Anything You Knead (Doey x Reader)

by arimbaudspierre (arimbaud)

Summary:

You're incredibly tired after three boss battles. You need a rest, but your mind won't let you. Good thing someone around here can be anything you need.

Set in the brief respite when they introduce the Safe Haven. Check the tags!

Notes:

A/N: I do not know what possessed me to write this, I don't even like this game. Porn without plot, his voice in the early sections just really got to me. Set during the brief respite in the Safe Haven. Posted on a pseud because this shit cannot come back to haunt me, I don't even go to this fandom.

Chapter 1: blue

Of course, fifteen straight hours of bullshit in the toy factory took its toll on you. You had pushed, pulled, and swung your way through many close calls, villain after villain defeated; so, when Poppy and Doey introduced you to the Safe Haven, the sight of a warmly lit tent and sleeping bag was nearly too much to bear. Wordlessly, you nodded and accepted. You would take this short rest to prepare yourself for the dangers that lie ahead. You needed it. 

The trials you had gone through buzz uncomfortably in your mind, though. Even if your body had not known exhaustion like the kind it knew now, your mind was not at rest– in the waking world, it would have taken you at least two years and a few thousand dollars worth of therapy to put your encounter with Huggy out of mind, but now that you have a few horrifying monster encounters under your belt, you aren't sure you want to waste your money on therapy. To say the least, you feel as fucked up as you look. At least, you're pretty sure you don't look great– you haven't had the time to observe yourself in a mirror at all, so it's a genuine surprise when you hear a familiar voice at the entrance of the tent you usurped:

“Mind if we chat?” A dopish, clay smile accompanies that deep timber, something disarmingly sweet in it. You are used to deceptively sweet and gentle voices in this place, and you would have said that you were above still being fooled by them, but you make room for Doey to come in, anyway. It's being fooled that you're above, not humoring them.

The clay man pushes in. You are not sure how you once would picture what half a ton of play dough looked like, but you are sure that you wouldn't count on it fitting inside a tent with you. Doey's side nearly touches yours as he sits down. He has a shallow pan of water, and a rusted can with a fork inside of it. 

“You should drink, and eat– these are canned peaches, it's the best I could find for you. Hey, at least it's not salted offal .”

You have no idea what salted offal is but you nod your head in thanks. Doey has a smell that accompanies him, a sweet but earthy sort of scent that you associate with cheap, knockoff Playdough. The word salted recalls to mind that strange residue left on your hands as a kid, after playing with the dough, and your mind wanders to a natural conjecture, watching the large dough man in front of you.  He had dispensed with that piano-dinosaur-thing so easily. You feel lucky he's making sure that you're eating, and not that he's eating. 

You take the canned peaches first, leaving him to hold the pan of water. You eat them, hunger only hitting you after you take a bite. You really hadn't eaten anything since you'd been here. The peaches are sickly sweet, covered in syrup, but there's a slightly alcoholic smell to them, too. You're not complaining, at least. That'll take the edge off. It'd be rude to refuse a gift, anyway. 

Doey smiles, eyes scanning you over. He's incredibly expressive for living clay. You give him a thankful look, and reach for the pan of water, but he tips it forward for you, intending to hold it while you drink. You find the gesture a bit strange, but anyone who lived down here was bound to be a bit awkward– so, you bowed your head and drank from the edge. The water is horrible, tasting like old pipes. You feel eyes on you. 

“There you go. You know, we never have guests up here,” He said, “It's nice to finally talk with someone else. Even if–” He held in a snicker, which bubbled up through him despite, “-- even if you don't talk very much.”

You spare him a shy, playful little eye roll. You turn your head towards the inside of the Safe Haven and over the other Smiling Critters, and turn back to Doey, a brow raise indicating some skepticism. 

“The others? You talked to them, huh?”

You offer him a solemn nod, which he returns in kind. 

“You probably know what I mean, then,” His voice lowers as he speaks quietly, reaching an octave that strings through you, like sitting next to a bass. “You probably say more than they do without saying anything at all. I love them ,” He clarifies, hastily, “But this place has gotten to them– and most of them weeeeren't playing with a full deck of cards in the first place, if you catch my drift.”

You laugh, polite, inclining your head up towards him, indicating him with another glance. 

Doey scratches under his hat. “Ah, neither am I , to be perfectly clear, but… Me and Poppy, we've got most of our wits about us. Ollie and Kissy, too, and… Well, some of the others that you've met.” And killed , was the implied conclusion there. “But when Poppy left, sure. It was pretty lonely here…”

You think on this, and give him a small pout. That's sad. You are tired beyond all reason, half-crazed with trauma and terror, but you make room to feel sad for Doey, and all that he and the others have gone through. It's easy for you; after all, you would not be where you were right this second if you didn't feel for these toys in some kind of way.

Doey continues, shifting, more of the clay settling and pressing against you. “I don't remember much about before , it all gets hazy when I think about where I was before the Hour of Joy . I've been here for a decade and some change– it's a long time for a man to be alone…” He grins again, “Or– so I've read! The employees left behind books, magazines, some VHSes. Most of them were very appropriate.” He nods, gratuitously, which makes you think that they were not appropriate. You'd read a little bit about who Doey really was in the left behind memos, by now. You assumed that as the result of an experiment on children , he'd be– well. More childlike . But, the 900-lb monstrosity in front of you now presented himself like a man, and spoke like one. A decade in a place like this… 

You think it's probably that the situation has completely strung you out, or maybe it was the fermenting peaches, but a thought strikes you as you take another bite and try to find a comfortable position for your legs that was not in Doey's lap. 

Was he hitting on you? You snap your head up from the peaches to squint at him, which he again simply blinks at, smiling, innocent as ever. He gently removed his hat, setting it beside him.

You are not sure if it is more insane that the dough man might be propositioning you, or that you are considering it. It had been a harrowing, awful time at the factory, and stealing what bliss you could makes a lot of sense to you. At least, right this very moment it does. You don't allow yourself to think too hard about how you are going to feel about it in a few hours– shutting off your brain is exactly what you need now, after all.

You still need to figure out if he intends any of it, though. Testing the waters, you point at him, and then… at Poppy, or the general direction that Poppy had absconded to before you went to the tent. Doey understands what you mean. He shakes his head. “Nah. She's like family to me! All of them are, of course.”

You nod, and slyly turn the finger towards yourself with a far too innocent head tilt. You've never been this good at flirting in your life, and you are not sure why you're being coy now, looking like death and subsisting only on adrenaline and canned peaches. The motion catches Doey's eye, though, and he responds with a small laugh, and places a hand on your leg. It is frightfully friendly, but the weight stirs something in you– and so does his vague answer. 

“You've done a lot for us– more than I know I'll ever truly realize. I can't imagine what you've been through.”

You shake your head, humbly, but the hand on your leg is numbing your brain a little. He speaks again, leaning in, the most natural motion of conversation guiding his hand onto your thigh, as if by accident. “All that horror. All that pain… I wish I could help take it away from you, even if it's just for a little bit.” You second guess yourself into thinking he's just extremely friendly, but then again, what did he come into this tent for in the first place? His voice is terribly hot. God damn it.

You set the peaches down, and the fork inside of the can, and he sets the pan of water down beside it in kind, not needing to move from where he was as his arm extended forward. By the time his arm returns to shape, you decide to take the plunge, and you peel off your outer shirt. You maintain some respectable plausible deniability here, just in case this was one giant misunderstanding, but the glance you shoot Doey in junction with discarding your shirt is dangerously unsubtle. 

He takes the hint. Doey pulled the flap to the tent closed, another goofy laugh bubbling up out of him, and you feel the hand on your leg grow heavier as the dough rolls towards you, pushing you down onto your back. 

The clay spills onto your form, enveloping you and immediately seeping straight under your inner shirt, under the waistline of your pants. Doey is insufferably pleased with himself, the polite, gentlemanly smile not leaving his face, although as you feel the clay explore your body, the smile has a decidedly different context. 

“Poppy was right about you,”  He says, face lowering close to yours. “You are different.”

Large arms form around you, wrapping around your chest as he just stares at you, smiling as he relishes in your changing expression. There is something that he understands about this that is too new, too insistent, too impersonal to kiss you over, and so he hovers there only a whisper away from your mouth, fixed on the half-noises dying in your throat. His large hands knead your breasts, clay closing and squishing playfully, a squeeze bordering on just too tight before releasing and then starting again. The motion is large, slow, careful. Doey's head sinks into your neck, slipping underneath you and appearing again at your other ear, his mouth whispering against you. As the groping of your chest slowed to a delicate crawl, you yelp loudly as you then felt a sharp pinch on one nipple. Once again you feel the timber in his voice rattle you right to the core, the voice against your ear:

“Shh… this will be hard to explain to the others, I think. Try to be quiet. I can help with that if you want.”

You shake your head as you think you can imagine what that entails, and Doey respectfully obliges you. You want to tell him that if he wanted you to stay quiet, he'd slow down on his operation happening on your lower half right now, but your brain is blown blank by the sheer strength that lifts your hips up as the clay makes short work of your pants. You hear a tear, which alarms you as you do have to go outside of this tent clothed at some point. Your head snaps to the side to give Doey an unhappy look. 

“Oops– hehe…!” That dorkish chuckle again. You cannot believe you are being undressed by this guy. He giggles, and your pants slide off without further incident. 

“Sorry,” Another heated whisper. “Just a bit eager… you're so warm,” A large hand squeezes your breast again, affectionately, like a big bear hug from behind. The clay rolls your nipple between fingers again, before pinching, once more, hard . You clap your hand over your mouth before crying out this time. A rumble of a laugh sounds in response. “I honestly didn't think you'd go for this.”

Well, neither did you. Actually, this is the last fucking place you saw yourself, but you have been making the most out of a bad situation all day long, so you are allowing this one to serve your needs. Once again, before you can chew properly on a response you were never going to voice anyway, the clay presses needily against your underwear, the only barrier it has left to cross. Doey seems to respect some sanctity in it, although the clay presses against your body in a way that may as well have not been protected by the thin fabric you wore, for all that it did. You feel it penetrating you even through the cloth, and your body writhes against it.

“It's so warm,” Doey says, a bit breathlessly, “And so wet… so, so wet.”

Wet is right. That had started with his hand on your thigh, and it hadn't stopped. The clay presses in more, restricted by your underwear still, searching every corner of you for any amount of give, one hole more giving than the other– although it presses in the back, too. You make such a loud noise against your hand, your mind is on the verge of shutting down without caring who in Playtime hears. Doey's large hand slides over your mouth, suddenly, barring his fingers over one eye and the bridge of your nose– you are slightly offended that he doesn't have faith in you to keep quiet, but you are mostly thankful, because you were definitely not going to be able to. However, you understand quickly why.

“Are you okay?” Poppy's voice asks, her small silhouette appearing on the other side of the cloth. “You're not hurt, are you? I thought I heard you cry… Does medic bot need to see you, too?” She asked. 

You turn to flash a wide eyed look at Doey's head, as if to ask what to do, when you are met with just a neck. His head stretches out, and you hear his voice talking on the other side of the cloth, while clay hands keep the tent thoroughly closed. 

“Everything's fine !” Doey says. “We're just having a chat. They're just– just a little rattled after everything today, I think… “

You breathe a sigh of relief through your nose. Your hand wanders to Doey's wrist, to signal to him that he can let go and that you wouldn't be making any more noises. 

He does not let go of your mouth. Huh.

“Alright, should… Should I come in and speak with them?” Poppy asks. 

Doey makes a pssshhh noise, eerily convincing in his candidness. “Naaaah. We're fine,” As he speaks, the clay travels over your stomach and dips straight into your underwear to pull it aside at the crotch, two large arms of clay appearing and yanking your knees roughly apart. Your eyes widen as you grip helplessly at the hand still on your mouth, realizing much too late what he was intending on doing.

Doey continues, outside, “Thank you, for bringing them here, Poppy. I haven't trusted a human in a really long time, but I have–”

The clay pushes its way in, heavy-handed and filling, and however wet you were a moment ago was no match for the length that he shoves in. You moan into his hand, fingers sinking into his wrist without finding any purchase, your nails finding no resistance but no where to pull, either. The catharsis of your mind shutting off is so tantalizingly close, but you can't just yet– not with someone else fucking standing right outside of your tent!

Doey's speech stutters for just a moment, imperceptible to anyone who wasn't suspecting what his lower half was doing, “– I haven't felt this good about someone in a very long time.”

Poppy nods, although her brow furrows with worry at your tent. “Yes, they've been through a lot , Doey. We should all be grateful.”

“Oh, I am,” He answers, that smile dawning on him again. 

The clay starts to shove in more, swelling inside you, fighting against your walls with sheer size. The arms that hold your knees tighten, as if that did anything in helping you take more of him– and this is just the ordeal of getting him in.

“I like them a lot. I think they should get some rest,” He says, with a tone of dismissal. 

Poppy doesn't take the hint. “I think so too. Will you both be talking long?”

You abandon clawing at his wrist, since you really don't want to embarrass yourself with noise, and now you reach for the mass of clay that was feeding itself inside of you. You tap on him rapidly, as if to signal him to slow the fuck down.

“No, I don't think so,” Doey answers, pretending to think about it. 

Either out of defiance, or miscommunication, you're not sure which, the clay pushes your knees back nearly to your shoulders in response, squeezing tightly, and begins a slow but powerful thrust, one that you could not meaningfully stop if you tried. The kneading begins again on your chest, once more an affectionate, reassuring gesture. This time, you are fighting not to completely turn into a whimpering, whining puddle in his hands. The palm against your mouth now does very little to mask the noises you make through your nose. 

Poppy stares at Doey and the tent, bewildered. 

He looks back at the tent, and shakes his head. “I'd better go check on them. Uh… See you later?”

“Okay. And, Doey…?” Poppy tilts her head. 

“Yes, Poppy.” He sounds a tinge impatient. 

“Did you lose your hat?”

Beside the hunk of clay preoccupied with keeping you quiet, with spreading your legs, with groping your tits and holding aside your underwear, with thrusting inside of you, yet another arm of clay appears to put his stupid hat back on his head. 

He lets this be the only answer to Poppy's question as he slides back into the tent. 

Poppy turned to leave. That was weird. 

Back in the tent, Doey grins at you triumphantly, unreasonably impressed with the stunt that he just pulled. You are too busy getting nailed to make any sort of retaliatory face at him, but as he keeps moving inside you, it is becoming increasingly clear that the entire Safe Haven is about to hear what you both are doing. 

“I know somewhere we can go,” His deep voice whispers, eyes taking in the sight of you bent nearly in half, legs apart, clay appendage buried deep inside you. You catch a glimpse of something like wonderment in his face, as he looks over you. His eyes meet yours, and his body slides out from under you to meet the appendage and form his regular shape again, a clay man whole once more, between your legs. He lets go of your mouth, finally, and pushes off of you, pulling himself back into his body. It is a slow, long withdrawal, and you feel every bit of him leaving the depths of your insides. You shudder, but manage not to cry out, your cheeks incredibly hot, flushed. 

You feel wound, coiled up, your body screaming for the dough man to fall into you, but you gather what little is left of your wits to try and shakily put on your shirt again… 

Doey seems like his normal self entirely, and he peeks out of the tent once more. 

“Coast is clear! Hold on, I'll take us there.”

The next moment, you are caught up in clay, and you're sliding out under the backside of the tent, without even a chance to get your arm in your shirt.

God damn it.

 

---

 

You are swept all the way out, and you attempt to cover your nakedness. Doey aids you to that end, and you have clay covering you, although you are skeptical that it has much to do with your dignity.

He carries you fluidly through a hallway, under a palette, through a vent. You scrape your knee and bump your elbow a couple times, but the hot blood coursing through your veins barely allows you to register it, your mind hazy. The heat that built up between your legs is now almost unbearable, and you squeeze your thighs together for relief. The dough that carries you shudders briefly, another dorky giggle.

“You're so cute,” He says. You can hear the smile in his voice, although you can't see it. “I wanted to see how loud you'd get with Poppy there… you did great, by the way! I was really ,” The clay squeezes your ass, “-- giving it my all, too. Jeez…”

You want to kill this man. 

Doey carries you on the clay wave to an open cavern, lined with old mining tracks, stalagmites surrounding you. It's not exactly sexy, but it is empty, and beggars could not be choosers– especially in a facility with playgrounds and padded walls. You figure that this will do. 

The clay deposits you onto the ground, scuffing up your back a little, but Doey quickly descends upon you once more. This time, he lays on you and dives in with his mouth on your breasts, closing his lips and sucking on them, his fingers exploring you roughly. His fingers find their way inside both of your holes, far too easily, pumping them in and out like you were a rag doll. He is slow for now, more insistent than forceful– you can feel that there was a lot of truth to what he'd said about being lonely for a decade . All of that longing pours out onto you now, a neediness, an assuredness that looks and feels like confidence. You have no idea if he's ever done this before, but by God does he feel incredibly adept at it. Maybe that comes with the territory of being able to mold and manipulate every part of your body. 

You moan for him, laying there, unsure what you would even do for him if you weren't so exhausted. To be honest, it's really nice to just lay there and do nothing. You've been doing everything today, so why not let someone else handle it? 

His mouth travels down, and both of your hands fly to his head to stop him, not because you really want him to stop but because you're not sure how much longer you're going to last if he keeps up this pace. Your hands once again find no purchase but soft clay that carries on without you, and the next thing you feel is a clay tongue against your clit. Horror dawns on you as you realize that oral sex is about to be ruined for you for the rest of your life– a fact that immediately becomes apparent as the tongue forms around it, massaging and sucking perfectly, another clay tongue flicking and beating its tip against it. He closes his entire mouth against your mound, his eyes turning up to watch you again, and you feel the sucking sensation not just on your clit but on your entrance, a rough appendage prodding you there as well as your ass. He lets out a guttural sort of growl as he reaches up to grope you again, rolling his shoulders and neck into the neat business he's conducting with his mouth. The tongues felt you deeper , following the rolling motion. 

Your cries fill the cave. The little Smiling Critters, although they had been following you since the last chapter of your ordeal at Playtime, simply stand at the edge of the caverns to wait, knowing better than to interrupt Doey in whatever he was doing. They would guess that he was eating someone, and they'd be partly right, but it was strange that he was taking so long with his prey. 

Your clawing at his head leaves deep impressions in his skull, but he is completely unbothered. The assault with his mouth didn't stop until he was ready, but by the time that he considered withdrawing his tongues, one which is buried firmly in your ass, the other lapping lightly inside your vaginal walls, you slide into a short-lived orgasm.

Your legs shake, and you let out a whimper, mouthing his name. It is not incredibly satisfying, although a ringing settles in your ears and your vision goes hazy– but you still feel so worked up, as if the coil he had wound did not lose very much tension. 

Doey slides out, and you find that his mouth had only momentarily been preoccupied with something that was not a shit-eating grin. You see it now for what it is; not polite, not gentle or sweet, but victorious. He had you pegged from the start.

The realization sets your skin on fire. The thought embarrasses and inflames you, and you gulp, wondering if you should return the favor. You manage to roll over and lift your hand enough to shyly point at him. 

“Hmm?” He didn't let go of you, letting your arms melt into him, trapping you there. “Ohh, me? You want a turn?”

You nod, your mouth watering. You have no idea how to go about this, so you want him to guide you a bit. He seems hesitant, but nods as he stands on his knees. Your arms are allowed to sink down until you too are set on your knees, although your height compared to Doey's sets you right in front of his crotch. There's nothing there, at the moment, but the clay sucks your arms straight in to pull your face right against it. 

You look up at him, confused. Doey, dim light behind him, silhouetted now in a way that seems nearly sinister– you wonder if you're about to regret your request. 

“God, you're pretty. Out of all the humans to return here, I'm lucky.”

He pets through your hair, before putting a little bit of pressure on the back of your head to encourage you. You're still not sure what you're supposed to be doing, since there's just flat clay in front of you, but you open your mouth, anyway, leaning in. The moment your mouth opens, he lets out a groan, staring down at you. His other hand moves to plunge his thumb into your mouth, and before you realize it, you're sucking on it. You look up at him, meeting his eyes again. He gives you such a look – it tightens that coil inside you again, and you take the thumb more readily.

“God…! So soft . So– wet . I had no idea you humans could be so soft and wet…” He echoes, his arm folding into his body until the ‘thumb’ is just another appendage you’re sucking on. You feel it grow and swell in your mouth, and you feel a slight satisfaction at the fact that it was slightly salty, like you assumed it was. You don't have time to think about that, though, because the clay pulls you closer, the appendage growing enough that it fills your mouth. You attempt to pull away to get a breath, but another arm shoots out to pull your head in. 

Wide-eyed, you stare up at Doey, who lifts his stomach to look at you better, hunched over. He starts fucking your mouth, but you can't move away, the clay wrapping around your head to keep you affixed to his crotch. Both of his large clay hands grab at your shoulders, and as he pushes you away, the appendage grows thicker and longer. Your saliva has thickened at its base, now, dripping gratuitously on the floor. Doey's hands yank you back in, the large member filling your throat. Your eyes start to water, but you only wish that your arms were free to start touching yourself again– this was so, so, incredibly fucking… 

“Hot,” Doey moans, his voice deepening, carrying against the stone wall. “Your mouth is so hot…! I can hardly stand it…!”

A flurry of teal, yellow and red go by and you aren't sure what's happening, other than the appendage does not leave your throat and you are briefly turned upside down. When you gather your bearings, dizzy, you are laying on your back on a knee-high raised platform, Doey's member still in your mouth, staring at his knees as he has you positioned for throat fucking. Your arms are free, now, but you only have a moment to grab onto the platform for dear life before you see his knees bend to start slamming himself into your mouth. You cry a half-protest, the wooden platform creaking with every thrust, and you feel his torso stretch over you. Blinded by anything that isn't his lower half, you can only feel him pull your legs apart, fingers prying your entrance. You hear a quiet laugh. 

“Every part of you is just so wet . It's so cute.”

You would be more concerned about someone prying you open and observing you, if your throat wasn't being rammed. You are close to cumming again from this alone, something you would be embarrassed about with a real man, let alone a clay toy creation. Every thrust elicits a soft moan from you, and Doey giggles about how you are absolutely soaking the platform. You can feel it, too. Your ass is starting to slide. 

Suddenly, he stops. The appendage is pulled out of your throat, and you are pretty sure that you're starting to see stars. 

When you finally sit up, your face cold and wet from all your drool, Doey is gone. The feeling of despair that hits you is palpable, because you are so wound up that it's beginning to physically hurt. You would not admit this even to a priest while on your deathbed, but this is the best sex you've ever fucking had. You never were all that impressed by past partners, and sex was mostly over and done within a few minutes for you in the past. This is something else. You feel like you’re going fucking crazy.

You are about to get up and crawl back to the Safe Haven, when you hear a rumbling in one of the mineshafts. If The Prototype decides to show his face now, of all times, you decide that this is as good of a time to die, as any.

Instead, Doey appears with a minecart on rails. He’s normal again, returned to shape, and he scoops you up to jump inside the cart with you. 

“There's a prison yard up ahead,” He says, casually, as if he was not just fucking your brains out. “I scouted the way, seems safe. Let's find a couch or something, I think I'm tearing up your back out here.”

It’s true. Your back and elbows are raw with chafing, scratches. You are touched by the gesture and also incredibly fucking impatient with it, but you settle inside the clay cushioning while Doey starts to push the cart with an extended appendage. You nod your thanks. 

