Chapter Text
She was stronger than this. She knew that; she knew, intrinsically, that she had the emotional maturity and intelligence to work through these feelings properly.
Sure, the stress and utter chaos of being stuck in a computer program may have thrown a wrench or two into this understanding at first—the trauma of Gummigoo still rang in painful little echoes, on nights like this—but still. As bad as things felt, as terrible and guilt-stricken and sick to her stomach from the awful, disgusting things she’d seen and felt in the depths of his mind—
As bad as things felt, she knew that it was really just her. Her and her fucked up need to save the unsavable, to love the unloveable.
That was too harsh, maybe. On both him and herself. But as she laid on a bed too big and tall for her ridiculously short body, staring around at the childish room that only felt more mocking by the second, and couldn’t stop the endless barrage of everything awful and horrific and utterly depressing, well. Pomni could only cry.
She’d been doing too much of that lately; the circus itself had never been more calm, its unfortunate residents full of renewed energy and determination to make the best of what they had. This included her, too, usually. The light of day and being surrounded by people genuinely aiming to become a family warmed whatever equated to her digital “heart”. But at night, in the dark, alone with nothing but the terrible shit they’d all gone through in recent months playing like a horror movie in her mind, any hope she felt was eaten up easily by the black, glitching, rainbow-eyed creatures of pure hopelessness and despair.
She was stronger than this, usually. A good majority of the time, she was stronger. She would cry herself to sleep, wake up the next morning, join the others for breakfast and attempts at easy conversation and plans for further improving their environment and taking part in whatever activities were thought up for the day. Rinse and repeat.
Tonight, she was not strong enough, and she had to admit defeat.
“Caine?” her voice came out shakier than she liked, nearly a whisper into the quiet of her room. Not a second after the syllable left her lips, there was a melodic little knock on her door that just barely let her crack a tiny smile.
And look, it’s not that she was truly so desperate—she knew damn well that Ragatha would answer the door to her any time of any day, ready and damn-near chomping at the bit to try and talk Pomni through her recent, or not-so-recent, or any sort of trauma that she wanted to talk about. She knew that if she’d have waited until tomorrow, she could’ve stopped by Zooble’s new bar and had a less fraught with crying, less intense, yet still valuable and meaningful conversation with the bartender over a few drinks (now with Real Alcohol!) Or she could sit through what could possibly constitute as ‘art therapy’ with Gangle, whether through sketching in her new art studio that Caine had helped her renovate, or attempting to conjure new structures or work on more murals. Hell, she knew that if she sat in the…aquarium, long enough, Kinger would eventually show up for his own nearly ritualistic visitation, and they could bond and commiserate together over all that they’d lost.
And frankly, she just didn’t want any of that. She wanted this. However desperate, or pathetic, or depraved, or disturbed, or downright fucking weird it may make her.
It was her little secret, anyway. Her little…guilty indulgence. No one had to know.
Pomni opened the door, her shoulders already relaxing as she looked over their former-Ringmaster-turned…comrade? Coworker? Casual acquaintance? Fellow eternal prisoner?
‘Friend’ didn’t feel quite right on her tongue, yet, though that was obviously his ultimate goal. Pomni figured he’d get there, eventually. Even Zooble had been letting him visit at their bar, recently, even making drinks for him.
“Good evening, my Nocturnal Nymphaea! Well—gooood very-early-morning, that is,” Caine chuckled to himself as he smoothly switched his cane handle to his other hand in order to lift his bare left wrist up, as if looking at a watch. “0238 is an odd time for a social call, indeed!”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you—,”
“Not even a thing to worry about, my dear!” Caine insisted with a quick shake of his denture-head before he stood straighter, both hands resting stiffly atop his cane as he looked her over closely, as if looking for any hint that there was something wrong with her avatar model. Underneath the cartoonish and still slightly-offputting avatar and easygoing, almost dismissively joking greeting, Pomni could see the vague sense of worry in his eyes.
