Non-Pokémon Windskull's Whumptober 2025 [Multifandom]

windskull · Oct 2, 2025

Hello all! After some debate, I decided to Crosspost my whumptober fics for this year here, since whump is quite popular on TR LMAO. This post will serve as a table of Contents with the following information: Title - Prompt | Fandom | Characters (ships, if applicable) | content warnings. Most of these will be oneshots, but a few might be 2 or 3-shots. As they're generally standalone, they can be read in any order and picked and chosen from as sounds interesting to you. The only things of note are...

1, 2, 8, and 18 are all set in the same continuity
24 is set in a continuity that has not been posted to TR. But it is generally standalone.
27 is set in an au spinoff of the same continuity as 24. The key information will be in the fic, but extra context may be provided by reading the fic it spun off from.
15 & 25 have become the first two chapters of a multichapter fic. I may repost them with the full fic later.

windskull · Oct 2, 2025

Together Alone
Prompt: Yearning
Fandom: Deltarune/Undertale

Summary: Seam encounters another human affected by the sealing of all monsters underground.

“You're one of them! One of the magicians!”

Seam’s fingers tightened around their cup. The excitable teen in front of them stared with sparkling eyes. They wished he wouldn't.

The chatter around them died away as the eyes of the pub’s other patrons turned to look at them, waiting for their response.

They tugged at their brown cloak, the fur lining tickling their neck, ran a hand through their scruffy purple hair, and smiled wanly. “...Yes, I suppose I am.”

The teen broke out into a wide grin. “That’s so cool! What was it like? Did the monsters fight back?”

Seam let their one eye wander across the room, gauging the mood of the room. Several faces stared with awe, others with careful curiosity. A few cast pitying gazes. A few turned away with disgust. One man in the back of the room locked eyes with them behind thick glasses, then quickly averted his gaze.

“It was a group effort. I was but one of many, and it came at a great cost.” To demonstrate, Seam held up their hand. A few weak sparks jumped onto the table, dying away. It was all they could manage, and they knew soon they wouldn’t be able to do that. It was only a matter of time before the last, sputtering fumes of human magic died out. “It was just the way it had to be.”

One of the lad’s companions pushed his way to the front. “Please, let me buy you a drink! It would be an honor for a war hero such as yourself! I’m sure everyone would love to hear more!”

Seam didn't respond right away, taking a final swig of their drink and reaching into a satchel beneath their cloak to pull out a handful of coins, depositing them on the table.

“It's kind of you to offer,” Seam said, reaching for their staff — now little more than a glorified walking stick, “but I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I'm hardly a hero, after all. There were no winners in the war.”

After giving a bow to the patrons, they slipped out the door and into the dark of the night.

Gas lamps lit the main thoroughfare, casting the cobblestone street in an orange glow. Seam hurried down the road, their staff clicking each time it made contact with the stone. Exhaustion tugged at the back of their mind. Given they’d been recognized, it seemed like it was probably time to move on from this town. A shame; they’d quite liked the amenities. Perhaps they could still stock up on tea and a book in the morning before leaving. For now, they just wanted to sleep. It seemed like that was all they cared to do these days.

As they rounded a corner, back towards the inn they’d been staying at, their footsteps slowed. They could hear another set of footsteps coming closer. Someone was following them. Tightening their grip on their staff, they took a quick look at their surroundings before starting to walk again. Best to take this somewhere private. Away from prying eyes, in case it got messy.

Seam turned down a narrow sidestreet, walking far enough that they were enveloped in darkness, with only a spattering of torchlight and the moon to illuminate the scene. Only then did they stop.

“I know you’re following me,” they called without turning. “You may as well hurry it up.”

The sound of racing footsteps followed, pausing just a few feet away. They heard a shuffling noise, followed by the click of a gun before they felt cold metal pressed to the small of their back.

Seam smiled wryly. Surviving the war only to be gunned down by a human anyway. What a way that would be to go. “You should know this isn’t the first time I’ve had an attempt on my life. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“That’s none of your business.” The voice was masculine, seething with anger.

“Will it bring you peace, to kill?” The stranger didn’t respond. “Whoever it was you lost, it won’t bring them back.”

A hand roughly grabbed their shoulder, spinning them around before shoving them against the wall. The back of Seam’s head knocked against the brick. They grit their teeth, focusing on taking the stranger in. Although it was dark, they could make out some features.

Seam was by no means short, but the man had a good six inches on them, at least. He was lanky and dark in complexion, with pale, tightly curled hair that came down to his chin. His eyes hid behind thick glasses. Seam recognized him as one of the patrons from the pub.

“Well? Will you humor me with your name?”

The man stuck the pistol beneath Seam’s chin. His other hand kept Seam pressed against the wall, bunched in their cloak. When he spoke, they could smell alcohol on his breath.

“Hah hah. I think you’ve talked enough, magician!”

“What else do I have left, but my voice?”

“You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

“I’ve been told it’s one of my many flaws.” Seam chuckled humorlessly. “By all means, kill me if it makes you happy. I’ve been waiting to die for a while now. I’ve not much to live for these days. But if you’d prefer, I’d much rather have this conversation over a cup of tea, mister…”

The hand with the gun trembled. The man grit his teeth. “Anthony. Anthony Tenna. You took everything from me, you and the rest of those magicians.”

Seam’s expression shifted from a dark smile to pity. “Your name is familiar. You were a lord, before the war, were you not? Tell me who you lost.”

“You like to play mind games, don’t you?” Anthony accused. “Is that how you’ve evaded justice for so long?”

Seam let out a dramatic sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine. Who was it? Who were they to you, Ant?”

Anthony yanked them forward, so that they were standing forehead to forehead. “Don’t call me that! You don’t get to call me that!”

Whack!

In one fluid motion, Seam smacked Anthony with their staff. He let go, gun clattering to the ground.

“You’re not alone in your loss,” Seam said, taking a step back to pick up the flintlock pistol. They stashed it in their cloak. “We only did what we had to, to end the war. Even among the magicians, there were those of us that lost friends. Lovers, even. Including myself. I’d be happy to talk to you about it over tea. I’ll even give you your pistol back, when we’re done. It’s up to you.”

Anthony didn’t seem satisfied with that, as he lunged for Seam again. “Why aren’t you afraid?”

“Dearest Mr. Tenna, I have lived through a war and had to help seal my beloved away. I lost my magic as a consequence. I do not fear the day the reaper comes for me. Why would I ever be afraid of a solitary sad man with a gun?” They turned and started to walk. “Come now, the inn I’m staying at is this way. You may join me if you wish.”

It brought the smallest amount of joy to Seam’s cold and empty heart to hear footsteps follow them.

Neither of them spoke again until the tea was served, aside from asking how much sugar Mr. Tenna took his tea with.

Only once they were both seated, each with a steaming cup sitting in front of them, the teapot sitting between them at the center of the table, did Seam continue the conversation.

“So,” they began, cupping their hands around their tea, “I've heard a bit about you. A disgraced lord that spent his fortune outfitting the monsters. The only thing that saved you from the noose for treachery was your title, but in the end you lost all your possessions.” They paused, looking over the vivid red tailcoat Anthony was wearing, even if it was disheveled from their scuffle. “Well, almost everything.”

“Please, you don't know the first thing about me.” Anthony leaned back, and Seam could only imagine he was rolling his eyes behind those thick frames.

“Oh? Please enlighten me. What part of the story is false?”

Anthony clenched his jaw and didn't say anything at first, reaching down for his cup to take a sip of tea. Afterwards, he smiled, brow knit together. “There was never any arrest or trial. Could you imagine that? Me, in bindings, paraded around like some sort of… sort of… common criminal? No, I left under the cover of night. But I'm sure you understand that I can't go back. Nor can I let you spread knowledge that I’m here. That would be a disaster.”

“Yes, I'm sure it would be.” Seam leaned back cup in one hand and saucer in the other. They took a long draw of the tea. “Now then, the night isn't getting any younger.”

Anthony’s expression shifted, playful anger replaced with exhaustion that made his shoulders slump. He said nothing.

“Perhaps it would help if I told you my story first,” Seam said after a moment. “I used to travel with a band of street performers, a mix of human and monster magicians and the sort. I had a partner in my act, a monster who wasn't afraid to take risks for the sake of providing entertainment. He was incredible.”

They closed their eye, picturing their time on the stage, traveling the land. “I never met any other human or monster like him. Not a day goes by that I don't miss that handsome devil.”

“Then why did you help them?” Anthony’s voice cracked. “Why help create the barrier?”

Seam couldn't help the bitter exhaustion that seeped into their tone. “The monsters were fighting a losing battle and they knew it. The sealing was the only way to ensure their survival. At least… that’s what I tell myself.” Seam sighed and shook their head. “But I admit, without his light, I find my worldview growing darker, yet darker, and I wonder if there was any way to prevent this.”

They elected not to burden Mr. Tenna with the rest of their story, the way the war changed Jevil, or the dreams he'd shared with Seam in the months leading up to The Sealing, convincing them that this was the only way to save him. Even if… even if it meant living far apart. Not to mention the fight that had cost them their eye.

Anthony folded his hands in his lap, staring at the floor for a long time.

“His name was Spamton. My little mailman. Haha. That's how we met. He used to bring me my mail. We grew close. He always talked about wanting to be something more though.” He chuckled humorlessly “We wanted to be something more, throwing parties and entertaining the world over. But he was a monster and I was a lord. In this political climate? We could never make it official. I mean, could you imagine the scandal?”

He held his hands up, palms up, and shook his head with a rueful smile. “And then the war started. As things were, he couldn't work anymore. Then he got conscripted as a messenger. I'd go weeks without hearing from him, not knowing if he was still alive. I threw all the resources I could to help the cause.

“One day, when we were talking about the future, a telegram came to the house, addressed to him. I don't know what it said or how the sender knew to find him there, but it couldn't have been good. He raced out without a word. It was the last time I saw him.”

Anthony reached up to run his palm against each eye, wiping away thick tears. “I had to flee not long after. And then The Sealing happened. I don't know if he's even still alive. And now there's no way to find out!”

Seam’s heart broke for the man. At least they knew Jevil was alive. At least their colleague knew Gerson was alive. Mr. Tenna did not have that luxury.

“I am sorry the war took so much from you,” Seam finally said, their tone low and rasping. “There is not much I can say to provide comfort, but you are not alone. There are other friends and lovers that were torn apart. Others that may be able to relate. Some of them were there when the monsters were sealed. Perhaps they can provide closure.”

“You were there,” Anthony pointed out. “Maybe you saw him. He’s humanoid, but also kind of bird-like, with wings and black and white feathers — mostly white. Please. He had to be there, right?”

Seam closed their eye. “There were many monsters there. I’m sure I saw some monsters with a similar description but… I cannot say if any of them were him, and I do not wish to provide you with false hope. I’m sorry. “

Mr. Tenna’s shoulders slumped before he forced a pained smile. “That’s. Fine. That’s fine! It’s not like I haven’t been living with the dread all this time. Who needs them anyway? Not us, apparently! We didn’t need magic either, given that we gave it all up over something! So! Stupid!” Anthony slammed his fist on the table. His (thankfully empty) tea cup clattered onto its side.

He immediately wilted. “...I miss him.”

“I know.”

“I’m never going to see him again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t bring him back!”

“No, it doesn’t,” Seam agreed.

There wasn’t anything else to say. Seam poured themselves another cup of tea and settled back in their seat.

There was little they could do for Tenna. There was little that they could do for themselves. But… at least they could lend a listening ear. After their role in The Sealing, it was the least they could do.

windskull · Oct 3, 2025

Dreaming of a Worse Tomorrow
Prompt: Prophecy
Fandom: Detarune/Undertale

Summary: The war between humans and monsters made it difficult for Seam to slip away and visit their beloved Jevil, so they took all the opportunities they could to meet. But this time, they realize something is wrong. Something is different about the way Jevil carries himself. And as they talk, Jevil begins to describe the strange dreams he's been having, dreams about the fate of humans and monsters.

Something was wrong. Seam could tell just from the look in Jevil’s eyes.

It had been weeks since they’d seen him last. These days, with the war raging like an inferno, it was rare Seam could sneak away from their duties. Especially when said duties pitted them against monster kind, in a war they wanted no part of, but found themselves embroiled in anyways.

Only by the grace of sympathetic colleagues, some of which found themselves in similar situations, did Seam get a chance to sneak away for these meetings. And even then, they had to be careful.

For Jevil, it was different. There were monsters that would judge him for seeking companionship with a human. But the real problem lay in taking a capable fighter away from the front lines, especially as casualties on the monster side climbed ever-higher.

Even in normal times, any change in Jevil’s demeanor would concern Seam. But the circumstances as they were only made them worry more.

Seam’s immediate thought was that the strange look on Jevil’s face had something to do with the state of things on the monster side. Bells jingled as he dropped down from the tree he’d been waiting in, tail twitching and eyes distant, the slightest of frowns on his face. He was quiet. Abnormally so.

“Jevil?” Seam began, dropping to their knees to be closer to eye level. They opened their arms to offer an embrace. Sometimes the jester took it, sometimes he did not. But they knew from experience that Jevil always wanted to be the one to initiate contact. “Is everything alright?”

A beat of silence followed, then Jevil’s gaze finally seemed to focus on them, his frown twisting to the slightest of grins. “OF COURSE, OF COURSE, NO TROUBLE AT ALL. NOTHING MORE THAN THE USUAL. EXCEPT, PERHAPS, A MATTER MOST QUEER THAT YOU MIGHT HAVE KNOWEDGE OF.”

The jester rocked on his heels, back and forth, but made no motion to move, so Seam shifted to sit in the grass, giving the clearing one quick glance before returning their attention fully to Jevil. “Well then, tell me about it, my dear. I am all ears.”

Jevil took a seat in front of them, sitting cross-legged. He tilted his head, the bells dangling from his horns jingling. “IT STARTED WITH A DREAM, A DREAM, THE SOUND OF A VOICE UNSEEN. MANY A MONSTER, IN AN ALL-ENCOMPASING DARK. THE HUMANS HUDDLE IN THE LIGHT. THEY THINK THEMSELVES SAFE, SAFE. THE MONSTERS TRAPPED, TRAPPED. BUT I WONDER. WHO IS THE TRAPPED AND WHO IS THE FREE?” He leaned forward, his smile faltering and gaze serious. “AND WHAT DOES IT SAY OF YOU AND ME, ME?”

Seam was not sure how to respond at first. They reached over for their staff, sitting it over their lap, then draped their arms over it, clasping their hands together. “Is this a riddle of some sort?” they began slowly.

“NO RIDDLE, RIDDLE, TRULY SOMETHING I'VE SEEN. BUT ONLY IN MY DREAMS.”

Well, that eliminated the least concerning reason. “Does it have to mean anything? Perhaps it is just a bad dream, a troubling side effect of the war we find ourselves in. I imagine it is… difficult, involved in the fight as you are.”

It was an extreme understatement. Seam wished they could take Jevil away from the fight. He was an entertainer. They both were! Meant to bring joy to human and monster alike! But instead they were trapped in this conflict, trapped on opposing sides. Seam swore an oath to protect the kingdom, a vow not easily broken. But for Jevil and the monsters, this was a matter of life or death. For now, they had not been called to war, only called to use their magic for healing. But who knew when that would change?

“PERHAPS, PERHAPS.” Jevil pulled back, his expression troubled. “BUT THERE WERE MORE. MORE DREAMS OF THE DARK, AND THAT BECKONING VOICE. A BECKONING VOICE THAT OFFERS A CHOICE. THE TRUTH AT A COST. FREEDOM TO SEE, SEE. WHAT WAS AND IS AND WILL BE, BE. THE END OF THE WAR OR, PERHAPS, MORE.”

Seam frowned, reaching for Jevil’s hand. “Dearest, these are dreams and nothing more. Does the fighting trouble you?” They shook their head quickly. How could they ask that? They already knew it did. “If it is so troubling, perhaps there’s another position you could fill?”

Jevil shook his head. “IT IS TOO LATE, LATE FOR THAT. THE VOICE CAME MORE AND MORE UNTIL I ACCEPTED ITS LITTLE FREEDOM. AND IN DOING SO, IT GIFTED ME MINE. I SEE NOW WHAT IS TO PASS IF MONSTERKIND IS TO BE SAFE.”

Unease prickled along Seam’s spine. They humored Jevil anyways. “What do you mean?”

“TWO WORLDS, DIVIDED BY LIGHT. A KINGDOM OF MONSTERS AND A KINGDOM OF MEN SEPARATED INTO LIGHT AND DARK, NEVER TO MEET AGAIN WITHOUT THE ANGEL’S WILL. BUT NOT WITHOUT COST. UEE HEE HEE! THE HUMANS LOSE MUCH IN A WAR OF DISTRUST.”

“Jevil… Are you sure you should be trusting these dreams of yours? Seam’s brow knit together. “Does it not all sound a bit farfetched to you. There’s no guarantee that any of this will happen. And I wouldn’t want you working yourself up over it.”

“BUT IT MUST, MUST. IT WILL, WILL. THE ECHOES OF FATE DRIFT EVER CLOSER.” He faltered, drooping with a sigh. He took a few steps forward, tossing aside Seam’s staff so that he could settle into their lap.

“I DO NOT WISH IT TO BE SO. HOW LONELY, LONELY I WILL BE WITHOUT YOU.”

