Work Text
Though he technically fit the definition, calling himself a prophet felt... too praiseful.He wasn't a prophet. He was a glorified tool.He was fine with this.The messages his mind was occasionally blessed with were more idea than statement. Though he could understand the thoughts his Puppeteer laced together in his mind as just what they were, his mortal, language-chained mind couldn't help it. He instinctively tried cutting up the shifting, welded thing. Tried making parts, assigning a word to each of these parts that were never meant to be parts.At least They limited Themselves to using concepts from his own mind, so he could process what was being communicated (furious homerun save second base run with grace). That, he knew, he was happy for, and the Batter seldom could identify his own emotions, so that was saying something.The Batter had no doubt that learning of things through this way led to the purest possible understandings, his Player untainted by the warping mortal minds infected written text and even firsthand records with, like moisture damage, like sheens of mold.(When he let himself fantasize, he daydreamed of hearing it more. Sometimes, he daydreamed about hearing it endlessly and constantly, that there was nothing in his brain except that Voice.)He was so happy that he could hear fragments of Their voice even when others could not. How the Guardians and Elsen alike would squirm, would burn with jealousy if they knew how pure it sounded.The message right now in his mind had to be the second most pure thing he could ever hear. It was too clear and bright not to be. Though he thought the same thing every time he heard his Puppeteer's voice.His mind turned, attempting to analyze the message. It managed, barely, as his Player was often less than clear in it’s “word” choice, yet it still echoed in him again and again like he was a hollow receptacle of tin, like he became limp and nothing as soon as he heard that voice, like he was nothing except the vessel for that voice.
ESC.
HP - 378/378
CP - 29/29 (69)
(-40 from Exhaustion)
As usual, he had very little idea what that meant.His Puppeteer had often enlightened him of concepts that could aid him in his mission. His Puppeteer had ordered him to do things many times. Their voice whispering into his ear, no, rather from inside his ear straight into his brain of grimy fat and smoky blood. And, of course, a gentle, oh so gentle tugging on his joints.
is that why your walking speed lagging/slower than earlier/what it should be? "exhaustion" effect/stat decrease/status? do i/you need to end/reload/sleep? to stop weakening effect?
His Player had never asked him a question before.So They had noticed. (Their gaze from above was wide-reaching and penetrating, of course They had.)... The possibility of rest was tantalizingly tempting. His legs had ached for so long it was more of a stabbing deep pain by now. Spirits, muscles he didn't know he had until now were aching, in discordant choir with his calves.The last time he'd taken the tram, he had been out as soon as he sat down, and leaving the uncomfortable plastileather seat was one of the hardest things he could remember doing.His very skull pulsed dully, it took conscious effort to not drag his feet, his shoulder seemed to be bound by gravitational pull to lean on any wall he stood still close to. He breathed hard during the mildest physical exertion and dreaded the strength and speed needed of him during fights more than possible injuries and resulting pain.It took full seconds to remember things that shouldn’t take any time at all. Puzzles made no sense anymore. He had begun seeing spectres in the corners of his eyes, only to turn and see nothing there.The possibility of rest was almost tempting enough to consider.If it hadn't been for the fact it could be a test.He had to be strong for Them, had to be tireless, had to be perfect, maybe then he'd somehow prove himself worthy, prove that They had not made a mistake choosing him. How could he even call himself a tool if he couldn't even work when he should? Without his mission, what did he have? A bat, a body impure for no reason? Pitiful.The Batter had stayed perfectly frozen, halfway across this street for a while now. Finally, he pulled himself up with a steadying breath and shook his head, knowing his Puppeteer, in Their nigh-omniscience, could see it.No, he couldn't admit his exhaustion. He couldn't ask for a break. They had been going, what, a mere four days? He'd slept once for multiple