigment into them. The swirled pattern didn't mean anything special to them, but it was still theirs; their choice to be made and to regret later.

"We'll be done soon, love," the voice above slithered between their thoughts, hot against their ear and already searching for the next patch of detested ink, "A fresh start for both of us."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterpost]

[sphylor]

This probably isn't where you were going with this but your Mommy Dew post gave me thoughts so here you go lol.

Dew's taking a walk and he sees this baby bird that got kicked out of its nest and its injured. He's not a huge animal guy but he's not a monster so he picks it up and takes it home to bring to Mountain so that the earth ghoul can fix it up and send it on its way.

Except....it doesn't want anything to do with Mountain, it only wants Dew. This little birb starts SCREAMING if it can't see Dew.

Dew is like "What does it want???" And Mountain, who can understand the bird just looks at him and says "he wants his Mama," and points at Dew.

Dew just splutters going "I don't know anything about caring for...anything!!" But with Mountain's help he becomes a really good caretaker for this little bird that is SO attached to him.

He feeds it grubs and it sits on his head happy as a peach as he goes about his day.

He names it Fizzy, and he loves that little bird so damn much.

💙

JFJDKKTKG AWWW (this wasnt where i was going with the mommy Dew stuff but this side of things is just as amazing and i love it). Dew's just so confused as to why this little bird is so attached to him and Mountain tries to explain imprinting to him fhshhf. its tough work at first, he has to do a lot of feeding until the chick is grown enough to eat food for itself. one day Dew asks Mountain why it would have been kicked out of its nest and Mountain lists things off (could have accidentally fallen, might have been strong winds, a bigger bird might have tried to take it but dropped it etc etc) but then he reaches the most likely explanation and the one he was most hesitant to say. "it might be a runt." and Dew doesnt need Mountain to explain any further than that. he was a runt himself and so he understands and suddenly sees a lot of himself in this little bird.