“You won’t be,” Seam said sternly. They reached up to wrap their arms around Jevil. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “Because I will do everything in my power to ensure it doesn’t come to pass. There has to be a way to end this war and still be together. There must be.”

“YOU ARE BUT ONE VOICE, A WHISPER IN THE WIND,” Jevil countered, tail swishing from side to side. “PERHAPS YOU CAN CHANGE FATE, PERHAPS NOT. YOU HAVE A CHOICE, CHOICE TO MAKE. TO ARGUE AGAINST THE SEALING, OR TO PLAY A PART. OR PERHAPS NOTHING, NOTHING AT ALL. BUT, MY DEAREST SEAM, YOU MUST REMEMBER.”

He paused and, with a flourish of his hand, made a handful of diamond-shaped bullets appear before tossing them aside. Then he smiled a pained smile, a rare moment of fear that Seam had never seen before. “WHAT HAPPENS COULD BE A FATE MOST WORSE.”

windskull · Oct 4, 2025

Cold as Stone
Prompt: Isolation
Fandom: Deltarune

Summary: His foot felt numb. He shifted his position to try and get comfortable and wake it up, but it wouldn’t move. Looking down, he realized it was… harder than it should be. He reached down to touch it, and found it cold and hard. Stone.

He was turning to stone.

Of course. Of course he would. He was never meant to be here. So why wouldn’t he?

Ramb couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt a lightner’s touch. It must have been years ago by now. He hadn’t felt a darkner’s touch in a long time either, for that matter. It wasn’t like he had any close connections in TV World, stuck behind the bar making drinks for uncaring employees or sleeping off his latest headache. Tenna getting unplugged had only made everything worse.

So when the dark fountain opened, when the lightners came, when Kris of all people, came, he allowed himself to hope that maybe things would change. He could set up the kind of games he remembered Kris liking, facilitate some real fun. Bring a smile back to their face.

He leaned over the counter as the lightners arrived in the green room, watching as they wandered around and spoke with some of the other crew with a fond smile. It was good to see Kris hanging out with friends. They were always such a lonely kid.

Finally, Kris made their way over to the counter for their prize and Ramb handed it over. They made small talk for a few minutes, and Ramb hinted at something special set up in the S-rank room, shooting Kris a wink.

But Kris’s expression never changed from that careful, neutral look. Kris never smiled, never showed any interest. Then they wandered back towards the stage without ever even entering the S-Rank room or acknowledging Ramb further. He felt his core break a little, shoulders slumped as he picked up a rag to polish the countertop.

Well, that was alright. Tenna was clearly intent on making them stick around for a while, for some reason. There would be time after the second, haphazard board.

But their conversation after the second board was even briefer. Kris came by to accept their prize, then they headed towards the exit. Ramb watched the argument with the zapper blocking the door with dull eyes. What was the point of trying? Kris clearly wasn’t interested in him. They weren’t interested in Tenna either; he could tell. They were just going through the motions. He could relate, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Things didn't get much further than that, though. The lightners were captured, then slipped away. Tenna called for all hands on deck. Ramb sighed and went out the back, but didn't make it further than the green room before Tenna stopped him.

“Ramb! There you are!”

He blinked up at Tenna with a neutral expression, unfazed by the looming CRT, and waited. “Let's make this quick. Come with me.” Tenna spun around and stalked towards the exit, giving Ramb little choice but to follow out into the snow.

As they walked, Tenna ranted to myself. “I can't believe the lightners would just run off like that! I mean, we were having so much fun! They're supposed to be having fun!”

“Maybe they found the boards boring,” Ramb suggested as they stopped under the tree Tenna kept up year round.

“Shut up!” Tenna snapped, whirling on Ramb before his screen flickered. He stood up straight and fished in his coat pocket for a walkie talkie, which he dropped into Ramb’s hands. “What would you know about real fun anyway?”

Not much, apparently, Ramb thought, given his failure to entice Kris. Out loud, he said, “What am I doing out here?

“I'm so glad you asked!” Tenna gestured to a large prize capsule resting against the trunk of the tree. “I need you to keep an eye on dearest Toriel while I and the rest of the crew track down the other lightners. It is imperative that she doesn't wake up!”

Ramb took a step closer, putting a hand on the capsule. Sure enough, he could see Toriel through the clear top, snoring away on a royal purple throne. “You put her in a capsule?”

“Yes, yes, to keep her safe. Don’t worry, it’s got airholes.” Tenna waved a hand dismissively, already rushing back towards the studio. “I’ll be in touch! So don’t dare slack off!” Then the doors slammed shut, leaving Ramb out in the cold with Toriel.

He let out a quiet sigh, getting to one knee before sitting down against the capsule. Snow fell in quiet flurries around him. In the distance, the dark fountain pulsed, the distant glow cycling through different colors.

“Why didn’t you ever take me back?” Ramb asked, addressing Toriel despite knowing she couldn’t answer. “Kris hasn’t played with me in years. They obviously don’t need me anymore…” Although he wished that wasn’t the case. “And it’s not like I’m of any use to you. I’m not compatible with the darkners here, and I’m not useful in the light world either. I’ve known that for a long time.”

He was met with silence, and was content to leave it that way for a while. But eventually he let out a humorless chuckle. “It wasn’t like I didn’t appreciate you Dreemurrs, luv. Kris gave me a purpose in life. A way to be useful, when I wasn’t otherwise. But now?” He looked down at his hands, turning them over. “I might as well just be junk, yeah?”

A heavy feeling welled up in his chest. He tried to force it down, Instead, he let out a sob and rubbed at his eye sockets. He didn’t belong here. He never had. He was always on borrowed time. Always just waiting to be discarded the moment the lightners grew bored of him. He only wondered why he hadn’t realized it already happened.

His foot felt numb. He shifted his position to try and get comfortable and wake it up, but it wouldn’t move. Looking down, he realized it was… harder than it should be. He reached down to touch it, and found it cold and hard. Stone.

He was turning to stone.

Of course. Of course he would. He was never meant to be here. So why wouldn’t he?

The radio in his pocket crackled. “Ramb!”

Ah, right. Tenna.

He couldn’t muster up the energy to fake cheeriness. “What do you need?”

The CRT’s voice crackled over the radio. “How is Toriel?”

Ramb glanced up at the capsule. She still looked like she was sleeping peacefully. “She rolled over in her sleep,” he lied.

“WHAT!? She ROLLED OVER in her SLEEP!?”

“That’s what I said, innit?”

“Did you try the CLASSICAL MUSIC CHANNEL like I SAID!?”

“You didn’t say anything about that, mate,” Ramb replied with a frown.

“Well it was IMPLIED!” Tenna shouted at him. “You know she’ll be in GRAVE DANGER if she wakes up, RIGHT?”

Ramb suppressed a sigh. Tenna was really in one of his moods this time. He was going to be a pain later.

Oh, right. There wasn’t going to be a later for him. He was already turning to stone.

So why was he still putting up with Tenna?

“You know what, mate? I don’t have to deal with this,” Ramb replied, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. “I think I’m done.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m quitting.”

“What? You QUIT!? You can’t Quit!!!”

Ramb tossed the walkie talkie aside, even as he heard Tenna shouting his name. With some effort, he struggled to his feet and began to limp inside, dragging his petrified limb behind him. The stone was slowly expanding, and he didn’t care to be out here when it happened. He could at least make it inside, right?

He left scuffs in the tile flooring as he reached the green room, then shuffled through the S-Rank room and into the entrance to his stand. At least he could have one last drink, maybe.

He tried to lift his left arm, but it wouldn’t move. He couldn’t feel it. It was stone.

Below the stand, he shuffled around glass jars until he found a squirreled away bottle of battery acid, something he saved for special occasions, or for when he was feeling really down.

Well, that certainly described the current moment. He downed a few hearty glugs, relishing the burn, then put it back under the counter. He didn’t want the kids to see evidence of him drinking if they came back through.

Twelve years trapped in TV world, only for it all to come to an end like this. Drinking alone in his bar, without anyone who cared. The pippins would probably raid the bar once they realized he was gone. They wouldn’t shed a tear. Tenna would be glad to be rid of his smart mouth. The zappers and shadowguys? Forget it. He might as well be window dressing to them.

As he felt the petrification reach his neck, he found he wasn’t scared. This was always how it was going to end, wasn’t it? Freedom was never in the cards for a discardable thing like him.

He hadn’t feared something like this for a long time.

He might as well have already been stone inside.

windskull · Oct 5, 2025

No Guide in the Dark
Prompt: Loss of Powers
Fandom: Deltarune

Summary: Spamton attempts to navigate the darkness between worlds without his benefactor's guidance. It does not go well.

Spamton couldn’t remember the last time he wore street clothes like these. For so long it had been suits and ties and slacks, ranging from business casual to business formal. But now wasn’t the time for that.

He pulled the hood a little lower over his face and kept his head down. His hands went into the hoodie pockets, hiding the holes and plastic, segmented fingers. Like this, one might mistake him for a regular old addison, if perhaps a shorter one than usual. And he intended to keep it that way. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized, not in this state.

He never should have left TV World. But he did. Like a fucking idiot. Because he was afraid of what was to come. Because he was afraid of what Tenna would say when he found out the truth. And maybe he thought leaving would stop his benefactor from dropping him. Maybe it still could, if he begged and prayed and groveled. He already had, some. But first, he had to know. Had to be sure.

His benefactor had cursed him with an ironic appearance. Cursed him with the knowledge of the strings that, even now, tugged at him, urging him to turn back. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to resist their pull. But he had to be certain — had all his blessings been revoked, too?

Ahead, true darkness leeched into the wide green fields, swallowing the horizon. Spamton reached into his pocket for a small, handheld flashlight and flicked it on. It didn’t emit much light, but it would have to be enough.

Normally, he would have made the journey by car, head beams cutting through the deepest dark. It was safer that way, his benefactor had told him. Brighter lights, and a layer of protection between himself and the things that roamed the darkness between worlds. But as he looked at the way his hands trembled and felt the buzzing feeling of an oncoming glitch in the back of his head, he knew that wasn’t going to be an option. He’d never drive his way to the outskirts in his current condition, let alone make it through the dark.

Heaven forbid he had an accident and was seen in his current state. His image would never recover.

He stood still at the border between the dark world and true darkness, trying to feel his connection to TV World. Jevil used to make the journey between his dark world and here without anything. If he could do it, Spamton could. Sure, Jevil was technically stronger, but Spamton ~~lied to himself and~~ considered himself the more clever of the two. (He hadn’t come by to annoy him recently. Spamton couldn’t help but wonder why, but thought “good riddance” at the same time.)

Deep, artificial breath. Ignore the tugging feeling. He could do this. Even if he couldn’t feel the connection… he had to try. He had to try and get back. He had to be sure Tenna was okay. Because he wasn’t answering his calls, and he had no other way to check on him except going there.

He stepped into the darkness and kept walking forward. Or at least, he hoped it was forward; it was hard to tell in the void, with no anchor to guide him. But he tried anyway. Because he had to.

Soon Cyber World was a dim speck on the horizon. He kept walking. He remembered passing other specks along the way. Other dark worlds. Perhaps, if he paid attention, he could find them, recognize a pattern, and use them to navigate.

But all he saw was more darkness.

He paused, trying to reorient himself.

A shuffling noise from his right followed.

Spamton froze, a chill crawling up his back. His hands started to tremble. He forced himself to start walking again, faster this time, still trying to pinpoint the right direction in the dark.

The shuffling noise followed.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back!

He broke out into a sprint. A shrieking noise, like a thousand shattering mirrors sounded behind him.

Something latched onto his back, hitting with enough force to knock him prone. The flashlight bounced out of his grip.

Spamton screamed — a horrible, bitcrushed sound — as whatever was on his back clawed at him, poking through his clothes to scratch at his plastic. It hurt more than it should, like it cut right through him to the core of who he was. His body glitched in response, his vision exploding with patches of discolored pixels.

He fought through it and kicked himself forward, plastic fingers scrambling uselessly on the ground before he grabbed the light, and shone it on his back.

Whatever had grabbed him detached, giving him a chance to roll over and illuminate his pursuer.

He almost wished he hadn’t.

Spamton couldn’t find the words to describe the beast looming over him. If the void was pitch black, it was darker than dark, like a flat shadow, only visible because it blocked the light from passing through. It was at least twice his size, even before taking into account that it was floating, looming over him. Little vestigial arms (at least, that’s what he assumed they were), wavered, then tucked against its body. A slimy substance oozed from it, dripping onto his legs.

As he stared, fawning, smaller copies spawned in the air around it. They swerved to avoid the light, lunging at him.

He screamed again, waving the flashlight. It seemed to repel the little copies, and those that stayed in the light too long flickered and vanished.

But there were too many. He had to get out of here.

No longer worried about trying to find TV World, he turned and fled, trying to reach any dark world. Anywhere but the void. More of the beasts latched onto his back and he stumbled, waving his light to shoo them away. But only seconds later another would take its place, sending fresh agony down his back.

There. Ahead, a pinprick of light. A lighter patch in the darkness. That had to be a dark world. He just had to get there—

He tripped, sent sprawling again. This time, at least, he kept a hold of the light. Which was fortunate, as more of the spawn latched onto his body the moment he was down, anywhere they could. His arms, his legs, his back. He rolled over, thrashing, and one landed on his stomach. He smacked it with the light and it let go in a daze.

The moment he was free enough, he took off again. Running. Stumbling, waving the light wildly to ward off further attacks.

The patch of light grew closer… Closer… He started to make out details, like the dark, blue-black sky and neon wireframe— Cyber World. He’d somehow managed to end up back in Cyber World.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder as the green fields of the outskirts came into view beneath his feet. Whatever had been chasing him was gone.

Heaving, he collapsed to his hands and knees, trembling. Somehow, he’d made it back.

But this wasn’t TV World.

He looked himself over for injuries, but aside from a few scuffs, he seemed outwardly fine. But on the inside, everything hurt. Everything ached. Like he’d been torn apart by whatever that was.

Slowly, he struggled to his feet and turned around, staring back into the darkness. Then he looked down at his hands. Those plastic, segmented hands. The hands of a puppet.

He’d learned his lesson. Without his benefactor’s guiding hand, he’d never make it through the dark. And his benefactor wasn’t answering the phone.

Unless…

Maybe there was something he could use. Something that could cut through the dark. Maybe even further. With the power granted by lightner hopes and dreams… Maybe Neo could let him escape the dark entirely. Reach reality. Reach the light world. Reach heaven.

Pulling up his hood to make sure it covered as much of his face as possible, he turned and stumbled back towards the mansion.

windskull · Oct 6, 2025

Blue Paint
Prompt: Quivering
Fandom: Deltarune

Summary: Spamton's shop needs a spruce-up if he wants to bring in the customers. At least, that's what he thinks. And a mural of the heaven he covets seems like the perfect subject.

Unfortunately, his body has other plans.

Spamton stared up at the drab, grey wall, arms at his sides.

He’d been working on setting up a shop in the dump, creating a little space for himself against the cinder blocks, hidden among the trash to keep it hidden from less understanding darkners. In the past week, he’d finally gotten it set up enough to open up shop, placing ads (little more than squiggles as his magic seemed to be on the fritz, but they were still eye catching) in the trash zone drop-off area to attract customers.

Unfortunately, so far his clientele had been a grand total of zero.

Sure, he struggled to bring in customers before, but they at least pity browsed. But he hadn’t even gotten that so far, not even from that trashcan darkner he always saw scurrying around the dump.

He needed to spruce the place up. Make it more friendly to customers instead of a drab little place with little more than a desk and a ratty chair. And he had the perfect idea in mind.

That’s how he ended up with a few cans of pilfered paint and a brush, staring up at the back wall. His desk had been scooted out of the way, his chair set aside nearby to climb on and reach the higher parts of the wall. Now it was just a matter of painting his mural, his reminder of everything out of reach that he wanted, needed. His heaven.

He dragged the can of blue paint to his side and tried to pry it open, but his stubby plastic digits couldn’t get under the metal seal. Grumbling, he scampered over to his desk, rustling around in the drawers until he found a rusty screwdriver. It would do the job. Wedging the flat end under the lid, he pressed down and popped the lid open. Bright blue paint stared back at him.

Dipping the brush in to get the bristles thoroughly saturated, Spamton started at the bottom, running the brush across in long, smooth strokes. He couldn't remember the last time he’d painted. It had been a long time since he’d had the spare time to indulge. Sure, he had time to do a doodle or a sketch here or there, but the time it took to paint was more involved. And in the last several months, he hadn’t been in the mindset to do any of that. Not with everything falling apart around him. Now, he wished he’d tried anyway. There was something relaxing about painting, soothing, almost.

But as he reached a point where he held his hand above his head, running the brush back and forth in sweeping arcs, his arm began to quiver, first with a slight tremor, but quickly turning to proper shaking. An ache started in his wrist, traveling up his arm and down into his fingers. He ground his teeth together, struggling to keep going, until a glitch buzzed through his body, his hand locking up, making him drop the brush. It smacked against the ground, spattering blue paint.

“[%@#$]!” he swore, taking his wrist in one hand and bending over to grab the brush with the other. He tried to grab it, but his hand shook, pain receding to numbness. Damn it, why couldn’t he do this?

Finally, he managed to close his fist around the handle, an improper grip, but it was all he could manage. He reached up to continue painting, his strokes uneven and messy. The pressure wasn’t right. But he had to finish this. He had to. It was just a part of business. He had to keep working through the pain. He always had.

