Sandbox for NSFW tales that aren't WWYDFTLTIMD
rating: 0+x

Tight bronze walls glisten, all slicked with thick, pink slime.
Mine, compressed into its shape.
My face is missing, processed into compost.
Body burned, ash tossed in dirt.

Harsh voices, German, French, Scandinavian,
yiddish and english and Czech.
Shouting, commanding, and screaming, and singing,
speakers of bronze, screamed through wave.

Headless ache, short of breath, form nonexistent,
locked in a coffin of scrap.
Blind, deaf, mute, tongueless and noseless and skinless.
Spiteful thoughts poured through a hole.

The air is dark,
it's cold and it's dry.
An endless night sky,
with rough bronze mark
that stains the endless black, a stark
reminder of why,
that farcical "why".

These tight bronze walls,
a prison for flesh;
brain trapped in a mesh
of bronze, recalls
the bars that bound my hands, through halls
a memory fresh,
and feelings, yet fresh.

Building anger,
contorted in shape,
a skinned, twisted ape
whose thoughts clangor,
how they clangor; how I'd hang her
if I could escape,
but I can't escape.


Can you still feel pain, rat? Skinless and floating,
writhing within tight bronze walls?
Millions of formless knives cutting through coating;
sensation through dead nerve trawls.

Do as I say, rat, for I am your goddess!
I am your lock and your key.
I am your pain and your sight and a promise
of light within pitch black sea.

rating: 0+x

The following tale contains sexual content. Please be advised that this is an +18 story.

It was halfway through a stranger's incoherent rant regarding the music industry that Lyre realized how much nightclubs sucked when your friends inexplicably cancel.

"And you know, fuckin', like Raccoon Punching Center. Derivative bull by a bunch of fuckin' fascists, you get me?"

Lyre did not, in fact, "get" the inebriated, pompadour'd man who had inexplicably chosen a seat at their table, but they couldn't do much more than nod. It was that or plugging themself into the wall for the next few hours, or heading home to feed loose screws to King Roomba until they powered off from boredom.

"Christ, fuckin'…" At the very least, this weird man had yet to make a move on them. "Keep tentacore to the fuckin' roots, you know. I ain't about to fuck with authpunks lookin' to score cheap body mods, ya hear?" The strange man hiccuped, briefly illuminating the dim little corner of the King Butterfly Nightclub with a greenish flame. "Buncha goddamn sellouts, lookin' for a manager they don't gotta pay."

Lyre's fingers unconsciously plucked a three-string tune on their hair, kept consistent through the knowledge that their master output had been muted the moment they came in. Not that it mattered; they weren't quite sure how many patrons would hear it over the pounding of sugar-pop and synth.

"Shit, you tense? Christ, sorry, I'm here to have fun and shit, but if I'm fuckin' up your day, I can leave, need be. Like, not about to rain on someone's fuckin' parade."

Speech output reactivated, Lyre supposed. "No, no, you're fine." If confusingly opinionated and terribly inebriated. "I, well… you know, it's my first time at a nightclub nightclub and WAN willing I'm not sure what to do, you know?"

Finally, the odd man shut up, and Lyre had some peace and qui-

"You know," Ugh, not again. "I got some… you know, shit that could calm you down. You, uh… you cool?"

Lyre blinked. Might as well, if this man wouldn't leave. "Cool… yet?"

"Nah, sis, I'm fuckin'… I mean, you coolant?" The weird man was now attempting something between a whisper and a yell over the din of the music, and accomplished neither. "Fuck, uh, that a slur in your… yeah, sorry, I ain't got much Mekh friends." That much was obvious. "Like, fuckin'…"

Fishing into his pocket, the weird man tossed a plastic bag containing an inconspicuous, if highly suspicious flash drive onto the table.

"Get this: top quality shit. No installation, no downloads, no wifi, sub-gig of RAM, you know. You adjust the time and strength of the high. That sound nice? Sure as fuck beats being sober and alone. Hell, you can get some fuckin' bouncer to watch you for glitches or like… I don't fuckin' know, livestream for some lifeline? I'm new to this shit."

Lyre squinted, not that it helped when their eyes were LEDs. "… right. And you expect-"

"Ten bucks, take it or leave it."

"… do you take BitCarter?" To hell with it. They did worse for more with less antiviral security.

Things were going real nice right about now.

Between the steady pulse of MXWL radio's electrohouse, the gentle vibrations of the table their upper half laid against, and whatever greeneyes.PSYC was currently doing to their nervous system, Lyre was pretty certain things were going to be alright.

rating: 0+x


Christmas. One of the the doctor's five days off, when he need pay scant attention to the Pestilence. When he could kick off his (metaphorical, as his frustratingly literal boots were yet forever attached to his feet) boots, put on his favorite scrolls, and just relax for once in his excruciatingly long existence.

And here he was at the annual 'Pataphysical Christmas Party, standing off in a dark corner of…whoever's villa as he watched everyone else having fun.

His gaze drifted towards the opposite corner, where an inebriated lawyer sat giggling, leaning against that peculiar dog woman. Slowly, it made its way towards the couch, where that awful prisoner clung to some woman he met mere hours ago. It soon drifted towards the nearby kitchen, where his beloved Cousin Johnny was drunkenly caroling as the pizza man tried (and failed) to make brownies. Finally, it settled at his (metaphorical?) boots, alone on this patch of cheap carpet.

The doctor dipped his beak into his cup of lavender wine, and drank to yet another lonely Christmas.

Was he happy? Perhaps, for a certain value of "happy". His friends, if he could call them that, were happy, which suggested that, as their friend, he too should have been "happy". That's how it worked, right?

"Happy Holidays, 49."

The doctor glanced to his side, where that peculiar Dr. Loyd had just approached. "Good evening, Dr. Loyd. I trust you are well."

"Well as I've ever been." The doctor never pegged Dr. Loyd for a beer man, and perhaps that was why he'd only gone partway through his 5loko. "1504's been pretty rowdy as of late, and don't even get me started with the DCT." Loyd took a protracted sip of his drink, which left little difference from its previous volume. "You look bored."

"I wasn't aware."

"That you're bored, or you look it?"

"Both, I suppose."

"Same old you, huh?" Dr. Loyd swished his 5loko around, never quite bringing it to his lips. "I mean… you know, I don't quite celebrate Christmas much. Still, tis someone's season, might as well be happy."

The doctor's anatomy rendered him incapable of sighing, although he assumed he'd be doing that right now. "I… I suppose I find more happiness in my work than my leisure. I don't… I don't like wasting time. It feels wrong."

"Party was optional, 49." Another protracted sip. "You can leave if you really want."

"I suppose." And yet the doctor remained right where he stood.

Dr. Loyd furrowed his brow. "Is it something else?

The doctor sipped his wine, silently.

"Son of a bitch, doc." Dr. Loyd, the joyless bureaucrat in a sea of bureaucracy, suddenly had a grin on his face. The doctor had seen it before, countless times, typically when the whitecoats loaned him some entertainment. Somehow, this situation was amusing to Loyd, but as usual, the punchline eluded the good doctor. "Don't tell me you're lonely."

The doctor continued to sip his wine.

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