hours, and beyond that, many shorter rests had been allotted. Why didn't his ungrateful dirty body understand it should be thankful? He wanted to stab himself in the leg to punish it, to force energy into himself again and continue.He didn't. Mainly because he felt the strings tighten around him and start leading him again.Apparently, his mission's next step was walking (dragging himself with ungodly effort) around the corner and then opening the door in the following alleyway. With its copper corner decorations, it might have looked high-end, were it not for its fake wood being stained lengthwise, damage from prolonged exposure to rainplastic.Had they been here before? No, right? His memories were all jumbled and fuzzy.The Batter had to duck, of course, as he walked up the short porch stairs and entered. This door was obviously built for smaller, weaker bodies.As he did so, he squinted at the sign above, but it was so decrepit and it was so dark and the Batter’s brain fog was so heady he could not read more than the first word before his legs were tugged through the doorway.Apparently he was entering an establishment whose name began with "cozy". Alright.... Well, he would be entering the establishment, if not his sinful lead-heavy foot refused to be lifted as high as it should and hooked into the last step of the porch. He didn't fall, but his body did tip and tip back like a drunken Elsen drinking their work sorrows away might, and an involuntary equally drunken-sounding dark curse fell from his lips.Regret immediately flooded cold in his chest. He not only made such a simple mistake when his elegant ethereal Puppeteer must already think him a clumsy animal, but he dared mar Their ears with such words?... Their figurative ears? Their literal...? Did his Puppeteer have ears? Did They even have a body?The Batter stopped trying to imagine it despite the temptation, any image he could roughhew forth in his mind would surely at best be an insult to Them anyway, as he was guided further into the building.Was this a store? There was an Elsen at a counter, placed to preserve space under a staircase leading up to more doors. But, no, the Batter chided himself for his stupidity, there were no wares. Just more Elsen around a lobby-looking area.Most of them staring.His Player placed him in front of the counter Elsen, who was sorting something under a table of boxes behind the counter and had their back turned to the Batter. Such customer service, the Batter truly felt flattered.Somewhat pityingly amused, he pressed the little bell. The Elsen flinched so hard they jumped and hit their head on the top of the table they were hunkered down under."A--ah! I'm so sorry! I--I did not mean to keep you waiting," rubbing their fuzzy head, they turned around. "Ss..." Their voice petered out as their eyes met the Batter's chest. Those beady eyes traced up the ectoplasm-splattered lines of the Batter's body until they reached brim-shadowed face. "...Ssssir..."The two beings on opposite sides of many spectrums held eye contact for longer than one could expect from the meek nature of the Elsen. Eventually, the secondary shared quality of Zone 1 Elsen overpowered their primary one of cowardice, namely, their fixation on work. "Um... do you want a room...?"A room?The Batter did not have to make a choice here, though.His voice was not often controlled by the strings. But when they were…The sensation of soft clear puppet strings vibrating 'round one's vocal chords was an odd one, but not necessarily unpleasant.
yes. one night.
"Yes. One night."One night?Wait.The Elsen informed him of the credit cost. He was made to hand over the amount.The wheezing Elsen started babbling about meal times and various offered courtesies, but the Batter couldn't focus enough to commit anything to memory, trusting his Puppeteer to remember.Was this...? No. Why would...?The strings guided him left and through a door to a dining area. The Batter went along, slack with confusion.Even if his eyes were narrowed and glancing around, he went along (did he have any other choice), pliant and tired, as he was sat down in a chair.In little black and white waitering outfits, the nearby Elsen wandered back and forth, delivering plates of meat.The Batter started fighting sleep immediately after sitting down, but he was just conscious enough to hear a group of Elsen hotly debating nearby in their thin little voices who would have to serve him.Finally, the Elsen that apparently drew the short straw tottered up to him.