But this type of pain was different. Before, it was just exhaustion and soreness, the after-effects of long, extra hours just to do enough to make rent. This was different. He hadn’t spent all day on his feet. Maybe he was a little tired, but that’s just the way things were when he had to catch shut-eye when he could. He should be fine. He should be able to do this! So why couldn’t he?

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why—

He stumbled forward, catching himself against the wall as another glitch rippled through his body. Stronger and longer this time, leaving him quivering worse than before. As it passed and he came back to reality, he realized he had leaned into the wet paint and hastily pulled away. But the damage was done. A big, splotchy hand print ruined the perfect, smooth, blue backdrop.

Letting out a frustrated cry, he hurled the paint brush at the wall, letting it clatter to the ground, and sat back, staring at his ruined, incomplete masterpiece.

How was he supposed to complete the mural if he couldn’t even hold a brush long enough to finish it? How was he supposed to get anything done with this god forsaken body?

Breathing heavily, he stood back up and lunged at the wall, running his fingers over the blue paint and leaving streaks.

“STUPID! [#%@!]ING!! [[paint.net]]!!!”

He spun around to kick the paint bucket. It didn’t budge. He kicked it again. It didn’t make him feel any better. He dipped his hand in and scooped up a handful of paint, hurling it at the wall. The splatters oozed down the cinder blocks, dripping down into the already painted area. With a grumble, he ran his hands over it to spread the drips out. Then he repeated the process again and again, until the bucket was half empty. Only then did he start to come to his senses, breathing heavily.

To his surprise, the majority of the wall was covered in bright blue. Not cleanly, mind you, with streaks crisscrossing the scene. But at least he’d managed to get something done. And for a moment, he almost felt sweet relief.

But then he looked down at his hands, completely covered in blue paint. He wiggled his fingers. They didn’t move right, joints gummed up by the drying paint oozing between them. More paint was splattered on his clothes, little blue splotches all over, the ends of his sleeves soaked.

No no no, what was he thinking? Now there was paint all over his blazer! How was he supposed to get this cleaned off? He didn’t have anything to clean it with and nowhere he could take it. Why? Why? Why? He brought his hands to his face, inadvertently getting more paint on his cheeks and in his hair. But he didn’t notice, too busy spiraling over his clothes.

As he dragged his hands down his face, his head snapped to the offending paint can. With a bitcrushed shout, he picked it up and hurled it at the wall, where it smashed against the cinderblocks then went rolling across the ground, spilling the remaining paint.

Only after standing in the midst of his destruction, heaving for breath, did the consequences set in. He looked at his stained hands and stained clothes, then to the stained floor and unfinished mural on the wall. It had taken ages to find that paint, and now he’d just wasted a bunch of it before he was even done. And why? Why?

He stared down at the paint spill slowly spreading across the floor, sneering at it like it had insulted him. He didn’t have an answer.

And as he slumped to the ground and stewed in the mess he the paint had created, his horrible puppet body still trembled.

windskull · Oct 7, 2025

Tangled Up
Prompt: Caught in a Net
Fandom: Bravoman

Summary: Reverse Anti-Bravoman runs tests for his father, simulations of battles to learn Bravoman's skills. He thinks it a waste of time — their fighting styles are totally different — but he gets money for it, so he can't complain too much. He always comes out on top, after all. And he always will. He's too skilled to be defeated.

Right?

A/N: This one is set in Bravoman's "Reverse Universe" But since everyone here is from the reverse universe I chose not to append "reverse" to the front of their names. OK cool.

“Again!”

Anti grumbled under his breath, climbing back to his feet. He’d run this simulation at least a half-dozen times today, at his father’s request, and the result was always the same. He’d crush every binja his father threw at him. They were weak, all of them. Too flimsy. Too easy to crumple, Mass produced to overwhelm by numbers rather than by power.

He wasn’t sure what his father thought he’d get out of this. The idea was sound enough: Dr. Bomb needed data on Bravoman’s powers if he was to defeat him. Who better to run tests with than his own son, who shared powers with said hero?

Except, in Anti’s humble opinion, it was all a waste of time. He was the more skilled of the two, and knew they fought totally differently. Observation showed him that. But hey, his dad paid him for it, and how else was he going to afford his limited-edition figurines?

He strode to the center of the room, breathing heavily, not having caught his breath from the last simulation. Maybe that’s what his dad was testing: endurance. Well, that was just fine. He could endure anything.

A green light clicked on above the door and it slid open, revealing a fresh set of binjas. Eight this time, from the look of things. He took a deep, steadying breath as they got into position, surrounding him. Each held some sort of weapon — mostly stereotypical ninja weaponry like kunai or bo staffs, the kind of weapons you’d expect out of a children’s cartoon about mutated turtle martial artists. But a couple held gun-like weapons. Knowing his dad, there was a pretty good chance they were net launchers.

The intercom crackled above him, then his father’s voice rang out. “Begin!”

Anti sprang to the right as the binja directly to his left charged, swinging its staff in a wide arc. He ducked beneath the blow, shooting out one foot to sweep it off its feet. Then he dropped and rolled to avoid another one, stretching out his other leg to hit it square in the chest. The metal dented beneath the strength of the blow, and the robot crumpled to the ground.

He scrambled back to his feet, diving through the gap his attack had opened to put some space between himself and the other robots. Two of them charged after him, while the other four hung back, the two with the gun-like weapons taking aim.

A dodge to the right avoided the left attacker while he blocked the other with the hard part of his gauntlet-like gloves. He grabbed its arm with his other hand, twisting it around and using it as a shield against the other binja. Then he kicked it away, sending them toppling to the ground together. He finished the fight with a hard stomp to each of their heads, disabling the processing unit.

He looked back up to ascertain the position of the remaining units. The first one he’d knocked over was back on its feet now, rushing at him. He didn’t immediately see the others. They must be taking a wide approach, or else they were taking cover, hiding behind terrain.

Using his strength to leap over the charging robot, he quickly swept his gaze across the room. He spotted one binja taking cover behind some of the terrain, and another approaching from the left. A third was chasing after the one with the staff…

But where was the fourth?

He had approximately three seconds to spot it, its weapon aimed, before the net collided with him mid-air, knocking him off course.

The ground rushed up to meet him, and he skidded to a stop, trying to twist free of the net. But the more he struggled and thrashed, the more he became entangled in the mesh. His legs got stuck together, and he let out a frustrated yell, fingers pulling and twisting to no avail.

After a moment, he had to stop to catch his breath, panting on the ground. And the moment he did, he felt a foot planted on his chest and a staff pressed against his throat.

He twisted his head to get a better look, realizing he was surrounded now by the remaining Binja. Heaving for breath, he tried to struggle free, but the binja put more pressure on his chest. Between that and his tangled limbs, it did no good.

Just to make sure he was down, one of the binjas kicked him in the ribs. He gasped and recoiled at the sharp pain; even with the relative protection of the suit, he would feel that in the morning.

The pressure was still increasing. It was getting harder to breathe. “H-hey, wait!” he wheezed. “This is just training. S-stop it! I can’t—”

It happened so quick, he didn’t have a chance to react. A boot came down on his head, just like he would have done to disable the bots. His visor cracked and shattered under the pressure. White-hot pain made his vision blur. Something was said above him, but his ears were ringing. He groaned and tried to move.

Suddenly the pressure on his chest went away.

Slowly, the ringing faded, and the blotches of white in his vision went away. But something was still wrong. Like something was in his eye, blocking most of his right-side vision.

He was vaguely aware of someone tugging at the net he was wrapped up in. shifting it around. Suddenly, it was pulled away from his head and torso, then they set to work freeing his legs. He turned his head and saw Benjamin, face as unexpressive as always, pulling the last of it away.

The cyborg let out a series of musical notes, ending with a higher note like a query, then offered out his hand. Though dazed, Anti took it and let him drag him to his feet. He would ask what happened, but he knew Benjamin couldn’t answer with anything but music, so he didn’t bother, instead limping with the robot out of the room.

His father was nowhere to be seen outside. Of course he wasn’t. All too happy to put him through the wringer, but disappearing the moment something went wrong, leaving him to limp to the bathroom to clean up. At least Benjamin helped him get that far. It wasn’t like he couldn’t walk, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t dizzy. He left right after, of course. But at least he had the decency to help when it was technically soldier robots under his command that had caused the damage.

There, he finally got a chance to look at himself in the mirror, horrified with what he saw.

Half his visor was shattered, the right side. Ink-like blood ran down his face from a cut over his eye. And he couldn’t be sure with all that blood, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the eye itself was damaged, the way his vision was messed up.

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against the mirror, taking heaving breaths as he tried to quell his panic. This was fine. This was fine, actually. He’d have a badass scar to commemorate the occasion. He could make up a totally cool story about some awesome, heroic accident that caused it and pretend it wasn’t his own fault for losing track of enemies in a fight. He’d never do that. He couldn’t. He had to be perfect. The best hero. He was the best hero. Better than Bravoman. Better than anyone.

He repeated that mantra to himself as he washed the blood away, bandaging up as best he could. It would keep him going.

When he finally made it back to his room, he found no note, no formal apology. Just the promised money, left on his bed, with a few extra bills than normal.

He didn’t know if that made things better, or worse.

windskull · Oct 8, 2025

Crumbling Pedestal
Prompt: Trapped with the Enemy
Fandom: Bravoman

Summary: Bravoman and Reverse Anti get trapped in a basement after an old building comes down on top of them in the middle of a fight. Perceptions of each other are challenged.

Bravoman roused to a dull ache over his entire body. His vision swam as he forced himself to his knees, bringing one hand to the side of his head.

“Anyone get the license on the truck that hit me?” he groaned, shaking his head as he tried to reorient himself and remember what happened. He was in a dark room — or room of sorts, at least. A spattering of light filtered down from above, illuminating the space just enough that he could take a look around. He spotted stone and debris, old electrical equipment, the unconscious form of Reverse Anti-Bravoman, ratty old furniture — wait.

His head snapped back to Reverse Anti, who was slumped over a rock pile, out cold. It all came back to him at once. He’d been fighting Dr. Bombs latest upgraded attack bomber when he’d spotted the villain skulking about near an old, abandoned hotel. He’d wrapped up the fight with the giant robot before chasing him inside, but the wood panels of the flooring had given out, sending them both tumbling down here.

Annoying, but that wasn’t so bad. All he had to do to escape is stretch back up to the hole and leave, right? Except, as he looked back up, he couldn’t spot any holes large enough to be the hole they’d fallen down. But that didn’t make sense? It should be immediately visible, shouldn’t it? Unless…

The ceiling creaked, showering Bravoman with a cloud of dust.

Oh right, he’d knocked the robot onto the building. It must have collapsed the building on top of them. Which meant… Getting out might not be so easy.

A groaning noise brought him out of his thoughts. He turned back towards Reverse Anti, who was finally stirring. The antimatter clone brought a hand up to the right side of his face, sliding it under the visor to rub at the skin around his eye. He, too, took a slow, bleary look around the room, only to freeze and stare at Bravoman as soon as he made eye contact. Bravoman was inclined to stare back.

Reverse Anti scrambled to his feet, swaying unsteadily for a few precious seconds before jabbing a finger in Bravoman’s direction. “You! What did you do?”

“What did I do? You’re the one that started the fist fight!”

“Only because you were chasing me! Where are we?”

“Good question. I think we’re in the hotel basement.”

“In the…” Reverse anti paused. The antennas on either side of his helmet drooped as he seemed to think about it. “Actually, that’s pretty sound logic.”

“Yeah. I can’t think of anywhere else. But it looks like the way we fell might have caved in, so we’re going to have to find another—” He was cut off when a sucker punch smacked him in the jaw, sending him stumbling. He threw his arms out to catch himself, then pushed back to his feet and held a hand to his jaw.

He whirled back to see Reverse Anti retracting his arm, expression seething. “What’s the big idea? I was trying to discuss a way out of here!”

“I don’t need your help, cheater,” Reverse Anti snarled, shifting back into a fighting stance.

Bravoman let out an exasperated sigh. “Really? Could we maybe not do this when we’re trapped?” Reverse Anti didn’t respond. “Fiiine. You asked for it.”

He launched himself at the false hero, arms outstretched. Reverse Anti dodged to the side, so Bravoman used one stretchy arm to pivot, spinning back in Reverse Anti’s direction. His opponent jabbed at him, and he blocked the blow with his gauntlet before tackling reverse Anti to the ground. They rolled together in the debris, until Bravoman’s back struck a pillar. More dust rained from above, followed by a creaking noise.

Bravoman had just enough time to say “Wait—” before the ceiling above them caved, raining debris down from above. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his hands above his head, pelted with wood and stone, and heard Reverse Anti let out a yelp.

Only once the debris seemed to stop did he dare to lower his arms and open his eyes. Wood and cement and plaster littered the ground around him. But he was, ultimately, barely harmed. Clearly, the universe still favored him.

The sound of heavy breathing dragged him out of his thoughts. Right, he wasn’t here alone. Sitting up, he noticed Reverse Anti on the ground nearby, propping up his torso with one arm while he twisted and tried to knock debris off his back with the other.

While the worst of the debris had spared Bravoman, that didn’t seem to be the case for Reverse Anti Wooden planks and chunks of cement had landed on and around him, with one particularly large chunk pinning his legs to the ground. As Bravoman watched, he twisted as best he could and stretched his arms, trying to push the stone off his legs. He huffed, arms trembling as he managed to lift it an inch or so, only to lose his grip. He let out a strangled cry as the stone fell heavily back onto his legs.

Bravoman winced, sucking in a breath through his teeth, and Reverse Anti suddenly seemed to remember he was there., snapping his head back to face him. “What?!” he snarled, voice pitched with distress. “What do you want?!”

After a few seconds of hesitation, Bravoman started to scoot closer, but Reverse Anti swiped at his legs with his hands, making him stop in his tracks. “That, uh. That looks painful,” he said dumbly.

“You think?” Reverse Anti growled. He dug his fingers into the cement and tried to drag himself free, but it didn’t budge. Then he twisted back around and tried to push it away again, muttering obscenities under his breath.

Suddenly, Reverse Anti didn’t look like the formidable enemy Bravoman had come to expect, but instead a pathetic, panicked man, desperate and afraid. But it seemed like he was too proud to ask for help.

Bravoman could just leave him here to sort himself out. It was probably what he deserved. But no, that wasn’t a heroic thing to do.

“You, uh, need help with that, bud?”

“No!!” Reverse Anti screeched, slamming his fist on the chunk of cement. “I don’t need you! Or your help! Or your stupid luck that lets you get out consequence free!”

“You sure?” Bravoman asked, leaning closer, flashing Reverse Anti a coy grin. “You look like you could use it.” He watched fury flash across Reverse Anti’s features, and felt only the tiniest bit guilty about the satisfaction it brought him. Was this what Brave Man felt like when he antagonized him? No wonder he kept doing it.

“I mean, if you’re sure, I could just go and leave you here to sort yourself out. Or send Bravowoman to round you up.”

“Fffffuck you!”

“Hey, hey hey! We like to keep a pg rating around here!” Bravoman said with a frown, crossing his arms. “That’s like, at least pg-13 language.”

“Do I look like I care?! I can’t feel my fucking legs!” Reverse Anti spun back around, huffing as he tried to push the boulder free, muttering under his breath. His movements became more frantic, the longer Bravoman watched, until his satisfaction died away, replaced with pity.

This was the man that kidnapped the Bravoman of his universe. Who brought his world to ruin to stoke his ego and hero complex. Heck, Reverse Anti even tried to imprison him, too. And yet, at the moment he didn't look like the danger Bravoman knew he could be; he looked frightened and in over his head, almost like his Anti-Bravoman.

Bravoman crossed his arms, tilting his head from side to side until he came to a decision. He took a few steps until he was staring at the chunk of cement, looking it over.

It was a good two to three feet across in both directions and at least six inches deep. On one side, pieces of rebar poked out, bent at the end.

“Geeze, this place is really falling apart,” Bravoman grumbled. “Did we really do that much of a number on the old building?”

“Did you forget the giant robot you abandoned fighting just to chase after me?”

“Hey, I didn’t abandon fighting it! I took it out first!” Reverse Anti gave him a deadpan stare. Bravoman gulped. “I did! I knocked it out!”

“Yeah. Right on top of the building, idiot.”

Bravoman huffed, crossing his arms. “Look, do you want help or no?”

Reverse Anti glared and said nothing for a moment, before his anger shifted to unease. “What's the catch?”

“The catch is that if I help you out, you don't attack me.”

“Seriously?” Reverse Anti barked out a harsh laugh. “Do you think I’m stupid? You think I’m just going to let you drag me out of here?”

Bravoman shrugged and turned around. “You’re choice, pal.” He started to walk away, looking up towards the ceiling for an opening. It looked like more of the building had collapsed where the ceiling had caved in, so that wasn’t going to work…

“Wait!!”

Reverse Anti’s voice cut through his thoughts. He turned back to see that his doppelganger was looking away, antennas drooping. “I suppose if the alternative is remaining stuck, that I will allow you to assist me. But this truce is only temporary!”

Fully turning around, Bravoman strolled back. “I expected it to be. You’ve proven to be too stubborn for your own good, anyway.”

“I don’t need your lecture!” Reverse Anti spat. “If I were in a better position, I’d have enough leverage to get this off! Then you’d be sorry!” He twisted around to prop his hands against the cement chunk and waited.