“Mmm. No, thank you ,” He says, grinning, picking up pace with the cart. 

You put your face in your palms. You cannot believe that your world was getting rocked by a dude who just thanked you for sex. He was the king of dorks, and you almost came from him fucking your face. If you ever get out of here, you are never going to be able to look at yourself in the mirror again. 

 

---

The ride to the prison yard is tense. The clay that had just been all over your body is soft and supple beneath you while Doey dedicates his attention to looking ahead and maintaining speed. The heat between your legs is creeping away, and you are coming to your senses, somewhat– enough to realize that you are nearing your breaking point with exhaustion, and you hadn't properly slept or eaten in nearly a day. Second is the realization that you are traveling to a third location to have sex with a play dough monster, and that this has progressed much further beyond the quick little flirt that you thought it was going to be, inside of the tent. 

You steal a glance up at Doey. He looks down at you. 

“This is nice,” He says. “This place has…” He thinks for a moment. “It's been a place of misery for so long , for me, I'm… I don't know what Poppy has planned for us, but I'm happy that I got to do something fun.”

He nudges your arm. “With you,” He adds. 

You think about pointing out how sad it is that he's saying that about going to look for a couch in a prison yard to fuck on, but you think better of it. You give him a sincere smile– it is nice. You're happy to give that to him, you decide. It's nice for you, too. 

The runway for the cart starts to end, and Doey hops out smoothly before it comes to a complete stop, and helps you out of the cart. You are mostly naked now, but not even the Critters have followed you here, so you get out, unabashed. 

There's a barred gate in the way, which Doey slips through and unlocks for you. He offers you his hand, and you take it like a dignified Victorian lady, lightly resting your fingers on top– he grins and sweeps his hat off in a bow. 

Once again you cannot believe this dork was just giving you the best dick you'd ever had. You accept this with renewed tolerance for the idea, though, smirking. Doey scoops you up like a bride, and carries you as the scenery shifts into concrete.

The prison yard is as sad as you thought it would be. There's exposed wires and broken glass around, so you're thankful that Doey is carrying you. Having spent a decade in this place, he locates the couch easily– it's set aside in a room off the main path. The room is brightly lit with those government-hospital lights, and the dirty furniture and depressing atmosphere is the furthest thing from sexy to you. Now that you're not in the throes of passion, you're not even totally sure if you can get back to it. The fact that there was a prison down here was a mood killer. 

You're dropped into the couch, which explodes dust from your weight. You wave it away, coughing. The couch is relatively small, only a loveseat, barely enough room for you to lay, let alone half a ton of clay. While you're puzzling out the logistics of how he’s meant to fuck you on here, Doey sets his hat down on the table and then melts on top of you, crashing over your body like liquid and then holding you in. An arm folds over your chest to hold you, lovingly, the other propped up on the arm of the couch for you to hold onto. You are sitting… in him, or rather, you are both occupying the same space on the couch, with your body enveloped by his clay.

“May I kiss you?” He asks. His voice rumbles through you like before, exacerbated by your body in his. He holds your head, his face leaned down. 

You nod. He earned that much. 

He kisses you, that salty dough invading your mouth– it is no chaste kiss, there is hardly any hesitation or timidness. His tongue goes in, and you are left with the clay against your tongue once more. You close your eyes.

He groans into your mouth, hands pressing against your back to push you closer, even though you have literally, literally never been physically closer to anyone in your life. His lower half grinds against you, insistent, although you are buried to your hips in his stomach. The clay parts your legs again, and you feel him rub your clit, gently, slow to ramp up. It's serving well to spin you up again– you make a noise against his mouth which causes him to rock his weight against you, a motion which then causes you to cry out from sheer force alone. The leather couch creaks, some wooden frame inside it splinting from his weight, but neither of you pay it any mind. 

He pulls away, the clay separating from you. He grabs your legs to pull you onto your back on the cushion, standing up and plunging your feet into his mass, where the clay tightens around your ankles and spreads your legs again. He is a massive man of clay, and your legs are as far apart as they'll go for now well before they reach his edges– he looks down at your body, admiring. 

“My God,” He says. “You're so pretty.”

You blush. This man has felt every inch of three of your holes and this compliment makes you blush. You must be tired, dazed, horny– all three. Your legs are starting to hurt from how far they're spread, though. 

You bite your lip, and give him a nod. You're ready to get fucked until the cows come home– no interruptions. No more. 

He understands what you mean, and gives you one last smirk– you have defeated so many monsters down here, but that look communicates all that you need to know. He had won you over. 

Doey pushes his weight into the couch, finally, tipping it backwards at an angle as your legs get sucked in all the way to your thighs. Clay pushes in unceremoniously, a large mass that feels bigger than the one he'd pushed into you in the tent, but your entrance is so slick and slimy with how fucking turned on you've been this entire time that the clay member buries in you with no resistance for a good length, until he starts to bottom you out. You feel the clay reach your limits and you cry out, but the distance that Doey has moved away from the couch tips you off that he's got a ways to go. 

Slowly he pushes more in– and more– you scream, clapping a hand over your mouth instinctively, and your wrist is torn from your mouth as he pins it above your head. 

“Mmh..! More!” He howls at you, his voice deafening. The terror and power runs through you, your mouth hanging open. You're not sure how to oblige him for more when you're already at the end of what you can give him. Your body surprises you and you wail, an involuntary noise, as Doey's massive length finds some give, pressing in. He rotates his hips, making a circular motion as he tries to find the best angle to make you take more, and every movement sears your body with both discomfort and ecstasy. Pushing you past what you can give– it's so hot that you can hardly see straight. The entire couch is moved with him. 

“Come on… Mm– mmore…! Come on, I got you so wet– you can take more…” He growls, his tone deep and frightening, as if he's on the brink of losing control.

His fist slams into the couch, suddenly, the soft clay proving just how deadly it could be, his knuckles clearing leather, stuffing, metal and wood to sink straight into the concrete. Your eyes widen at the springs coming out of the hole as he pulled his hand out, your heart racing. Just what kind of a situation had you gotten yourself into?  

You turn back towards him, speechless. Doey put his arm back through the hole he'd just made to adjust his grip on the entire couch, which he was moving like it weighed nothing. He pulls your leg out of his stomach and pulls you further apart. You feel like you're going to break. 

At last, he pushes and rolls his hips until he finds the angle that he wants, and your body obliges him the very last inch of room it had left for his length. Doey moans as he pushes it fully into you, to say nothing of how thick he would now try to get. He lets out a laugh that punctuates a deep groan. The entire couch is now in his grip, with you secure for the ride. You gulp. 

“Hehe. Here we go!”

You would be internally facepalming about what a dork he was again, if he did not take the entire couch and yank it into the force of his first thrust, fucking you with the length he had just fought so hard to fit into you. You see white. You scream. You try to pull your wrists free to muffle your moans, but he has your hands pinned and your legs grabbed, he held both you and the couch you were on, and a third pair of arms came out to wrap around your tits and squeeze them. He started railing you with powerful, uneven thrusts, the full length for a couple strokes, then half of it, then full again. 

Here it was. Your mind went blank. What you had gone in for with the intention of stealing a few moments of bliss inside the tent had turned into a long, wonderful ordeal, the prize for which you were paid and the price for which you were now paying. You had no idea what kind of bed you were making when you let Doey put his hand on your leg. You were now sleeping in it. 

“S-so tight…! You're so–”  

Doey finds your limit now, easily, his member burying to it again and again, sloppy, unpracticed thrusts, different from how it was in the tent. This is pure instinct , primal and raw pleasure which he took from you, pulling the shattering couch into each movement, his grip tightening on it to the point of breaking. It’s held together by his clay arms, with you on it. You have no control over the noises that fall from your mouth now, your eyes rolling back. 

You don't think your mind and body can break anymore, when another disarmingly cheeky laugh erupts from Doey. You feel him bury himself all the way in again, but this time, he holds it there, leaning his weight on the couch– his appendage inside you swells, somewhat, and you jump and shout in surprise, meeting Doey's eyes. That smile again. That triumph. He knows that he has you, completely.

You watch, horrified, as his neck stretches and his head pulls back to observe himself pull out of you, grow his width, and feed it back in. The friction between his member thickening and your insides is maddening– it's like the worst itch, scratched only when it went back in, even if you couldn't take any more. 

“Come on, you can do it…!”

Cheer returns to his voice, completely at odds with what he's doing. His member bends somewhat in your body's refusal to let any more in. 

Your throat is raw, both from the beating it took earlier and from your moans, your whimpering, your silent pleading. 

His face contorts, and he pulls out of you entirely, throwing the couch down and you over the arm of it, prostrate with your head pushed down onto the cushion. 

“This way, this way's better…” 

His hands grab your hips, and he doubles over you, stretching his upper half in a spiral around your abdomen. His head ends up by your ear, in a similar position as you had been when you first started this. Only this time, you are on your stomach. 

He whispers into your ear. 

“I could do this all night. Just tell me when you want to rest.”

His legs kick yours apart. You are reeling from having your insides rearranged, but also from how sweet and how forceful he could be. He could have had this if he really wanted to– it was luck that you wanted it, too. 

A large hand pushes your head down again as the member is pushed into you, this time matched by a second appendage that pushes into your ass. The feeling is shocking and strange and painful, but you have long been powerless to even voice opposition. His other hand reaches around to play and pinch at your clit. Yet another hand forms a suction cup on your nipple, sucking at it hard . One last hand holds the falling apart couch in place. 

Doey claims that he could do this all night, but the last rally he summons to fuck you now is heralded by increasingly desperate moans and groans, until his voice is nothing but low noises in your ear. You have so much Doey in you that every bit of you is turning white-hot, every fiber of your being clinging on to his thrusts. He rails you harder with renewed effort, fast and merciless, the couch croaking the last of its life beneath you. It's an onslaught that you are not even a victim to– worse, you don't want it to stop. This was the rest you wanted. 

“Fff- oh fudge…!” Doey, like the other toys, did not bring himself to cuss even as his thrusts slow and he buries himself all the way in with a CRACK! of his clay hips against your ass, fucking you roughly, choppy. He lets out a long series of shuddering moans. 

You hate that ‘ oh fudge’ fucking sends you over into one of the most blinding, earth-shattering orgasms you've ever had– you suspect that you had several over the course of this ordeal, but this orgasm comes screaming out of your mouth, curling your toes, your hands curling white-knuckled. It rocks your whole body, and somehow you push yourself deeper onto his member, sinking further from your trembling orgasm than he had gotten in. Doey's hand lets go of your head to thread his fingers with yours, squeezing hard as he lets out a pathetic whimper, cumming deep inside you. Your legs are so, so wet with cum, which spills out of you noisily, dropping onto the ground like paint.

There's nothing but the sound of heavy breathing. Doey melts onto your back, turning into a puddle around you. Honestly, you feel pretty much the same. 

It takes a long while for you both to return to planet Earth. Once your vision returns, you turn around, still handling both of his lengths, although the swelling has gone down. A color leaks from you– blue, orange, green. You made a grossed-out face. 

Doey returns some shape, enough to pull out, “Don't worry, it's always that color.”

You give him an incredulous look, hissing as he pulls out. Well, you were gonna be sore, that's for certain. You curl up on what's left of the couch. Your mind is considerably less abuzz than it was before, and now you’re more exhausted than before, too. You feel like you’ll regret this in a few hours, but for right now, you’re too tired for thoughts or words. The couch is broken now, but it’s kind of comfier, too. And– there’s Doey, spreading himself over you like a blanket and pulling that arm around you once more. He turns his other arm into a pillow for you, which you smile up at him gratefully for.

“You’re welcome. Hey, anything you knead , sweet cheeks.” He punctuates this with a smile and a wink, before he settles in to close his eyes, too. You are too tired to loathe yourself any more than you already do for sleeping with this nerd, so you just fall asleep as quickly as you can, hoping that the showers are running in a few hours.

Chapter 2: yellow

Summary:

You wash yourself up, and then head off to an encounter with Dr. Sawyer. It's not fun for anyone involved, especially Doey, but you think you make up for it in the end.

Notes:

You guys are fucking insane. Thank you for all of the kudos, views, and comments. I had no plans to continue this story but I was moved by all the comments, so you've turned my stupid porn without plot into a stupid porn WITH plot. There will be one more chapter after this (I think). Hooray. I have a confession, I don't usually write smut, so there's a lot less of it in this chapter. Please check the tags once more as I have added things-- thank you! Also, for everyone who was very sweet and offered me money to write more-- please make fanart or more Doey x Reader fics instead. This is your advance.

Major TW: There's a non-con scene in this with the Doctor but it is short and does not go very far. This is also very much not a 'fix it' AU. Angst and feelings ahead.

Consciousness eludes you for a long while. You sleep harder than you've ever slept in your life, enough to alarm you when you finally wake, unsure what time or day it is or where you even are. Hazy half memories of the past day at Playtime come to you in waves, and when you finally sit up you take a long while to gather your bearings– you’re in a sleeping bag at the Safe Haven, the smell of peaches nearby. You're in the same tent that Doey first approached you in, but how you arrived here from the prison yard you have no recollection of. You're even clothed again– a sweet gesture that you don't completely appreciate, considering the state of your legs. As you sleepily shift around, what you suspect is confirmed, as the torn cloth of your pants touches the half-dried mess on your skin.

God damn it. 

You start to pull yourself up, rubbing your face, and you draw back the tent flap to make the walk of shame towards the showers. You're not sure if they're working, but even a bucket of old water would do to clean yourself up– you're pretty sure that you don't want to face The Prototype with Doey still crusted over your thighs. 

Luckily, the Safe Haven seems to only be housing the few small Smiling Critters for right now, along with a burned Kissy, so you're able to get by without explaining yourself to anyone. Kissy provides you with an unreadable look as you pass, which makes you tuck your head in to avoid it. Somehow, her disapproval feels like it would weigh on you the heaviest. You were kindred silent spirits; so you understand that everything that needed to be said can be said in a stare, and boy was it being said right now. You shuffle past her.

The showers are separated by large, yellow metal doors; you saw Doey open and close them without a problem, but by now you have realized the sheer strength that mass of dough was working with– so, when you move to try and pull apart one of the doors, you’re not surprised that it takes almost all of your strength to do it. You know that it’s meant to keep the Safe Haven in lockdown, but you don’t hear anyone out there– and besides, you were no prisoner to this place. The door barely budges an inch, though, certainly not enough for you to wedge yourself into, but when you rally yourself for another pull, what progress you make is swiftly shut down by a now familiar clay hand. Doey at standing height towers over you, and the hand is placed well above your head– you look up at it, your gaze following his arm to his face. He’s smiling.

“Hey champ. You’re awake!” He announces, happily, despite the fact that he just caught you trying to open the door out from the Safe Haven. You let go of the handle and flash him a guilty smile, and you’re about to mime your apologies when Doey puts a large hand on your ass, effectively scooping your weight into his hand and pushing you away from the door. You are pushed easily, heels sliding against the floor. Once again you feel Kissy’s eyes on you, and you hope that she is not reading too much into Doey’s hand placement.

“You know– I really appreciate what we did back there,” He motions towards the mineshaft area that he’d dragged you to, with his thumb over his shoulder, and his voice deepens as he leans in to whisper close, “ I mean, I really appreciate it, but I’m still doing my best to keep things afloat here– since you and Poppy kicked up the hornet’s nest, you know?”  

He puts his arm around you and pulls you in, your shoulder sinking into clay somewhat.

“So let’s not open that door for right now, at least… not by yourself, okay?” He finishes, amicably enough, but with the cadence of someone who spoke to misbehaving toys quite regularly. There’s something patronizing in it, too, but you don’t mind– or at least, you know he means well. He’d been looking after the toys in the Safe Haven for a long, long time. You figure that he’s got the right to patronize every so often.

You nod, but gesture down at your legs, grimacing at them. His eyes turn to follow where you gesture, and you lift your pant legs just enough to show off your ankles, where the runny lines of blue have made it to. He’d exploded quite a bit inside you, and even recalling that moment now makes your cheeks redden.

Doey tilts his head, and then smiles again in understanding. “ Oh! You need to wash up. That makes sense, buuut….” He looks around, and then starts to usher you towards one of the closed doors in the Safe Haven. “Let’s try this first. The showers are just a little too… risky, but if this doesn’t work out, I’ll just go out there with you.” He opens the closed door, revealing a rather ordinary bathroom.

You turn to give him a smirk. You purse your lips, brows raised, looking to the side, an expression that seemed skeptical of the fact that he wasn’t going to stand there and watch you anyway. Your skepticism is answered almost immediately, as Doey pushes you into the bathroom and asks the other toys to leave– right before locking the both of you in. You give him a playful eye roll.

As you look around, you notice that the room is reminiscent of a school’s bathroom, with lots of stalls and a wall dedicated to sink space. Doey turns on one of the sinks for you, and moves to get you some soap, which he dispenses into the sink water. You watch him for a moment, hesitating in taking off your clothes. He’d assumed the role of the caretaker for so long, you feel bad that he’s got to do it with you, too… but, he seems at ease in this, so you let him– for now. You’re not some helpless toy– far from it, in fact– but it’s nice to be doted upon, and the clay man seems to appreciate the distraction. He certainly needed it. You follow him to the sinks, and start to undress.

When you undo your pants, you find where he’d torn it, earlier. It was ripped right at the seam on the inside thigh, which explains why there was a breeze in your crotch as you walked here. You stick your whole hand through it, and then move to elbow Doey, puffing your cheeks in a pout at him. When he turns to look, you wiggle your fingers through the hole, and bat at his arm with your other hand. What the hell, dude!

It takes him a moment to realize, and then he laughs. “Oops! Sorry, friend! You,” He started, placatingly, not actually seeming all that sorry, “You were just too cute, I got a little carried away.” His voice is nice when he drops some of the silliness out of it, although you like it when he’s silly, too– but there is something much more human about him like this. You fold your arms, and pretend to think over his apology, before you waved your hand dismissively, indicating that you accepted it and didn’t actually care all that much. You give him a smile, which he hangs onto, distracted by you while he mixes up the soap water.

“What’s your name?” Doey asks, suddenly.

You’re caught off guard by that question, a little bit. Your mouth opens, and closes, and opens again– until you decide just to hold your finger out.

Doey turns to you, confused, his head tilting somewhat.

You press your finger forward, into his clay, just where you could reach over his midsection, and you draw out your name. Your handwriting has always been annoyingly feminine, something you’d tried to wring out of it for a long time, but you don’t help your case by immediately signing your name with a heart beside it. You mentally facepalm. You are spending way too much time with this dork, and he was starting to turn you into one.

The clay man is quiet for a moment, but he smiles at you, and puts his hand over the name. “Hey, alright …!” He says, that annoying victoriousness emerging in his tone once more. “I didn’t think you’d actually tell me!”

You play it cool with a shrug, despite the fact you’d just put a fucking heart into his flesh like you were carving a tree, and you press your palm into his body to squish the name out. He stops you, gently taking your wrist, and you see the name and heart disappear on its own.

“I won’t tell anyone,” He promises, “But I’m keeping it. It’s like… a tattoo! I feel all rugged and manly now.” You return to undressing, huffing a half-laugh through your nose at his remark. You wonder if he really kept it, folding it away under layers of clay somewhere. 

When you drop the previously offending pair of pants down and step out of it, he just watches you. There’s an interest beyond sexual in his stare. Of course, it was likely he hadn’t seen too many undressed humans in his time– adult women, especially, outside of aforementioned magazines. It’s a little weird, but this man has already seen and felt every inch of you that there was to see and feel, so you are less shy than you would have been a few hours ago. Speaking of which…

You discard your underwear, and then point at yourself, pantomiming with your hands folded as you pretended to snore. You then tap an invisible watch on your wrist, and tilt your head.

Doey blinks, and then understands. “Oh! Yes, you slept for a good few hours– Poppy wanted to wake you up, but I told her it’d be better for all of us if you got some rest,” Idly, he ran his hand over the bubbles in the sink, his fingers forming a bubble wand. “What you need to do down here… er, I’m sure you’ll be better prepared for it if you slept.” He blew a few bubbles. “I tried to make you as comfortable as I could.”

You smile gratefully as you reach up to poke a bubble. Pop! Genuinely, you were comfortable. The tent you’d slept in reminded you of making pillow forts as a kid. It was probably the best you could have hoped for, down here– most of all, you felt safe enough to sleep. You realize that you’ve gotten a small taste of what Doey was able to provide for all those lost toys down here, and your heart swells, somewhat. Your short time with him has already endeared you– sex aside, you’re able to see why the toys trust him so much.

And, by the same stroke, why they don’t trust Poppy. You understand that, too. You don’t dislike Poppy– but she stranded you here, and she keeps a lot of things close to chest, despite how much she’s reassured you that you deserve the truth. You’re not sure if you can trust her, and to be fair, you’re not sure that you can trust Doey, either– but he’s here, helping you bathe, bringing you food, water, shelter. That says a lot to you.

As you remove your last garment and drape it over the edge of another sink, Doey moves forward to touch you. He runs his fingers over your side, your ribs, curiously. You let him.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about…” He trails off, his thumb brushing over your nipple. He pauses, shaking his head, pulling away. “... about what you and Poppy intend to do down here. I’m not happy about the Prototype being led all this way– well, you know that–”

You cup the soapy water into your hands to start pouring it over yourself, and you nod. He had made that quite clear when he spoke with Poppy.

“-- and I understand where Poppy’s coming from, and I’m happy to help you and Kissy rescue the orphans, but… is blowing this place up afterwards really the only option?” He winces, even as he turns his hands into one large scoop to help dump water over you. Your hair is soaked through, slick around your neck and shoulders. “Me and the other toys survive– barely– for nearly ten years down here, to what– to see it all go up in flames, just like that?”

You nod again, but more slowly, your expression communicating that you are nodding merely to show that you sympathize, not that you agree. Your brows pinch. It’s not an easy situation, to be sure. You feel for Doey and the toys, but that doesn’t mean that you can let what’s happening at Playtime fester for any longer. You don’t know if blowing it all up is right– but you don’t know that letting it be is right, either.

You put your hand on his arm again, and squeeze it. Doey’s expression falls into a frown, his mouth turning into a squiggle for a moment before he hangs his head.

“I’m sorry. It’s not fair… for me to interrogate you about what Poppy has planned, I know you’ve already done a lot for us. But, do you… trust her?”

You give him a wavy hand, but your gesture ends in a shrug. He doesn’t seem reassured by that– but you have your reasons. Poppy was a tough nut to crack, after all– she seemed off ever since you’d killed Mommy, and she’d kept you here against your will, damning you to that runaway train . You’re not sure what to think, but… one thing is more important than the rest. You mouth the word children, and then point up. Then, you point at him, and then point up.

“You’re right,” He says, although it’s hard to tell if he means it. “We’ll rescue the orphans, and then ourselves– and we’ll sort out the rest. Maybe we’ll find somewhere new to settle, outside of Playtime.” He offers you a sad smile, but his hand runs over your shoulder, appreciative. He leaves some blue on your wet skin, but not too much– only a milky sort of pale blue, as would be expected.

You wonder how long it’s been since he’d been offered a hug. You could picture him giving out hugs, to give what little comfort he could to the toys that he protected here– but when was the last time that he was offered one, for his comfort? You don’t think twice as you pull him in now, gently guiding his head to rest on your bosom, and your arms wrap as best as they can around his neck, resting on his shoulders.