Order food
He ordered food.The Elsen placed a plate in front of him. A plate full of meats that certainly looked more appetizing than the silver stringy tendons he was usually designated to eat. His stomach growled despite the Batter’s efforts and the Elsen winced and retreated, bowed, then took up standing beside him to wait for further orders.... Alright.He almost pitied the adorably dressed waiter Elsen as they shrunk together more with every plate of steak he scarfed down, ignoring the provided utensils.His stomach filled, bite after bite. After the third plate (these damn Elsen-size portions were tiny. No surprise none of them were more than spindly limbs, skin and smoke) and fourteenth little wheeze of the waiter, the Batter’s eating rate slowed and stopped."... Hhhn... Did-- did you find everything to your liking...?"The Batter wiped the meat juice from his chin and glanced over at the waiter Elsen, who was holding a tray to their chest with both hands. Might as well throw the little guy a bone. "Sure."The Elsen visibly calmed, and though the Batter found them all exasperating at best, he felt pleased about this. Not because he personally had any fondness at all for the things, but because the strands attaching him to his Player’s literal/figurative fingers warmed and twinkled against his joints in happiness, and bringing his Puppeteer joy was the highest form of pleasure.Why his Puppeteer liked the wheezing, weak, common things, the Batter didn't know. Perhaps it was alike the pity felt for clumsy insects by good-hearted individuals?He stood up, the feeling of a full belly more soothing than he'd like to admit, almost collapsed in exhaustion which no doubt would have broken the table but manage to stiffly force himself upright, and started stumbling back to the lobby.To the left, up the stairs, into his room, it was all a blur. All the Batter could focus on was getting his feet to go from A to B without tripping.The Batter could have closed his eyes-- what good did they do him anyway? his Puppeteer could direct him through pure darkness-- but he feared he may fall asleep if he did so.... A strange feeling it was, being guided while blind. A good feeling. A safe feeling. A hallway and the creak of an old door later and he’s now in his room. His hotel room. Because his Player had deigned to give him one.Guiltily, his half-lidded eyes snagged on the soft, safe, large, made bed. He almost cried when his body was not brought to bed, but instead moved through the secondary door here.He walked through and saw a… very green bathroom.First, he was right placed in front of the sink, staring into the mirror. He… didn’t know he was human enough to get eyebags, but, ah, there they were.
ENTER.
The order hadn’t even registered in his mind before he gave a response. “Mirror.” He murmured involuntarily, his voice a gravelly sigh.His Player seemed satisfied with this, despite its curtness, and placed him in front of the shower.
ENTER.
The order was almost a little hesitant, not immediately given after he was in the right place. His reins were given back to him. In respect of his privacy? No, in respect of the illusion of privacy his Puppeteer padded up around him? The Batter could never be thankful enough for all They did for his impure little being.He removed his uniform-- taking care to fold up his Puppeteer-chosen tunic neatly-- and entered the shower. In imitation of typical shower ritual, he pulled the curtain closed, motivated more by want to follow his Puppeteer's example than actual want of privacy, and washed himself.Days of half-hardened ectoplasm, blood, and sweat rinsed off him and disappeared into the drain. He couldn't help a groaning sigh of relief as the crusted itchy blood on his face finally got its comeuppance and was rubbed away. To fit into this space, he had to slouch, but whatever, he has been slouching for the last two days straight anyway.Despite the icy temperature he had chosen, he still felt his body relax under the hit and roll of clear plastic drops. His head almost slumped, his eyes almost closed but he pried them up and open at last second.He would not pass out in the shower. He could not. He could not be so pathetic when his Puppeteer was watching.The process was utilitarian and efficient. When he was done, the bath was splotched with a rainbow of various coagulated lifefluids. He turned off the shower with an effort more fitting for cutting off a hand. Dazed and wobbly, no matter how desperately he was trying to hide it, he exited the shower and walked over to his pile of clothes.But… instead of reaching for his uniform, the strings gently redirected his hand leftward, toward the complimentary bathrobe hanging on the towel rack.As so. After a few seconds of equipping the dress. The Batter was standing in a hotel bathroom with a fluffy bathrobe.This couldn't possibly withstand a spectre bite.But when his strings tugged him to look into the mirror again, he didn’t protest.
ENTER.
“Better.”He did look better. Hair no longer tacky. Skin soft-- uh, as soft as it could be. He felt kilogrammes lighter.… No longer high on overworking himself, the exhaustion somehow got even deeper. His shoulders slumped and were too heavy to raise.... He-- he could not hide from it any longer. He had been depleted. He had disappointed his Puppeteer. He had required this to not break down. A passed out Purifier was no use to anyone.He'd become burnt out? Like a common Elsen? Ugh. He had so many one-of-a-kind anatomy oddities, permanent eyeblack, sharp teeth... not needin’ sleep was less important than four eyes, according to his biology? Sure, mh, great…Even his inner monologue was slurring at this point. He barely noticed he had exited the bathroom until he blinked and saw the large hotel bed in front of him. He blinked stickily, so tired his stance was swaying back and forth.… It looked…. nice…
ENTER.