“Sure you would,” Bravoman said with a roll of his eyes. Still, he stooped down to press his palms against the edge. “On three. One… Two… Three!” With all his strength, he heaved upwards, lifting the chunk a few precious inches. Geeze, this was heavier than it looked. This was one of those moments where he really wished he had Bravowoman’s levels of enhanced strength.

Still, it was enough. Reverse Anti pushed off against the block, giving him just enough leverage to push himself out of the way. As soon as he was clear, Bravoman let the block drop with a heavy thud that sent a cloud of dust into the air.

Reverse Anti hissed through his teeth as he dragged himself over to the pillar, using it to try and prop himself up. But he’d only made it up to his knee before one of his legs gave out, only his grip on the pillar keeping him from collapsing entirely.

Now that it was free, Bravoman could see that the villain’s leg seemed off, twisted at an awkward angle. He sucked in a breath. “That doesn’t look good.”

All he got in response was a glare before Reverse Anti tried to put pressure on it again, only to let out a pained scream as it gave out again. “Don’t. Say. A word.” He let himself sink back to the ground, breathing heavily as he leaned over to get a better look, running his hand over he leg, hissing when he found the tender spot near the ankle. As it was, Bravoman wasn’t sure if it was broken or not, but he definitely wasn’t walking on it any time soon.

He shouldn’t feel pity for Reverse Anti. Not after everything he’d done. Not when half of this was his fault. But watching the man tremble as he tried to drag himself to his feet again, despite the injury that clearly shouldn’t be walked on, well… it was hard to feel anything other than pity.

Sighing, Bravoman offered out his hand silently. Reverse Anti stared at it as if he’d been slapped.

“You’re supposed to hate me,” Reverse Anti snapped, shrinking away from the offer.

“Uh… yeah?” Bravoman replied. “Who said I don’t? But you look like you need a hand, and it wouldn’t be very hero-like to leave you here when you need help, now would it?”

Reverse Anti’s expression was unreadable. His eyes darted between the offered hand and Bravoman’s face. Then, after a long moment, he gingerly reached out to take his hand. Gingerly, as if he thought it was an animal that would bite if he moved too quickly.

Bravoman gripped it tightly, hauling Reverse Anti to his good foot, then helping sling his arm around his shoulder for support, so that the injured leg didn’t have to touch the ground.

“Look. I don’t like you. You hate me. And if you try to snake your hand around and choke me I will kick your injury, so don’t even think about it. Let’s just figure out how to get out of there, okay? Then we can worry about all of that.”

For a second, Reverse Anti looked like he was going to argue. Then he averted his gaze and let out a gruff, “Fine.”

Satisfied for the time being, Bravoman started taking slow steps towards the edge of the room, keeping an eye out for stairs or openings in the ceiling. All the while, Reverse Anti’s fingers dug into his shoulder tightly, shaking with strain. Maybe he was more hurt than he let on.

“Don’t think me weak, Bravoman. As soon as I’m well enough, I’ll make you regret this.”

“Oh, joy.”

They couldn’t get out of here soon enough.

windskull · Oct 9, 2025

Inevitable Fate
Prompt: "Oh horror, oh horror, what did you see?"
Fandom: Deltarune/Undertale.

Summary: Spamton has nightmares of what is still to come in the war between humans and monsters. He discovers he isn't alone in that knowledge, but frankly wishes he was. It would be preferable to a guy that doesn't seem to care about everything they'll lose.

Spamton startled awake with a gasp, his feathers fluffed up. He rolled and had to beat his wings to keep from falling from his bunk to the floor.

Somehow, his commotion hadn’t woken any of the other messengers and runners he was sharing a tent with, a small blessing. He didn’t want to have to explain why he was up.

It was that damn dream, the same one he saw all the time, where Anthony, his beloved Anthony, was cut down as he was forced to watch before being dragged away and tossed into a pit, his clipped wings fluttering uselessly as he fell further, further, further, until his body was shattered at the bottom of the abyss. And then he’d wake up.

His soul fluttered in his chest, thrumming with nervous energy. He knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep for a while. With a sigh, he quietly lowered himself to the ground, sneaking to the tent flap. No one was supposed to be out and about at this time of night, but he could use the fresh air.

Light from a full moon filtered down, washing the field in pale light. Torches flickered between the tents, signs of the night guards out and about. Spamton avoided them, making for a particular spot near the edge of the camp.

They were currently stationed on a cliff on the south side of Mt Ebott, a strategic spot that let them see anything coming from below, and offered some protection from the rear. Or at least, that’s what he’d been told. He didn’t have the mind for this war stuff. He was just a messenger, and he was perfectly content with staying that way.

At the edge of the cliff, a gnarled old tree overlooked the sharp drop off. Perfect for perching in on nights like tonight, when he couldn’t sleep properly. With a running start, he leaped and fluttered onto a thick, low-hanging branch, talons digging into the bark.

It was too dark to be certain, but he didn’t notice any movement below. Which was perfectly fine with him. He didn’t want to worry about potential attacks, he wanted to try and clear his mind of his gruesome dreams.

“THE MOON IS BRIGHT, BRIGHT! THE PERFECT BACKDROP FOR TONIGHT, DO YOU THINK?”

Spamton gasped, throwing out his arms and wings, waving them to keep his balance. He looked around for the source, spotting a monster sitting on the same branch as him, leaning up against the trunk. How hadn’t he noticed him before?

Well, he was wearing a dark cloak that, the way he was sitting, covered most of his body save for his head. The monster tilted his head and bells attached to his twin, twisting horns jingled. After a moment of staring, Spamton realized he recognized him — although he didn't know him well. He was that monster that was always winning on poker nights, every time he played, without fail. Spamton had tried cheating against him once, and still lost. He still wasn't sure if the monster was a better cheater, or if he was just that good. Either way, he gave him the creeps.

He wracked his brain for a name and, after several minutes, came up with Jevil. That seemed right. It suited his appearance at least.

Jevil let out a giggle. “SURPRISED? DID YOU EXPECT TO BE ALONE IN YOUR LITTLE QUIET?”

Spamton gaped dumbly for a moment before forcing his brain to think. “Yes? No one else ever comes out here.”

“AH, THERE IS A SAYING FOR THAT, IS THERE NOT? A FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING?”

Spamton crossed his arms. “I guess. Why are you here?”

“FOR THE SAME REASONS AS YOU, I ASSUME? YOU COULD NOT REST AND FEEL BEING ALONE IS BEST.”

Wow. He nailed it. “Yes. Alone.” He stressed the second word. “Go find your own tree.”

Jevil cackled, shifting so that he was facing Spamton. His tail hung off the side of the branch, flicking back and forth. “WAS I NOT HERE FIRST?”

Spamton ground his teeth together. Technically speaking, he couldn't argue with that. Nor was he in the mood to argue, given the images swirling in his mind. So he just shifted away, further down the branch.

“STRANGE, STRANGE. HOW STRANGE YOU ARE TONIGHT, TO STEW IN SILENCE INSTEAD OF CHATTER AND CRY. YOU MAKE SUCH VAPID COMMENTS DURING OUR GAMES, GAMES!”

Spamton snapped his gaze back to Jevil, lip pulled back in a snarl. “Maybe I'm not in the mood to talk. Did you think of that, wise guy?”

Jevil’s grin faltered for a moment, only to return. He tilted his head to the side, bells jingling with the motion. “DEFENSIVE, ARE WE? PERHAPS YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO HIDE, HIDE?”

“Maybe I just don't want to talk about it with a stranger!” Spamton snapped, his inflection turning up at the end like a question.

“PERHAPS YOU'VE SEEN IT, TOO,” Jevil pressed. THE TRUTH, TRUTH. THE FUTURE, FUTURE.” Spamton stiffened, which seemed to be confession enough to the clown, as he threw his head back to laugh. “UEE HEE HEE! OH HORROR, OH HORROR, OH SWEET HORROR. WHAT DID YOU SEE?”

“Nothing!” Spamton hissed defensively. “What would you know?”

“MORE THAN YOU MIGHT THINK, MY FEATHERED FRIEND. THE FUTURE, GOOD AND BAD, AND HOW THIS WAR WILL END. THE DREAMS TELL ME THE VIOLENCE OF IT ALL. FOR YOU, IS IT NOT THE SAME, SAME?”

“No??” Spamton puffed up his feathers and beat his wings to hide the way his gut twisted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“OH NO? METHINKS THE BIRIDIE IS LYING, LYING!” Jevil shifted so that he was draped over the branch on his stomach, Idly kicking his legs back and forth. “IF NOT DREAMS, THEN TELL ME, TELL ME! HOW DOES IT CONTACT YOU?”

Spamton flinched, dread curling in his stomach. Was it that obvious that something was wrong with him? Or was the clown just that good at reading him? He didn’t like either possibility. “...Letters,” he finally said. “I started finding mysterious letters tucked into my bag, addressed to me. Sometimes I receive them mixed with the mail instead, or get telegrams in a few cases. Whoever it is… their advice has saved me more than once. But the other things they tell me, warnings of what’s to come… It can’t happen. I won’t let it happen!”

“WHY NOT?”

“Why not? You want to be trapped underground? Cut off from everything we’ve known just because the humans fear us? Just because… because a mysterious voice in your dream said so?” Spamton gesticulated wildly in Jevil’s direction.

“HARDLY, HARDLY,” Jevil replied, flashing a toothy grin. “BUT WHEEL OF FATE ALREADY TURNS, TURNS, AND ALL THAT WAS SEEN WILL COME TO PASS. SO WHY NOT ENJOY YOUR BIG FREEDOM WHILE IT LASTS? THEN PERHAPS, YOU WILL BE READY TO BE TRAPPED IN THE LITTLE FREEDOM.”

“No!” Spamton lunged, grabbing Jevil by his shirt, and dragged him up to be face to face. “It’s not going to happen! I’m not going to let it happen! It can’t! He can’t—”

His fingers shook as he pulled away, no longer focused on Jevil but instead trapped in his own visions, dreamed up by that one letter, those eight little words, delivered to him alone on an otherwise blank sheet of paper, centered in a printed font.

The lord will fall, cleaved red by blade.

He could picture it all in his head. Anthony, stabbed through the chest, blood leaking across his foyer floor. Ant, dismembered and screaming, killed by human hands. Ant, ripped apart by monstrous—”

He shook his head, willing the violent images away, and hunched with his head in his hands. “It can’t be set in stone!” he insisted. “It can’t! Otherwise… otherwise… otherwise why tell me? Why bother showing me these things if they can’t be changed. Why the cruelty?”

“IS IT CRUELTY OR KINDNESS? TO KNOW HOW IT ENDS? TO KNOW THAT IT CANNOT BE CHANGED? SO WHY NOT, ALONG THE WAY, CAUSE A LITTLE CHAOS, CHAOS?”

“What is wrong with you?” Spamton hissed, glaring daggers out of the corner of his eye. He groaned pathetically. “It tells me the love of my life is to die violently, and your answer is to just. Let it happen?”

“WHAT WILL HURT MORE, I WONDER, WONDER. TO LIVE IN BLISS UNTIL THE TIME COMES? OR TO LIVE IN MISERY TRYING TO CHANGE IT, AND FAIL?”

Spamton couldn’t answer at first. But after a moment, he shook his head. “No. Those aren’t the options. Pretending nothing is wrong is stupid. Everything is wrong! We’re in the middle of a fucking war, Jevil! I could at least try! Which is more than I can say about you, apparently.” Jevil cackled, so he pointedly turned away. “Maybe you just don’t have someone you care about like that, someone you would do anything to save.”

Jevil suddenly fell silent. There wasn’t even the jingle of his bells. Eventually, he whispered (which, in his boisterous tone, came out more like the average monster’s speaking volume), “THAT IS UN SO.”

Spamton turned back. The clown’s tail drooped, his mouth twisted into a frown. For a second, Spamton thought he might have struck a nerve. But before he could ask, the flicker of torchlight caught his attention, just before a voice asked from the dark, “What are you two doing up there?”

Looking down, he spotted an armored monster standing below the tree, torch in one hand and massive war hammer slung over his back. He didn’t know the monster’s name, but knew he was a skilled fighter.

“GETTING FRESH AIR,” Jevil replied at the same time as Spamton said, “Getting harassed."

“Is that so?” the monster replied. “Y’all best come back to camp before another monster spots you. Someone more strict than myself.”

“SOMEWONE MORE STRICT THAN GERSON?” Jevil asked before cackling. Clearly whatever had come over him had passed. “UEE HEE HEE! A RIOT, RIOT!”

“You haven’t met my captain yet,” Gerson said with a chuckle. “Come on you two, before I have to write you up!”

Spamton fluttered to the ground, Jevil dropping down behind him. Together, the trio started back towards the center of camp.

After a moment, Gerson said, “You know, I couldn’t help but overhear part of your conversation…”

Spamton tensed, expecting a lecture on the evils of humans. He couldn’t deal with this. Not right now. He was prepared to fly ahead, but before he could, Gerson added, “I know things are hard right now. But just so you know, you aren’t alone.”

“I KNOW THIS ALREADY, YOU SILLY COOT.”

Gerson let out a guffaw. “I’m not that much older than you! Besides, you might know that, but I doubt your friend does.”

Friend? Spamton’s gaze snapped to Jevil. ‘We are not friends.”

“SURE WE ARE, SPAMMY. REMEMBER ALL THE NIGHTS OF FUN, FUN? THE BACKGAMMON? THE CHESS? THE STRIP POKER, POKER?”

Spamton felt his face heat up. “Shut up!”

Jevil cackled, hurrying ahead, leaving Spamton alone with Gerson. The tortoise monster shook his head good-naturedly before winking at Spamton. “Come drinking with us some time, I have a feeling you’ll find more support than you think.”

Then, before Spamton could react, Gerson was gone, leaving him… huh, right in front of his tent.

He shuffled back inside, climbing up on his cot. Well, at least that whole ordeal had… Mostly got his mind off the nightmare. Mostly. It had certainly tired him out.

And for just a moment, as he drifted back into uneasy sleep, he was almost able to convince himself that everything would be alright.

windskull · Oct 10, 2025

Testing Limits
Prompts: Touch/Flashbacks
Fandom: Deltarune

Summary: Tenna and Spamton's reunion has been a series of small steps so far. Desperate for affection, Tenna accidentally oversteps an unspoken boundary and triggers a bad memory for Spamton. Can they move past this?

Some days were better than others, Tenna had quickly learned. Even though Spamton was the same person he’d known all those years ago, underneath the voice that sounded like it had been through the grinder and his physical changes, his needs were different.

He didn’t have the stamina he used to, to run and scurry about. Some days he seemed like he did! And then the next he’d barely manage to get out of bed. To a degree, Tenna could relate. The feeling in his shoulders had never quite recovered right, and probably never would.

Today seemed to be one of those bad days. Tenna had gone to wake him where he’d drifted off on the couch the night before (they weren’t quite ready to go back to sharing a bed! But that was okay! That was fine! It wasn’t like he missed him or anything. They had to take these things slow!), but Spamton had just hunkered down further and waved him off. And by the time Tenna had to leave for the day’s shows, he still wasn’t up.

When he returned that evening, it didn’t look like Spamton had moved, aside from rolling over to stare at the ceiling. And at that point, Tenna decided that he needed to do something. He wasn’t sure what that something was, but anything to at least get him sitting up and get some food in him.

The something he settled on was a homemade dinner and a movie.

And that's where he found himself now, sitting on one end of the couch watching as Spamton devoured the homemade darkburger and fries, the movie a comfortable background noise.

Spamton ate differently than he used to, too. Sometimes he’d bite off little chunks, sometimes he'd stuff the whole thing in his mouth. Either way, Tenna never saw him chew. He'd once asked (more like demanded to know, if he was being honest) whether it was a sleight on his cooking, and had gotten an earful for it before Spamton admitted that he couldn't really chew without opening his mouth anymore. He'd felt like a real ass after that.

Speaking of Spamton, the other darkner finally seemed to notice he was staring and glanced up at him, a questioning look behind the glasses. Tenna quickly turned his attention back to the movie, but kept shooting glances in Spamton’s direction as he sat the now empty tray aside and leaned back, arm loosely draped over the rest.

Tenna took the tray back to the kitchen alongside his own. When he returned, he sat a little closer to Spamton, occasionally casting glances down at him.

Oh, how he missed his little mailman’s touch. They'd hardly held each other since reuniting, let alone anything else. Spamton had always wanted to be the one to initiate before. And he wanted to respect that. He really did! But given how different things were…maybe it was time to take a chance.

Silently, he slid his hand a little closer, waiting to see if Spamton would react. Then a little closer. Closer… till his finger brushed up against Spamton’s side. The smaller darkner jolted at the touch and shot an unreadable look, then seemed to relax.

Tenna waited before trying his luck further, scooting a little closer. A little closer still. He carefully slipped his hand behind Spamton, acutely aware of the fact that the puppet was only a little bigger than it. He used to be bigger, before. Not a whole lot, but enough that it was noticeable.

He felt Spamton tense beneath his hand, then, almost hesitantly, leaned into it with an audible sigh.

Oh! Tenna felt his core flutter as relief washed through his body. He was reciprocating. He wanted this too! He needed this, just like Tenna did. Slowly, Tenna ran a finger across Spamton’s shoulder and upper arm, up and down, down and up. This, too, Spamton seemed to like.