Doey seems surprised by your touch, but he slides his arms around you in turn, and lays his head on your chest– and melts. Just… melts. You look down at him, still trying to cradle him as best as you can, but he melts straight through your breasts until there’s just that dumb hat resting on top of them. You snicker at the half-blob, still holding you. You do what anyone would do, and you take the little hat and put it on your own head, and squeeze him tighter. 

You both really needed this hug.

 

---

There was never a dull moment at the factory, that was for sure. In the real world, you’d be in bed for a week after getting fucked like you did in the prison yard… but at Playtime, it just feels like one more incident to add to the list. At least that one had been on your terms– the predicament you were in now, hours after you'd washed up with Doey, was not. 

You crouch, hand over your mouth in complete darkness, hoping that the Doctor didn’t hear or see you.

In the bathroom, you and Doey had held that hug for a long while, until the sink overflowed and water hit your foot and you had to break away to turn it off. Doey had awkwardly excused himself and left shortly after, asking you to meet him by the generators when you were ready. He left hastily, leaving the door open as he went, and you’d scrambled to get your clothes back on. God damn it, you’d thought. These toys were going to be the death of you, or your dignity, or your sanity, assuming two of those things were not already long past saving. 

You see now why he’d left so suddenly. Asking you to retrieve the Omni-hand from Doctor Sawyer, after that moment you’d shared– knowing almost how certain your death would be, how dangerous it was, and how powerless he’d be to help… in a weird way, you kind of feel bad about it. You didn’t want Doey to think you were a damsel that needed protecting, as he’d already had quite enough to protect, and you know that letting your guard down, writing your name, pressing that heart into his clay and letting him melt against you like that– you know that it only made everything you both needed to do so much harder, in the end.

The mechanic whirring of the Doctor’s metal body sounds nearby. You are trapped in a maze, one filled with dozens of monitor-faced automatons, and you need to power the door to get out. You huff. Why the fuck did this place have you lugging around so many batteries ?

The yellow-light of the Doctor's face passes by you, and you stick your head out to watch him go. You remember Harley, but he doesn't remember you. That was fine. He'd made you get him coffee, once, despite the fact that you weren't a receptionist or anything– you were cute and young, back then, and your ass looked nice in a skirt, so that was probably why. He gave you the creeps then, as he does now. 

There's some junk nearby you, long discarded tools and miscellany, and you wait a moment before picking up a pair of rusty pliers and tossing them in the opposite direction. You wait until you hear the automatons nearby the noise activate, and you then make a dash for the last battery.

Or, at least you would have– had the bright yellow light of a hidden monitor head not activated, suddenly, a spindly mechanical hand snapping you up by your shirt. You dangle in his grip, lifted completely off your feet.

[“You are clever, I’ll give you that,”] Speakers sound, a familiar and remarkably English voice, something that might’ve been attractive to you if he had not literally murdered and tortured children, [“But– risky, too? Well, how could you not be, to have returned to this place…”]

The robot starts walking with you, and you are very surprised that you aren’t dead yet. You fight his grip, but the automaton is stronger than you. He carries you to another robot, its screen blinking on.

[“... though, I never expected to see this , I’ll admit. Do you– do you know how difficult it is to surprise me?”] His manner is excruciatingly casual, and all the while you are resorting to biting off your shirt buttons to try and free yourself. The mechanical arm whirs and pivots you forward, like a bad carnival ride, until you are face-to-face with a large screen, button threads in your teeth.

[“ Him? Are you serious…?”] The Doctor's tone carries a smile in it. That can't be good.

You are so close to the screen that it takes you a second to parse through the red-green-blue lights of the CRT's dot pitch, merely pixels to you for a moment, until they move in a way that sobers you from your panic.

It’s you and Doey. In the prison yard. You need not see more, as you were still feeling the repercussions of it in the soreness of your legs, but the sound that accompanies the video makes your cheeks redden– the rapid plap! plap! plap! is right in your ear.

[“Honestly,”] The Doctor continues, [“The cheek of it all. I’ve got cameras everywhere, didn’t you know? Didn’t you think I’d see?”]

He presses your face against the screen, the monitor head leaning down to watch your expression. The heat radiating from the electronics around you is nothing compared to the heat rushing to your head, your ears. 

[“Maybe you did know.”]

You reach for the last button, your grip white-knuckled, some sense returning to you as you realize where this is going.

[“Maybe,”] His other hand reaches for you. [“Just maybe , you wanted me to see it–”]

You summon the strength to tear the rest of the thread, and the Doctor is left holding a discarded shirt as you slip straight out of it, bolting in any direction to get away, left in your undershirt– it was more like a bralette, but it was sporty, comfortable, although it was considerably less comfortable after where that conversation had been heading.

You make it to the battery, and you snatch it up as you run, your sneakers squeaking against the tile. It's a stupid play, you know, since he already is on your tail, but panic gets to you– you throw the battery in, powering the gate. 

Before you can make it out, one of the dormant automatons turns and snatches you, this time by your throat, which would be much more difficult for you to tear off. You are lifted off your feet again, metal fingers biting into your skin, sinking into that soft flesh beneath your jaw, tightening.

The Doctor neither thrilled nor terrified you, the reason for which was currently playing on a screen behind you somewhere. Doey’s would be a tough act to follow, both in thrill and terror. Still, you loathe the idea of giving any satisfaction to the biggest loser on the planet– especially as the last thing you ever do. 

[“Don't make such a fuss ,”] He croons, carrying you towards a few crates, [“Watching that display– you have no idea how maddening that was, for me. It’s been so long since I…”]

He trailed off. You put both hands on his arm, pressing in to try and keep yourself from choking on your own weight, your legs swinging.

[“... I mean, surely we could have some fun before your untimely demise.”] The monitor’s head shakes in an uncanny mimicry of laughter, holding you up to watch your expression again. [“Maybe even afterwards.”]

You spit in his face.

[“...”] He's silent for a moment, before he gives you a dark, quiet scoff. In the next second, you are thrown down over the crates so hard that air vacates your lungs, winding you.

You lay there, dizzy, the hazy ghost of CRT pixels still swimming in your eyes. Cold, metal fingers find their way underneath your undershirt, sliding bare against your skin, pushing the cloth up, exposing your breasts. It is nothing like how Doey handled you– even his brief touch in the bathroom had been…

Your head feels fuzzy. Was affectionate the word that you wanted? Loving? 

[“Don’t worry,”] The Doctor says, the electric hum of his voice making your skin crawl. [“The dough can watch us, too. I’ll be sure to leave them a tape .”]

You try to sit up, but one of the hands shoves you back down, your skull fitting snugly into the Doctor’s palm. Once again, you fight, gripping his wrist with both of your hands. You hear him snicker.

[“And just what happened here?”] The metal hooks into the hole in your pants, tugging it twice in indication, [“You’re going to make me look through the footage from the past day a little more closely, aren’t you?”]  He tears the cloth open wider, before diving in, wasting no time at all to grope you over your underwear. It’s cold, unsensual, clinical– you spread your legs for him, for a brief moment–

[“A ha .”] The monitor tilts down, pausing. [“I knew you were a slu–”] 

The heel of your shoe SLAMS into his monitor, crashing straight through the glass. The outer lip of your sneaker saves your ankle from getting shredded, which is great, because your foot is caught as he cries out in surprise, backing away from you. 

The movement pulls you off the crate, and the remaining glass that snagged your foot crumbles, freeing you to fall to the floor. You roll over and haphazardly pick yourself up.

You tug your top back down as you run, narrowly dodging a second and third Doctor along the way.

[“How– how dare you…!”] You hear him sputter behind you. When you make it back to where the brain tank is, you hit the button that turns him into brain slush with more enthusiasm than you’d ever hit a button in your life– and you don’t feel any remorse as you do. You think you feel less for killing him than you did for killing anyone else here. Eat shit, bitch. You give him the middle finger as the tank clouds, the mechanics within it purging him. 

[“You’ve saved no one,”] His disembodied voice croaks its last, and you sigh a breath of relief when the automatons power down. You put both of your hands on the console where you’d sent the kill command, bent over for a moment to rest, sweat dripping from your brow. Now that you have a second, you turn your back against the console's podium and slide to the floor. 

Your fist hits the linoleum, your eyes shutting tightly. You grit your teeth. God damn it, Poppy was right.

What you'd seen down here– the half experiments on operating tables, the rabid, starving toys. Hundreds and hundreds of corpses. It had been horrific, and you finally have a moment to process it. This place needed to be razed to the ground, and the toys with it, and you know that it isn’t fair, but it’s wrong to let these toys exist– and to let them suffer. Your heart breaks for what that means for your clay friend, but you can’t let that get in the way of what needs to be done. You'd save them if you could– and you're willing to do that, but your jaw sets and you make up your mind, your face in your hands. You are going to rig those explosives for Poppy. You just need to convince Doey to move everyone out before they go off.

You’re still wallowing, when you hear a gurgling noise emanating from underneath the doors in front of you. You sit up a little, ready to run, but you then see the telltale blue, yellow, orange and red. You start to pick yourself up. Doey can't see you like this, broken and defeated, despite the fact that you'd put to rest one of the worst perpetrators of the horror here. This kind of evil has no winners, only those who lost themselves and those who lost everything .

Doey seeps underneath the door, reforming himself on the other side, assessing the situation even before he fully forms. When he finally lays eyes on the cracked remains of Doctor Sawyer’s brain tank, his expression drops.

You remain where you are, just watching him. The way he’d spoken about the Doctor when he asked you to retrieve the Omni-hand– you know that this is no joyous occasion, no celebration. The Doctor had tortured and starved this man and his friends, to death or worse. There was no joy to be reaped from that.

“You did it,” Doey says, simply, his voice deep and vacant.

You nod.

“Was it quick?”

You nod again, standing to rest against the console.

His face contorts, and he shoves over a few of the lifeless Doctor automatons as he makes his way to you. “It shouldn’t have been,” He utters, low and bitter.

This time, you don't mime any response, you just look at the ground. You want to tell him that it wouldn’t have made him feel better– that someone else’s pain rarely serves the person who causes it, that for someone whose entire concept hinged on turning into whatever someone else wanted him to be, you loved, so much, that Doey had not let this place turn him into a complete monster, even when it literally had .

Doey finishes looking over the structure and technology that housed the Doctor. With a sigh, he looks down at you. 

“There’s parts here I think I can salvage for the generator. You– you did great–” He stumbles over his words, suddenly, eyes widening at the state of undress you’re in.

You rub your arm and look away. You have no interest in explaining what caused that . Some things were better left unsaid, as you obviously knew.

You reach out, though, to touch him– Doey doesn’t return the gesture, looking up again at what was left of the Doctor. You notice now that his fist is closed tightly, a slight tremble in it. You can’t imagine what he feels like– the relief, the anger, the waste. You pull away.

“And, the omni-hand?” Doey asks.

You fold your arms and look around, nodding hesitantly. Right , the omni-hand… As you look, you make your way back towards where the crates were, the ones you’d been momentarily horizontal on, and you spot the broken-faced robot, and the other one just behind it, still clutching your shirt. You wonder if the Doctor felt anything when he touched you– how could he? You certainly didn't.

Doey follows behind you, hesitating at the scene with the robots. He stays behind as you enter another room and switch out one of your toy hands for the omni-hand. 

You are fussing with the mechanism that holds the hands when you hear a deafening CRASH! behind you. You turn, alarmed, but the next thing you hear chills you– the side of Doey you'd seen so briefly, out in full. 

“You hurt us–”

You see arms fly by the width of the door, grabbing what robot bodies he could and slamming them into the walls, tearing them apart. You see him break his fist into the brain tank, yanking viscera out, completely losing control. 

“You lied to us, you starved us–”

You gently and quietly close the door. You can't handle watching him like this. You know that he's justified– you know that years and years of horror drove him to this point… 

The ground shook from another crash. “You killed– ss-so many of my friends…!” His voice trembles, barely fending off a sob. 

You clap a hand over your mouth, sinking down to hug your knees, your next thoughts crashing down on you too, your blood running cold. You feel sick. 

“And you don't– you don't even stop hurting us when you're dead, we're still dealing with– what you caused– even when you're gone…!”

You feel sick , because you realize that Doey can't be allowed to leave this place. You can't stomach the thought that like the other toys, this place had broken him beyond repair– but you can't stomach the thought of letting what you hear beyond that door ever leave Playtime, either. A few kind moments could not change that he was dangerous when he lost control. This is what Poppy knew. This is what she didn't tell either of you.

The wrecking goes on for another minute or so, enough time for you to get out your tears. You wept in your awkward crouch for so long that your feet went numb, pins and needles in them when you stand to shake it out. You dry your face, slapping yourself a few times. 

Get it together.

You just needed to keep face for a little while longer. There was work to do, prototypes to kill. When there is finally prolonged silence outside, you come out, fitting the hand onto your grabber-pack. 

You find Doey in the center of the main room, expunging glass and rubble from his hand, dropping pieces onto the floor. He looks vacant again. 

You clear your throat, and gently give him a little squeaky wave with the omni-hand. 

“I'm sorry,” He says, right away. “I'm, er… sorry you had to hear that.”

You shake your head placatingly, a bit too eager to be believed that you truly didn't mind, and offer your hand to him again. Instead of taking it, he puts your discarded shirt into your hand, which he’d retrieved from one of the robots. You blink, but bow your head in thanks, quickly putting it on. His eyes drift to your legs– with the hole torn wider, your thigh is now completely exposed, as well as one side of your underwear. 

You watch his expression as you pull the shirt on. The buttons are mostly gone, so you only manage to get one on, but at least you have a shirt on, now . His eyes drift to your bust, slow, lost, miserable. 

Suddenly, you stand on your toes, your hands on his stomach, and you have to do a little hop– but you peck his cheek, briefly, chaste. The gesture surprises you both. You are not sure what compelled you to do it, as you were still berating yourself for drawing that heart next to your name, for getting so close to someone who you ultimately needed to betray, in some ways. 

You are about to pull away and try to apologize, when his hands are on your back and your rear, pulling you in close for another kiss. He pulls you against his stomach, sinking you in and lifting you to kiss you easier. You think about what he told you, in the tent, earlier. 

All that horror. All that pain… I wish I could help take it away from you, even if it's just for a little bit.

You'd hardly been at Playtime again for more than a day, and you'd been begging for a few minutes to shut your mind off and ignore everything. You could give that to him. You could even pretend like you were doing it just for him.

You pull off the button you'd redone, and he doesn't need any more encouragement than that to wrap his arm totally around you, winding back to grope you over your undershirt. You let out a tense squeak, already worked up– so close off a near-death cat and mouse chase, adrenaline still surging through your veins. The squeak drives him to shove a tongue in your mouth, and you press against him, needily. 

The sick feeling in your stomach doesn't totally go away, but you didn't think it ever would. 

You drape your arms over his shoulders, and he lifts your top up the way that the Doctor had, only this time the hand that explores you fills you with excitement, your heart beating fast. Soft clay kneads you, and Doey pulls away from your mouth to kiss down your neck, your collar. He lowers to his knees and leans forward until his head is level with your chest, his arm hugging under your ass, his other hand cupping and squeezing your breast. 

His mouth goes over your nipple and you bite your lip, inhaling sharply. Your thighs rub together, a gentle plea for relief– a plea that goes unmet as he sucks and pinches and kneads at your breasts. You give him pleasant, breathy noises in return, your hand on his head in encouragement. 

This is fucked up. You cast a glance around at the wrecked room. Doey had really done a number on it– you even see blood on the ceiling, which makes you wince. You snap out of it when you feel a hand travel in through the hole in your pants, and Doey's fingers explore you over your underwear again, pressing into you in a way that he might as well have been full on fingering you. You sense something off in him that he didn't have before, and the little voice that tells you to be worried is completely drowned out by how your body screams for him to touch you more .

“I'm sorry that he hurt you,” He says, suddenly. You barely register that he'd put that together, as you fold over his shoulder, groaning, your knees going weak. He wraps one arm around your waist to support you, easily. 

“I hated him– for how he treated me, and my friends… the people I care about…”

He stops, pulling his fingers out. 

“I sent you here– I knew that you could be hurt– but I asked you to get the omni-hand, anyway–” You sink through his shoulder, suddenly, the hands leaving you, until you go all the way through Doey and are left on the ground. You roll over to look up at him. “And then, I couldn't protect you.”

He stares down at you, his expression pained. You regret initiating this– not because it was getting too much for you, but because it clearly wasn't helping him. 

“Y– you don't deserve this,” He hisses, “You've been so good to me. To all of us.”

Fuck. 

Your expression mirrors his, finally. This was wrong. You don't tell him that you didn't really think there was anywhere he could go but here– and you don't tell him that you plan on helping Poppy blow it all up. Your heart breaks– and you don't say what you need to say. You never do. 

He lowers himself onto you, his weight rolling over your legs, lifting you up, his mouth on you again. He kisses your collar, your jaw. You groan again in response, hugging his neck and letting him, and you feel the clay press into you as he settles between your legs. 

“I need you, Angel,” He murmurs into your ear. “I need you more than I thought I did.”

 

---

You get fucked on the floor of the late Doctor's lab. 

It's insistent, needy, uncomfortable– you feel glass and broken pieces of concrete pressing into your back as Doey grinds into you, but you don't really care. It's considerably less fun than the last time you messed around with him, but there's something raw about it, something that– against your better judgement– makes you feel closer to him, in the end. You claw at his back as he drives himself down into you, fucking you rough and hard. Clay gathers underneath your nails, and you moan and whimper, pinned tightly down by his weight. There had been no words exchanged after he whispered your name. You had wanted to cry right then– this was not what either of you needed, but that didn't mean that it didn't feel good. He shoves your legs open wider, and pushes himself in more. You cry out, letting him use your body however he saw fit– and what a tight fit it was. 

His hands travel over your body, and he slides his palms over your hips, your sides, your shoulders… They travel up your arms until he takes your hands to pin them above your head– like before, his fingers thread with yours. 

You redden. It was sweet, romantic almost– you couldn't afford to feel that way about it, but you did. You wondered what he felt. Another set of clay hands grab your legs, pulling you into his thrusts. You let out pretty noises, and you are wound up enough already that you're close to the edge. Your whines heighten in pitch the closer you get. 

Doey lets out his own grunts and moans, and before long, he is bent over you, your legs in the air. His hands pull you into a position where you're nearly resting on your shoulders while he hammers himself down into you, yanking your legs and hips up into his quick, desperate thrusts. 

You feel him throb inside you– and his next few thrusts are hard and slow, and that sends you completely over. You feel him bury it deep, exploding inside you again as you cum, your legs closing– you let out one last gasp, and you mouth his name, clutching his hands tightly. He squeezes yours in turn. 

Once again, there's not much but the sound of you both breathing, although Doey is still holding you upside down, emptying himself inside you. You shudder at the feeling, relishing it– until you remember that you'll need another sink bath, after this. Doey is watching you, your expression, and you feel as though he’d finally resurfaced, coming back to a sort of Doey that had been washing you and blowing bubbles at you only a few hours ago. 

Finally, he sets you down, pulling out of you, carefully. Your head rolls back and you scrub your palm over your face, until you feel Doey pick you up, bridal-style. You perk up, holding your legs together tight, although it doesn’t do all that much to keep yourself clean. Predictably, cum still spills out, and there’s a lot of it. You hold your feet out so that it doesn’t get into your shoes. God damn it.

“I feel better. Thank you,” He says. He sets your underwear and pants on your chest for you to hold. You watch him attempt a smile for you. “Uhh– let’s see… aaaaanother sink visit?”

You raise your brow at him, in the tone of you’ve got that right, buster. He gets the idea, and nods back at you, carrying you in one arm towards the room where you’d gotten the omni-hand, and heads up the stairs. You’re carried all the way to the lift– this was it, what you needed. A master lift that could take you anywhere in the Factory, as long as you had the omni-hand.

When Doey reaches to pull the lever down to take you both back to the Safe Haven, you stop him– a thought occurred to you. This could take you both anywhere. Even back to the upper levels, back where you’d killed Mommy. You remember being up there near Playcare, and seeing more than one vending machine full of chips and sodas– not ideal food, but food nonetheless. You look up at Doey, eyes wide.

You point up, and then mime eating chips, opening a soda.

Doey shakes his head. “Er– we cleared those, a long time ago… I’m guessing you’re talking about the vending machines in the Lobby.” The Lobby. How close to freedom could you both be? You smile, softly, yet, the idea isn’t even worth bringing up. There was no way either of you would abandon what you were here to do.

You shake your head, though, and point up, insistently. You’d seen them, when you were in the school area, with Miss Delight, not the Lobby. That area had been overrun by those murderous teachers until you came into the picture, so that makes sense that they hadn’t seen them.

“ Really? You’ve seen more…? I– well, Poppy is waiting for us, but– but the toys really haven’t eaten in weeks, but…” He starts, sounding a little skeptical. “I don’t know if we can go all the way up there, especially with the Prototype down here.”

He’s right. Poppy is waiting, and so is the Prototype. But, you could alleviate some of the sadness– you could bring back some food to the Safe Haven, and you could try to make things as right as you could before you’d have to damn them all to whatever was to happen after you would clear out the orphans. You can hardly even stand to think about it.

You mouth the word please, and the look that Doey gives you makes your heart flutter– you know that was all he needs to see, before he grabs the lever and moves it up. He trusts you, and while you are thankful for that in this moment, you so, so wish that he didn’t. He sets you down to help you get dressed in the lift, and you look up at him, gratefully. Don’t be such a stupid bitch, Angel, you tell yourself. Stop it.

You were both headed up, but you felt a lot more like you were falling.

Chapter 3: orange

Summary:

You and Doey venture up to raid some vending machines from the upper floors. Shenaniganry ensues.

Notes:

Warning, cavity-inducing fluff ahead. The calm before the storm, perhaps. Thank you again everyone for all of the comments, each one makes me insanely happy.

I initially was going to fold in the events that I have planned for the last chapter into this one, but I ended up getting a little carried away with the fluff so it is it's own chapter, now. Conclusion in the next, maybe an epilogue after that. If you're interested, I put some HC's on this tumblr post (including a picture of MC) that explain some of my approach to the writing. Cheers!

The lift takes a long while to pull you both up. It makes sense– you were very, very far down. It only took one exhausted knee wobble from you for Doey to sit, the clay forming the likeness of a soft armchair, pulling you into it. You let out a giggle, something you cut off immediately , sliding a hand over your mouth, clearing your throat. 

Oh no. This man has you giggling. That was bad, bad, bad . 

“Not what you pictured for a man sweeping you off your feet , huh?”

His voice sounds underneath you, his mouth formed by the crease between the ‘cushion’ and the ‘frame’ of the chair, and you adjust yourself to sit comfortably. You grin at that, carefully keeping another high-pitched giggle under control, but it's practically all you can do to prevent yourself from twirling your hair and fluttering your eyes. For the hundredth time, you think to yourself that you can not believe such a dork was making you completely lose your mind.

You turn, kicking your feet up off the side of one of the ‘arms’, laid back on the other. His eyes have appeared along the head cushion, so you feel more comfortable chatting like this. You nod at him in response, biting your lip for a moment. You wonder… 

You point at him, and then make a heart with both of your hands, and then… gesture all around. It's a continuation of that first question you had asked him, on whether or not he and Poppy– or anyone really– had anything there between them. The ‘chair’ blinks at you. 

“I never really felt like I had time for that kind of thing. Strange, I know, for being trapped here– but I really dedicated most of my time to protecting the toys,” He says. His reply is quite safe, you note. You think there's more to it. 