The Batter had no willpower left to do anything but toss aside the duvet and collapse into the bed’s cushy yielding embrace.He used the last of his energy to curl up his muscular extremities slightly, curl up around his full belly, nestle into the bed.So tired he was, that when the sheet above him tucked itself around his form without any visible hands moving it, he didn’t question it.Even his guilt about not being able to power through just one more day was getting softer. Even his annoyance was tired. His brain fog was quickly becoming full unconsciousness, his body relaxing into limp limbs and quiet soft thoughts.But something happened that resuscitated his attention.Starting up small, becoming bigger than fading away, gentle vibrations hummed through his core like a purr, making all the muscles of his chest and neck soften. His exhausted body couldn't help the tiniest gasp as warmth emanated from this hum, filling him like hot liquid poured down his throat, like his blood was being heated in his "heart" before continuing its flow. Like hands buzzingly massaging his organs.The hum fell and rose in dynamic harmonies, in patterns. In a melody.His God was. Singing.His God was singing a lullaby to him.His God had lured him to eat and clean himself, shepherded him into bed, and then begun singing a lullaby to him.With anyone else, the Batter would have at best growled at such attempt. He wasn't a child, had never been a child, shouldn't be treated like one.With his Player, however... being treated with velvet care felt like the most proper thing in the world, that he somehow at the same time was the least deserving of.He couldn't have kept from sleep should a spectre have glided up before him right then and there.The tenseness in his arms released and sunk into the pillows, his breathing slowed and shallowed...
sleep.
And it was so the Batter's eyes finally closed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He woke up to softness and quietness. Both around him and within him. Sunlight played on his face.His muscles may have been sore, but his jaw was relaxed, his sense clear. His eyes flickered open, he stared into the roofing. Clean skin against fluffy bathrobe against hotel sheets. His hair mussed-up and his edges fuzzy.Coming to felt nice. Everything felt nice.Until he remembered last night. What had happened. Then everything felt awkward.Oh-kay. The Batter sighed, rubbing his eyes. He... he could still make this up to his Player. He could try to do extra damage with his swings, work on his AUTO strategies--Strings, as if they had waited until he was awake to do this, gently took his arm and moved it up to pull down the sheet. The Batter sighed, his voice rumbled on its way out. He had a mission. The day had to start eventually.… Or… his Player could just bring his arm up to touch at his robe’s collar, that too, he guessed?The strings made him tug at his collar and gently pull it open to expose the Batter’s alabaster chest. And grey areola.Why..?… His Player had an important reason for this. Yes. Definitely.They had a good reason for loosening that fluffy belt with the Batter’s own hand too. And for rubbing his pectorals with the Batter's own hand. Just-- inspecting Their tool. They had to have a good reason for this. And the Batter had a good reason as well, for kind of sort of somewhat liking this kind of touch. Mhm.He was so relieved his skin had always been pure white and he couldn’t blush.His own hand (it was his hand, why did it feel so alien?) trailed up his chest, then down, down-- finally coming to a rest on his--On his--Was. Was this actually going to happen? Was this some sort of-- reward? Punishment? Test?
consent?