Maybe he could… He pulled Spamton a little closer, pressed him gently against his side, so that his palm cupped the small darkner against him. He heard Spamton let out a light grunt, then nothing.

Then…

It took him a moment to notice, but he felt a slight vibration against him, subtle at first, but growing more violent. Small palms pressed against his finger, pushing against it, straining against it, but without the strength to move it. There was a shuffling noise.

He looked down. Spamton’s chest rose and fell rapidly and he squirmed in Tenna’s grip. In the light given off by his screen, Tenna could see the tell-tale signs of static in Spamton’s lenses. Something was wrong.

“...Spamton?”

Tenna cautiously pulled his hand away, and as soon as he did, spamton collapsed in a heap, still breathing shallowly. He jolted once, then tried to sit back up, though he struggled, tangled in the blankets as he was.

He tried getting through to him again. “Spamton, what’s wrong?”

Spamton still didn’t seem to hear him, pressing further into the cushions. Cautiously, he reached his hand out to caress Spamton’s cheek in hopes of grounding him, and just for a second the static cleared, only to be replaced by a wild, unfocused look. Spamton snapped at him — literally — pinching the end of his metallic finger in his jaw. Tenna recoiled.

“Yeowch! Spamton, what the heck?”

Spamton scrambled forward, limbs still tangled up in the blanket, his face splitting into pixelated pieces as he let out a garbled scream. Tenna flinched, his hands hovering anxiously over the puppet as he teetered dangerously close to the edge of the couch.

“Spamton, stop! It’s okay! It’s me! Tenna!”

That finally seemed to get through to him. Spamton froze, static creeping into his lenses again. When it cleared, gaze seemed a bit dazed, but clear. And after a few seconds, he focused on Tenna, slumping back to the couch.

“[Cathode]?”

“Yes, Spammy? I’m here.”

Spamton heaved a sigh, voice crackling with static. “THAT WAS [Top 10 most embarrassing Celbrity moments].” He looked down, then sluggishly reached up to rub at his jaw. “DID I [treatment for rat bites] SOMETHING?”

“Um… My hand,” Tenna replied. Before Spamton could reply, he quickly added, “It’s fine, Spamton. Really. You were clearly distressed about… something?”

Spamton carefully pushed himself to a sitting position. “BAD [Memory leak].”

“Oh. Do you want to… talk about it?”

Spamton slowly shook his head.

“It wasn’t… about me, was it? It seemed to come right after I… I… Oh I should have asked.”

“NOT YOU.” He sighed again, reaching for his blanket. “TIME FOR [OTC sleep supplements $9.99 with insurance]! GO0D N1;GHT [Trash Heap].”

“Already? But you slept all day!” Spamton pointedly turned away, so Tenna leaned in closer. “This is about me, isn’t it? Are you trying to avoid me? Please talk to me! I need to know what I did wrong!” If he did anything wrong at all. Maybe Spamton was just being anal. Or maybe he had ruined everything.

Tiny segmented fingers tightened their grip on the blanket, pulling it over Spamton’s head.

“Spamton! Please!”

The bundle trembled, shook, then Spamton threw the blanket off, the motion stilted and uncanny as another glitch made his arm snap from one position to the next like choppy animation. “IT;;TS NOT YOU 0K4Y??? IT’>>>S [I/me/myself]!!!”

Some days were better than others. Spamton had known that for a long time, even if he hated to admit it. But reuniting with Tenna had brought that knowledge to the forefront.

It didn’t stop him from pushing himself too hard some days, like he had yesterday. In the past, he could blame it on obsession. Of course he’d work himself to the point of exhaustion. Anything was worth it in pursuit for Neo. But that wasn’t the case yesterday.

Yesterday was just keeping up appearances. Letting most darkners believe that he was just the way he used to be, even if he looked a little different. Because heaven forbid he let himself be vulnerable. Heaven forbid he let anyone pity him. He didn't want that. He just wanted to be treated as a normal person again (but he’d also settle for their kromer, if they were feeling generous.)

But he’d pushed too hard and by the next day, the dull pain had caught up with him. He’d hoped he’d recover enough to be up and about again by the time Tenna returned, but that hadn’t been the case.

And that’s how he found himself in the situation he was in now, propped up against the couch armrest, dinner tray discarded, watching a movie through half-lidded eyes. He wanted to pay attention; he really did. But he was so damn tired, his joints aching and head foggy.

He hardly noticed when Tenna left to take the dishes to the kitchen, then returned. He did notice when the CRT’s hand brushed up against his thigh. He instinctively flinched, casting a glance at Tenna. But he had nothing to worry about. Tenna wouldn’t hurt him. Not on purpose. They were on the mend. Even if things weren’t the way they were before, Tenna clearly was comfortable enough around him to offer the couch. They were comfortable enough to spend time together, to talk without it turning into petty squabbles.

Spamton turned his attention back to the movie, but he was now acutely aware of Tenna scooting closer. Maybe he should say something. Tell the old TV to back off. Things weren’t the same. He wasn’t the same. And Tenna probably wouldn’t like what he saw if he dug below the surface.

Tenna’s hand came up behind him and he froze again, core fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird.

He wasn’t— He didn’t— He shouldn’t—

…He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him like this. Gentle and with care.

…He missed it.

Letting out a long sigh, he found himself leaning into the touch, eyes closed. He felt Tenna start to run his finger over his shoulder, the pressure flaring the joint pain, but in a way that felt good afterwards.

A memory washed over him, many years past, of a late night in the TV time studio. He and Tenna had stayed up late working on separate projects. Tenna was revising scripts, while he’d been busy with the budget and vetting sponsorships.

He’d started to drift off in his chair when Tenna had come over, rubbing his hand over his back before coaxing him to bed, carrying him back when it was clear he was too tired to walk. Normally, he would be annoyed. But that night was… different. It made him feel safe. Loved.

In the present, Tenna pulled him closer. He melted into the touch, imagining that he was back there, in the studio, held and cherished. On top of the world. Safe.

But that wasn’t him anymore. He wasn’t that elevated addison. He wasn’t even an addison. He was some wretched thing with a body that didn’t work right, scuffed and marred by years of hard living.

The memory twisted. It wasn’t Tenna holding him anymore. Instead, he was pinned against the ground, face grinding into the pavement, squirming uselessly in a bigger darkner’s grip. He’d tried to cut an illicit deal, trying to get his hands on the keygen he so desperately needed for his plans, but it had gone awry.

“...Spamton?”

The pressure eased. The darkner — probably some sort of malware, but he hadn’t bothered to check in his eagerness to cut a deal — lifted him by the back of his blazer. He let himself hang limp, like a puppet with severed strings. Most times, it was enough to make his attacker let their guard down and give him a chance to fight back or slip away, or at the worst, would stop anything worse from happening as they grew bored with a victim that didn’t fight back.

But it didn’t always work, and it hadn't worked then. The darkner had hurled him at the nearest wall, which he hit with an audible crack before dropping to the ground in a dazed heap. He groaned and tried to get up, glasses crooked and vision swimming as the darkner approached.

“Spamton, what’s wrong?”

He tried to crawl away, but the darkner reached for him again, so he resorted to his last line of defense: biting.

“Yeowch! Spamton, what the heck?”

He tried to run as the darkner shouted, but injured and dazed as he was, his limbs felt like a jumbled, tangled mess. To make matters worse, his body glitched, tumbling over himself. Something grabbed him from behind, yanking him back. He let out a garbled scream.

“Spamton, stop! It’s okay! It’s me! Tenna!”

Tenna?

His head felt like it was stuffed with Static. That wasn’t right. Tenna wasn’t part of this memory. Tenna never came for him, no matter how many times he called. Nobody did. Nobody saved him. At least he’d still gotten the keygen in the end, and managed to swipe the darkner’s wallet as a bonus, but… he didn’t see Tenna again until…

Oh, right. This was a memory. This already happened. Static encroached on his vision, eating away the memory, then cleared.

He was on the edge of the couch, twisted up in his blanket. As his senses returned, he realized Tenna was leaning over him, screen black, probably anxious. His jaw creaked as he opened it. “[Cathode]?”

Tenna’s face flickered back on. “Yes, Spammy? I’m here.”

He took a moment to orient himself. His jaw ached like he’d bit something hard, and he’d clearly moved from his original position. He could only imagine what he must have done while he was out of it. How humiliating.

He vocalized that thought (as best as he could), and Tenna confirmed that he had indeed bit something hard: his hand. He felt torn between regret and some weird sense of satisfaction.

“It’s fine, Spamton. Really. You were clearly distressed about… something?”

No shit, he wanted to say. You wouldn’t understand, he wanted to say (though maybe Tenna would. He had taken a deal that nearly got him killed….) In the end, he decided to try and keep it vague. “BAD [Memory leak].”

“Oh. Do you want to… talk about it?”

Spamton shook his head.

“It wasn’t… about me, was it? It seemed to come right after I… I… Oh I should have asked.”

“NOT YOU.” He sighed, reaching for his blanket. Although he’d briefly gotten an energy spike from the memory, it was quickly wearing off, leaving him even more exhausted than before. He didn’t have the energy to deal with this. “TIME FOR [OTC sleep supplements $9.99 with insurance]! GO0D N1;GHT [Trash Heap].”

“Already? But you slept all day!” Spamton rolled over. Yes, he had. He didn’t want to be reminded of it. He didn’t want to be reminded of the limits his body had now and how much he’d destroyed it pushing past them in his Neo-driven obsessions. But it seemed like Tenna was determined to get answers, because he kept blabbering. “This is about me, isn’t it? Are you trying to avoid me? Please talk to me! I need to know what I did wrong!”

He pulled the blanket over his head to try and ignore Tenna. Why couldn’t he take a hint?

“Spamton! Please!”

Tenna wasn’t going to give up, was he? Spamton really didn’t have the energy to deal with this. But he couldn’t stand the thought of listening to Tenna whine and blame himself all night either. A glitch made his movements stutter as he tossed the blanket off, glaring up at the CRT. “IT;;TS NOT YOU 0K4Y??? IT’>>>S [I/me/myself]!!!”

He waited for Tenna to say something, but he didn’t, only shrinking slightly. Spamton let out a staticky grumble, running a hand down his face. “I 4M [ouch! stop!] . THI;S [[long nosed doll]] IS 4LW>YS >> [help me! It burns!!]. I G3T [low battery] [in 3 easy steps!].” He didn’t have the energy to keep his speech together. Tenna would just have to work out what he was trying to say.

“You’re… in pain?” Tenna asked. “And that makes you tired? I know you get tired a lot easier these days, but…”

“[Confirm purchase].”

Tenna shrank a little more. “Oh… Did touching you hurt? Is that why you…?”

“HURTSSSSS A [itty bitty] BU T IN A [[customer satisfactin] W34Y.” He hesitated before reiterating “[Bad memory allocation]. N0TT FROM [pain doctors in your area].”

“...Could you tell me about it?”

He wanted to hear about that? “NO! N0T W4IST ING [plug in your computer now] ON THAT [drivel]. YOuuu don’t want to hear that…”

Tenna tensed beside him. “That awful?” Spamton didn’t reply. “Did… did touching you remind you of that memory?”

“NO OT TH3 [touch me]. TH;;;3 [[gripping tales of horror!]].”

“Oh…” Tenna shrank further and sniffled. He was only a couple heads taller than Spamton now. “I’m… sorry. I really bungled this one up, huh?”

Conflicting feelings of anger and pity danced in Spamton’s head. What right did Tenna have to get upset? He wasn’t the one that had to live with the memory! And Spamton didn’t need anyone’s pity. It was over. It happened. And he just had to live with it. It was just the price of business. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But on the other hand, it wasn’t like Tenna knew. And he was upset because he didn't want to hurt him. (That, or he was just upset that someone was upset with him. Spamton still wasn’t entirely sure which, but he leaned toward the former) This was, theoretically, proof that he cared.

“[Stop!!] CRYINNG ABOUT IT [Trash Heap]. JUST… [ask.com] N3X;T T1M3…”

Tenna sniffled again, screen blank. “Okay. I really am sorry. I’m sorry.”

Spamton sighed, laying back against the corner of the couch and shutting his eyes. “I KN0>>;.”

A moment later, he felt Tenna drape his blanket around his shoulders, before he heard his footsteps retreat. “I’ll… let you get some rest.” Then Tenna’s door closed.

Spamton had a feeling this conversation wasn’t over. But for now, he just needed to sleep and recover. They both did.

windskull · Oct 11, 2025

Knowledge is a [$4.99 specil] Burden
Prompt: Secrets
Fandom: Deltarune

Summary: While searching for Susie and Kris or, alternatively, the end of the prophecy before the lightner duo can see it in the Second Sanctuary, Ralsei stumbles across a part of the prophecy that recently came to pass and discovers he wasn't the only one with foresight of Tenna's fate.

Blue light washed the colors from Ralsei’s cloak as he hurried through the sanctuary halls, his footsteps light and quiet. His eyes traced over the void, glancing at each prophecy pane he passed.

But lo, on hopes and dreams they send. Three heroes at the world's end.

They’ll see the tail of hell take crawl.

Jockington grows the beard.

None of these were the pane he was looking for. He needed to find the ending. Or at least reunite with Kris and Susie before they found it. He couldn’t let them see it. He wouldn’t let them be burdened with that knowledge. With the truth of how this all would end.

One of the panes caught his attention. He slowed for a moment to look up at it, an aching feeling welling up in his chest. Sadness. That’s what it was. He felt... he supposed it was sadness as he stared at the image at the center of the pane: a box shape, divided by a diagonal cut across the middle.

The Lord of Screens, cleaved red by blade.

Tenna.

Ralsei lowered his head and closed his eyes. Despite everything, they hadn’t been able to prevent him from being attacked. It was only thanks to Susie’s determination that they’d managed to find and save him.

They’d saved him, and that was cause for celebration. But they still hadn’t been able to change fate.

With a sigh, he turned away and was prepared to walk away, but a wet feeling on his face made him pause. Was he… crying? He reached up under his glasses to rub at his eyes, only to feel a fresh tear roll down his hand. Not from his eye, but from…

He reached up to pull his equipment from his face, the dealmakers stared back at him. Wetness pooled at the bottom. Ralsei tilted his head. Were the glasses crying? Was…

“Mr. Spamton? Is everything okay?”

The glasses didn’t respond. But something was clearly wrong. Ralsei glanced back at the prophecy pane. The tears only stared after he looked at that. And… if Tenna’s freakout in that one backroom was anything to go by, the two of them clearly had a history together.

“Is this about Tenna? About the… prophecy?”

For a moment nothing happened. Then a white doll-like shape formed behind the lenses, making Ralsei let go before Spamton fully manifested, landing with a stumble on his feet. For a second, he covered his face with the back of his arm, emitting a quiet, staticky noise. Then he pulled it away and flashed Ralsei that wide, uncanny smile.

“JUST THE [smooth taste of ], [[Prince of Fluff]]!! NOT THING A LITTLE [perscription strength antihistamines] CAN’T FIX!!”

He turned away from Ralsei and began to walk away at a brisk pace, pointedly avoiding looking at the prophecy. Ralsei hurried after him.

“Did you… know about this?”

Spamton stopped walking. He went still, head tilted slightly downward.

“Mr. Spamton?”

“TAKE IT FROM [[Number 1 Rated Salesman 1997]] KID. SOME [trinkets] ARE BETT3R LEFT UNK NOWN.”

The non answer was as good as a confession. “That’s why I need to find Kris and Susie as soon as possible. They shouldn’t be burdened with that kind of knowledge.” He took the lead, glancing back to see if Spamton was following. “How… much of it do you know?”

Spamton sped up until he was walking side by side with Ralsei. “[Bit]S AND PIECES.” he said, twisting his hand back and forth. “THAT DAMN [[clown around town]] G0T TOLD MORE.”

“Jevil?” Ralsei guessed. “The details of the prophecy weren’t meant to be known by most darkners. Is that why you two are…” He didn’t finish that thought.

Spamton let out a harsh bark of a laugh that echoed through the empty halls. “THERE’S MORE TO BECOMING [Slime] THAN JUST A LITTLE [profitcy]. BUT THE [reality] THAT YOU CAN’T CHANGE FATE. THAT [ur] ONLY A GOD DAMN PUPPET PULLED BY THE [[silly strings]] DOESN’T [Oh god help me! It hurts!]”

Ralsei flinched. Then, steeling himself, he said. “That’s why I don’t want Susie to Kris to find out. Maybe… if it’s not in their heads, we can change it. But if it’s not something that can be stopped… at least they won’t have to live with that burden leading up to it.” They wouldn’t have to see what was to come.

Spamton threw back his head. “AHEHEHEH! IF IT’S SOMETHING THAT CAN BE STOPPED TH3N [Stop it!]!!” Another laugh that died away into a sigh. “L1STEN KID. [Secrits]? THOSE WILL [break] YOU IF YOU’RE NOT CAREFUL. [Valued Customor] WILL GET HURT. AND THEN WHERE WILL YOU BE? MUTTERING YOUR [lost friends] NAMES IN THE [recycle bin]!! THE TRUTH [how to come out] EVENTUALLY.”

“What do you mean?”

Spamton deflected. “BUT H3Y! WHAT DO 1 [knowledge base]? YOU KIDS ALREADY [broke] IT ONCE. [Trash Heap] IS ALIVE AND [free to a loving home]. THAT COUNTS FOR SOMETHING.”