You tilt your head at the word most . You make a rather unladylike gesture of rolling the dice and shooting, implying what he did with the rest of his time. 

This earns you a loud laugh, as he's clearly caught off guard by the question. 

“Well, yes, to be uhh– I mean, yes, certainly… The first time I found a magazine like that in the locker rooms, that was definitely interesting.” He pauses as you shift, laying your head against the cushion, and your arm drapes to hug the chair as well as you can from your position. It is damningly affectionate, so Doey is more than justified in next saying: “It's really not all about that for me, I always thought I'd do that kind of thing with someone I liked. Someone nice.”

Your heart sinks, somewhat, although you're not sure what you expected. He's talking about you, of course. You purse your lips in thought at that, frowning, pressing your cheek against him. You're not helping. 

The lights in the lift pass by you both, slowly, some silence hanging between you for a moment. 

He breaks it with his own question. “What about you? Am I, uhm… ”

You look up at him. 

“... The kind of guy you usually like?”

You laugh at that, hollow, humorlessly, and without hesitation you shake your head ‘no’. Doey seems to stiffen, nervously laughing along with you. He clarifies, “Er– that was a stupid question, sorry, I… I mean, I'm– of course I'm not–” He sputters, “I mean, look at me–”

You shake your head again, enthusiastically, tapping him. That's not what you mean. Obviously, you've never been with a man that could turn himself into a chair for you– although it's hardly the first time you've sat on someone's face–  

You give him a smile, though, and then gesture away from you for other guys . You then curl your hand and pretend to cry and weep. You point at him, and you shake your head. Doey was different. He was nice.

“Ohh. That doesn't… sound like you’ve had a good time,” His clay softens a little, “You usually go for guys that make you cry?”

You nod. It was true, you'd had your heart broken in so many ways that now seem mundane, after everything that's happened at Playtime. It was funny how all of that seems so far away to you, now. You mean it, though– Doey is the nicest guy you've been with. 

The lift slows to a stop, and you make a surprised squeak as the ‘chair’ rises back into Doey's shape, carrying you in one arm, your hands pressed against his chest. He makes a thinking face, stroking his chin theatrically. 

“Well, I'd hate to make you cry – but, I think that means that you like the bad boy type…” He sets you down when the lift opens. “I can be tough! And… bad .” He attempts to say that in a low, sexy voice , and you snort, rolling your eyes as you're set down. You turn to boop him straight on the ‘nose’, in the middle of his face, grinning. You already like him the way he is. 

You start to poke your head out to make sure that the coast is clear, when you're pulled back in. You look up at Doey. 

“Your, uhm… your…” He points at the state of your pants, which is not great, considering you had to get dressed without cleaning up again– and because he had exploded inside you for the second time. That little fact was currently still running down your thighs, but you were doing your best to ignore it. 

He means the hole at your crotch, though. You are pretty exposed like this, you realize as you look down at yourself, and half-coated in blue is not exactly a subtle look for you both. 

“I’ve got some needle and thread back in the Safe Haven, I can fix it for you,” Doey says, happily. “You have to get pretty good at sewing when–” A manic sort of snicker escapes him– “... When you take care of toys!”

You nod, trying not to think of how fucked up that statement actually was, but you don't see what there is to be done about it now . You start to turn again, when Doey puts his hand on your hip, sliding forward over the hole. When he pulls away, he leaves a thin layer of himself, which covers the tear. 

“...” You raise a brow at him. You can't be serious , says your stare. 

He gives you a grin in response. You can't help but feel as though he's marking his territory somewhat, but it does get the job done– and that idea makes you redden, anyway. The others knowing that you were his? You shake the troublesome thought out, in denial that it rouses some excitement in you.

Doey pushes past you to exit the lift first, looking around, his other ulterior motive for pulling you back. You stay close behind. 

It's the classroom area, and it's just as decrepit and broken down as it was when you were last here. Old blood and new smeared over walls, furniture. Luckily some of the batteries you'd placed are still here, making traversing around much easier than last time. 

“You were here , huh? Jeez. Why… Why haven't you left yet? I can't imagine seeing all of this made you want to go further down–” He looks behind him, and pulls his arm around you to catch you up, hugging you to his side as you walk. 

“I would say I'm grateful that you did, since we never would have met if you hadn't, but… I still wish you'd been spared all of this. Even if it meant not meeting,” He says, low. 

You lean into him. That was a sweet sentiment, one that you probably shared. You wish that he’d been spared all of this, too, even if it meant that you might not have met– even if it maybe meant that he might not exist. That is the core, though, of the disagreement that he had with Poppy. It occurs to you somewhat that they should have some say in whether or not they continued to be, miserable as their lives were, but you’re still not so sure at what cost that can reasonably come at. You know you should be shrugging him off, you know you should be drawing some boundaries right now, but you don't. 

You look up at Doey, and shadow-box the air, giving him a confident wink. 

He laughs. “You're a fighter, I know! You're gonna take down the Prototype with that attitude,” He says, smiling. “I just don't know why you do it.”

Just then, your little walkie-talkie sounded with Ollie's voice. 

[“Hey! Checking in– Poppy’s wondering where you are, if you managed to get the Omni-hand yet. The Doctor’s been unusually quiet, we think we might have lost track of him– but we hope that means you’re okay!”] His fuzzy little voice comes from the speaker, and you look up at Doey once more, moving to put your thumb on the responder…

Doey reaches forward and takes it for you.

“Ollie! We’re okay–” Doey glances at you, seeming to think something over. “We’re not done yet, still working on a way around the traps and pipes, you know how it is. We’ll let you know when we have the Omni-hand.”

The speaker sounds in response, static for a moment, as if Ollie had pressed the button to reply but was debating on how to reply. He manages, eventually:

[“Doey! I didn’t expect to hear you there, that’s– that’s great! Okay, I’ll let Poppy know. You guys be safe, please. You’re still down there on the prison level, right?”]

Doey replies, easily. You note what a great liar he is, with some interest. “Yeah, we had to go a little further through the cave system to get around some of his defenses, but we’re still around here. What’s up?”

[“Nothing. I just thought I heard a lift going near the Doctor’s lab. Maybe he’s heading away from you guys, but hopefully that means he left the Omni-hand.”]

“Thanks for the heads up. We’ll be safe. Talk to you soon– over and out!”

Ollie laughs in response. [“Thanks Doey! Over and out.”]

The receiver goes quiet, and Doey gently hands it back over to you. You give him a bewildered sort of look– that had kind of been a strange thing to witness.

“I don’t like to lie,” He confesses, approaching a section of the hallway that was barricaded with furniture– he slides through it, easily, turning to liquid, “But I don’t really want Poppy to know where we headed off to. Just… considering how eager she is to go ahead with her plan.”

You wait on the other side, and you watch him grow and push the furniture apart, flattening them against the walls like a compactor. The ease with which he flattens literal metal shelves and wooden furniture makes your cheeks burn a little hot. The way is made clear for you, and you walk through while he holds it.

“We can explain ourselves to them when we come back with food!” He announces, happily, and his excitement warms you further. “Everyone's gonna be so happy. Usually when I do find food, it’s meat–” He doesn’t linger on this, because you know that he probably means rabid toys, like that pianosaurus had been, “-- so, chips, cookies… everyone’s gonna love that.”

He reforms himself, the furniture that he’d pushed falling apart back into place, and walks behind you. He puts his hands on your hips as you both walk, just holding you, affectionate. In the real world, you’d find that a bit eager, but you know that Doey is just trying to make the most out of what limited time you have together. You don’t mind it.

When you turn the corner, you see writing on the wall, and some hanged toys.

‘ The Hour of Joy’.

Doey stops you from pressing on, and settles behind you, pulling you close. He grimaces, and sighs. “ The Hour of Joy. Horror just… leads to more horror, doesn’t it…” He says, mostly to himself. “I feel like I understand that more and more every day.” You feel his hands on you tighten.

He continues, “I wonder if it’s just the way things are– if hurt people will always hurt more people, if there isn’t an end to the cycle, if we’re all just… doomed to repeat it.”

Your nerves are set on fire by this little introspection. You grab his arm, a bit roughly, and start to yank him past the hanging toys. That is enough . You refuse to believe that he was doomed to some horrific Sisyphean nightmare– at least, you tell yourself that. There had to be a way. He was more than just a broken toy, and you feel that way for reasons more than that you like him–

Or do you? Do you really have much more reason than that?

Doey’s pulled along, or rather he lets you pull him along, and you move past the grisly sight quickly, but the state of the hallway does not get much better– since Doey got you through a section of the hallway that had been blocked when you first came through here, you’re taking a shortcut that you hadn’t come through yourself, yet. The lights flicker, and you are surrounded by windowed classrooms, complete darkness within. You slow down, a little creeped out, your head swiveling between the windows and corners you could not totally see.

“I’ve gotcha,” Doey says, hands on your shoulders, sensing some unease. “ I’m the scariest thing around here, alright? You’re lucky I liiiiike you!~” He teases, sing-song, squishing his cheek against yours.

That might have actually been true– you wish he’d been around when you’d fought CatNap, that was for sure. You press forward, not entirely reassured, but you don’t want to look like a pussy so you break away from him, making your way along the hall.

“I’d heard that Miss Delight killed off her sisters, anyway,” Doey says, stretching forward from where he was to start checking classroom doors, peering in. All seems quiet. You look back over your shoulder at him. He continues, his voice in one of the rooms, “And, if you took care of the original Miss Delight, that’d be pretty much i–”

While his head was inside of a classroom, you turn a corner, and you see the shadow of something swinging towards you before you actually see what it is. Your reflexes have always been quite good, so you duck, and wisps of your cut hair fall in front of your face– you look up–

A carbon copy of the Miss Delight that you’d killed, wielding a very, very sharp knife, smiling ruefully down towards you. She rears her arm up for another strike, and you scramble backwards, letting out a yelp. You stumble over your feet.

Her arm comes down– 

– straight into clay. Both you and the murderous teacher look to see where the knife landed. Doey’s outstretched hand prevented a killing blow, and you can see by his expression down the hall that it was a panicked, desperate ploy– but when he sees that you’re unharmed, his scared expression perks right up into a smile. It’s the same smile he always has.

“Told ya! Nothing–” His hand burst into two parts and enveloped her, tightening suddenly, and you hear the teacher’s arm break backwards into her body under the pressure of the clay, “-- to be scared of. Hehe! ”

You are mostly just staring at this in horror, hand over your mouth.

The clay hand yanks her back and whips her body down the hall, a smear of red left where she’s slammed down. He does it again, and then crashes her into a wall, once, twice, and then through it. Finally, he pulls her back to him, and– he glances over at you. You see sharp red teeth in his mouth– you’d had that mouth on you so many times now, where the fuck did those teeth come from.

“Uhm– don’t…” He snickers, his voice deep and dark. “... don’t watch this.”

As instructed, you turn your head away. You don’t want to watch anyway, because you feel like throwing up. Behind you, you hear a crunch, and a swallow. Doey eats her body up, the logistics and method by which you remain blissfully unaware, although the sounds are enough to terrify you to tears. Your shoulders shake and you try to keep it in– you’d seen so much horror in this place that you should have been numbed to it, but it was a completely new, unthinkable sort of horror to share such sweet moments with someone who was capable of killing and eating things like this in front of you.

To be fair, the bitch had been trying to kill you . She had lost her mind– maybe. You don’t know. It’s not really like you got to talk it out with her. You hope that she had.

The sounds stop, and after a moment, you jump at the slightest touch on your elbow. Doey’s there beside you, in his normal form, and his voice is soothing: “Hey, hey…! Shh, it’s okay.”

He touches you, moving his hand up to brush your hair– the knife had swooped through only a few strands, nothing all that noticeable, and you appear unscathed. “You’re alright!”

You’re not sure how to fake a smile to pretend that you’re okay, so instead a half-sob bubbles up out of you. You hate how much he’s been forced to endure in this place, how normal it feels for him to eat things that were once people, once toys like him. You cry, not entirely now because he scares you, but because you can’t stand what this place has done to him.

His smile falls when you don’t bounce back, and to his surprise, you press in to hug him, suddenly, squeezing tightly. He lays a hand on your head, sliding down your back, and his other arm goes around for a hug. He holds you tight. “Oh, geez. Hey, hey … are you okay?”

You’re caught between a head shake and a nod, and instead you just hug him closer. He doesn't seem to grasp fully why you're crying, but he senses that you're not fully able to communicate it, so he lets that be the end of what he has to say, and he just holds you for a long while.

You keep holding him, and eventually, your tears run dry. It’s so easy to forget how he could be when he’s returned to his normal self, like this– nice and huggable. You pull away, and nod your thanks at him, wiping at your face.

He lets you go. He attempts some levity, as he takes your arm, continuing down the hallway: “Sooo, not to brag, but you know– I heard somewhere around here, there’s someone who likes guys who makes them cry…” 

You do laugh, despite yourself. You look up at him, your cheeks still wet. You don’t know what you’re doing when you nod, and stand on your toes for a kiss. You have no fucking clue what you’re doing anymore.

Doey meets you halfway, leaning down to kiss you back. You keep it brief and you try not to wonder where the body of that teacher went.

---

You both take some time to rifle through the classrooms, just to see if there’s anything you can salvage. Surprise: not much. Ten or so years of decay had turned most things in the classrooms completely unusable– fruit that was beyond rotten, simply dried husks of skin, entire rooms lost to water and electrical damage, rendering furniture and books unusable.

You find a mostly intact classroom, though, with working lights. After the incident with Miss Delight’s Sister, Doey keeps a much closer eye on you. He’s hovering, you realize. You feel like just another person he’s decided to be responsible for– you appreciate it, but for his sake, you wish he hadn’t.

Doey’s going through the cubbies when you try your hand at the teacher’s desk. You crouch underneath it, shimmying open a locked drawer from below– you have too much experience in this to appear totally innocent, but you weren’t the most well-behaved kid when you were in school, so you do know your way around a locked desk or two. The drawer pops open, and you peer inside: bingo! Confiscated paraphernalia. Anything edgy enough to get confiscated was worth taking, you figured.

You find a box of cigarettes, which you snatch, shaking it and then peering inside it. There are a few left, and there was even a lighter inside. You light one up while you go through the rest of the drawer, breathing in deep. Christ, you hadn’t had a cigarette the entire time you’d been here.

“... you know that’ll kill you, right?” Doey says, from across the room. There’s disappointment in his voice, but there’s something else, too. Something smug. He stretches a single arm all the way out, and plucks the cigarette box from you.

You flick your eyes up at him, raising your brows, and you take another drag of the one you’d already lit. Fine. Keep it. You were not about to start a fight over that, as you were trying to quit, but you could catch a small break– after all, there were hundreds of other things here that were probably going to kill you first.

You return to searching the drawer, exhaling. There are some pretty good CDs here– Radiohead, Blur, Alice in Chains. You flip through some comics, although they aren’t dirty or funny, they were regular comics that kids weren’t allowed to have for some stupid reason. You’d certainly had a few comics taken from you, at school. At the bottom of the drawer, you see a book.

What the fuck is a Word Wizard?

You hold it up, looking through it. The Adventures of the Word Wizard, in full, some strange sort of children’s book with painted, too-detailed illustrations. You are trying to decipher it, when you hear Doey gasp.

“Is that– Did you seriously just find–” He sputters, making his way towards you, pushing the small kids’ desks aside. “You found it! Adventures of the Word Wizard, that’s our– that’s our favorite book!”

He reaches for it, when you pull it away, suddenly. Stunned silence, and he reaches for it again, and you pull it away, again. Okay, maybe you were a little miffed about the cigarettes. You hold your hand out, keeping the Word Wizard Whatever close to your chest, as if holding it ransom.

“You’re not getting the cigarettes back,” Doey snickers, darkly, snatching the lit cigarette out of your mouth before putting his hands on the desk between you. You lock your arms over the book in response. He smiles. “Oh, I see. It’s like that, is it? Maybe you should– hey!”

You see what he’s doing, immediately, and before he can distract you with conversation, you book it just as he shoves the desk aside to get to you, and by some miracle your footwork escapes several hands attempting to grab you. His arm stretches, cutting under the sea of desks, and you jump up, keeping your balance on top of them as he knocks them over– just enough for you to reach the door.

“You don’t wanna play this game with me, baby–” He calls, from the classroom, as you run down the hall, incited with mischief. You look for a place to run, but your looking is cut short, as a wave of blue crashes through a door beside you–

“-- because I always win!” He giggles, having swept himself through the vents the moment you’d started to run. That was right– this game would be hard with someone who could fit through anything.

You do a fake-out turn and then clear a backwards hurdle that would have made a football coach proud, narrowly avoiding another arm spiraling to grab you. Doey was so sure that he’d get you then that he crashes flat onto his face, into a wall. You laugh as you run, but you’re careful not to actually go somewhere you both haven’t explored yet. Getting killed while ransoming The Adventures of the Word Wizard was not on your list of ways to die. It was kind of sad that you even had a list.

He picks himself up off the floor, snickering again, striking a dangerous octave. “You’re in for it now.”

Oooh . You consider getting caught, just for a second, but your competitive nature fires back up and you press on. He floods the hallway towards you, hands dragging him forward, and you run, circling back to the classroom you’d started this in, since it had a second exit. Unbeknownst to you, he was counting on just that– and as you go in, a hand bursts back up through the floor grate. It doesn’t catch you on the first swipe, but it slows you down enough when you dodge it that Doey floods into the room, pushing the teacher’s desk up against the only other exit.

You back up into it, and he crowds you, something dangerous in his expression– you turn and climb over the desk, towards the exit, but your luck runs out, and you’re finally snagged by your ankle. You erupt into giggles as he tugs you back, sliding you on your stomach. At last, you’ve been caught. You hug the book to your chest defensively, even as Doey’s hands grab your arms, and you twist this way and that, pretending to struggle. He puts his weight over you, his stomach pinning your legs, and– you feel him poking at your ribs.

You burst out laughing, letting go of the book– what a fucking cheater! He steals it out from under you, but his assault isn’t through. He keeps prodding at your sides.

“That’s what you get! ” He snickers, leaned over you. “– especially for smoking!”

You try to fend him off, but you’re quickly learning how good he is at tickling. Tears are in your eyes as you push his hands away, but there are too many hands on you for you to defend yourself against all of them. Your legs kick, but they’re buried firmly in his clay, so that’s useless.

“Say you’ll quit, and so will I!~” Doey sings his demand, pausing for a moment, holding you by your waist. He takes a second to look over you underneath him, like this. Your stomach is flat against the desk, your shirt riding up, back exposed. He traces his thumbs over your skin, your spine, touching some scratches and scuffs that you’d gotten when he was fucking you in the Doctor’s lab. There’s some embedded glass that you don’t even feel– you’d been ignoring pains while you were here for so long that you don’t even think you would have felt anything if Miss Delight’s clone had actually stabbed you. He frowns.

“Didn’t this hurt? I’m sorry…” His hand melts onto you, and the clay carefully pulls the glass out. He shakes the pieces out onto the floor. “ Maaaaybe we oughta slow down with the, uhm…”

You look over your shoulder at him. Oh. You hadn’t noticed– you give him a grateful smile, but then raise a brow at his next words. Slow down with what? As if to be cheeky, you arch your back slightly, pressing your ass back into him.

He snickers, and puts his hands on you once more. “If you’re trying to distract me– it won’t work,” He puts on a silly, cartoonish voice, the likeness of an old movie mobster, and leans in: “You heard me, toots, give up the smoke or I’ll show you some smoke, eh?”

You wipe your face from laughing tears, grinning. You bite your lip, your nose crinkles as you stare up at him, as if daring him. You shake your head. You shan’t admit defeat so easily.

“No?” He makes a gun click noise. “Alright. Sayonara, sweetheart ,” He starts tickling you again, and you yelp your laughs, gasping for air. 

You twist and writhe as he’s skirting his fingers against your sides, your ribs, your legs kicking uselessly– you feel him kiss the back of your neck, and your back, and eventually the tickling melts into something more familiar, a large hand sliding over your stomach, underneath you.

“You’re good, but not good enough, ” He says, low, into your ear. “ Let’s take it up a notch, doll-face. ”

There’s no fucking way you’re getting turned on by a man doing a fucking old-timey gangster voice in your ear, but here you are. It can’t get any lower than this.

You gasp as his hand plunges past your waistline, and this go around he doesn’t waste any time, going straight underneath your underwear– his other hand wraps around your wrists, like rope, tugging them behind your back. His fingers spread you open, and he rubs you, excruciatingly slow. Your eyes flutter closed, and, to play along, you bite back any noises you were tempted to make– if he wanted to play hardball, so would you.

You hear him hiss a laugh, and he rests his cheek against you, the hand that roped your wrists extending further around you to grope at your breasts over your clothes, his palm heavy and large, easily grasping your entire chest in one hand, running his thumb over them both.

“Not so tough now, huh? If I get you over that edge, you gotta give up the smokes – but you won’t last long, I promise you…” That delicious confidence again, despite the fact that this is one of the corniest situations you’d ever gotten yourself into. You think you’re some kind of glutton for humiliation at the hands of the biggest nerd you’ve ever let touch you, because his sheer self-assuredness gets you going nearly as much as voice does. The weight and the bass feels so nice against you. 

You nod in agreement though, even if it's just a silly, fake little ploy at getting you off. The challenge is fun.

He rubs you, steadily, and then another finger pulls swirls slowly around your clit. It’s so, so slow… You bite your lip again, not ready to give him the satisfaction just yet– but your body betrays just how much he’s spinning you up.

“Jeez, Angel, you get so wet for me…” He says, finally dropping that stupid voice. You almost sigh in relief, because you don’t think you would have recovered from cumming to that. You’re barely over cumming to oh, fudge! earlier. “Doesn’t take a lot, does it? Hehe…! Or– do you just like me that much?”

Your head is reeling from his stupid giggle. Not only is he making you lose your fucking mind, he’s making fun of you, too. Your street cred is in the negatives. There was no recovery from this. He keeps pressing slow, sensitive circles into you, and you don’t even know how this man got this good at foreplay– but to be fair, you’re hanging in quite well. Not a single noise has escaped you since your initial gasp.

That is, until he pushes a single, thick finger inside of you. You break, letting out a brief whimper.

Doey snickers against you, quite pleased with himself. “You’re so cute. Quit trying so hard~!”

You shake your head, still playing along, or attempting to. You don’t even care about smoking anymore, but it was kind of fun to pretend that you did. He pulls his finger out of you, and tugs your pants and undies down– the little bit of clay that he’d given you to cover yourself rejoins his hand, and your clothes fall to your ankles. You are still streaked with blue from your last time with him, not even too long ago.

“You're putting up a good fight,” He murmurs.  He gropes you a little more roughly, and kisses your head, before he pulls away. You move to look back at him, and the hand that’s groping your breasts and holding your wrists hostage rescinds entirely– until it wraps around your waist, spiraling a few times over, tightening your arms against you, like you’re a damsel about to be laid on train tracks. “... but,” He continues, his voice sliding into a deep register that leaves you just a little breathless, “I think I’m done being nice.”

The same arm that binds you follows through and juts up, suddenly, and then arcs back down, pressing your head into the desk with his palm, squishing your cheek against the wood. You catch a glimpse of his expression over your shoulder– Doey has a bigger smile than usual, a bit lop-sided and melty, giving him the impression of drool. He’s clearly taken with you, having fun at your expense, but you are, too. His other hand returns to rubbing you, two fingers running along your entrance, although this time his hand takes the path behind you, through your legs, which he spreads by kicking your feet apart.