The curious question vibrated through his puppet strings.The Batter looked around.No spectres. No tiny squeaking Elsen to bother him.His crotch was warm under his grasp.As he had no face to direct it towards, the Batter, tentatively, nodded toward a vague upward.His robe’s belt was untied and pulled open. Okay. This was happening. Oh mon Dieu. Okay.The-- his-- palm moved to his hip. He’d been naked apart from a breezy robe since he’d been allowed a shower and not thought much of it, but now it was all he could think about. How vulnerable he was.Moronic thought. Like he’d be “protected” against the Player’s will by some extra cloth.He felt his inner thigh, downy and soft, as “he” caressed it, on order of the strings. He felt his own calloused palm on his inner thigh. And yet he was not the one caressing. It... this was strange. Extremely so.And what happened next was only more unreal. His Puppeteer teasingly finger-walked the Batter’s hand over his leg, step, step, step, to move on to that part of his anatomy.His breath caught as his fingertips touched his length, he almost startled as it hungrily twitched at the slight grace. But as his hand masterfully, slowly pleasured him with a steady, firm pressure, his wide eyes quickly became half lidded and his heavy breaths quickly became groans.He could not call himself experienced regarding self-pleasure, had only attempted once or thrice in secluded areas after inactive periods of lack of orders when he thought (hoped) his Puppeteer wasn’t looking. Elsen could gawk for all he cared. All attempts ending with nothing above simply satisfactory results. It was always hurried, a bit humiliating, efficient and businesslike.This was not businesslike.Not to mention, this was his non-dominant left. The firmness and confidence of his normally fumbly, weakest extremity felt so alien. He didn't need the plucky reminders of the tiny tensions tightening around his joints at regular intervals to know that this? This silk-handed, glorious display upon his unworthy, polluted body? This was all his Puppeteer.Suddenly, his other, free hand was pulled up by his knuckles. When the strings let go, its fingers rested on his bottom lip. In this base, loose state, his confusion came out as a breathy, faint, dazed whine.The whine stuttered as his middle and ring were pulled and slid into his mouth, his slender but big digits weighing on his tongue comfortably. All the while, the other hand never stopped its work.Wonder if this was the way of a Puppeteer kiss, the Batter suckled unconsciously on the Puppeteer's-- uhm, he meant his own fingers, in glassy-eyed obedience. He melted further, further into the sheets behind him, soft as heaven, further into the daze of tingles and worship.He wondered if he looked hedonistic, with his bedhead and washed scarred skin, splayed out on an opened bathrobe like it was a fur rug, tasting his own digits, to the outside pleasuring himself but in truth being pleasured. He wondered if he looked palatable. If he looked appetizing.He wondered if the Player was not only doing this to get him in working order again, or to reward him, but also for Themselves. That thought made his chest flutter and his groans higher.Even as he was breathing heavily and steadily losing his sight and hearing as his mind filled with less than modest imaginings, he tried to look good for the Player. This was just a simple extension of his usual work. He tilted his head up, showing off his neck like suicidal prey would for a predator's teeth, let his moans come freely, put his muscles on show. He felt dirty yet pure, like an erotic artwork, and it was so alien and so divine.As he did this, he finally let go of a tense restraint he hadn’t even realized he was holding onto. Tidal-waving like a dam that had just broke, deep pleasure and high sparks flooded throughout his body like roiling boiling plastic.Nearing the breaking point, the edge approaching fast, his organs (skin included) felt as if they were sliding out of tune with one another. He was un fouillis. Heat pooled and spun and tightened like a bomb right before blowing between his legs.The Batter supposed-- ah-- it made sense, even if it, mgh, had only been about two minutes… how can you have stamina in an area you haven’t trained in?A noise escaped him, an exhale and a gagging moan both at once. He went limp, as limp as he could, in admission of defeat.But something... pulled taut, on the base of his thing, and the fizzle faded out steadily, leaving the Batter with just as much desperation-stained pleasure as before. Also a sudden acute awareness of how sweaty he was.With a husky sniveling whine, which was a sound the Batter never thought he'd make, he drifted away from the Puppeteer's directions and tried going faster, chasing the high of climax again.He was immediately stopped. Forced to return to that agonizing slow pace. When he realized what he had just done, he attempted to beg for forgiveness profusely, but only managed to lie his head on its side on the pillow and an apologetic mumble.The pace did not speed up, did not slow down.This was the worst/best torture he’d ever gone through.His Puppeteer spread his legs wider, and it was so easy to close his eyes and imagine tens of hands all over him instead of those strings, skin on skin, opening him up and touching whatever they pleased whenever they pleased. His temporarily broken mind almost expected to be somehow punished for his thoughts. Especially when his imagination came up with the… interesting… mental image of a giant, thick Puppeteer tongue going down his throat.