Ralsei smiled sadly. “I thought so too, at first. It felt cruel to get his hopes up, when the end was coming for him.” Even if he still felt it was true. Susie was too good. Trying to make them all happy. Trying to make them feel like they mattered as much as a lightner. But… they couldn’t Because if they did, then…

He shook his head quickly. “But… the prophecy was still fulfilled. It said he had to be cleaved. It never said he had to die.”

Spamton froze mid-step. He turned his head towards Ralsei, more than a head should naturally be able to turn, in slow, stuttering steps, each time accompanied by a quiet click. His body seemed to jitter for a moment, glitching before settling back into place “WH4T.”

“It… only said he had to be cleaved,” Ralsei repeated. “Maybe death seems like a foregone conclusion to that, but…”

He watched as Spamton started to raise his hand before static overtook his glasses and he slumped forward, like a robot with its power cut.

“Mr. Spamton? Is everything okay?”

A beat of silence followed, then Spamton snapped back to attention. “YORE [killing] ME [[Fluffy]]. [Spamton G Spamton] AIN’T NO [sucker]! IT HAD TO MEAN ! BECAUSE OTHERWISE— OTHERWISE— OTHERWISE—” Another glitch sliced his face horizontally, displacing the upper half as he let out an unhinged laugh. When the glitch passed he seemed to be calm. But from the way his hands trembled and static poured from his jaws, Ralsei suspected that wasn't the case.

“TAKE MY [$4.99] [AD]VICE, BE CAREFUL ABOUT KEEP [top 10 video game secrets], KID! THEY MIGHT JUST [kill] YOU. BUT WH4T DO I KNOW? IM NOT > LIGHT nER! I’M N0T [a real boy]! I;;M JUST [equip]!! EAHAHAHA!” He reached up to adjust his glasses, then his body disappeared in a whirl of pixels, the deal makers clattering to the ground.

Ralsei walked over to pick them up, wiping them on his tunic before putting them back on.

“If it means easing the burden on Kris and Susie… then I’d gladly die for them.”

Speaking of Susie and Kris… he really should hurry. He adjusted his glasses — both pairs — then rushed down the hall.

windskull · Oct 12, 2025

Don't Bleed on the Suits
Prompt: Hidden Injury
Fandom: Deltarune

Summary: Ramb considered himself decent at getting a read on people's moods, so he was quite certain something was wrong when Spamton walked in that morning, smile wide but strained. He considered letting it sit. Not his circus and all. But then he caught the way Spamton winced when he twisted to get off the seat, like it hurt him, and decided this was the type of situation worth sticking his nose into.

A/N: This one is getting a part 2 later. Depending on it's length, I may add it to this post or go back and link it at the end when it's posted.

Ramb considered himself decent at getting a read on people's moods. It was an acquired skill, but one he’d picked up since taking up the involuntary position of barkeep in TV world. He knew from the way Elnina held her cup if Lanino had said something that got on her nerves. He knew when one of the pippins was planning something devious by the way they kept casting glances in his direction, as if he might snitch, before discussing their mischievous plans right in front of him. He could even tell if Tenna was in the type of mood where you just nodded along with whatever he said, even when he hadn’t said anything yet.

So he was quite certain something was wrong when Spamton walked in that morning, smile wide but strained. Sure, he came over looking for a coffee, as usual, but it was lacking any of the usual banter he usually accompanied it with. But he wasn’t particularly grouchy, either, his only other common emotion.

He was definitely hiding something.

Ramb considered letting it sit. Not his circus and all. But then he caught the way Spamton winced when he twisted to get off the seat. Like it hurt him. At once, Ramb had a sneaking suspicion that it would be in the studio’s best interest to find out what the problem was. And he’d do it the only way he knew how: speaking his mind, consequences be damned. What’s the worst Spamton could do? Report him to Tenna?

Which is how he found himself standing in front of Spamton’s dressing room door 30 minutes later. Tenna wouldn’t be expecting the addison for another 30 or so, but after that, he wouldn’t get another chance to speak with Spamton until lunch time. Best to get it dealt with now.

He held a hand up to the door and hesitated for a moment before knocking. He heard a shuffling behind the door and a censored curse before a muffled, “Hold on, Hold on, I’m coming.” The door creaked open and Spamton poked his head out, expression morphing to muted surprise. “What’re you doing here?”

“Nothing too important, mate. I just wanted to talk to you about something and figured you might prefer someplace quiet. Mind if I come in?”

Spamton cringed. “Yeah, that’s fine I guess. Don’t mind the mess. Haven’t had time to clean up after myself this week, the way Tens is running me ragged.” He chuckled and held the door open to let Ramb inside, then closed it behind him with an audible click.

He wasn’t lying; the room was a bit of a mess, though not the worst Ramb had seen. His tailcoat was tossed over the back of his vanity chair. And he had his dress suit sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A stack of TV dinner trays sat precariously at the end of a coffee table, the rest of the space occupied by haphazard stacks of paperwork. On the vanity, a cigarette still smoldered in an ash tray. Spamton strode over to pick it up, balancing it between two fingers. “Alright. What’d you need, Rambo?”

Ramb couldn’t help but grin at the cheeky nickname. It almost made him forget what he was here for. Almost. He tucked his thumbs into his jean pockets, shooting Spamton a wry smile. “I noticed you seemed a bit off when you came in this morning. Like you weren’t feeling your best. Everything okay?”

Spamton let his grin stretch a little wider. “Of course it is. I’m [fit as a fiddle]!”

“Fit as a fiddle, eh?” Ramb repeated. “Then why’d you look like someone punched you in the face when you were leaving the bar this morning?” He paused, before adding “Also you’re smoking. You only do that when you’re stressed about something.”

Spamton looked down at the incriminating cigarette in his hands before quickly putting it out. “I don’t think that’s any of your [$#!@]ing business? You’re not the boss around here.”

“Fair enough. But I’m not asking as your boss. I’m asking as someone who would prefer to not see you eat shit and then have to watch them clean you off the floor.” He raised a brow, waiting to see if Spamton would respond.

The salesman clasped his hands together. “You’re really twisting my arm here, Ramb. But really, I’m fine. Nothing to [worry] about.”

Playing hard to get, huh? Well, Ramb still had a trick or two up his sleeve. “You know Tenna’s planning a bunch of physical challenges for today, right? You sure you’re up for that?”

“Come on, Ramb. I do the [AD] reads, not the gameshow.”

“You sure about that? A curveball like making the ads a part of a physical challenge seems like just the kind of stunt Tenna would pull, innit?”

Spamton finally seemed to falter at that. “You think so? What, do you know something about today’s episode that I don’t?

Ramb shrugged. “ Not any more than you, I’m sure. But it’s hardly worth the risk, yeah?”

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Spamton’s face. “Fine. Since you wanna stick your non-existent nose in my business,. Don’t be surprised when you [die]. Uh, no. What I meant to say was, ‘when you’re disgusted by what you’re getting into.”

He took a deep breath, then reached down to pull up his shirt, revealing a jagged, stitched up wound across his torso.

“Look, it’s really not that big of a deal,” Spamton said, averting his gaze. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I just… got in a bar fight the other night is all. Shit happens. Give me a few days and I’ll be [right as rain].” To emphasize his point, Spamton waved his arms.

Ramb stepped a little closer to get a better look at the wound. “A barfight, eh? And what incited it?” Spamton opened his mouth to argue, but Ramb held up a hand and cut him off. “And don’t give me shit, Spamton. You know I won’t take it.”

“You’re really twisting my arm here,” Spamton grumbled. “It really was a bar fight! It just… started because of a deal gone wrong, okay? I was meeting with a potential client for a side gig and… well, you know how these things go. Sometimes in business, you cut a bad deal and you just have to take your licks.”

Ramb wisely decided he didn’t want to know what kind of business deal Spamton was making that got him roughed up. “Not my place to dictate what you do, but you should really be more careful, mate. Ol’ Tenna would tear this whole place down if something happened to you, and none of us would be able to do anything to stop it.”

Spamton winced. “Yeah, yeah. ‘S not like I want to worry the big guy.” He paused for a moment, hesitating. “You’re… not going to tell him about this, are you?

“Nah, mate.” Ramb replied, waiting for Spamton to relax before adding, “Because you are.”

“Like hell I am!” Spamton yelped, crossing his arms. He winced as he brushed over the stitches. “The big guy will coddle me to hell and back. Like I’m something fragile and precious. I am not putting up with that today.”

“Mate, he’s just worried about you. You should consider yourself lucky. He doesn’t do that for anyone else.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want him to do it! I don’t want to be treated differently!”

“It’s just love, mate. I’m sure you’d feel the same if something bad happened to Tenna.” Spamton’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and Ramb knew he’d found his in. He smirked, leaning forward. “Sounds like you’re afraid of people caring about you. You a coward, mate?”

There it was, the clench of his teeth, the furrowing of his brow as the jab got under his skin. “Spamton G Spamton is no coward.”

“Then why are you acting like one?”

Spamton tapped his foot, trying to come up with a response. Eventually, he sighed and dramatically rolled his eyes. “When did you get so annoying?”

“Gotta speak my mind sometimes, luv. It’s about all I can do around here.”

“Guess you have a point there.” Spamton’s expression sobered. For just a moment they shared a knowing look of solidarity. Two out of place darkners that had to claw out a purpose in a world where they’d once been failures. Then Spamton sighed and looked away, and the moment passed. “I’ll… try to talk to him about it, okay? When I have a moment to spare.”

It was probably as much as Ramb could expect out of him. He shot the addison a wry smile. “Glad we could settle this matter, chum. Knock ‘em dead out there, yeah?” He waited a few seconds before adding, “I best get back to the stand before I’m missed. Cheers.”

No one was going to miss him and they both knew it. But it was left unsaid as Ramb let himself out of the room, taking a deep breath before releasing it slowly.

He had a feeling Spamton was just trying to appease him and wasn’t going to follow through with his side of things. Maybe he was wrong, and Spamton would do the smart thing for himself. But Ramb knew Spamton better than that. It looked like a contingency plan was in order.

windskull · Oct 12, 2025

Healing Spell
Prompt: Withholding Medical Treatment
Fandom: Deltarune

Summary: An emergency lesson in healing magic.

Spamton wheezed, slinking along the alley with one arm propped against the brick wall for support. The other was slipped under his blazer, clutching at the spiderwebbing crack that crossed most of his torso, all the way up to where it met his chest piece. His head swam with pain each stumbling step, both from the wound and from his broken nose, the last quarter bent at an awkward angle.

How had he ended up like this? He remembered getting grabbed and thrown about like he weighed nothing. He knew it was because of something he’d said. But the rest was a blur, slipping through the cracks in his mind and making his head throb worse the more he tried to focus on it.

He limped along until he reached the dumpster (one he knew wouldn’t be bothered for a while), dreading climbing inside but knowing he needed some form of shelter. His body screamed in protest as he struggled up and into the dumpster, dropping into the squishy bags of trash inside. The lid slammed shut behind him, leaving him in near-total darkness, save for a small sliver of blue light that peeked through a crack where the lid didn’t quite meet the body of the dumpster.

He lay on his side, teeth grit together to bite back the scream that accompanied a fresh wave of nauseating pain.

This was a serious injury. He needed help. He should try to find an ambyu-lance. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t afford treatment. They’d probably mistake him for malware and attack. He wouldn’t be able to fight or run in this state. They might kill him or take him away to be studied, to try and prevent the same happening to another darkner. It wasn’t like he was an addison anymore. Or worse, they’d recognize him, and his reputation would lose the last shreds of dignity he was clinging on to.

He could see the tabloid headlines now. Big Shot takes Big Hit, or From dinner parties to dumpster diving, the downfall of Cyber City’s most successful addison, or Spamton G Spamton spotted with hideous transformation: the risks and dangers of code re—

Okay, that was enough of that.

Slowly, hissing with pain, he pulled his way from the wound. It came away stained with darkner blood, black with an iridescent sheen. Huh, he thought distantly, feeling almost divorced from his body. Forgot I could still bleed. It seemed like he forgot a lot of things these days, when it was so difficult to hold a thought in his head for too long.

He let his hand drop limply to his side, staring at the darkness. He wished someone was around to help. Swatch or Blue (or any of the addisons, really), or Tenna. Hell, he’d even take Ramb at this point. Anyone that could take him out of here, feed him and give him the help he so desperately needed. But he already knew begging them to come was a lost cause. He’d already screamed his voice raw more than once to no avail. Swatch had made it perfectly clear where his loyalties lay. The addisons wanted nothing to do with him. And Tenna? Tenna chose the phone. Even if he somehow made it to Cyber City, it was clear his care stopped the moment Spamton was useless to him. Traitors, all of them. When he got his hands on them…

A wave of nausea forced a groan out of him. Right, his injury. Needed to deal with that first, then he could fantasize revenge. He rolled onto his side, feeling the trash shift and squish under his weight. Maybe he could find something to eat in here. Darkner food had healing properties, so it could maybe at least patch him up… But he loathed the idea of digging through the slime with the open wound and with his head swimming.

Maybe he really should try and find an ambyu-lance…

No.

Never.

Absolutely not.

Kromer. Malware. Recognition. Too many unknown factors. Who cared if they knew how to heal? He couldn’t do it.

Heal.

Wait.

Healing magic.

In theory, anyone could learn how to use healing magic. That meant he could, too.

It was just a matter of figuring out how.

He slowly sat up, propping his back against the side of the dumpster. He focused on drawing on his magic, firing a couple of envelope-shaped bullets as practice. They plinked lightly off the other end of the dumpster before dissipating.

Now, how did he translate that into healing magic?

Well, healing magic was usually green wasn’t it? Maybe if he thought about that?

But when he went to launch his magic, all that came out was a regular bullet shaped like the word “green.”

He clenched his fists and knocked the back of his head against the dumpster.

Maybe intent mattered?

He tried thinking really hard about healing, but his frustrations leaked into his thoughts before he could finish making the bullet.

With a puff of white light, a small clone of himself appeared, dropping to the ground. Huh. That was new.

He pointed at himself. “CAN YOU [fix] THIS?”

The miniature Spamton let out an angry little chittering noise. It climbed up onto his knee, jabbing its stubby little hand in his direction. It didn’t seem to do anything. He got sick of looking at himself and smacked it away. It squeaked and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“STUPID [slime]!” he hissed through his teeth. “WH AT M4D3 YOU [thonk] >YOU COU;;LD [healing hands]? YOU C4N’;:T EV EEN G3T [[hyperlink blocked]]!!!”

He let out an enraged cry, banging his head on the back of the dumpster as a glitch tore pixels from his shoulders and displaced his fingers. What made him think he could do this? He should have just sought out help—

No. Absolutely not.

He had to do this. There wasn’t any other choice. Either he figured out how to heal himself or he died alone in the garbage, because no one else was going to help. And Spamton G Spamton wasn’t a quitter.

Try again. Focus on the healing. Focus on the magic. Focus. Hold the thought.

Another clone poofed into existence. But this one was a little different, accessorized with feathery wings and a halo. It fluttered down towards his torso, casting green sparkles over it before vanishing.

+1 HP

He could feel just the tiniest bit of relief. But it wasn’t enough. He made another.

+2 HP

A third.

+4 HP

His hands started to shake on the fourth.

+10 HP

His eyes started to droop.

+16 HP

He rolled his head down to look at the damage. The bleeding had stopped, but he couldn’t tell much more in the dark. His nose didn’t hurt anymore though.

As his eyes drifted shut, the combined exhaustion of the injury and magical drain taking its toll, he thought, It's a start.

windskull · Wednesday at 2:42 AM

Not Enough
Prompt: Never Enough
Fandom: Bravoman

No matter what Anti did, it never seemed to be enough. Not enough for praise, not enough for acknowledgement, not enough for rivalry. Not enough for his dad, not enough for Bravoman, and barely enough for the narrative.

Creating blueprints for new machines — robots or tanks or anti-particle devices? Well, they weren’t Dr. Bomb’s, so what good were they really? Running simulations Fighting binjas at his dad’s request so he could learn more about how Bravoman’s powers worked? Well, he got money, so that was something, but barely a word otherwise and never a thank you. All his personal belongings, from the action figures to the posters to the frameless bed down on the floor, all bartered in blood sweat and tears. Never a gift.

All his hours spent following Bravoman, carefully documenting his fighting styles and the way he spoke and his favorite foods, his every move, disarmed in a single offer to hang out. Then forgotten like it didn’t even really matter. Even Brave Man, a powerless actor, got more acknowledgement as a rival. The one time he thought he was finally getting respect, he later learned was only because of someone else. Another him, an unheroic him, as the toy line so helpfully showed him.

And the narrative itself, the chaotic force that controlled their world, barely ever let up. He got beat on, smacked around, left behind, mocked, and anything else that could go wrong. That’s just the way things were. The only time he caught a break was at the end of their story, a bone thrown before leaving their adventures to be continued off-screen by anyone who wanted. Anyone who could treat him better or worse. Much. Much worse.

No matter what Anti did, it was never enough.

He was never enough.

windskull · Wednesday at 2:46 AM

Not in the Job Description
Prompt: Ignoring an Illness
Fandom: Deltarune

Summary: After an on-stage collapse, Battat gets roped into helping Tenna with some overdue maintenance.

“You wanted to see me, Boss?”