The rough handling gives you that nice numb feeling in your brain, and you can hardly think about anything but how tightly you’re being held, how being teased to this precipice wound you up so much that it bordered on torture. Doey’s expression returns that triumph that burns you up– and it’s well deserved. He was the only monster in this place that had completely defeated you.

He shoves two thick fingers in, down to his clay knuckle, and though you’re wet and ready enough to take it, that hardly would have mattered with the strength that he puts behind his wrist– you’re like a rag doll in his grip. You finally let out a tense, full-bodied moan, unable to contain it even if you had tried. His fingers fill you, and his big, drooling smile stays as he starts pumping them into you, not giving you even a moment to adjust to the size.

“You’re so tight, still…” He notes, impressed. It was a fascinating thing for a clay being, likely, how much your body fought against what he put inside it. He fingers you with piston-like effort and pace, steady and fast, burying the whole length and pulling it out half-way, burying it again.

You were erupting into an equally steady stream of loud gasps and moans. His fingers sound embarrassingly wet inside of you, squelching each time they push in, something that seems to delight him greatly. He shoves the fingers in and holds them there, spreading them inside, feeling around. This makes you yelp, and the heavy squirming inside you makes you writhe against your bonds. Doey squeezes you tighter, pushing your head down so firmly that your cheeks squish together, fish-like, stifling your cries for a moment.

He giggles again, relishing your body and your noises, reactions. He seems to be happy just to finger you, scissoring his fingers into you repeatedly, his wrist movements bordering on violent. His grip on your head shifts, and you can moan again, and you treat him to hot and heavy noises. You feel like melting into a puddle.

“God! You’re so– so cute, and warm…” He leans in, pressing a fraction of his weight into you, but the pressure feels so nice–

His fingers dig in, rutting you– it’s relentless, and you feel yourself sliding into a climax. You wail, now, your legs shaking, and he keeps ramming his fingers into you even as you cum, pressing deeper, rapid plp!-plp!-plp!s echoing in the hallway. Your orgasm rocks you, and it’s clear by your whining and whimpering that you’ve already gone over the edge, but even as you completely wet his fingers, he doesn’t stop.

Your body is so fucking sensitive, his movements are driving you to madness. You breathe out his name, whining, a barely audible whisper, to plead him to stop– but it has the opposite effect, and you can see his eyes widen over his smile, leaning into you more.

“I toooold you you were in for it…!~” He whispers, sing-song. This fucking guy.

He keeps going. The coil that was wound inside of you had long since released, the glow spreading throughout your body, to your tips and toes, but your eyes widen as you feel something start to slip inside you, like a second climax– one that you’d only ever experienced once before in your life.

Oh no.

Realization hits you, and you start to struggle against your restraints– he quickens his pace, impossibly fast, leaning in close to watch. You try to focus, to fight against the tide washing over you, but before long, you are too far gone, and it is much too late to pull back. His fingers hit you in all the right places and then some, mercilessly, over and over. You let out another loud moan as you cum again, this one crashing over your body and–

Yep. You squirt. You wet the desk, his arm, your thighs. You feel it run down your legs.

God damn it.

Doey lets out the most inappropriately mischievous giggle, absolutely the most insane thing you’d ever heard after a dude got you to orgasm, let alone squirt, but your world is too bright and hazy for you to pay much attention to it– you breathe heavily, the afterglow hitting you with an unmatched intensity. Your chest rises and falls, and you stay in that position, even as Doey pulls his fingers out, and his arm unwraps from around you.

He puts both of his hands on either side of you on the desk, and fully leans over you now, without pressing his weight onto you, and gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek. He’s so smug that you can feel it radiating through him.

“So. No more smoking?” He confirms.

You nod.

No more smoking.

---

You get dressed, and Doey carries you on his shoulders, since you’re not sure that you can see straight, let alone walk after that. It’s nice and cozy, and you’re thankful to be off your feet for a little while longer, especially while you are still feeling touchy and giddy and sensitive– you feel like you could be made out of gelatin.

A pair of arms hold onto your legs, and another pair comes out, opening the very hard-won copy of The Adventures of the Word Wizard . Doey looks at it as he makes his way out of the room. He ducks to keep your head from hitting the door frame. All is completely normal with him again, as if what had just transpired had not been one of the hottest things a guy had ever done to you.

“It’s pretty cleverly written, for a children’s book,” He starts to explain. A warm feeling settles in you as you listen, happy to indulge him, sliding his hat over to peer down, your chin on his head. “See, the Word Wizard changes the way his story goes using spells– but, literally, like– the spelling… it’s pretty smart!”

You smile at that. It’s a bit nerdy and silly for you, but it seems to make Doey happy, so you listen .

He clears his throat, and starts to read, putting a theatrical voice on: “ The wizard had a potion to deliver, and he came across a river– too large to swim, and too cold for him– it had a bridge, old and oaken, but oh no– the bridge was broken!”  

You let out a feigned gasp. You aren’t great at acting, certainly not as great as Doey is at those voices, but you try, at least.

Doey continues, “He looked around for a way to float, and luckily, at the edge of the water was a pristine… coat?”

The illustration shows the wizard holding up a fur coat. The shapes of the characters are simple, but the rendering and painting is way overdone. It’s a nauseatingly unique style, and you can see why it left such an impression on him.

“To fix this, he’d need a spell! A different letter would be better, but which would suit this quest well?”

It's elementary, but the concept is pretty cute. You like the drawings, at least. You lean forward to tap on the ‘c’, just to play along. 

He turns the page. “That's right! The wizard swirls and twirls and the ‘c’ changes into a ‘b’! A boat! A boat is much more useful than a coat.”

Doey looks up towards you, lowering the book. “You get the idea,” He snickers. “It gets a little more complicated later, but it’s all things like that. There’s a chapter where he says he has to fondle his rock , later– I always have to skip that one.”

You laugh. That is dumb, but you do immediately think of something juvenile when he says it, so you might be part of the problem. You hug onto him, and he retracts his arms and the book back into his flesh, leaving him with his regular pair, holding you still. Finally, you both have reached the area that you initially had in mind when you first pitched the idea of coming up here to raid the vending machines– for too brief a time, you were both able to think about things other than what was to come. You lay your cheek against his head.

He passes by the emergency exit door that you’d brought down onto the original Miss Delight, her head still crushed in it. Doey lets out an impressed whistle. “Was this you?” He asks, squeezing your legs.

You nod, pursing your lips a little. That had been an accident. So had Mommy’s death, to be fair, but you weren’t above taking credit for accidents. Results were results. You hope he doesn’t want to eat this corpse, too, but thankfully he passes it without incident.

“You’re tougher than you look, champ. Except when I touch you,” You can’t fully see it, but you can hear that stupid smug grin in his voice. “You’re practically putty in my hands, and that’s coming from someone like me. ”

You want to protest, but he’s absolutely right. You pull his head back to give him a dangerous look, straight into his eyes, but the look you give him is more cute than anything– he laughs and maneuvers you forward, down into a bridal carry, before he sets you down on your feet.

As you both round the corner, the plastic bluish glow of two vending machines comes into view, and Doey stops, for a second. His eyes widen.

“You– you were right! There is food here!” 

His voice is so, so happy– it was all suddenly so worth it, traveling all this way. He had just made fun of you for being like putty around him, but you were about to melt just listening to him. Doey spins and sweeps you up, tossing you up for a moment out of pure joy. You get some air time, too much for your liking, but his giddiness is infectious and you don’t protest it. He pulls you in for a big smooch, hands gripping your shoulders like you were a doll , and then tugs you over by your hand all the way to the two machines; one full of snacks, the other full of soda. Of course, they’d both been here for ten years, untouched– but the shelf life on chips, chocolate, Twinkies? Yeah, you’ll take them. Your stomach growls at the sight of snacks, but you’d determined already that you wouldn’t partake in eating them. Doey had already given you what precious little they had, with the canned peaches– the other toys hadn’t eaten for weeks.

Doey’s hands pull one machine out from the wall, tearing it from the electrical socket, and the lights sputter off within it. He then sticks his hand inside the vend, and starts prying all of the snacks out. He giggles as he does. “This– this is amazing! You– ” He looks at you, sidelong. “You really are an angel, aren’t you?”

You’re fussing with the soda machine when that comment makes you stop, looking back at him. You grin, despite yourself, and humbly shake your head. It tugs at your heart strings– and not entirely in a pleasant way. You drop onto one knee to reach your arm up into the soda vending machine as high as you could, but obviously you are not as adept at this as Doey is. He snickers at you for even trying, especially as you’re unable to get even one soda can out.

It only takes a few minutes for Doey to empty both vending machines. You help him with the sodas, since those are all very cold and make things a little difficult for him to hold– you carry as many in your pockets as you can, two cans even held in your grabbers, and you use your shirt as a ‘pouch’ for even more. Doey carries the rest. You both start making your way back to the elevator.

It gives you some trouble to do so, but while holding the sodas, you attempt to ask him a question. You point at him, and then point down, and then mouth: movie?

He blinks at you, carrying all of those fucking snacks in as many hands as he could conjure. You both look like you’d robbed a convenience store. Every so often, one drops, and a clay hand trails behind to pick it up. “ Movie? Oh, yeah! We watch those, we have… a projector. I mean, it doesn’t take too much electricity, but we’re still watching our generator usage, so… we don’t watch many movies these days. Plus, all the ones that we have, we’ve watched hundreds of times, probably…”

Your eyes light up, and he smirks, as he can tell this interests you greatly. “I mean, we could. Well– yes, actually, we should! This is– this is a day to celebrate.”

You nod, eager. You love movies. Your mind is already buzzing with what they may have had– it had been what, summer, ’95 ? You try and think of what was even on VHS at that point .

“Let’s see. We’ve got cartoons, classics… Sound of Music?”

You shake your head, giving him an offended look. You did not want to watch the fucking Sound of Music . Classic, yes. Depressing? Also yes.

He looks ahead, thinking. “ Casablanca? The Godfather?”

You laugh. That explains the mobster voice from earlier. You grin, and shake your head again, though. Kind of too long, kind of too slow .

“Oooookay. Um– oh! What about… Star Wars? We have all three! ” He says, brightening. This seems to be one that he liked in particular, so you give him a small smile, nodding, pleased. He continues, “I love those. I wish they made more.”

It’s your turn to look ahead, now. You decide to spare him the knowledge that they had released three more movies, all bad. You clear your throat, and pretend to nod in agreement. Yes, yes, if only they had.

“We– we like them a lot, since… some of the actors are toys,” Doey says. “I think it’d be fun to be in a movie, some day.”

That catches you, and you turn to smile at him, thinking on that. That added context makes you a little sad, but it made sense . Your brows knit. How nice would it have been for them to feel like they had a place in the real world– seeing themselves on the screen, like that. You’re infatuated with the idea, almost instantly. You don’t feel the need to explain, of course, that the Henson puppets on Star Wars were just that– puppets. It’s kind of beautiful, you think.

You both finally reach the lift, and once you enter, you drop a can to use the Omni-hand to take you both back down.

The can rolls around on the metal floor, and Doey catches it before it falls off– he takes this time to deposit all of the snacks onto the ground, leaving some of his clay to make sure they don’t roll, and he takes the cans from you, too. They all go into a neat little pile, and you can both tell that you’d made a killing– a whole vending machine worth of snacks was nothing to scoff at.

You put your hands on your hips to admire your handiwork, when you are flooded by clay and pushed to the ground, a hand making sure that your fall is comfortable. You squeak.

“C’mere, you.” He holds you, and kisses you all over– your cheek, your nose, your chin. “You’re driving me crazy.”

This time, in the lift, you don’t hold back your overly cutesy, dangerously affectionate giggles– you hug his neck and kiss back. You both stay like that for some time, and the attention he gives you is sweet, innocent. 

You are thrilled by this new, strange feeling that you’d found in the depths of the Factory, and it scares you how easy everything feels with him– none of your relationships had felt as easy as this. At the same time, you almost miss the way that Playtime had so securely handed you horror after horror, without pause; that, at the very least, had been predictable. You feel trapped in a revolving door, now, unsure of which direction it would spin, joy or horror – but even worse was the knowledge that what was waiting for you beyond this door was tragedy. Unavoidable tragedy.

He whispers against your ear, some murmurs of adoration, of infatuation, and neither of you have called it love just yet, but you certainly could see it going that way. That’s what scares you the most. You’re both so lost in each other for a moment, snickering and kissing, sharing a small space and time that couples so often occupy, that neither of you notice the lift descending to completion.

Doey withdraws from you suddenly, fast enough that he drops you on the ground, clearing his throat solidly– you make a soft ‘ ow!’ as your head hits the floor, and you stare, upside down, at the feet of Poppy and Kissy, waiting at the entrance to the lift. You are half-undressed, the hole in your pants still showing off your thigh and underwear, now streaked and stained with blue.

“...” Their silence speaks volumes, and not a single person out of the four of you makes a sound.

This was going to be extremely fucking awkward.

Chapter 4: red

Summary:

Doey and Poppy have a disagreement, and Kissy continues to be disappointed in you. You manage to get cozy and watch a movie with Doey and the rest of the Safe Haven, but things aren't cozy for long. You and Doey have a disagreement of your own.

Notes:

This is getting ridiculous. I need to stop adding more chapters that aren't the ending. Enjoy another chapter that isn't the last one, but I'm going to stop saying that the next chapter is the last one, just in case that's not true. I keep writing too much.

Anyway, this chapter gets quite heavy, buckle up. Also, we revisit a blowjob scene, because I felt like I wrote the last one way too short. Once again, thank you so much for all of the comments and kudos, I read everyone's and squeeeee with happiness even if I don't respond. I also drew a picture of Angel's outfit swap if here if anyone's curious, but feel free to imagine them however you like.

Cheers!

“Can we talk?” Poppy says, to Doey. “Alone?”

You scramble to your feet and pretend to be very busy gathering the snacks and sodas that you and Doey had stolen from the vending machines. Doey pauses, not answering Poppy just yet, and his large clay hand scoops the majority of the haul, taking anything you were not able to grab in that moment. He presses on ahead of you, almost as if you weren’t there.

You take the hint that he didn’t feel like explaining himself, especially with the way he avoids eye contact with you, but you think it’d be a lot less awkward if you both embraced the situation for what it was. Maybe if you played it off with ‘ Sorry, we got a little carried away!’ or maybe even a ‘We didn’t expect to see anyone down here, but yeah, guess the cat’s out of the bag!’. Any minor acknowledgement that what they’d seen was awkward, but real and true, and that you’d been flirting, sure. Well, flirting was a word for it, but no matter how many scenarios you play out in your head about how to better handle what was happening, Doey had chosen to brush right on past it, and he had gone ahead of you and Kissy, chatting with Poppy.

“Yes,” He says, “Can I drop these off at Safe Haven first, or…”

“No,” Poppy answers. “Let’s just talk now.”

Kissy watches him pass to join Poppy, and then spares you a look. She offers her single working hand to help you carry some of the sodas, which you are thankful for, even though you can tell that her frozen smile is bearing down on you with heavy judgment. You deserve it, maybe not for all the reasons that they could see now, but God do you deserve it.

“Uhh– ssssuuure ,” Doey replies, uncertainly, as Poppy’s tiny feet take her down the hallway, back towards the cave system. He looks back at you and Kissy. “We’ll see you both in a few minutes, I guess.”

You give him a thumbs up and a smile, which he doesn’t return. That deflates you a tiny bit. Kissy ducks under a doorway and you head back to the Safe Haven from the way that you came before you’d gotten yourself into No Man’s Land – it is considerably more safe now that the Doctor’s traps have been deactivated, and he wasn’t spying on your every move.

The walk back is completely silent, as would be expected of you both. Kissy gives you a glance every now and then, and you see her doll-like eyes going over the absolute state of you, until it appears that she couldn’t take it anymore and she veers off from the path suddenly. You do a double-take, between her and the way back, and you quickly move to follow her.

She opens the door to a personnel room. Since it’s so close to the labs, there’s a safety shower and eyewash station, and beside it are abandoned cubbies, lockers. You’ve actually been here before– you got dress-coded by Playtime, once, and you’d had to find an appropriate sweater to wear in the Lost and Found here. You’re thankful for Kissy, although you don’t think she knows about the Lost and Found, since she gestures towards the safety shower. She’s right. The blue that stains you is a much bigger problem than your ripped pants.

You nod your thanks, and you hold up a finger to her, to indicate one moment. She doesn’t reply, but closes the door and waits outside for you. You yank the chain of the safety shower– it doesn’t do anything, but you hear the pipes groan… then, suddenly, the water comes out. You let that run for a few seconds, as you’re sure that whatever had been in those pipes had certainly been sitting for a long time.

It’s not warm, or decent, but you are able to transfer water onto yourself in a much quicker fashion than scooping it out of a sink, so you will take your losses and call it a win for now. You wash up, and you’re able to find a warm pullover and a slightly big pair of Playtime overalls in the room, which you quickly discard your torn pants for. When you step out of the bathroom, you look more refreshed and presentable than you have looked since you’d first arrived.

But, Kissy isn’t waiting for you by the door. You look around, and you see her with her head bowed near a vent. Her head snaps towards you, and she looks a bit caught– her eyes look back and forth, and she hesitantly beckons you over with the soda still in her hand.

You head over.

[“... completely inappropriate, not to mention– we were worried about both of you, so we went to look around. Why didn’t you just say…”] Poppy’s voice emanates from the vent.

[“Look. I’m sorry– alright? Things are tough right now, we weren’t thinking, we didn’t realize it’d be such a big deal. We got food, Poppy, I don’t know what it’s been like for you– wherever you’ve been– but down here, that’s a blessing. So is having some company.”] Doey.

You look up at Kissy, who looks down at you. Then, you both press your ear closer to the vent, a solemn understanding between you.

Poppy sighs. [“I’m happy for that, Doey, I really am,”] She says, sounding very over it, and not happy at all, [“But the Prototype is going to be on high alert now that the Doctor’s gone. We have him at a disadvantage for once– I need Angel to be focused on what’s next.”]

Doey scoffs, some rising anger in his tone, [“And what is next? I told you we’d need to talk about this.”]

[“Maybe we could have? Do we even have time to, anymore?”] There’s something unsaid in that, a silent accusation on Poppy’s behalf. Do we even have time or are you too busy fucking around?

[“Of–”] Doey lets out an exasperated laugh, disbelief in it. His voice distorts, the way that it does when he’s being pushed too far, [“Of course we have time to talk about it. I’m–”]

[“Getting distracted,”] Poppy snaps, in her way, her tone still calm and prim.

[“I’m not getting distracted.”] He snaps back, quick,  [“I have a whole family who needs me up there, I’m not gonna get distracted just because I’m taking out some stress on a human , alright?”]

[“Is that what it is?”] Poppy laughs.

[“Yes,”] Doey insists, [“That’s all.”]

Kissy glances at you, because you wince. Yep, that hurt. You’ve had worse said about you, though, and you know part of this is just what Doey is choosing to say to Poppy, too– but somehow that doesn’t make it sting any less.

There’s a long silence between them, and Doey says, [“Why are you so worked up about it? I haven’t seen you in years, Poppy.”]

Your eyes widen, and you press closer, your brow knitting. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? You remember his answer when you had first asked about him and Poppy. He’d been so genuine. ‘Nah. She’s like family to me.’ Then again, you’d seen him lie so easily– twice.

Poppy takes a moment to respond. [“I’m not worked up about it. You can do whatever you want, I’m just saying that I need them, I need them to set things right. Making things right– that comes at a cost,”] She says, somberly, [“I don’t want you to pay that price any more than necessary.”]

What does that even mean?

[“What does that even mean?”] Doey unknowingly echoes your thoughts.

[“Just– I just need everyone to focus. No more distractions. Please…”]

You hear Doey’s voice start to fade, and Kissy pulls away, sensing that you might both be caught if you lingered.

[“I really…. reaaaaally don’t get you, Poppy…”] 

[“You don’t have to,”] She replies, self-pity in her voice. You make a face, something between annoyance and bewilderment. You’re not sure what to make of that conversation, and you’re stuck deciphering it still when Kissy tugs you away from the vent. You both head out of the hallway and into the caverns, and then make your way to the Safe Haven.

The route you take luckily gets you there before Doey and Poppy, so you and Kissy maintain a plausible alibi ahead of any accusations of eavesdropping. You both deposit the sodas onto the main desk in the center of the Safe Haven, and you give her a thankful smile.

Kissy looks down at you, and flops her hand onto your head, gently. It is something between a pet and a playful smack, and you’re not sure which, but the way she inclines her head as you laugh it off makes you think she was teasing you, in the way that big sisters often did. You’re glad that she’s feeling better, after what she went through.

She goes to find a quiet place to sit, leaving you to your own. You rub your arm, and go to sit inside of the tent that Doey had set you in. That conversation you'd overheard plays in your mind, and you catch the edges of a tight feeling in your chest and in your shoulders when you think about the way that Doey had worded that question– had there been something between him and Poppy at some point? Why does that possibility bother you? But– you know this feeling. You're jealous. You maybe hadn't been entirely forward with Doey about the kind of relationships you'd had– it was true that your past boyfriends made you cry, yes. Most of the time you cried in your bed, over a tub of ice cream, or in the shower… but sometimes you cried while driving a pocket knife into a tire. Some things, you didn’t handle very well.

You pick up that can of peaches he'd given you, and start to finish it. No sense in wasting any food down here, even if it had started to go off– they are sweet in a way that borders on rot, but you get the whole can down. The boozy taste is kind of nice, actually, and on an empty stomach, it starts to hit you quite fast. You lay down, your back against the sleeping bag, barring your arm over your eyes. 

There was so much to worry about, and that had been without finding someone in this miserable place with whom you felt connected to, not just through physical attraction but in heart and mind, too. He’d answered a difficult call, and you know that even for someone who was a natural caretaker, the situation that he’d undertaken here in the Safe Haven was nightmarish– and with his unique abilities, he’d surely had the chance to leave, but hadn’t. You admired him for that. It was one thing to step up to the plate– it was another thing to choose it.

He was brave and kind, silly and just a little unhinged – he checked so many boxes for you, except for the fact that he was an inhumane experiment trapped at the bottom of a literal massacre. Your head swims as you lay there and reflect, the warm string lights of the Haven glowing dimly just beyond your closed eyes. Truthfully, you are near your breaking point. The weight of everything here pressed onto you in a way that you felt ready to snap, to do anything just to finish it all and to have it over and done with. This feeling presses you towards Poppy’s conclusion– burn it all down and bury it . You would have agreed with that almost entirely, if not for Doey.

It was selfish. It was selfish to like him enough that you’d consider changing the plan, and it was selfish to stick to the plan regardless of what you felt. You’d used the expression damned if you do, damned if you don’t before, but this is one of the few times you truly felt damned no matter what you did. The obvious answer was that you shouldn’t have returned at all. Longing for ignorance was true selfishness– but it would have been bliss, too.

Your mind wanders as you start to drift off. Now that you had the Omni-hand, Doey could round up all of the toys at the Safe Haven and you could all ride the lift up to the exit, and just leave, provided that they could all keep their feral tendencies at bay . Your last few thoughts before you fall asleep consist of wishful thinking– how many toys could you fit in your apartment? What would be the first meal you’d prepare for them? Would Doey enjoy your classic c hile rellenos ? How many chiles would you need to prepare it for all of the toys…?