“... Mhgh, ah… hah…”His body had never been just his, not since his unceremonial birth in zone 0, nothingness his mother. But now… it was highlighted even more, his lack of control, when he couldn’t even stop his legs from moving apart even further like a tapineur’s. Or stop them shaking.His frazzled brain for some ungodly reason decided to attempt to stop the embarrassing way his legs shook by bouncing his hips in place, slamming down into the soft bathrobe and mattress.Something then… twitched in him, in his leg. If it was some overexerted muscle trying to restore itself, a piece of his soul, or simply a tendril of heated lust, the Batter didn’t know.“Gh--!” The Batter didn't even get to finish the mumble because he was cut off. Whatever it was, it twitched again. Then something mimicked the movement in his neck.No, that… that wasn’t his flesh moving, it…? He tried to make himself think straight, but…A twitch, a huge long one, more violent than any of the previous ones, made him cry out. Shaped like a lightning bolt across his body, it hit spot after spot: pectorals-- nipples-- undersides of feet, his soles-- hip flexors-- pelvis. Oh merde, oh fuck, why did it keep coming back, and how did it feel so good that he didn’t care whatever was going to happen?… Wait…His brain, misfiring with the unnatural, fiery, heavy crashing waves of pleasure, realized what was happening very slowly.When it finally understood what was going on, he couldn't help yet another awed yet disbelieving moan.His Puppeteer was... was squeezing his nerves from the inside.And it felt mind-shatteringly good.From the depth, a depth he had never felt from before, not even when he had been impaled in battle, a depth that he didn't even know his body had, he could feel...There were...A shudder ran through him. One that ended up in a whimper, that he felt himself trying to stifle.
Oh, mon Dieu.
There were strings.Inside of his skin. Deeper than that. Inside of him.Not just strings, a web, knit around his organs (whatever organs his fucky anatomy had), hell, now that they were moving, he felt them run like ball bearings inbetween his vertebrae. And they were all stimulating his erogenous zones, inner and outer, until he couldn’t even hear his rushing pulse or breathing anymore.The nape of his neck was being stroked, the silken hairs all on end; something deep in his ears was being licked; the inside of his skull was being massaged; all his abdomen was twitching with heat; his everything--(His God's control ran farther than he thought it did. Then he ever thought it could. When had they all gotten in there? How?)Strings squished and massaged this one little spot, this little knot of nerves? muscle?, about five centimètres into him, below his-- putain de merde, he couldn’t stop his hips jerking and fucking his own fist, couldn’t stop making noises-- he was going to break, this was it, he was going to explode and become tiny little screaming cumming bits. He was lost to the world.He let go of his self-restraint, of his dignity, let himself become just a body that needed to be filled, used, abused, possessed. “Guh… mh, more... please... rip my putain de veins apart…!” he sobbed, a feeble response, the first honest plea he had made. He had nothing else to give but pleas.His fingers twitched, instincts screaming at him to caress and squeeze back and claw at his flaming insides, but he couldn't exactly reach inside his own pelvis, could he?That didn't stop his instincts from trying, scratching his stomach blindly, clumsily, like an animal, his eyes too rolled up to see himself.(Why did the idea of his Puppeteer controlling him so fundamentally, entangling him in Themselves so thoroughly, so... intimately…Why did the fact that the Puppeteer could do anything to him but he could do nothing to the Puppeteer make him feel so...?)These thoughts came to a grinding halt as marionette string loops tightened up around his nipples and tugged and oh Purity why did that send shivers all the way to his toes?(Puppeteer, je vous en prie de spare my mind from this blissful beautiful rapturous ruination, I don't know how to survive this fucking pleasure--)Pressing the palm of his undirtied hand to his mouth, not taking the fingers out, he shut his eyes tight and moaned (wailed), long and muffled.(Or would it be more accurate to say that “his Puppeteer pressed his palm” to...?) The thought flickered for a second but was quickly fried away by the bright flashes in the Batter's squishy abused brain matter as his back arched enough to lose all contact with the bed, his head was thrown back on the pillow, and his leg kicked out.(Sacré putain, fuck fuck fuck, oh please, Puppeteer Puppeteer Puppe--)The string loosened. That string loosened.
come.