Battat, clothed in his Mike costume, poked his head into Tenna’s dressing room. He spotted the TV sitting at his vanity across the room, swivel chair half-turned to the door, right elbow on the vanity, CRT head propped in his hand. His screen was dark, but as soon as he heard Battat’s voice he snapped back to attention, clapping his hands as his face appeared.

“There you are, Mike! I was wondering how long you'd keep me waiting.”

Waiting? It has been 5 minutes, tops. Impatient today, wasn’t he? Battat suppressed a sigh and shook his head. “Came quick as I could. What d’ya need me for?”

Tenna tapped a finger against the lip of his chassis. “What was it? Oh, right!” He held one finger up as he turned around to fully face him. “I need you to hand out these new stage directions to the crew. Viewership has been down, so we need to shake things up to get the lighter’s attention!” He spun back around with a thick stack of papers, dropping them into Mike’s hands. Battat stared down at the papers. “Uh, sure. I can do that. How soon do you need these out?”

“As soon as possible! I’m planning to launch it today during the after school programming block.”

“Today?! Isn’t that a bit of a short turn around?”

“Nonsense! This is show business! We’re all professionals here! Improv is at the heart of what we do. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them to take it up with me.”

Well, he couldn’t complain about that. No one would dare question Tenna. Well, almost no one.

“Well? Get going!” Tenna put his hands on the edge of the vanity and pushed himself to his feet, joints creaking. Battat watched the subtle shift of Tenna’s expression the way his shoulders hunched slightly with narrowed eyes.

“Right away. But, uh… you ok, Boss? You look a bit strained there.”

“Perfectly fine!” Tenna replied, adjusting his tie with one hand. The other remained firmly pressed against the vanity, as if to help keep his balance.

“You sure? I mean, we can postpone if you need a bit.”

“MIKE!”

“Okay fine! Fine! I’m going! Call if you need anything.”

Battat scurried out the door, eager to get out from Tenna’s scrutinizing gaze. He let out a relieved sigh as the door clicked shut, then hurried back to “Mike’s” room, passing out fliers to anyone he passed.

His two cohorts were already inside, Jongler preoccupied with some sort of single-player card game while Pluey was stretched out in an oversized basket, nonchalantly tossing a yarn ball above his head.

“Hey, Pluey! Jongler!” Batat called as he shut the door behind him “Help me pass these out to the staff. Tenna’s in a bit of a tizzy today.”

Jongler was the first to get up, taking a third of the stack. What’s he doin dis time, Boss?”

“Changing up the script with just a few hours notice. Like seriously, what is he thinking?”

“Sounds like he’s getting pretty desperate, don’t youse guys think?”

Pluey rolled over onto his stomach, tilting his head before getting up and taking another third of the papers. Battat guessed the unspoken question.

“You’re right, Plues, he has been acting off the last few days. Keep an eye out for him, okay? I’ll take the green room, Pluey, you’re in charge of the S-rank room and back stage. And Jongler, you handle the other changing rooms. Meet up back here and I’ll take care of any stragglers. Capiche?”

Fortunately, the new set started without a hitch. Although the crew was sent scrambling getting everything set up, by the time filming started, everyone was in their place and as ready as they could be.

Battat, still in Mike costume, took his place amongst the tech crew, script in hand as he watched Tenna waltz out onto stage. He leaned forward, chin propped up on his fist. Something didn’t quite feel right about Tenna’s choreography. Like he wasn’t quite on his game today. More than once, it looked like he’d stumbled over his feet, only to catch himself.

But he just kept pushing forward as the minutes ticked by, playing up his role as the darkners around him acted out their parts.

“And so that’s Why— why…”

Battat sat up straight as Tenna trailed off. The CRT’s knees wobbled.

“I think maybe we should, um…” Tenna started to tip forward.

“Cut to commercial” Battat hissed, springing from his seat. “Cut to commercial!”

By the time Battat got up to the stage, Tenna had fallen to his hands and knees, trembling, and not just because he was shrinking.

“Boss, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Tenna replied. “Haha, nothing’s wrong! I just… need a minute…”

Battat reached forward, as if to give Tenna a pat on the side of his monitor, only to recoil from the heat emanating off of him. “Yeowch! Mr. Tenna, you’re running super hot. You need to rest!”

“No! We can’t just stop now! The lightners, I need to—”

But Battat had already turned away. “Ay, weather duo! You two fill in!” Lanino and Elnina were already on their way over, clearly on the same page. “Wrap up this segment then get some reruns on. I’m getting him back to his room.”

Tenna was small enough now that Battat could lift him if he used both hands. He moved quickly, ignoring the uncomfortable heat as he rushed back towards Tenna’s room, pausing briefly in the green room to call to Ramb.

“Hey! Plugboy! You’ve been here for a while. Come with me for a sec.” He didn’t wait to see if Ramb was following.

Once in the room, he deposited Tenna on the couch, who rolled over to look at him. “Mike, we don’t have time for this! I need to—”

“Something’s wrong with you, Mr. Tenna. You need rest!”

“Did you need me for something, chum?”

Ramb poked his hand in through the door, then let himself inside.

“Yeah. You ever seen Tenna get like this before?”

“What? Glooby?”

Tenna grew just a bit bigger. “I’m not glooby!”

“No! Well, maybe that too, but that’s beside the point. He was actin weird earlier, then got all dizzy or somethin and collapsed on stage. And he’s overheating.”

“Overheating… Hm…” Ramb came to stand by Battat, hand on his chin as he looked Tenna over. “Tenna, mate, when’s the last time you had some maintenance done?”

“That’s none of your business, Ramb! It’s highly inappropriate to ask about things like that.”

Ramb took a step back, nodding to himself. “Thought so. So, not since he left, then.”

He? He who? Unfortunately, Battat was in character as Mike, and Mike would certainly know who he was, so he couldn’t ask.

Tenna curled in on himself. Ramb’s words clearly struck a nerve. “I don’t need him! I can do my own maintenance just fine.”

“Then why haven’t you, luv?”

Tenna didn’t have an answer to that. Several uncomfortable seconds passed before he said, “Mike, you do it!”

“Huh? What? But… I don’t know how to do that? Why not get Ramb to do that or something?”

Ramb flashed a wry smile, clasping a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “You think he’d trust me with that, chum? Come on, I’ll show you where the tools are.”

“But—”

“You don’t want to leave him like this do you?”

He didn’t have much of a choice, did he? “Fine, fine! You’re really twisting my arm here. I’ll be right back, Boss. Don’t. Go. Anywhere.”

Tenna huffed in response. “Not like I have much of a choice, do I?” He reached down to fumble with the buttons on his jacket. “You’ll, uh, have to access a service panel on both my head and body. And…” He trailed off, reaching up to rub at his screen while his other arm draped limply over his lap. “And… what else?”

“Oil the joints,” Ramb helpfully replied.

“Right. That. I think I’m just gonna… lie down for a bit…”

Once they were out of the room, Ramb said, “You really got yourself in a right mess this time, didn’t you, Battat?”

Battat wished he could take the Mike costume off and launch himself at the plugboy. “You’re a real pain in my ass, Ramb. You know that?”

“I hear that a lot.”

“Maybe ‘cause it’s true! Stop acting so high and mighty all the time and maybe you’d make a few friends around here.”

Ramb raised a brow. “Like you did?”

“Hey, I got Pluey and Jongler! We get along swimmingly. Where are we going, anyway?”

Ramb leaned over the information desk beside the C rank room, reaching for something under the counter. A few seconds later, the wall slid open to reveal another hall, caked with dust.

“The Z-rank room?”

“That’s where he left his tools, luv.”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait, so you’re telling me the mailman Tenna’s always whining about was his mechanic?”

“The one and only.” Ramb paused. “Well, more or less.” He grabbed hold of the door handle, pushing against the door with his shoulder. It stuck for just a second before popping open, sending up a swirl of dust. “He used to do car stuff. Guess it transferred over well enough for the basics.”

“You know a lot about the mailman.”

Ramb shrugged. “We used to drink together, back in the day. Before I came to TV world. Got along with him well enough when he was here. Then he left. And, well, you know how things have been, since.”

“So you did have someone you used to get along with.”

“Yep.”

“And it’s the guy that left Tenna in this state.”

“More or less.”

“Somehow, that makes more sense than it should.” Of course the most annoying guy would be friends with the guy that threw everything into disarray. He’d have to add this information to his evidence board as soon as he got a chance.

“Here you go, luv.” Ramb grunted, lifting a leather messenger bag that was tucked in the corner of the dark room. He ran a hand over it to dust it off before passing it off to Battat. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m going back to my stand, before ol Tenna decides to dock my pay. Come get me when you’re done, mate. I’ll lock down the room again once you finish.”

Tenna’s screen was black when Battat returned, and didn’t turn on as he climbed up onto the couch. His torso was undressed, revealing a metal-and-plastic chassis with two panels: one on the chest and one in the gut area. He tried to ignore the strange feelings that stirred in his chest, looking at Tenna like this.

The CRT had managed to size back up to couch length, at least, before seemingly turning off to rest, which would make it easier to work. Well, better get to it.

He started with the head. It was still burning hot, but he was just going to have to deal with the temperature. Crawling up on the couch beside Tenna, he found an access port on the side of his head, held in place by a couple of phillips screws. He dug around in the bag until he found a matching screwdriver, then set to work.

As he pried the panel off, he was greeted with dust-caked machinery and a high-voltage warning stuck to the back side of the panel.

“Ooookay,” he mumbled under his breath. “Not sticking my hand in there.”

He reached back into the toolbag and found a canister of canned air, poking the straw into the nozzle before holding it up to the access port. Clumps of dust flew into the air as he pressed down, angling to access as much as he could.

Once he was reasonably certain he got as much out as possible, he replaced the port and scooted down to the chest plate. Unlike the panel in Tenna’s head, this one just had a plastic fastener that he could open by pressing down. Pulling the panel off revealed a tangle of disorganized wires and yet more dust, as well as a few other parts. In the back, he could just see the glow of Tenna’s core. Yeesh, he was going to have to get these wires organized too, wasn’t he?

With a sigh, he set to work clearing out the dust first, taking off one of his gloves so he could more easily thumb through the wires. Huh, there were spots that had been patched with electrical tape. And a few spots here and there had indentations that kinda looked like… bite marks? They didn’t have a rodent problem, did they? No, Tenna wouldn’t let something like that get inside him. But what other explanation was there?

He'd ask Tenna, but it felt weird enough poking around in here like this, like he was crossing a line he shouldn't, even though it was necessary for Tenna’s health.

There was a buzzing noise. Then Tenna’s voice came through, though staticky. “Mmmm… Spammy…? What time is it?”

Spammy? Who? “No, uh… It’s me. Mike.”

“Mike? What are you doing fixing me up? I just had the most dreadful nightmare that Spamton… was…” He suddenly shrank. Battat yanked his hand out of the access port with a yelp. “Oh, right… that happened…”

“Hey, watch it!” Battat forced the wavering tone out of his voice, trying not to appear shaken by almost getting his hand tore up. “Careful, I can’t fix you up if you shrink like that, Boss.”

But Tenna didn't seem to hear him. Or at least wasn't paying attention. He sat up slowly, tucking his knees to his chest and resting his monitor on top.

“You'll never leave me, right, Mike?”

“Course not, Boss!” he replied quickly, reaching over to give Tenna a pat on the shoulder. “You can rely on me to keep things running. Come on, size back up for me so I can finish cleaning you out.”

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Tenna began to grow. “I should be out there on stage. We can't afford to lose any more viewers. It's just Kris and Azzy and Toriel now. I can't lose any more, Mike! What happens if they get rid of me? I… I’ll…”

His growth stuttered to a halt. Battat's hands hovered uncertainly over his shoulder before he put down his still-gloved one. “Easy, Boss, easy. I know we all gotta work hard. And no one works harder than you. No one! But how are you going to be any good to them if you overheat and fry your circuits, huh?”

Tenna fell silent. “Oh… oh, you're right. I've been stupid to put this off for so long, huh? I'm so… stupid!”

“You're not stupid, you're just stressed. C-come on, don't be so hard on yourself.”

For a moment, nothing. Then Tenna reached up to place his hand on Mike's. Battat felt his face heat up and fought the urge to react.

“...Thank you, Mike. You don't know how much I needed to hear that.” Tenna let out a sigh. “You know, you’ve been acting weird ever since that bastard left.”

What? What? What??? Battat tried to laugh things off. “Wow, language! You really are sick, Boss.”

And to his surprise, Tenna laughed. “I know I shouldn't! The censors are gonna kill me if they ever find out. But it's true! Ever since the… other guy left, you've been so different. But… it's not necessarily a bad different.”

Battat felt a blush creeping onto his face. Nope. He needed to shut down this train of thought right now. “Well, uh, I guess I'm glad to hear that? Come on, just a little bigger. I'm almost done in here, then I can do your joints.”

Slowly, carefully, Tenna returned to the height he was at before, letting Battat finish up without much incident. He considered saying something about the bite marks, but decided it wasn't a good time to bring it up. Not when Tenna was in a more precarious mental state than usual (and that was saying something.)

The remainder of the maintenance went off without a hitch. Well, aside from spilling a bit of oil when he started the first joint. But he did better afterwards. Soon, he had Tenna all cleaned up and had dragged out his pajamas for him.

“Alright, Boss. We’re done for now, but I want you to sleep the rest of the day. Give yourself some time to cool down before you're off running around the stage again. Got it?”

Tenna sighed dramatically. “If I must.”

“Good. I better not hear about any more shenanigans today.” Battat slipped his glove back on. “Have a good evening.” He hopped down from the couch and scurried away.

“Oh, Mike?”

Battat paused, half-way out the door, at Tenna's mumbling tone.

“Don't forget my shock therapy tomorrow.”

“Right, of course, Boss. Get some rest.” He quietly closed the door and made it all of five steps before everything caught up with him and made him promptly flip the fuck out.

“What the fuck was that? What other guy? What bastard? And who the heck is Spammy? Is he talking about the mailman? I dunno, he’s never said the guy’s name before!”

It was going to be a long night.

windskull · Thursday at 11:50 PM

A Study in Probability
Part 1
Prompt: Failed Rescue Attempt
Fandom: Bravoman

Summary: In an altered timeline, Bravoman fails to free Reverse Salaryman in time, though he still manages to bring down the fifth wall enough to send out a plea for help.

A/N: This one turned into a multichapter fic, combining with day 23's prompt + a few additional chapters of resolution. It can still be read standalone.

Slam! Crack!

Bravoman slumped to the ground, pain blossoming in his jaw and all along his back. Debris, dust and small chunks of cement, rained down on him from the spiderweb of cracks in the wall. He groaned, bringing a hand to his jaw. He thought he could taste copper in his mouth, but wasn’t sure.

One punch, He’d been tossed across the room with one punch. How was this guy so powerful?

Woozily, he looked up as footsteps approached. His doppelganger came to a stop a few feet away. Not the reverse version of himself— not really. His real counterpart lay suspended in a tube across the room, surrounded by a red glow.

“You’re… Reverse Anti-Bravoman?”

“Ding Ding. I replaced my pathetic predecessor ages ago,” Reverse Anti replied, voice dropping into a raspy, lower-pitched voice than the tone Bravoman was used to. “With his super suit tech incorporated into my own, I became the ultimate super hero.”

He went on to reveal that he’d had a hand in everything wrong with this world. The arrival of Zulu on Earth? Lured there for a more climatic fight. The ultra binjas? His doing. The fifth wall? His own invention, powered by the latent power within the Bravoman of this world. None of it was real. None of it.

That wasn’t quite true though. The danger was real. He was putting lives in danger, just to play at being a hero.

Bravoman’s mind wandered as Nega Pigeon landed on Reverse Anti-Bravoman’s arm. He had to get out of here. He had to rescue his counterpart somehow… But this guy had double his power — he had everything Bravoman was supposed to be.

A shadow moved in the corner of Bravoman’s vision, bringing Bravoman back to attention.

“It allowed me to be a real hero, without the crutch of meta,” Reverse Anti said. “Without cheating!”

Huh. That shadow kind of looked like…

The shadow sprang at Reverse Anti, or more specifically, at Nega Pigeon. Zed, Alpha’s pet alien squid, latched onto Reverse Anti’s arm, swallowing the bird whole.

Reverse Anti let out a screech, waving his arm wildly, but the squid clung to his gauntlet. “It ate him! It ate Nega Pigeon!”

This was his chance, while his doppelganger was distracted. He struggled to his feet, using the wall as support, then pushed off, rushing to the console below the tube Reverse Salaryman was being held in.

There had to be a way to shut this thing down. But he didn’t have any clue what any of the buttons or monitors did. So he did the only thing he could think of: start smashing.

He brought his fist down on a seamed panel. The metal crumpled under the force of his blow. He pried it away and started pulling at wires.

“Hey! No! Get away from that!”

He heard a ripping sound, then something collided with the back of his head. He stumbled, catching himself on the console as the red light changed to blue.

“No no no no no!”

Before he could recover, Reverse Anti tackled him to the ground. His appearance had changed. Pixels glitched back and forth between the color of Bravoman’s suit and the near-black purple that he’d come to expect out of Anti.

His head hit the ground and bounced. He barely had time to block a blow to his face, but Reverse Anti pivoted to grappling with him, pushing his arm down against his chest with one hand. He snaked the other behind Bravoman’s back, wrapping it around several times to bind his arms in place. Pain shot through Bravoman’s ribs as he wheezed for air.