You dream of cutting and washing peppers in your small apartment kitchen, for far, far too many people. It’s one of the nicest dreams you have.

---

“Princess Leia, before your execution, I would like you to be my guest at a ceremony that will make this battle-station operational.”

When you wake, it’s dark in the Haven. You hear the hum of a projector, and you sit up with a keen eagerness as to what you suspect is going on outside– a movie! You hadn’t closed the tent before you’d fallen asleep, so as soon as your eyes open you see A New Hope playing, glowing on a makeshift bed sheet screen. You see all of the small Smiling Critters rounded up, and they’ve all got the snacks distributed to them, open sodas and chips and candy scattered around. It’s wonderful. It’s almost normal. You drag yourself forward from the tent on your palms, nearly in disbelief that you’d made this happen– that is, you and…

You see Doey’s unmissable silhouette off to the side, sitting with a few of the toys in his lap, one sitting on his stomach. His arm is morphed into some shape with recesses to house a couple open bags of chips and sodas, and all of the toys are glued to the screen. Your heart swells. It’s an adorable sight, one that you feel very thankful for. You continue your crawl, on your hands and knees, and they are so transfixed on the movie that they don’t notice that you’ve joined them.

“... I have chosen to test this station’s destructive power on your home planet of Alderaan,” The General’s voice drones, from the movie.

Flickering lights cast upon you from the screen, and Doey looks over suddenly as you settle in next to him, your arms touching. You give him a tepid smile and a small wiggle of your fingers in greeting– he’d been so cold towards you after you’d been caught, and you were nervous about that, until…

… until he grins at you, so sincere and genuine that you feel your anxiety just melt .

”Heya, pal! I didn’t want to wake you,” He whispers, easily sliding an arm around you. “Welcome to Movie Night!”

He offers you some chips, and you shake your head, although your eyes betray your interest in them, boggling somewhat at the prospect of something else to eat. You are more than grateful for the offer, but after everything you’d learned about their food situation here, you can’t bring yourself to eat it. Doey smiles, and looks around– he sets the chips down, and stretches an arm all the way to the large pile of snacks set aside, and plucks one up. He brings it to you– it’s a bag of pretzels .

“They won’t touch this one,” He assures you, still whispering. ”To be honest I think they’d appreciate it if you ate this, just so they don’t have to.” It was placating at best, but you’re flattered that he even thinks to make up excuses for you. You take the pretzels and open up the bag, trying not to seem too eager for it.

You lean into him, eating pretzels, watching the movie, toys surrounding you both. He offers you a sip of his soda, which you take, and the normalcy of it all starts to sink in, for you. You want this for all of them, so, so badly, and you can’t deny that you want it most of all for him. The scene continues.

The General, ”Fire when ready.”
Leia, ”What?!”

An empire soldier, ”Commence primary ignition.”

There’s a tap on your elbow, and you turn. You see Poppy’s red hair first, and then you turn your eyes down to meet hers. After that conversation she’d had with Doey, you feel a little embarrassed to be watching a movie, cuddling up with him and the toys, when you know that she views your collective time as short, and because she’d brought up a good point about striking while the iron was hot– while the Prototype was still dealing with losing an ally.

“Can I talk to you?” She asks. Her voice is eerily calm.

On the big screen, the Death Star charges. A green beam emits from the ship, aimed towards the Princess’ home planet, where everything she knew and loved resided. 

You take Doey’s arm off your shoulder, and he gives you both an indecipherable look as you stand up and nods towards Poppy– you carefully step over the snacks and the sodas, and tip toe away with her.

Behind you, the planet explodes.

You follow her towards the long hallway of the infirmary, which bends around until you are out of view from the other toys. With everyone watching the movie, you are the only ones there. You hear Kissy follow you both in, but she simply closes the set of double doors at the entrance, and waits– keeping watch for eavesdroppers. Takes one to know one, you figure.

You stop at the corner and find a stool to sit on, and Poppy, who had been holding her skirts as she walked, lets go and gently flattens them out, prim and proper. She regards you with cold, tired eyes, folding her hands together.

“We’ll need to set the explosives soon,” She says, right to business. You’re not sure what you expected, but your shoulders relax a little as you realize that she’s not here to lecture you about Doey.

“ The Prototype knows that all he has left are the children– and now he probably knows that we’re trying to get to them, too. We don’t have a lot of time,” She pleads. “Can you do it tonight?”

You freeze. You don’t know what to say. Well– that’s wrong, you do know what you want to say. It’s: Can we think this over? Can we come up with a better plan? Can we save the Safe Haven?

”Please.” Her eyes turn down, some shame in it. You can tell that it’s humiliating for her to have to beg. After everything she’d been through– after all of the suffering that humans had caused her, to have to beg one to help her– to have to allow her fate to be decided by mercy–

You grimace. Your heart hurts for her, and you wish that it hadn’t come to this, let alone that you also wish it hadn’t come down to you. The horror you’d seen while fighting the Doctor feels far away, with everything you’d experienced since. You start to respond, and you are near saying no, definitively no, you wouldn’t set them until you could guarantee that the toys in the Safe Haven could get out, but Poppy senses your refusal and she picks up a VHS near her, and holds it out to you in her small hands.

“You deserve to see this,” She says, quietly. “I know you like him– and I do, too, for what it’s worth – but you–” She shakes her head, “-- you should know about this.”

You stare at her, and you take the tape. Your blood runs cold– you've seen and heard many tapes now, and you know that the secrets they held were atrocities the scale of which you'd never seen in your life. That she would hand this to you, clearly believing that it would sway you into destroying the Safe Haven– that meant that it was bad. Whatever was on this was bad, and you know, deep down, that if it was about Doey, it would be a deep breach of trust and privacy to view it. You would want your partner to take you as you are, if it were you– Doey hadn’t once brought up what everyone knew, that you were an employee . Hadn’t once used it against you or asked you about it, despite the fact that every horrific thing in his life could be traced back to Playtime . He understood that you were who you were now, and he liked you for it.

But, you can’t stop yourself– you need to know. It dawns on you, your hands clammy and sticky against the cold plastic, that like Mommy Long Legs, like CatNap, like the fucking Prototype, it is your instinct to know more about what Doey was capable of because you have a sick, sick feeling that you'd need to. You’d need to, if it ever came down to it. 

You are no martyr. You didn't get this far down here without being a survivor– Doctor Harley had given you that moral test, forcing you to choose between your life or a toy's, and you had chosen yours, not gladly but it was no ultimatum for you. It had been quite quick, even. If it was between you and Doey, you know what your choice would be.

Poppy steps aside. Despite that you don't communicate any of what you feel to her, she sees in your face all that she needs to know– it was familiar, after all. It was the same face that she had, the same tired eyes; only, she had chosen to stop saying sorry for wanting to survive. You couldn’t blame her for that.

You put the tape into a TV that was set in the corner by your stool– that was why she’d taken you here. As the VHS pulls in and clicks, you hover your finger over the play button, and after a moment, you press it.

There’s a long silence, and then…

[“Sir, ma’am… I ask that you remain calm whenever you interact with the… patient.”]

---

Poppy is standing on the stool now, patting your back as well as she can as you throw up into a metal bucket. She looks a little awkward, a little bit like she hadn’t expected this reaction from you, but you’re not sure what reaction you are supposed to have to watching two people get splattered onto the walls of an padded room– two parents who had come so close to getting their child back, only to be told that he’d been turned into a monster, only to be then murdered by him.

Everything you just ate comes right back up. By this time, Kissy had meandered her way over to check on you both, and she now busies herself with using her one working hand to pull your hair out of your face. You hold onto the bucket. It was the grisly footage that did it, mostly, but you probably shouldn’t have finished that can of peaches, either.

“I’m sorry ,” Poppy says, for the tenth time since you’d finished watching. “I just wanted you to understand…”

Kissy nods along with Poppy, predictably, and you dip your head to dry heave into the bucket once more. 

The girls exchange a look, and Poppy hops down off the stool, while Kissy takes over patting your back. The porcelain doll makes her way to stand facing you, on the other side of the bucket, and you cough and sputter, clutching the edges of it as you look up towards her. Tears are streaming down your face, mostly from nausea, but the expression you give her is utterly and completely defeated.

“I know it’s not fair. None of it is– they never should have done what they did to him, or to any of us–” Poppy frowns, but that porcelain face can only express so much. “He didn’t know what he was doing. Their deaths are on Playtime, not him…”

You feel a ‘but’ coming. You put your face in your hands, coughing, bile burning your throat.

“But…” There it was, “Can you imagine the damage he’d cause if he ever lost control like that again? I don’t want to believe that he would, but we have to be realistic– the toys that are here, Angel, the children that Playtime killed– I’m sorry, but–” She shook her head, “They lost their lives a long time ago. There are real children, alive but asleep, all down below, waiting for us to help them. And it might soon be too late.”

You feel something in your bones, a heavy feeling that settles into you unnaturally, an ache that you can’t place. It’s dread. It’s dread, and hate . You feel useless in this tide of morality, in the wake of decisions beyond the help of philosophy or reason or prayer. There was no right answer, but inaction only made things worse. You fucking hate it, and you hate yourself, too, because you nod at Poppy, closing your eyes.

“You’ll do it, then?” She confirms. “You’ll help me tear it all down?”

Your head turns sharply, as if her words physically sting. You nod again in the most minute increments, your eyes shut as tight as they could.

Poppy lets out a breath, not quite a sigh of relief, because what relief was there in a decision like this? Nevertheless, the tension in her face lessens a little, and her next breath is shaky. Her head nods.

“Thank you. Thank you… You have no idea how much this means to us. We’ll continue with the next part of the plan, then.” Poppy steps forward to take your hand in hers, her small, cold fingers only able to grasp just a couple of yours. “Thank you for trusting me. I’ll talk to Doey again– I’ll see if I can make him understand, I promise. ” She gives you a tiny squeeze, before she lets go and starts to head back to the main room. You reluctantly meet eyes with Kissy as well, who also gives you a reassuring pat, her felt hand on your head.

You nod at them both, wiping your cheeks with your sleeve. You push yourself up onto your feet, taking the bucket with you to go and clean up. Kissy stands to follow Poppy, her head dipping down to fit through the doorway as she follows her out, and just like that, the conversation is done. 

You make your way hastily towards the bathrooms, where you wash out the bucket as well as you can, and then turn to a sink to start washing out your mouth. The water swishes around in your cheeks, and you wish you could do the same with your eyes. The image of Susan and her husband– the parents of a child Playtime had experimented on to make Doey– desperately seeking their lost child, and then getting torn apart. What did Playtime even fucking stand to gain from that? There was no basis for the evil that happened here, or at least there was nothing that could possibly justify it, but more infuriating than ulterior motives and greater or lesser evils was all the fucking waste. You find yourself asking why, when you know that no answer would ever really be enough– worse, you know that there probably isn’t one.  

You spit the water out, and you just grip the sides of the sink, looking at yourself in the mirror. You’d had so much fun just a few hours ago. Things went so wrong, so fast here. And, like you told yourself earlier: stop being such a stupid bitch. How would you feel about this if you hadn't struck something up with Doey? You know the answer– of course you do, since you'd been following Poppy's orders to the letter before you'd met him. You wouldn’t have even second-guessed it– you would have had those fuses set by now.

The aches of the past day radiate in your body with a dull pain, far less, you know, than they actually should have. You are still running mostly on adrenaline, but some of those aches string through you with a pleasant warmth, your body remembering which bruises were battle-won and which were something decidedly more gratifying. 

You touch your face, your cheek, and take a moment just to look at yourself in the mirror. You'd seen better days, of course. The sleep that you'd gotten in the Safe Haven didn't touch the dark circles under your eyes. Doey had been calling you cute and pretty for so long that you'd started to believe it, but were you just cute and pretty for a stress toy? But, that’s unfair of you– you know the pressure he's under from Poppy. He probably had a million reasons to say what he did, least of all that if he actually felt that way, that would be more than fine. It'd serve both of you well to observe some distance, but it turns out that’s pretty difficult, especially as you hear the door open and then gently lock behind you.

You look up, and you see a familiar blue shape in the mirror, standing at the door. He meets your eyes in the mirror, offering you a friendly wave. 

“Hey,” He says, subdued. “You alright?”

You nod, hand against your stomach. You make a motion that mimics you eating out of the can of peaches, and then you make a second gesture for vomiting your brains out. It’s dramatic enough that Doey laughs a little, despite that he seems like he feels bad for you. He approaches, slow.

“Oh no! Aha– I’m sorry, I guess– I knew they were kind of old, but I didn’t realize… how old.” He wraps his arms around you, from behind, settling against you with more weight than he usually did, and you press your hands into the sink to stay upright. He says he didn’t realize, but it’d been strange that he had them at all, despite the fact that the other toys had been starving. You’d given him the benefit of doubt earlier– maybe he’d recently found them, or maybe they were reserved for something else…  but now, you’re not so sure if that’s true.

His face presses into the back of your neck. You feel a little strange about this, watching him in the mirror, the sounds of A New Hope playing in the other room, muffled through the wall. You feel enormously guilty about what you learned about him, and the decision it had pushed you towards.

“What did you and Poppy chat about?” He asks, finally.

You turn in his arms, your back against the sink, and he adjusts to hold you, his large hands closing over your waist. His expression echoes the misery he’d felt in the Doctor’s lab, not quite as strong, but it’s there and it tugs at your heart– but you have to lie to him. How could you tell him what you’d agreed to do?

You make a circular motion with your finger in the air, gesturing both at yourself and Doey in a way that suggests you were mingling , and you roll your eyes, pretending as though Poppy had lectured you about your involvement with him. He watches you, without a change in expression. You try to give him a smile, and you place a hand on his shoulder, looking up at him. You shake your head, sliding your hand up to hold his face, leaning in for a brief kiss. He meets you, reluctantly, and speaks with his head against yours afterwards, pressing his forehead down against you. 

“ Pfft ,” He says, after a moment, “She gave me an earful about that , too.” 

You try not to sigh in relief, but a long breath leaves your nose anyway. He seems to buy it, but then again, he was a difficult read, sometimes. You rest your hands against his chest, pursing your lips in a small pout. You tilt your head at him, inviting him to elaborate. 

“She's not totally wrong– we maaaaaybe have been–” Snrk. “-- a little irresponsible about it, but I don't think we're hurting anyone.”

You don't laugh along with him. You want to ask him about his relationship with Poppy again, but you don't even know what you would gain from knowing that. He pulls away, looking over you and your new clothes, taking your hands. 

“ Playtime wear, huh? Careful, I definitely wouldn't mind tearing that off of you.” He smiles, although the look he gives your overalls is genuinely disdainful. You can’t blame him. The comment gets you to finally smile back, though, and his tone stokes something in you, something you are certainly familiar with by now.

You bow your head a little to give him a little look, patting the Playtime logo on your overalls, and then patting both of your hands on him. You slide your hands down his stomach.

He grins. “If I’m understanding you right– you’re bad, Angel–” He snickers. “Right here?”

You shake your head, no, no no, as if that would just be so beneath you, as an employee. You tap the logo again and then hold your hand up, waving it in disapproval, dramatically shaking your head to refuse. Your pretend persona is clear: an employee? Fraternizing with an experiment? Don’t be ridiculous!

It was fucked up, but you both had committed to making better memories from bad ones. They owed you that much.  If he was willing to play, why not? You slip, giving him a small sidelong grin.

He kisses your cheek, affectionate, pulling you close, his clay hands pressing against your ass, squeezing lightly. His tone turns dark, whispering low: “Oh you are bad. Alright, I know just the place.”

You both steal your way out of the bathroom, and under the cover the movie provided– with everyone's eyes on the projector– you manage to get away without almost anyone noticing.

---

You walk, hand in hand, back towards the area that he'd first escorted you from, when you'd first met, where he'd turned himself into a bridge for you. That had been fun, and silly, and was the beginning of the very small amount of levity you'd found in this place. You suppose that you'd appreciated him for that, even from the beginning. 

He takes you back to those wrecked observation rooms you’d passed. A smile dawns on him as he sees them, something unkind in it, not a true expression of happiness but one of some deep-seated anger, delight at the ways he was about to deface it. You are happy to give that to him. You’d armed yourself with a spray can, once or twice, gone to windows of abandoned places you’d hated, places that once held so much trauma for you that you wished you could burn it to the ground. They deserved to be abandoned. They deserved to be forgotten. They deserved to be vandalized, too.

Doey enters first, flicking on a light that sputters to life, a fluorescent hum above your heads. He shifts aside one of the tables and chairs with ease, taking a seat, folding his hands over the table, politely. He looks over to you and starts to say something, but blinks in surprise as you close the door, without entering. You look around outside for a prop– and you spot a clipboard with a pen attached on the ground. Perfect.

You clear your throat, and knock on the door before entering, tucking the clipboard at your side. Doey watches you, and then he smiles, big, amused at your dedication to the act. Snrk. He lifts his hat in greeting, and then settles into his pretend role:

“Good morning, Miiiii ….” He trails off, raising a clay brow briefly, looking to you for coordination, and you give him the brief okay to refer to you as Miss, “-- Miss . You’re looking very lovely today. Is that a new perfume?”

Again, you’re not a great actor. You were no stranger to roleplaying though, in the bedroom or otherwise, so you only briefly laugh behind your clipboard before you put on a serious face, nodding at him primly. You pretend to check your clipboard for the tasks of the day, taking a half-seat on the table, leaning back against it beside Doey. His hand creeps eagerly to touch your leg, and you playfully smack his hand with your pen. Hey!

He pulls back, lacing his fingers together, looking as innocent as could be. A halo may as well have appeared over his head.

You give him a stern look before returning to your clipboard. You scribble on it, and then point at him with the end of the pen, nodding for him to begin.

He sits up straight, as if called to attention. “Let’s see– usually you ask me how I’ve been feeling, if there’s been any changes in my physiology, or my mood…”

You nod, moving your pen circularly in the air, and then poise to pretend to take notes. Go ahead.

“I’m doing good,” He says. “Although– no, I shouldn’t bring it up…” Twiddling his thumbs, looking a bit shy about what he meant to say next.

You pause your fake writing. You give him a look, somewhat meant to scold. Out with it!

Doey continues, “Well, I’ve been feeling a little… tense, actually.” You’ve seen him play pretend before, so his acting here is intentionally cheesy, like the beginning of a porno. It’s so silly that it makes you blush– you’re starting to realize that his goofiness turns you on so badly.

The pen scritches noisily against the keyboard as you continue fake writing, and you purse your lips in thought. You make a motion at his shoulders. There?

“No, not quite there,” He says, scooting his chair back. “Actually, I think it started when you took over conducting my interviews, instead of the usual scientist…”

A grin escapes you, as you see where this is going, and you raise your brows at him. Oh?

“I started feeling this, uh– this tension, when I first saw you. You know, you’re very pretty, Miss…” His voice dips, darkly, “It’s such a shame you work at a place like this.”

You point at yourself, dramatically. Me? You set the clipboard down, and shake your hands, no, no, how unprofessional! I could never!

He presses, “If you have any ideas on how I might relieve that tension, uhm… certainly, it’d be within your purview– to take care of your test subjects, wouldn’t it?”

Why is he so good at this? You feel tense yourself, the allure of such an illicit scenario guiding you to tug one of the straps of your overalls off, slyly. Doey watches you with avid interest, folding his arm up to rest against the top of his chair. You tilt your head at him, as if to ask, does this help?

He doesn’t respond, simply fixed on your strip tease. It’d been a while since you’d done this for someone, and taking your own clothes off was certainly a welcome change from having them ripped off– at least while you only had one set of clothing. 

You slide off the other strap, and the bulk of the top half of the overalls falls around your hips. You step forward, in front of him, and shimmy out, letting the cloth gather at your ankles. You step out of them, in your sweater and underwear, your white sneakers punctuating the look.

“God. I’m never gonna get tired of this,” Doey says, exhaling, breaking character for a moment. You can’t help but smile at that. You turn your head sharply, wagging a finger at him, tapping your clipboard on the table. Focus!

“Oop– right, I mean– yes, I think that’s working. Maybe a little more.”

You are already eagerly hooking your thumbs under your sweater when he says that, jumping the gun somewhat, but Doey leans forward as you pop the sweater and your sports bra off in one swoop, exposing your breasts. He lets out a whistle.

“It would be completely inappropriate for me to touch you, but I really think it’d help my performance– as a test subject, of course,” He says, already moving to do so, that goopy smile appearing on him.

You step back, holding your hand up to indicate stop , biting your lip to keep from a mischievous smile. You pick up the clipboard to walk around him, pretending to write again, looking very official in your undies and sneakers. His head twists around to watch you, turning completely more than once, his neck cork-screwing cartoonishly.

You scribble, looking him over, observing very astutely, doing your best to pretend to be a scientist. To be honest you have no fucking clue what they really even did in these rooms, but you’re just trying to prolong the moment, just to tease him. He snickers at you.

“Sorry, you’re right. Something like this would probably end your career… getting involved with an experiment– that’s unthinkable! Not to mention, you’re so above it, aren’t you? We’re just toys, after all.”

You’re glad he’s so good at playing pretend, because you wouldn’t be able to think of all of that on the spot.

He places a large clay palm on the table, pushing it away from him like it weighed nothing at all. “It’d be such a shame if you were reduced to– well, reduced to what, I don’t know,” His voice dips again, striking something ominously dark in it, “But I’m sure I could find out.”

That comment makes you stop altogether, and you balk at him, slightly, unaware that he was capable of saying something like that– but it’s not unwelcome, just the opposite, in fact. You feel your heart rate pick up, and you redden, heat creeping into your cheeks, your ears, your shoulders. Why was this stupid clay monster so fucking hot?

He waits a moment, and another moment, and then he tilts his head at you, clearing his throat as if you had missed your cue.

You perk up, surfacing from how clouded his voice had just made you, remembering to play along– you hold the clipboard against your chest, as if suddenly shy, shaking your head. What? You wouldn’t! You touch the back of your hand to your forehead, as if you were a helpless little thing, so completely distraught by the notion of doing something illicit with him.

Doey breaks to laugh at this, and he pushes the table against the doorway, as if barring your escape. Belatedly, you pretend to run for the door, but your performance isn’t that convincing, because that is the last thing you want to do. You drop the clipboard, and it clatters dramatically, pen rolling away.

Charitably, Doey plays along with your pathetic attempt to pretend to run: “Too late for that! Listen, I’m a nice guy, I’ll even let you decide what you want to do first– and I promise, Miss, it’ll be as good for you as it is for me…” His voice is so damn nice, and his stupid, stupid dirty talk is getting you so wound up. Blood is rushing away from your head to warm your private areas so quickly that you are getting dizzy.

You approach him, all but abandoning whatever guise of roleplay you’d come here for. Your mouth waters, and you have a pretty good idea of what you wanted next. Not subtly, you drop to your knees in front of him, placing your hands on his legs, gently prying them apart.

Doey’s eyes widen, as if he hadn’t expected that. It almost makes him break character– but not quite. He clears his throat again, and he next leans back, setting a hand on your head, affectionately ruffling your hair.

“You Playtime people really have no shame, do you?” He murmurs. It’s oddly grounded, for dirty talk, but you are far too invested in your task to pay it much mind. You scootch in and first lean your cheek against his stomach, nuzzling it, turning your eyes up towards him. He looks down at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’d ever seen, some longing in his gaze– almost too much longing, considering you were sitting there in front of him, ready to do whatever he wished of you.