And it was so the Batter came, screaming prayers into his fist.Electricity alighted everything in his chest and below his navel and above his knees. And he wanted more, more than he ever thought he could want. Something warm landed on and dripped down the back of his right hand. Every string, tendon was tight, thrusting up into the nothing, the air, muscles spasming like they wanted to pull his bones apart. The orgasm didn’t come to him, he went with it.He may or may not have slammed his head into the headboard and made the bed rattle, maybe or maynot causing a lamp crash to the floor.He was pretty sure there was nothing in his brain except that Voice.Six long, convulse-y pulses later, the Batter could do nothing but lay collapsed in the mussed-up hotel bed with blurry, misty eyes and hands wet with come, saliva, and sweat.A little defeated noise, unbecoming of a batting Purifier, escaped him as one last twitch of pleasure raced from his dick to his brain and one last small warm drop rolled down his knuckles.After, there was only the sound of him panting between his fingers and the fuzzy blanket of afterglow. He removed his ring and middle from his mouth, and their hand fell limply onto the mattress.His insides felt so loose now that they weren’t pulled snug by strings.All on his own, he was a big boy, he could move his limbs without the strings he promised, he lifted his (shaky) left hand up from between his legs. He spread his fingers, and with half-lidded eyes traced the curves of the sticky strands hanging between his digits.... Gooey.There was a tug on his gooped-up knuckles, and his frizzled mind imagined the strings guiding his weak arm downward for a second round. White-hot horror and cold delight filled his gossamer-strung insides.But the hand was just lifted to his lips. As his other had been before.And then the strings went limp. Quiet.... Without complaint, nor any further divine encouragement, the Batter licked up the filth on his skin.While shamefully yearning for being able to taste the Puppeteer in a similar way one day.After he was finished, he lay back on the bed and simply... breathed.His body was now sore in at least three ways, but with no tenseness for the soreness to grind against, it didn't hurt. His relaxed, alert body let the soreness pass over harmlessly, pulse in his lower body softly. Maybe even pleasurably.He was focused. It took him by surprise, how obedient his stray thoughts and meaningless brain chatter were, how at peace he was.He simply felt... nice.Only one night of Puppeteer care and he felt rejuvenated down to his bones. Only to be expected of a being of Purity. By now, his respiratory rates had rebalanced. His heart was finally calming down.His... heart.… His heart that... he just now realized his Puppeteer was able to stop with a cutting squeeze of their threads should They so desire. It would take a split moment, if that.But They hadn't. They hadn't abandoned him, relinquished him, hadn't punished him, hadn't shredded up his vital organs into perfect sharp-edged flesh cubes.He wasn't a disappointment.... To the degree he'd fretted, at least. He'd done some good, in the Puppeteer's perfect, objective, maybe-metaphorical eyes. He'd done some good. He'd been at least a little good!Another warm feeling, yet another layer to his euphoria, rose like a small heating fire in his chest.He'd been good.... Lying here was bliss, but he was on a mission. He sat up, enjoying the Puppeteer's soft tugs as usual, as he was made to pick up the robe from the bed-- ah, it seemed he really had knocked over and broken a lamp-- and entered back to the bathroom again.After he’d changed, equipped his work uniform, his eyes (one of the few parts of him never tugged around by his holy Puppeteer) studied himself in the mirror. His muscular lean build, his features, his outfittings and eyeblack markings.His eye bags were still there, but not as dark gray anymore.
ENTER.
He washed his hands.... No.The Batter realized he had been making one repeat mistake throughout his whole journey.Those weren't his hands he was cleaning. The eyes he was watching said hands with weren't his eyes, the legs keeping him (still the tiniest bit shakily) upright weren't his, neither was that muscular build nor the rib cage moving with his lungs. The thing he called a heart inside said rib cage wasn't his.All of it, and every other last little thing of his body, were the Puppeteer's. The Puppeteer's to order around, to enlighten, to toy with and take care of, to pleasure, to pleasure itself with, to use, utterly and sacredly.He was the Puppeteer's. Utterly, sacredly.