Reverse Anti climbed back to his feet, keeping Bravoman bound with one arm while using the other to press buttons on the console beneath Reverse Salaryman. As Bravoman watched, his counterpart’s face — which had grown scrunched like he was uncomfortable — relaxed.

“Fifth Wall is currently down, but stasis is still… active. “ Reverse Anti let out a sigh of relief. Then he snapped his gaze to Bravoman. “You. You thought you could just go and ruin everything for me? Break all my things and cheat your way to victory?”

“I mean yeah that’s usually how these things go.” Bravoman wheezed. “In fact, I think I’m overdue for a little—” he didn’t get a chance to finish that sentence as Reverse Anti whipped his arm around to slam Bravoman against the wall.

Bravoman slumped to the ground. He tried to climb to his feet, but his head buzzed and vision swam as Reverse Anti approached, reaching down with his other hand to cup Bravoman’s chin, forcing him to look the evil clone in the eye.

“Did you really think I’d just let you do that? I’m not going to let you ruin everything for me!” He let go, lifting Bravoman, who hung limp, into the air. “What to do with you…” His eyes traveled across the room before setting on something Bravoman couldn’t see. “That’ll do for now. I could always use a backup battery…”

Bravoman squirmed, which only made Reverse Anti tighten his grip as he dragged him across the room. He needed to fight back. He needed to escape. But he couldn’t get his body to line up with his mind.

There was a pressurized hiss, then he was lifted into the air again and deposited inside some sort of chamber, slumping against the slanted back. Reverse Anti finally let go, then a glass covering closed over Bravoman with a loud click. Mechanical parts whirred, locking it in place.

He tried to push himself up, still dazed. Something clicked from above, then liquid started to rain down around him. His mind panicked, but his body still wasn’t working with him.

Wait! Stop!

The liquid climbed higher. To his knees. His waist. His chest.

“Thissss isn’t going to work!” he managed to slur out. “Help will come. I’ll bet it’ss already on the way…”

It was up to his neck, now and still climbing. He sucked in as deep a breath as his aching ribs would allow and held it as the liquid covered his head. He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe in vain hope that his strength would return enough in that time to let him break free.

His lungs ached.

His lungs burned.

His vision swam.

His body forced him to take a deep breath. Liquid filled his lungs. He was drowning, his body told him. He was drowning he was drowning he was drowning—

But… nothing happened. He just laid there, suspended in the liquid, Reverse Anti a blur of colors on the other side of the glass. His pain started to go numb. His eyelids drooped. There must have been something in the liquid. Something to ease his pain and make him drowsy.

That was right. Reverse Salaryman was suspended in this stuff. And he seemed to be doing fine. Other than the whole being trapped thing. This was probably some sort of… cryostasis. This would be some cool sci-fi nonsense if not for the fact that he… that he’d… that he’d been…

The last thing Bravoman saw before succumbing to whatever the liquid was drugged with was the blur of Reverse Anti, walking away.

windskull · Thursday at 11:54 PM

What Can't Be Said
Prompt: Repressed Trauma
Fandom: PMD (Places We Call Home)

Summary: On patrol, a brief encounter with an enemy pawniard dredges up Tempest's old emotional wounds. Nip will internalize that.

A/N: Standalone short story related to my PMD longfic, Places We Call Home. Takes place pre-fic, but contains implied spoilers for part 33.

Snow crunched underpaw. Tempest’s breaths came in puffs of steam as he stalked through the undergrowth, low to the ground. Nip followed close behind, a slight limp in his step, favoring his right side. Tempest had to suppress a growl as he cast a glance back. He knew exactly who to blame for the sneasel’s injury, but it was left unsaid. Nip would talk about it if he wanted to; it was their unspoken agreement.

He slowed to a stop as they neared the edge of the territory, the trees and stone used to denote the border marked by the familiar half-moon symbol. Nip came up beside him, staring across the open field beyond the treeline. His eyes swept over the trees until he spotted one where the mark wasn't as clear as usual. He trotted over, reaching up to recarve the symbol into the tree.

Tempest chuffed, sitting and fanning out his nine tales behind him, flicking away the frost that formed on the tips.

His gaze flicked away from Nip, staring unfocused into the forest beyond the border, territory belonging to another group. He closed his eyes as he listened to Nip work, memories of following his father in the snow swirling through his mind. He's only had two tails then, hardly old enough to be out in the blizzard like they were. But… It was necessary. He hadn’t fully understood, then, that his father was saving his life, at the cost of his own. But he knew that, now.

“The marks on the other side look fresh.”

Nip’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up as Nip scurried back over to meet him, wincing when he put his foot down just a bit too hard. “We should get going,” Nip said. “We may be on our side, but I don't want to take any chances at this time of year.”

Or with an injury like you have, Tempest thought. Anger for the sneasel’s behalf roiled under his fur. He didn't understand how no one else could see what Umbra was doing to him. Or maybe they did, and they were ignoring it. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

I should be able to protect you… but I can't. I've never been able to.

He shook out his fur, tossing the thought aside. No point in thinking about that.

“Agreed. Come on then.”

They continued their trek along the border, occasionally pausing so Nip could freshen up a marker. The job had been relegated to him this moon, given that his sharp claws were practically made for the job. Tempest only trailed along so he wouldn’t be out alone. He didn’t like the idea of Nip being out alone. Especially around here, even though he knew Nip was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

“Do you see that?” Nip asked, bringing Tempest out of his thoughts once again.

“See what?” he asked, looking up, only to stiffen.

Across the border, someone was watching them: a single pawniard, draped in what looked to be a swinub pelt.

“Tempest, are you okay?”

Blood, spreading through the snow. A high pitched shriek cut off prematurely.

“Tempest, you’re shaking!”

Tempest nosed Nip away from the border, casting glances back at the pawniard.

It hadn’t moved.

But Tempest didn’t feel comfortable until they had left it far behind. Nip started his complaints as soon as the ninetales relaxed.

“I need to go back! I have to finish the patrol.”

“We can take a break,” Tenna said. “Best to wait until they move on.”

“I suppose,” Nip said with a sigh. “What got into you? You smell frightened. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

Was he that obvious? “I have… a bad history with them, you could say.”

“You’ve never told me about this. What do you mean?”

Tempest hesitated. He was treading dangerously close to things he promised the elders he’d never talk about. It was part of the agreement for letting him come back with Nip’s egg. He was tempted to say something anyway. Nip deserved to know the truth. To know his lineage. But… He couldn’t risk getting the two of them thrown out. Where would they go then?

He let out a sigh, shaking out his fur. “It is… not something I can talk about right now, Nip. Sometimes, we have to keep things to ourselves for the sake of harmony. This is one of those things.”

Nip glanced away, down at his leg, and grunted. “Guess I understand that.”

I wish I could tell you. Truly, I do.

But for now, that wasn’t meant to be.

Tempest spun in a circle before settling down in the snow. “We may as well rest for a bit. Come on. I’ll tell you a story about my father.” Those, at least, he’d had a chance to process.

Nip hesitated for a moment before joining Tempest, running a claw through the ninetales' thick neck fur.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

windskull · 2025-10-18T03:44:43+0100

Driven by Jealousy
Prompt: Jealousy
Fandom: Bravoman

Summary: His life wasn’t fair. It was a cycle of getting shafted again and again and again. So maybe it was time to even the odds.

It wasn't fair. That Bravoman got all the recognition while he was relegated to the shadows, his hard work and heroics never recognized. That Bravoman could bungle everything up and still fix it all in the end with a twist of meta. Meanwhile he tried to call upon the power and ended up run over by a truck, or struck by lighting, or some other form of punishment.

It wasn’t fair, that no matter what he did, he’d never get recognition from his father. Dr. Bomb would never give him proper recognition for helping with his tests, or for the robots he built or things he designed. His genius was left in the shadow of the man’s ego, his help just a stepping stone for his father’s obsession over bravoman.

It wasn’t fair that Bravoman barely acknowledged him, brushing off his every attempt to try and initiate a rivalry. That he invited him over to play games only to ditch him at the last minute. That someone so callous and air headed was the city’s adored hero while he got nothing, not even the tiniest recognition for all his hard work.

His life wasn’t fair. It was a cycle of getting shafted again and again and again.

So maybe it was time to even the odds.

After all, who was Anti-Bravoman? Very few people even knew who he was. Who would miss him if he “disappeared?”

There was only room for one Bravoman in this city, and he thought it was high time he took the name for himself. By any means necessary.

windskull · 2025-10-19T02:55:11+0100

Ways of Coping
Prompt: Ruins
Fandom: Deltarune/Undertale

Summary: Spamton copes with being trapped underground with bitterness and determination to find a way out, but is isolated as a result. Jevil copes by holding on to the idea that the creation of the barrier was always inevitable. That nothing could have changed things. So why worry about it. Sometimes, tempers flare and the two fight over who's right. Because fighting is easier than dealing with their feelings. Fighting is easier than thinking about how much time has passed. About how the barrier still holds strong. About how they're running out of time before their partners pass, if they're even still alive.

Not many monsters lived in the old capital these days. Which was fine by Spamton. It meant he could be left alone to stew in bitter old memories. It meant no small talk or invasive questions, both of which drove him nuts. If he was lucky, he could slip deep into the ruins and spot sunlight shining down from the outside world.

He missed the sun. He missed natural light and fresh air and the feeling of wind ruffling his feathers. Flying down here was so much harder, even in the larger caverns like the one Home had been built in. The air was stale and cool, no thermals to catch under his wings and raise him higher, every inch gained a struggle.

But most of all, he missed Tenna. He missed the man’s smile, the way he laughed, the way he really laughed when the two of them were alone. He missed the days of hard work and the tender touches. He missed having help caring for his feathers, because angel forbid he let himself be vulnerable and accept help from anyone else. Even now, as he shook himself out of his thoughts, a couple of loose feathers drifted to the ground. He huffed, kicking them over the edge of the crumbling wall he was perched on, and watched them lazily drift to the dark, empty streets below him.

“SO THIS IS WHERE YOU’VE BEEN HIDING, HIDING?”

Spamton let out a discordant screech, fluffing up his feathers and lifting a few feet in the air before settling back down. He whirled around to face the familiar voice. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that! God, Jevil, it’s like you want to kill me.”

“I WAS HARDLY SNEAKING, SNEAKING,” Jevil replied, slinking forward to perch on the wall next to Spamton. His tail quivered with clear excitement. “YOU WERE TOO WOUND UP IN YOUR MIND TO NOTICE, NOTICE. AS YOU ARE WONT TO DO.”

Scoffing, Spamton edged away hunching his shoulders. “What do you want, clown?”

Jevil cackled, edging closer. “YOU WERE MISSED AT THE MEETING. THE TORTOISE GROWS WORRIED WITH YOUR LITTLE DISAPPEARANCE."

Spamton rolled his eyes. “Please, like anyone there missed me. They’re all happy to wallow in their misery.”

“ARE YOU NOT DOING THE SAME, SAME?”

He whirled around to face Jevil. “No! Everything sucks, but I’m not going to lie here and take it! There has to be a way out. A way beyond the barrier. And I’m going to find it. I’m going to get out of here. I have to. I’m running out of time. We’re running out of time. If I don’t hurry… If I don’t hurry…”

He shook his head quickly. “It’s been 40 years, Jevil. Much longer and… and they’ll all be gone. He’ll be gone. There’s already monsters from the support group that have Fallen Down. I don’t… I can’t—” He took a great heaving breath, trying to fight back the dread. “I can’t die down here! I have to see the surface again. I have to. I need to know if Ant’s ok. I need to see the sun again. I can’t take living this half-life much longer! They may be content to commiserate and live in darkness, but I’m not!”

Jevil chuckled. “HOW SILLY, SILLY. ALL THIS TIME AND YOU STILL FIGHT FATE, DESPITE YOUR LINGERING HATE.”

“I don’t know why I bothered telling you. It’s not like you would get it. Especially after what you did.”

He saw the jester’s smile falter and felt a small twinge of satisfaction that he’d managed to get under his skin, even if only temporary.

“OUR FIGHT WAS ONE OF NECESSITY,” Jevil eventually said with a shrug. “IT WAS UNFORTUNATE, UNFORTUNATE, BUT I KNEW THEY’D UNDERSTAND IN THE END. I WARNED THEM OF THE FATE TO COME AND THEY CHOSE TO VISIT ANYWAY.”

Spamton narrowed his eyes. Jevil appeared outwardly nonchalant. But he knew his mannerisms by now. His fight with Seam bothered him more than he let on. “Yet, you still miss them. Even after gouging out their eye, you think they understand? Yeah, I heard about it. I heard all about it.” He reached forward to jab a finger at Jevil’s chest. “You like to pretend like you’re above everything, like nothing bad ever happened and you’re okay with the hand fate dealt you. But you’re just running away from your guilt.”

Jevil glanced down at Spamton’s finger, devious smile splitting his face. “AT LEAST I’M NOT A YELLOW BELLY THAT LEFT HIS LOVER TO DIE LIKE A COWARD, COWARD.”

Thwack!

Before Spamton realized what he was doing, he hurled a bullet shaped like his face at Jevil, point-blank. It hit the clown right between the eyes, making him stumble back with a mad cackle.

“SO YOU WANT TO PLAY THE NUMBERS GAME?” Jevil asked, waving a hand over his head to summon a wave of diamond shaped bullets. “HOW FUN, FUN! BUT IN CASE YOU FORGOT. IN GAMES OF CHANCE, I DON’T LOSE.”

Jevil threw his hand forward, and the bullets rained down towards Spamton. He leaped from the wall, diving and fanning out his wings to swoop just feet from the ground, narrowly dodging the brunt of the attack. He flapped madly to gain air, coasting in a wide arc as he created letter-shaped bullets. As he came back around, he threw them in Jevil’s direction, who countered with spades. Most of the bullets struck each other, shattering on impact, but one got through and struck him in the shoulder, sending him spinning and forcing him to focus on balance. But as he righted himself, he saw one of his own slice Jevil across the cheek.

No time to relax. Spamton summoned two egg-shaped bullets and hurled them in Jevil’s direction. One sailed wide, but the other exploded at the clown’s feet, sending stone debris flying. Spamton squinted into the dust cloud in search of Jevil.

Suddenly, a projectile broke free of the dust, flying right towards him. Spamton narrowly barrel-rolled out of the way as Jevil, holding a scythe formed out of magic, struck the air right where he’d been a second prior. He fell, but not before sending heart bullets in Spamton’s direction. Spamton called on his own magic to block them with an envelope shield.

Below, Jevil landed on his feet, hopping from one to the other with excitement. He looked like he was just getting started. Meanwhile, Spamton could already feel himself flagging. He was never a fighter, while Jevil had been battling in the war. And it looked like time hadn’t slowed him down any.

That just meant he had to finish this fast. He made more of the egg-shaped bullets, raining them down from above. But more bullets — diamonds, mostly — flew up to meet them, striking most before they could hit the ground and explode. He blinked as he banked, trying to spot Jevil again to adjust his aim.

Something sharp struck him from behind.

He yelped, trying to right himself, but it was too late, he rolled across the ground, landing in a heap against a statue of the queen. He heaved for breath, trying to get up, but a foot planted on his chest and held him down. Jevil stood over him, grin wide, almost manic, scythe at his side. He raised it, and Spamton brought his hands up defensively with a squeal.

“I yield! I yieldIyieldIyeald!” He stiffened and squeezed his eyes shut, half expecting the blade to come down, but nothing happened. After a moment, the pressure on his chest eased. He slowly brought his hands away from his face and looked up. Jevil was standing a few feet away, tail swishing and scythe gone.

Slowly, Spamton climbed to his feet, wings hanging limply behind him. Everything hurt. He started to sneak away, not keen to say anything else, but Jevil spoke before he could leave.

“WE’RE DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHERS, YOU AND ME. WE KNEW THAT THIS WAS TO BE, TO BE. I WARNED YOU, DID I NOT? THAT FATE WOULD HURT YOU, IF YOU FOUGHT.”

“Yeah, well, it seems like it hurt you, too,” Spamton spat, “even if you like to pretend it didn’t.”

“PERHAPS,” Jevil conceded, to Spamton’s surprise. “BUT LIFE ISN’T SO BAD IF YOU DON’T THINK ABOUT IT.”

Spamton scoffed. “I wish that were true. How can you not think about it, when we’re trapped down here in the dark?” He sighed, drawing inward. “But we’re never going to agree on this. So, unless you’re going to help me find a way out, why don’t you just leave me alone?”

“WHAT FUN WOULD THERE BE IN THAT? BESIDES, BESIDES, YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS.”

Loathe as Spamton was to admit it, Jevil did have a bit of a point. Despite their well-wishes, despite ostensibly being in the same boat as both of them, no one else in the support group really understood. They didn’t have the pain of foresight.

But he was tired, and he refused to give Jevil the satisfaction of a proper response. So he turned away with a long sigh. “I’m leaving.”

“OF COURSE, OF COURSE. BUT SPAMTON.”

He looked back. Jevil had turned away, but twisted his head to show his sharp-toothed grin.

“LET’S PLAY AGAIN SOMETIME.”

“Absolutely not.”

They absolutely would and he knew it, whether he wanted to or not. Jevil always knew how to bring out his anger. And, loathe as he was to admit it… There was something cathartic about fighting, about having an outlet for all the bitterness and frustration that bubbled inside him.

Non-Pokémon Windskull's Whumptober 2025 [Multifandom]

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