Your hands slide over his clay, squeezing lightly at his sides, just appreciating his size, his softness. You stand on your knees and press your breasts over his lap, which makes him let out a delighted giggle, his hands reaching to press you into him by your back. There is so much clay in front of you that it feels a little bit insurmountable, but where your breasts press into his lower half, you feel the clay forming, an appendage prodding up at you.

“Hehehe…!” He leans over you. “You look so cute down there.”

You take him into your hand, curiously. You hadn't actually handled him like this, yet, the one time that you'd taken him into your mouth had largely been in his control, and you'd just held on for the ride. This time, however, you're curious about what exactly he'd been shoving into you all this time. 

It doesn't feel any different from the rest of him, although it must have been, judging by the way he tenses and hisses when you take him into hand. It throbs and shapes the way you'd expect a cock to be, thick in your small hands. He presses you closer, impatiently. 

You start to pull your hand over him, jacking him off the way you would for other men, but the clay gathers under your grip, filling in when you pull, pillowing. He smiles. 

“I'd get it a little wet, first,” He suggests, enjoying this far too much. You feel your cheeks redden at the suggestion, and you try to flatten the appendage back into a smoother shape– you then lift your eyes to meet his as you stick your tongue out, and move to slide it along his length. You make a pretty little show of it, extending your tongue as far as you can. The taste on your tongue is the same as it is when you kiss; salty, dull, fragrant.

He groans, and you feel a sort of pride burn in you, as if you were finally taking some control from him. The back and forth was so fun for you, the chase and the catch. 

You close your eyes and move your neck into the motion, sliding the middle of your tongue up and down from base to tip, making sure your mouth gets him as wet as you can. It's a large length, bigger than you've ever taken in your mouth before you'd come back to the factory. 

Doey watches you, taking it all in. The hand at your back eases, but then you feel his arm stretch, creeping down, skirting his fingers over your skin. His touch is driving you crazy, and you tilt your head, working your tongue against him, melting into a hot and heavy kiss along the side of his cock. 

He jolts at the kiss, leaning over you more. You swear he almost mouths a swear – you narrow your eyes, and take that as a challenge. 

 “ Fhh– ... God. You're so good at this,” He breathes out. 

That was what you liked to hear. You lay kisses along him, sucking gently with each one, your plush lips squishing and pop! -ing each time you pull off. Doey tenses and relaxes each time, lifting his hand up to his mouth, appearing as though he’s biting on his knuckle. It's the first time you'd ever seen him quite this way– usually he had you gasping and begging for more. 

You drag your tongue up, aaaaall the way to the tip before you pull off, leaving a small trail of saliva as you do. You take a small break, hooking your arm around one of his legs, laying your cheek against his knee while you try to jack him off with your hand again. He was right– it was much easier when it was wet. Your hand glides smoothly over him this time, your wrist moving a little faster.

He pulls his hand away from his mouth, and slides his palm over your shoulder, running down your back. You feel the clay stretching to feel you up without him moving from his seat. His hand touches your underwear, and you next hear a–

RIP!

You squeak in surprise as he tears it off you, quite easily, like it was tissue. His roughness shocks you in a way that tightens a hot coil inside you, although you pause in jacking him off, blinking up at him for an explanation.

He grins down at you, and his other hand envelops yours when you stop, his hand tightening your grip for you in just the way he wants, pumping his wrist to keep your palm moving.

“Don’t stop,” He warns, and you feel light-headed.

You oblige him, a soft whine escaping you. God, that’s hot. You didn’t have the upper hand for very long. Your legs feel cold in relative comparison to the heat that had been building up between your legs, so you carefully sit up off his knee and stand on your own knees, settling his cock between your breasts as you finally prepare yourself to take him into your mouth.

He watches, pulling his hand off of yours now that his message has been received. Doey watches you, hanging off your every move, and you want, so badly, to please him. You kiss the tip of his length, and then plunge it into your mouth.

His hand flies to his face again as he lets out a noise. His palm lays flat against his cheek, and his whimpering drives you to start sucking, rolling your lips and your tongue around the tip circularly, squishing your breasts against the lower half of his shaft.

“Jee-ee-eesus,” He sputters, nearly like every movement electrocutes him. His reaction almost makes you laugh, if it were not for the fact that you were savoring every moment of torturing him like this. You take him further into your mouth, pushing your knees into the floor to lean forward into him more.

Doey’s hand and face drips and melts, and your work is quickly turning him into a literal puddle. ”Your mouth is so wet, Angel– so hot and wet…” He whimpers, pushing his hand against your back again to encourage you further.

You tuck your hair behind your ear with some renewed determination, deciding it was time to get serious. Your hand wanders to his stomach again, feeling him, your other hand finding purchase on his knee– and, finally, you close your eyes and make a concerted effort to push him all the way into your throat.

His size fills your mouth, stretching your throat just a little past what you were comfortable with– his edges fight against yours, until the space that separates you and Doey is almost intolerably thin. You manage it, though, with some pride– and, for an even more impressive display, you start to bob your head.

Doey falls apart, his hand clutching your hair, suddenly. He whimpers and whines again, pathetic little moans falling from him, and you feel part of his face drip onto your head– but none of this dissuades you from your task, which you execute with laser focus. You make sloppy, wet sucking noises as you blow him, pulling your mouth back and forth over him, your lips and saliva staining blue. That would have to be a concern for later, but right now, this is practically what you were born for.

“A–ah, Angel, er– Angel wuh– wait!” He pleads, suddenly, although he doesn’t remove you even though he certainly could. He throbs in your mouth.

You squeeze his knee and you don’t wait, instead rallying yourself for more enthusiasm, sucking a little harder. You pull up and down, and then, just to show off, you bury him all the way in, as deep as you could get him. The fit is very tight. You feel him throb again, and you remember just how much he’d cum inside of you before– a little late, you realize he would be spending that all in your throat. He tried to stop you, to his credit, but ambition had clouded your better judgement, and now he was bucking himself into your mouth, his fingers threaded messily within your hair.

Your eyes widen, and you moan in your nose, your breathing heavy. Doey makes pitiful little noises, and you can hear him moan and gasp the way he did when he was near his edge.

”Mmh– fhh–” He shoves you down, and keeps you there. You can’t pull away. “… fuck!”

It would have been nice to enjoy that you’d finally worked him up so much that he’d sworn in front of you, except that the appendage thrums in your mouth a few times, emptying itself into your throat, exploding. You let out a high-pitched whine through your nose, clutching his leg hard enough that your fingers leave deep impressions in his clay. He grinds himself against your mouth a few times, instinctively.

After a few thrusts, pulls himself out, belatedly, as if he’d caught himself in the midst of it, and his cock has enough to pulse a few last strands over your face and breasts. You cough and sputter, spitting up what you hadn’t already swallowed onto the ground, your mouth and body a complete mess.

God damn it.

Doey sits there, breathing for a long moment, leaving you be as you gather yourself. You wipe at your mouth and your face, flicking what you can onto the floor. You can’t blame anyone but yourself for this, but at the same time, it was kinda fun. Hopefully you could get access to that emergency shower again before anyone sees you.

You sit back, closing your legs, resting. You look up at Doey. He looks down at you, taking in the sight of you pathetically covered in blue.

He grins, wiping his own face, trying to return some of his melted shape. Phew. “That was– uhm– that was… impressive. ”

He flinches as you flick some of the blue at him, and he laughs. “No, I’m serious! I really admire your dedication,” He says, standing up. He stoops to pick you up by your shoulders, off the floor, but instead of setting you on your feet the way he had directly after the encounter with Pianosaurus, he drops you a bit roughly onto your back, onto the table he’d pushed against the exit. Oof! You lay there, your thighs clearly slick and wet from how aroused you’d gotten blowing him, your white sneakers dangling off the edge of the table.

Dropping you down like that kind of hurt. You are used to some rough treatment from him, but you aren’t too sure if he’s roleplaying with you again, as what dedication he refers to, you have no idea. You sit up on your elbows to watch him as he approaches you again, getting between your legs. He leans over you, the bright fluorescent light silhouetting him from behind.

His hand touches your stomach, his palm flat against you, the appendage that you’d worked so lovingly on laying wet on your thigh. He leans in and kisses you.

“I like you so, so much, Angel. It hurts,” He whispers, “It hurts how much I like you. You know?”

You nod in agreement, kissing him back. You were being driven crazy again, you needed him to touch you– you press your body against him insistently, which he obliges by pressing back, laying some weight on you. The pressure is so nice.

“Don’t you like me, too? Isn’t this fun for you?”

His hand travels up your body, as you nod eagerly again, and you feel him grope at your breasts– you let out a loud noise, already almost as wound up as you could take. You didn’t even want him to waste time with much more foreplay. You press your hips up to signal him to take you.

Instead, his kneading at your breast continues, until it slides up, touching your collar. He kisses your brow, your cheek…

“So, then…” He asks, his voice low and deep, rumbling through you in that way that you loved so much. His hand slides over your throat, and he lets out a little manic giggle, dark.

“... why did you tell Poppy you were going to set the explosives for her?”

His hand closes, tightly, cutting your breath short. You see him smile down at you.

Fuck.

Chapter 5: dark blue

Summary:

Things go according to plan-- or maybe not.

TW: abuse, mentions of domestic abuse

Notes:

Oh boy. Sorry for the wait, I literally wrote and scrapped almost 5k of this chapter and then decided to completely start over at some point, which ended up being much better than me trying to rewrite sections that I felt were off. I'll put together and link to some further thoughts I had while writing this later, but it's late where I am and I know you guys would rather have the chapter asap so I won't make you wait for my thoughts, lol.

I try very hard to make some scenes from the game make a little bit more sense in this chapter, so if you see some familiar things seem unfamiliar, it's because I hate the way this part is actually written in the game and I'm trying to salvage it. As always, thanks so much for all the kudos and the comments, you guys are the best. Cheers!

Edit: Here's a link to the tumblr post for this, where I give some thoughts, if anyone is interested.

“You humans are aaaaaall the same.”  

Doey's grip on your neck is tight, but there's something careful in it, still. You've seen him send his fist through concrete– you know that he's holding back. A lot. Somehow, that doesn't exactly comfort you. You shake your head at him, quickly, a reply which he doesn't accept, his grip closing. Your chest burns, your need for air swelling, and you throw your hands up to clutch at his wrist. 

“To be honest, I thought this place had hurt me in every way possible, but if there's one thing you can always count on Playtime for, it's finding new ways to make you suffer…” There's defeat in his voice, but the undercurrent of anger doesn't allow him to look miserable, like before– his tone is casual, sardonic. That scares you. His eyes travel down, looking over your body. 

Your palms sink into his wrist, and you’re pulling away handfuls of his arm, but his grip doesn’t waver. He barely even reacts.

“... I guess I just didn't expect it to be you, but hey, why not? Every human I've ever met has lied to me. Your voice wasn't even gentle, you just–” He leans over you again, giggling, just on the edge of hysteria, “-- didn't have a voice at all! Hehe…! ”

You try to shake your head again, twisting and writhing. You kick at him, but your legs disappear into his clay, and he traps your knees there in his stomach. When you are secure within him, he finally loosens his grip enough that you can breathe, and you gasp for air. You are starting to realize just how fucked you'd be if he was actually trying to kill you. 

“Hey, hey, it's fine! I'm not angry at you, Angel,” He says, clearly angry, “I had a feeling you were going to take Poppy's side. After all–”

He leans in. “-- you've been such a good girl for her this whole time.”

That makes you grit your teeth. You feel bad about lying to him, but Doey treads closely to pushing your buttons. He notices your reaction, and a smile dawns on him, reaching his hollow eyes. You feel him push closer to you, his clay stomach rolling over your hips, his hands carefully encroaching onto the table. 

“ Riiiiiight . We're just toys , though, aren't we? I thought I was naive, but you really think that Poppy's end game is saving all of those orphans? Boy are you in for a wake-up call, babe.”

You try to sit up, but he shoves you back down by your throat. You thunk! your head on the table. Ow. He puts his other hand on you, tenderly, on your waist– an olive branch, of sorts. He presses the subject, more gently, as he kisses at your chest, traveling up to your throat. “ Think about it. I played along because I think saving them just so happens to align with her goals for now, but I don't believe that's what she really came down here for.”

You give him a hurt look, your brows pinched, but confusion lingers somewhere just beyond it. Whether or not it was possible that Poppy had just been playing the long game, when she’d spent most of it trapped inside of a case– you don’t think it’s likely. So much had to fall into place for any of what had transpired to happen the way it had– what control Poppy had over that, you didn’t know. Was she capable of taking advantage of it? Of course she was, but she had reasons more than most. You think she’s sincere. 

You have to think that, anyway. The alternative is that you’d agreed to blow everything up for no reason at all.

You shake your head again, as that's all you can do, and Doey's smugness here falters for frustration. He pulls away from kissing your neck, and leans into you more with each emphasized word, growing exasperated:

“ Angel you can't be this stupid– ” He hisses, his hand pulling off your waist to ball into a fist. This time, he pushes you too far– and you thrash against him at that word, letting out a brief, strained noise. You try to push him off you, to no avail.

“She's using you– or are both of you just using me? ” He presses.

Disbelief clouds your irritation as your eyes widen, and you stop trying to free yourself. How could he even think that?  

He continues, “Is that all this has been to you? Some sort of– messed-up misdirection? Do you even really like me, or does she have you stooping that low?”

You let out another strained noise and kick at him uselessly again. Your eyes water. That accusation stings in a way you didn’t expect. Doey leans into your face, his expression fraught with loathing, distrust. His voice splinters and twists, how it was in the Doctor’s lab, and his next words are nearly a howl, his hands slamming down on either side of you. 

“Do you know how stupid I feel for trusting you? The guilt I feel– for putting my family in danger– God! For believing that you had feelings for me– For thinking you'd ever love me–”

Hatred bubbles up in his voice, not for you, but for himself. “ -- For thinking anyone would ever love me…!”

You wind your arm back, and you CRACK your palm across his face. 

You could withstand a lot. You've been someone's verbal and non-verbal punching bag before– but you couldn’t withstand Doey thinking that he was unlovable. He was wrong about that. 

And, not least of all, thinking that you didn't love him– he was wrong about that, too.

Your hand leaves a deep mark in his face, and Doey stops, suddenly, something shifting within him. Your breathing had turned heavy, tears streaming down your cheeks, but your face is set in a grimace, and the look you give him is exceedingly hurt. It's clear that he understands that he crossed a line. He may have even understood what the line meant for you, the way that it had been drawn not unlike a confession– he crashes his fist against the metal table you're on, denting it, and then his hands move to grab your arms, roughly. You feel the table fall away from you as the room shifts, and Doey is holding you upright, your legs dangling.

The grin he gives you, as his face slowly fills in the recessed impression of your hand, chills you to the bone. There’s anger there, but giddiness overtakes it. He had gotten what he wanted out of you, and you realize, now a familiar feeling, that you are no match for him. He had defeated you, yet again.

“ Now we’re getting somewhere,” He laughs, still distorted, a deep and terrible quality to it, even as the splintered halves of his voice start to become one again. His hands burst into tendrils that coil around your arms and your chest, pulling together tightly. One tendril punctuates in a formed hand again, which he uses to grab your jaw, fingers closing to squish your face affectionately.

“-- But fair’s fair, isn’t it?” He flicks your cheek, mirroring where you'd slapped him.

Gulp.

 

---

 

Jesus Christ .

Doey’s palm is shoving your head down against the table, his entire hand encompassing your skull, your cheek flat against the metal desk. His other hand has your knee in a death grip, and you feel your foot going numb, but you can hardly concentrate on that– his mouth had been on you, hungrily, handling your body like you were the toy. You feel like a barbie doll in his grip, mercy to whatever he wanted to do with you.

You let out a soft moan. He closes his mouth over your clit, rolling his neck into the motion, letting out his own noises– something deep and primal in his groans, as if instinct had simply taken over. This was nothing like the sweet, exploratory way that he’d gone down on you in the caves– this was him taking what was his.

His hand yanks you towards him a little more, and he sprouts another arm from the one that was pinning your head down– the orange arm bends, concluding in a hand, groping you heavily, his thumb running over your nipple. You arch into it, needily, and suddenly–

“A-ah…!” Your voice is loud when you feel his tongue prod into you. You clap your hand over your mouth, embarrassed by the noise.

Doey laughs, a rumbling that vibrates through you, pausing just for a moment. 

“You’re so cute, ” He mutters. “If I never hear your voice outside of moments like this, I’d still be happy. God , you’re adorable.” He leans back in, his thumb stroking your breast affectionately, and resumes something just a bit gentler. You exhale through your nose, in relief. He didn’t seem angry anymore. That’s good.

You can’t look at him, since he’s shoving your head down, but you would have flashed him a grateful smile. He had never pressured you to speak, and you love that about him. You’re sure that he has experience dealing with some of the toys that couldn’t speak, and it makes your heart beat a little faster, imagining how much love and patience he had for them– and for you.

Your imagination is cut quite short when he shoves his tongue into you again. You yelp, and the hand closed around your leg spreads you wider to accommodate him. The table slides noisily against the ground as he pulls you into his tongue. It’s a reasonable sized tongue, as it pumps into you, and you lay there and writhe under his grip…

But after a few strokes, you notice that every push in is met with greater resistance, and Doey’s hands relocate to your hips to pull you in easier. He twists his head into his next push, and you moan, saliva dripping from the side of your mouth as the large member fills you, feeling as though it was getting bigger with every push. Fuck.

He stands a little, lifting your bottom up with your head still pressed against the table, his hands carefully holding your stomach to keep you in place. His head bobs slightly as his tongue starts to work in and out, and his third hand sliding up your body, his fingers parting your cunt in a ‘V’ shaped motion. You squeak and whine, your toes curling. You feel dizzy, and it doesn’t take long for …

Doey’s grip on you tightens as you shudder violently, biting your lip as you cum, your body far too sensitive for the thick tongue buried inside of you. Your fingernails catch his clay, your body far too tightly wound for a moment, until you exhale and relax, vision bright and hazy. He watches you, and his tongue pulls out. He runs the broad section of his tongue against your slit a couple more times, satisfied with the way your body jerks and jolts at his touch.

He finally lets go of you, setting you down on the table. There’s something that lingers in his expression, as he looms over you still, but he tucks it down and turns to help you gather your clothes. You see worry flash on his face just before he turns his back to you. There’s a prolonged silence in the room, heavy, but decidedly less tense.

“I– I know that… she showed you, uh… the tape,” He starts, warily.

You wince. The whiplash between this conversation and what you had just finished doing strikes you cold. He picks up your overalls and your sweater off of the floor.

“That was so long ago, Angel. You don’t know what it was like for me, back then– I’ve got a great handle on things now, but back then I was a mess, physically, mentally– emotionally… ” His brow creases. “You gotta understand that they wanted that to happen. They did everything they could to achieve that outcome.”

He looks back at you. “And it worked.”

His words are punctuated by the drop of the overalls in your lap. You look down at the logo of Playtime , front and center. You can’t help but feel as though he was accusing you of something, or at the very least, marking that you had a relationship with the people that had caused him so much pain. He wasn’t wrong, of course– you were not culpable in the atrocity, but you understood why even a passing association was damning.

You start to get dressed, and this time, you leave your overalls to hang at your waist, instead of pulling the straps over your shoulders. Doey seems to appreciate that.

“Listen,” He says, moving to help you off the table, offering both hands for yours. “There's a lot of stuff that I disagree with Poppy about, this is one of them. She thinks Playtime wrecked all of us beyond help. She doesn't see a future for us– just for herself.”

You tilt your head at that, folding your arms over your breasts, tucking your hands in. What do you mean by that? 
He does a double-take at your expression.

“... Oh, jeez, you really trust her, don't you?” Realization dawns on him, his tone striking something between impressed and concerned. 

He looks around– as if afraid that someone was listening, despite the fact that you'd both been fucking for the past hour– and moves to scoop you up, hooking his arm underneath your ass and lifting you. You squeak in response, holding onto him. He carefully heads out of the interrogation room.

“Let's grab a shower and talk.”

 

---

 

You both make your way to the lab shower that Kissy had taken you to. Doey carries you, and it's a little unnerving how quiet he is. You miss goofy, silly Doey.

It doesn't take him very long to traverse the landscape– you find yourselves back towards the labs where Poppy and Kissy had first caught you kissing in the elevator. He sets you down once he sees that everything is clear in the hall, and he hovers close behind you as you walk there. A clay arm reaches around you to open the door to the locker room, where the ground is still damp by the emergency shower, from when you'd been here just a few hours ago.

You head in, and strip, setting your clothes down on the ground, sliding out of your shoes as you do. Doey slips past you to start looking through the lockers. 

“I bet there's something better than… Playtime overalls for you here…” He murmurs, sifting through open lockers. When he doesn't find what he wants, he flattens his palm against the locking mechanism of a closed locker, and you hear a click as he opens it from the inside. 

You watch with mild interest as you pull the handle of the shower. Like before, it's cold, and uncomfortable, and it's just water, so you don't feel all that clean– at least until… 

“Oh, hey. Catch!” Doey procures a travel bottle of soap from one of the pilfered lockers, tossing it underhanded towards you. Even with wet hands, you catch it solidly, and you make an oooh! face. Soap! What a luxury. It’s a brand name, even, with a pleasant vanilla and chamomile scent. 

You empty a generous handful into your palm, and start to lather up. You soap up your breasts, down over your stomach, hissing a little as you wash your private areas– well, you're certainly sore, but not sorry. Getting fucked was probably the best thing that had happened to you here, and it had genuinely been some of the best sex you’d had in your life. You start to get another squeeze of soap, and you try not to think about what that meant for you for the rest of your life, if indeed you lived– when you catch Doey staring at you from the lockers. 

That makes you crack a small smile . He was such a typical boy , sometimes. You make a small gesture, not entirely a come hither finger, something just a little bit more innocent than that. Like inviting a friend to play in a fountain. 

He closes the locker and makes his way over, discarding his hat over your clothes on the bench. The emergency shower is barely big enough for you , let alone you and Doey, so he mostly just stands at the edge of the water. He reaches out to hold your hips, staring down. 

You let him, and you wash your face and your hair with the soap, something you probably wouldn’t have done without someone you trust nearby. Could hardly afford to close your eyes in a place like this.

“I'm sorry, Angel…”   You hear Doey start. His voice nears your face. “... I was angry, and I was rough with you, and… I know that must not inspire a, uhm– aaaa… whole lot of confidence in the case I need to make for myself, for the other toys.”

You rub the suds out of your eyes, and you stare up at him, managing mostly to just look like a wet puppy.

You want to tell him that it was horrific that he even had to make his case to you. That you knew how fucked up it was that he had spent his life making his case to humans, hoping that they’d let him live. You’re not sure what’s worse– to be allowed to live because you served some awful purpose, or because someone took pity on you.

He continues. “I shouldn’t treat you like that. Believe me, I really,” He grimaces, and his voice deepens, desperation clawing through, “-- really like you. Don't make me regret that.” 

He meets your eyes. “Please.”

You redden, but… you can’t placate him with head shakes, with pouts, with kisses any longer– you can’t make a promise you can’t keep. You don’t know if Doey would come to regret the way he felt, and you wouldn’t be able to tell him how to feel about you, anyway. You press your palms against his stomach, and you mouth:

Poppy?

Doey nods, as if pulled back on subject after a tangent, and he doesn’t seem bothered by your lack of affirmation to what he’d said. He didn’t need empty promises– he’s had enough of those. He leans in, and whispers, and you feel your hair stand on edge at the bass of his voice.

“Look at me. Look at you. Hey, I might’ve looked this way since I was a kid– but I don’t feel trapped in this body. Obviously,” His hands slide over your ass and squeeze, which elicits a squeak from you. “-- obviously there are some things that come naturally to me.”

You practically melt into his hands, laying your chin over his stomach, but you give him another quizzical look, not entirely catching onto where he was going with this.

“But I don’t want to be a human again. I can’t– specifically me, I can’t, anyway– but I like being me. Now, imagine being Poppy. Imagine being stuck in a glass cage– and being made out of glass yourself.”

You frown. Like you feel for the other toys, you feel horrible for Poppy. You understand her a lot better than you let on, and of course, you’d hate to be in the position she was in.

“Even if she survives this place– even if everyone gets set free– man, she’s got to spend her whole life in the body of a doll? Her whole life, a little girl in a glass doll. Wouldn’t you look for a way out?”

He meets your eyes at this, but you still don’t quite understand. Your brows are pinched when you mouth:

Orphans?

Doey laughs, hollow. “No. Think about it. You’re in the only place in the whole world that’s ever successfully transplanted people into different bodies…”

Your eyes widen, slowly.

“... and a strong, beautiful, able-bodied adult appears. Practically–” He snickers, “-- falls right from heaven. Oh– what a gift.”

You shove him, suddenly, not exactly out of frustration, but surprise. His arms stretch to keep hold of you.

“ Now you get it,” He says, his voice returning, and he smiles.

Your mind races. All of the clues, all of the hints float to the surface. After the train crash: ‘You’re perfect,’ she’d said. You had thought that had been a strange thing to say.

You hastily move to turn off the water, your hair slick around your head, sopping wet as you move out. You pull away from Doey and wearily step to put your clothes back on, without drying off. Doey reaches his arm across the locker room to pick up a towel, and he attempts to pat you while you’re getting dressed.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? You heard her. She even told you– ‘ the children that Playtime killed, they lost their lives a long time ago’. She did mean everyone in the Safe Haven, but what she didn’t tell you is that she means the sleeping orphans, too, if– if they even exist. ”

You let Doey pat you down with the towel, but that doesn’t stop you from getting dressed while wet, and trying to pull your socks on, your shoes next. You don’t give him any response.

Doey continues, “Why else would she bring you here, Angel? To take down the Prototype? What exactly has– has she done towards that goal, and why wouldn’t she let me in on it?”

You shake your head. This was a lot to take in. You pull on the sweater, and take the towel from Doey to try and wring some of the water out of your hair, but you can tell that your reaction, your expression– it isn’t what Doey was hoping for. You’re more confused than angry, more skeptical of his theory than he wants you to be. He stands there staring at you for a moment longer while you pout.

After a prolonged silence, he scoffs. “Come on. Don’t be like this.”

It’s such a simple statement– inoffensive, all things considered, but you whip the towel down angrily at those words. It seemed like clockwork; any time you needed space, any time you needed to feel something for yourself, to process something other than a happy, thoughtless nod– someone around you had told you that. Don’t be like that, Angel.  

You have hot tears welling up in your eyes, and finally, you push your face into your palms to cry. It’s a loud, anguished cry, the weight of stress and decisions and life and death on your shoulders– this fucking sucked . How did this happen to you? You had been putting off setting your own boundaries, because every soul in this factory had it much worse than you did– you were giving up so much of yourself because you had felt like you didn’t have room to complain, in the wake of the horror that everyone else had gone through.

But you had gone through something too, goddammit. You were being strung around. You’d almost been killed, you were on the brink of mental and physical exhaustion, and you had, now, to worry about whether or not you’d been both walking into and actively participating in the making of your own demise. You sob into your hands. You had just wanted to help. Right now, more than ever, all you want to do is leave.

Doey softens, frowning. He senses that he’s pushed you too far again, and he takes a seat next to you on the bench, picking up his hat. The wood of the seat creaks under his weight. His hand lands on your back, and he lets you cry uninterrupted. Eventually, you lean into him, and his arm drapes over you, close and secure.

There’s another long silence, interrupted only by your quiet weeping. Your eyes and nose are red and bleary, but you’re comfortable against your clay companion, and he doesn’t mind sitting there until you calm yourself. Eventually, he breaks the quiet.

“I sure am good at making you cry. That must be why you like me so much,” He murmurs.

You can’t help but let out a small laugh. You look up at him, and playfully, you nod.

Finally, he smiles at you. There had been a lot you’d left unanswered for him– but, in spite of that, he seems as though he trusts you, still. You believe him– you believe that he genuinely felt sorry for losing his temper with you, and you believe that he genuinely thinks that Poppy may have just been manipulating you to her own ends.

“That’s too bad. One of us has good taste, at least,” He teases, leaning in for a kiss.

You smile back, and kiss him.

 

---

 

“Are they back yet?”

Poppy sits idly by on a crate, inside of the medical tent that they’d provided for Kissy to rest in. The porcelain doll had been holding her hands together, her mind miles away, and after a while she finally snaps to, her glassy eyes drifting up towards her tall companion.

Kissy props herself up on her good elbow, and glances between the door and Poppy, an expression absent of an answer to her question. Poppy sighs.

“He hasn’t changed at all, has he…”

Kissy stares at the door for a moment longer, before belatedly shaking her head ‘no’.

---

 

You and Doey start to make your return to the Safe Haven, hand in hand. Of course, your hand is nowhere near big enough to actually lace your fingers through his, but your palm just sort of sinks into the clay and Doey closes his hand over it. Good enough.

“Are you still going to help Poppy?” He asks. There is concern in his voice, but the tone of the question is absent of the paranoia that had largely been dictating the conversation earlier– if one could even have a conversation while getting choked.

You frown. It’s now less that you believe in her vision, and more that if there really are a hundred sleeping orphans beneath Playtime, you’d need to save them. You can’t leave that to guesswork, and now that you’re taking a step back and looking at the big picture– you can’t set the fuses. Not yet. You didn’t think that Playtime needed to exist, and you did agree with razing it to the ground, but it had been sitting for a decade. It could sit for a while longer while you evacuate everyone that you needed to.

You point down and mouth the word orphans again, but this time, you draw your pointer finger up to Doey– and then to yourself.

Us.

His eyes widen. “You– you want to do it together?”

You nod, smiling shyly. Why not? You had been the one doing everything– you didn’t need Poppy’s help. Doey was so capable,  and incidentally, so were you .

Suddenly, he sweeps you up off your feet again, his body liquid for a moment like a great big crash of a wave, careening you towards the entrance of the Safe Haven– he lets out a joyous giggle, hooking an arm under your ass to carry you once more.

“Yes! Yes, we– we could do anything, Angel– with the Doctor gone, and with the Omni-hand, you’re totally right– what’s stopping us from fixing everything? From– saving everyone and taking out the Prototype ourselves?”

You grin, and nod. You were ready. You were ready for this fucking nightmare to be over, and you were ready to fight the Prototype. You still feel bad for Poppy, but you are going to be exacting what she’d promised you– so, if she had a problem with that, it would only be because she’d misrepresented some part of her plan to manipulate you.

You tell yourself that, anyway.

Doey ushers you through the opening from the caves that led to the Safe Haven– you catch a little air time, but land on your feet with a couple steps of runway, and Doey himself shifts into his regular form as he fits through the wall. You are both not doing a very good job of hiding your good mood as you sneak back in.

The Safe Haven is still dark and dim, although the movie’s credits are rolling and most of the toys have fallen asleep. Doey parts to turn off the projector, leaving you standing in the middle of the room, awkwardly.

You catch two pairs of eyes staring at you. Kissy and Poppy.

You fold your arms and look away, although you feel their stare in your back. Before you did anything else, you were going to have to catch a nap– and that’s even if you were still going to do what they had asked of you. You head towards your tent, and you climb inside it to lay down, drawing the curtain closed. You lay your head back, and bar your arm over your eyes. You wish that you could sleep for an entire day.

Outside of your tent, the sound of two feet approaching you sounds– only, it’s stopped by a voice.

Doey’s.

[“Poppy. They’re tired, maybe let them sleep…?”]

[“We’re running out of time,”] She responds, crisp.

[“You’re pushing them too far. I know– I know what you showed them, Poppy. It didn’t change their mind.”]

There’s a long silence after that– you prop yourself up onto your elbows, trying to listen, watching their silhouettes through the tarp.

Poppy’s feet click lightly against the ground as she turns towards Doey. 

[“I’m just trying to make things right, Doey…”] There’s defeat in her voice, but affirmation, too, as if it was only a matter of time before he'd changed your mind. [“I promised Angel that I’d talk to you about it– so, let’s have that conversation.”]

Doey sighs, a noise more like a frustrated groan, and you hear his voice getting further away. 

[“Well, we're definitely overdue for one…”]

You hang onto every word, every sound of their departure, until you can no longer hear them in the Safe Haven. A large part of you wants to eavesdrop again– but there is no guarantee that you wouldn’t be caught, and you decide that both Doey and Poppy deserve their privacy, even if something about the two of them interacting strikes you with unwarranted jealousy.

You drop back onto the sleeping bag. You’d spent so much time with Doey, and yet, you just want him here beside you again.

Maybe it was unfair. Maybe it was unfair to get so attached to him, even if everything worked out the way that you want it to– to take someone who was born and raised in a cage, to bring them out to a world that wouldn’t accept them, to anchor them to yourself physically, romantically. Was any of that right?

All problems for another time, and– you remind yourself– good problems they would be. A world in which all of you got to leave alive was a good one, and you would have plenty of time to sort out what would happen after that. It occurs to you that Doey’s future might be one without you in it– you were, after all, the only human he’d been with, and who was to say that you were the right human for him? Beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all, and you wanted so much better for Doey than to beg.

And, there was the little matter that he had choked you. You didn’t forget that. You touch your throat, idly.

Sleep hits you hard and heavy. You don’t remember drifting off, but you do, and you sink into the kind of sleep that leaves you feeling worse than before, your body absent of adrenaline and endorphins and all of the things that had kept you going for so long.

You are awoken not by noise, but the sudden lack of it, the gentle buzzing atmosphere of the Safe Haven drawing to an abrupt end. The eerie silence is enough to rouse you, and you sit up, drenched in sweat. It takes a moment for you to realize what's changed, and you peer out of the tent, pinching the center of your sweater over your chest to pull at it for air flow. 

It's almost completely dark, save for the unsettling glow of a blinking red light emanating from the room that housed the generator. 

That's not good. 

You get up, carefully strapping the grab pack over your shoulders, looking around– Doey and Poppy are nowhere to be seen, and it appears as though the other toys are still asleep, even Kissy. Without making too much noise, you make your way to the generators… 

… only, a moment later, the lights sputter on again, and then off– and this time, there’s a loud ringing sound accompanying it. You pick up the pace and rush over, although you can’t make too much sense of what you’re looking at– you’d never fixed something like this before you came back to Playtime.

You stand there for only a minute or so before you hear footsteps making their way towards you.

“What happened?” Poppy asks, straight away, alarmed.

Doey follows behind her, with a sigh. “It’s old– sometimes it doesn’t work that great. Just give it a second.”

You meet his eyes in the red light, folding your arms. You wish he could psychically beam his conversation with Poppy straight into your mind, in part because you wonder what points Poppy possibly had to make, and in other part because you wonder what Doey had said about you. The lights sputter on again, the room bathed in warm, incandescent yellow.

You sigh in relief, looking the generator over again.

“Angel,” Doey starts, “Poppy and I spoke, and we–”

He’s cut off by a crinkling noise, the static of a voice over speaker.

[“He’s–”] Bzzzt. [“He’s outside!”]

Poppy swivels her head around, nervously. “O– Ollie? What do you–”

[“He’s here– he’s–”] Bzzzzzz– [“He’s outside!]

Your face drops. The Prototype. Worry flashes over Doey’s face, exacerbated once the generator sputters off again, shrouding the three of you in the dark, the red light barely illuminating your edges.

“The doors–” Doey steps forward to remove the panel from the generator’s console, clearly familiar with fixing it. It parts from the machine with a not-so-elegant clack, and you notice that it’s bent at the edges, as if they had just been prying it off. “He’ll get in here without the generator, the Safe Haven will–”

“You have to lead him away!” Poppy shrills, looking up at him. She’s speaking to Doey, but you spring forward towards the door, ready to lead him away yourself. Just as you take a step out of the door, clay fingers snap your waist up, yanking you back into the room.

“No– I can fix this, and then I’ll go out there and see–” Doey’s caught between pulling you back and deliberating with Poppy. Guilt flashes over his face, for pulling you back– the Safe Haven needed his full attention right now, but he couldn’t bring himself to let you go. The lights flicker on again.

Poppy turns, panic in her voice, “Doey, please! We need to act right now– please, just trust us– trust me?” You see her pretty little white hand extend out and take his. Worse, you see his finger curl over her palm, just for a moment, and he lets go of you, conflicted.

“But, I–”

Poppy shakes her head. “You’re the only one who can lead him away. Angel can handle the generator, and I’ll– I’ll start gathering everyone up somewhere safe.”

You look between the two of them. You start towards the door again, because you are perfectly capable of distracting the Prototype while someone who actually knew how to fix the generator stayed, but once again, you don’t get very far before Doey’s hand grabs you again, pulling you in so quickly that he accidentally slings you against the wall. You stumble forward, a little winded.

He doesn’t say sorry, but his eyes do. He doesn’t have time to say more than he needs.

“Just– get it working, please… ” He says, low, defeated.

You feel sick. He had chosen just then. He had chosen you.

Your eyes don’t leave him as he then pushes his way out of the room, quickly leaving to seep through a wall. You stand there, stunned, and Poppy looks up at you. She holds her hands together now, and turns towards the generators with you.

Man, you don’t know what the fuck you’re looking at.

“Ollie, can you hear me?” Poppy calls. “If you can, can you tell Angel how to fix the generator?”

Ollie’s voice sounds, with far too much glee for the situation at hand: [“Aye aye, Cap’n!”]

You start to feel dread in your shoulders. You roll up your sleeves, and move to follow Ollie’s instructions as best as you can, picking up a wrench from the ground.

What follows is a small but tedious task, the twisting of screws and dials, locating and cutting wires, switching in and switching out plugs. Poppy had left for a moment to warn the others in the Safe Haven to hide somewhere, but she checks back in on you once or twice as you work. You are able to get an idea of what needed to be done through Ollie’s instructions, although neither you nor Poppy entirely understand what you were both looking at. As the time goes on, you are growing more and more worried for Doey. No good deed went unpunished here.

Eventually, the generator clicks, and purrs smoothly again. Good as new.

[“It’s done. We did it,”] Ollie’s voice crawls from the speaker, a murmur. [“Good.”]

The ominousness of that last word does not set in on you entirely as Poppy immediately rushes over.

“You did it!” Poppy exclaims, making her way back into the room. “You really are amazing– thank you, Angel, thank you. God, what a relief.” Her little hand touches her chest as she exhales.

You picture that hand holding Doey’s again, and you solidly drop the wrench you’d been holding onto the ground, before other temptations took a hold of you. It was stupid to get angry about something like this, right now, but you can’t exactly help it . It was painting a very clear picture for you, though, of the way that you felt about that stupid clay man.

Poppy starts to walk out of the generator room, and you follow her, glancing around nervously for any sign of Doey. Your nails dig into your arm, a habit you had when you were anxious, and you half-listen to the porcelain doll as you make your way into the Safe Haven.

“No word from Doey yet. Whatever happened out there… No, he’s fine. I’m– I’m sure of it…”

You grimace. She doesn’t sound reassuring, and the lack of faith in her voice sets your nerves on fire. You start towards the door of the Safe Haven, concluding that you’d just go look for yourself.

“Angel, wait–” She catches the leg of your overalls in her hand.

“We can’t wait for him. You need to head to the Foundation and plant the explosives.”

You whirl on her, and shake your head, your arms still folded until you point at where Doey had left– you give her a couple exaggerated points before shaking your head, ‘no’.

Doey said no.

Poppy frowns. “It’s alright! We talked– he said it’s okay, Angel.”

That stops you, your eyes widening. No, there was no way that was true. You are not confrontational by nature, but Poppy surmises what she needs from your expression, and she shakes her head in turn.

“No– I know what you’re thinking, but it’s true. We talked it out– we aren’t going to fire the explosives until everyone’s safe. You and Doey finding that elevator– that literally might have saved their lives, Angel. I’m not happy about waiting so long to burn this place down, but… but I can meet you both in the middle with this.”

Poppy’s eyes don’t blink at all, nor does she break eye contact with you as she says this. It’s uncanny. It’s disturbing. Worst of all, you have no idea if she’s telling the truth or not.

You stare at her longer, and then… you slowly, slowly shake your head ‘no’, your expression vacant. Even if she wasn’t lying, you still need to talk to Doey first.

The doll sighs, and she gestures for you to follow– she makes her way to Kissy’s tent, although Kissy is gone, likely hiding with the rest of the toys.

“Listen to me. You and I are alike, you know? I can tell. I’ve been in a cage for a very long time– but, so have you. Right? Maybe not a glass one, like mine, but…”

She starts to rummage under some pillows and blankets, searching for something. You stand a few feet away, looking miserable, and your eyes go to the floor. She is right. Not all cages were physical, after all.

“... you’ve been through a lot. It really does take someone strong– I mean, mentally– to have come as far as you have, and… you care about us toys, Angel, I can see it. You care about us because you’re a survivor– like us. People have hurt you, and… you didn’t let it turn you into a monster.”

You wince again. Poppy, like Doey, sees so much more in you than you realized. She is right, again. You have been hurt. You carried anger with you for a very long time, but you had to let it go to survive. You had to believe that there was more to life than abuse, than pain. That was the only way you could live.

She finally finds what she’s searching for, and it takes two hands for her to take it out. Poppy turns to you, and offers it up.

“... but not all of us didn’t.”

It’s a spray can. You take it, cautiously, your brow pinching in confusion, and you turn it over in your palms…

… the motion of which causes it to become very cold. It’s a computer duster, filled with liquid nitrogen.

“... I need you to set the explosives for me, Angel. But– if you don’t do that for me, I’ll understand. I promise, I do understand– really– ” Poppy says, pain in her voice. She walks back towards you, holding her hands together.

“But, I think you know what I’ve been trying to tell you about Doey, already. I think,” She continues, “I want you to ask yourself if you really trust him.”

Your face snaps up at her, teeth grit. She holds her hand up at you, gesturing for you to let her finish.

“-- I know. No, I know. I’m not judging him. I’m asking, do you trust him to not lose control? If the answer’s yes, you can leave that here with me. But, if the answer is no, you should hold onto that– just in case. I– I’m not saying you’re going to need it, but… it’s an option , in a pinch.”

The can is starting to ice at the bottom. It hurts your hand to hold, but you feel numb all over, anyway. Poppy’s point was made. If you really didn’t want to set the explosives for her, it would be because you trusted him. It would be because you couldn’t imagine him hurting you, or other humans, or other toys. It would be because you believed that he had a home on the surface, where he and all of the other feral toys could be trusted to be let out of the factory.

But you don’t.

He had choked you. He had lost control more than once in front of you. You promised yourself that you would never go running back to a man who had put his hands on you, ever, ever again – You promised yourself that you would never let someone beat you into silence again– yet here you were.

Your face is hot, and you start to hand the can back over to Poppy, slowly, but you can’t bring yourself to let go of it.

If Doey had strangled you in that interrogation room, not a single person in your life would say that it surprised them to know that you had been killed by a man you loved. 

‘Pobre Ángel’ , Mamá would say. ‘ She always chose them.’

Poppy exhales in disappointment, and holds both of her hands up for the can, when you suddenly snatch your hand back, your grip white-knuckled. You grit your teeth and shove the can into the deep pockets of your overalls.

Fuck. Fuck.

You start to back away, and Poppy’s eyes are on you. She nods in understanding, her brow furrowed.

“Meet me back here when you’re done, and we can go over what to do next,” She says.

You turn, and book it towards the cave system that marks your descent into the Foundation. You’re not going to set the explosives for her, but you can’t face her, or any of the other toys, right now. You feel ashamed for choosing yourself. You don’t know if you’ll ever stop saying sorry for wanting to live, just like you don’t know if you’ll ever start speaking up for yourself.

It’s a long way down, and you feel compelled to make use of whatever time Doey had bought for everyone by pressing onward to find some proof of what you were both trying to save– the orphans. You have a few vaults to pass through, as well as broken scaffolding, strange puzzles and vats of goo, some loose feral critters along the way– but all of these things become as nebulous and meaningless to you as the hum of static in your ears, the oppressive background noise of the caves and the labs. Like earlier, you feel numb.

Just… numb. Every movement jostles the can in your pocket, pressing cold against you, and you don’t even acknowledge it. You don’t feel almost anything as you sort through the many, many rooms of Playtime on complete auto-pilot, and what you do feel is sharp and tight, the anxiousness in your shoulders from wondering where Doey had gone, and if he was safe.

You find another elevator shaft that leads further down into the cave system, and it’s there that you finally break down. You sit on the metal floor and hug your knees, crying into them. You wonder what you’re doing here, you wonder why you haven’t just left yet. Poppy had called you strong– you resent that. You didn’t want to be strong. You didn’t have a choice.

The elevator stops at another mineshaft, and you get up and press onward, stepping over the old railings and side-stepping a cart– you’re about to make the precarious journey over some suspended rails when a hand gently touches your shoulder, and turns you. It’s clay, soft and cold, but with the warmth that it suddenly brings you, it may as well have been sunlight.

“There you are,” Doey says, and you throw yourself into him, hugging him tight. You squeeze.

He lays his palm against your back, and then presses you close. His other arm pulls around you, and he hugs you back, his hand running over your hair.

“What happened? I didn’t see the Prototype… The generator seems fixed, did… did everything go okay?”

You pull back, looking up at him. Your brow knits, and you shake your head, a small shrug accompanying it to signal that you didn’t know. You reach your hand up to touch his cheek, which he leans down for, meeting your eyes. 

“You’re safe, though, I’m… I’m so relieved,” He exhales, and slides his hand up your arm, resting against the hand on his cheek. “God, when I spoke with Poppy earlier– we didn’t get anywhere. We went around in circles about the whole thing until the generator went off.”

Your eyes widen only slightly, but you had expected that she was less than truthful about how her conversation had gone with Doey, so that doesn’t surprise you as much as you should. You frown, and nod, slowly.

“I was worried that… she sent you here to finish things,” He admitted, quietly. “To set the explosives after all.”

You pull yourself back to shake your head NO, firmly and enthusiastically.

Doey exhales again, with more relief than before. “ Good! God, I was worried. Good, I knew–” He leans in, slowly, for a kiss, and you are drawn onto your toes to meet him, as if magnetically.

“I knew I could trust y–”

Before you both could meet for the kiss, an explosion rattles the top most section of the caves, a violent and sudden tremble toppling you aside, too quick for even Doey to catch you as his attention is drawn towards where the Safe Haven is– was.

His stare is locked at the sight of the remains of the Haven, falling, cracking apart, spitting fire and embers that die halfway to the ground. He can only utter one thing before he makes his way there, slipping through an open pipe without you.

“... what have you done?”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Anything You Knead