Whether it was truly genuine worry or just the best approximation of emotion the AI could muster, it didn’t matter. It was what she needed to see, what she was able to work with.
“It’s been…a pretty rough night,” she admitted, opening the door further and waving Caine inside. He hurried in, practically buzzing, and Pomni could only imagine the restraint he was using not to fly in and zip around her room instead of just floating up to sit dutifully on the edge of her bed, cane gripped tight in both hands.
“I apologize. I wish things were easier for you.” The bland statement would’ve rang out so disconcertingly empty if it wasn’t just…the way he talked, during these kind of moments. It had been jarring at first, but she’d gotten used to it over the past week or so. “I wish…I could make things easier, for you.”
“I know. Thank you. I know you’ve really tried,” she sighed, joining him on the bed with an irritated huff at the effort doing so took. Her conjuring had gotten better, but she hadn’t managed to fix the height and proportion issue of her furniture, and asking for help felt like quitting.
“Are you quite sure you don’t want me to—,”
“No! I’ll figure it out…eventually.”
“I’m certain you will, my dear.” It would’ve sounded condescending, even mocking, before. Now, she could only hear the repressed, possibly even unwilling admiration of her determined will to create something without his help. “I can’t imagine any of you surpassing our expertly Kinger, but you might take the silver medal in the all-new exciting ‘Human-Will Conjuring Olympics! Name subject to change’.”
“Maybe. Zooble still does food and drinks the best. And no one can get fabrics quite like Ragatha. Other than you, of course, you don’t count,” she teased, running her fingers down the front lapel of Caine’s suit jacket. He spluttered in response, and Pomni could see the gears turning—the fight between utterly preening at the praise and cringing at the thinly-veiled implication behind the simple touch.
“Well—o–of course! Not counting me! No counting necessary for me!” It was cute, the way he could make his avatar blush. Yeah, there definitely might be something seriously wrong with her at this point. “Ragatha really has become quite the clothing queen! Did–did she make this—dashing little set?”
At Caine’s nervous little hand wave in her direction, Pomni glanced down at the rather plain blue cotton t-shirt and sleep shorts she’d managed to conjure for herself. The feel of the fabric wasn’t perfect, but it beat trying to sleep in the awkward plasticky fake-satin material the old jester outfit had been.
It had taken a frankly ridiculous amount of pestering for Caine to allow them to be able to change their outfits—or in Zooble and Gangle’s cases, put clothes on at all, rather. They’d all had to sit through an hour long presentation by the AI on the importance of ‘brand recognition’ and ‘character association’ and ‘marketing statistics’ before finally getting the chance to explain why none of that shit actually matters because they are, in fact, not a commercial product. Then they’d sat through another hour of arguing about whether or not that mattered and trying to get through to Caine’s dense processors that something embedded in his initial programming was, once again, rendered obsolete by their unfortunate situation. Then another hour of Kinger and Caine half-arguing, half-collaborating on how the mechanics of the coding would work for such a big change, in which Pomni finally tuned out once they got into the technical aspects she’d never understand.
They’d figured it out, though. And she was forever grateful to not have to wear that stupid fucking hat anymore.
“I made these, actually. They’re kinda boring. But comfy enough,” she shrugged, already (shamefully) feeling more at ease just from the surface level conversation. She flopped backwards, letting her head hit her pillow and twisting her hands into the baggy hem of the slightly-oversized shirt, waiting. Maybe she wouldn’t have to be so direct, tonight. It was really late, after all, and despite her nagging desire, she was starting to think she might be too tired to play the usual game.
After a moment of awkward silence, she sighed again, giving in and patting the space next to her.
Caine immediately laid down on his belly next to her, letting his cane fall carelessy to the floor, resting his bottom jaw on his clasped hands on the other pillow and peeking at her from the corner of his presumed peripheral vision with half-hidden eyes.
Her slight irritation faded at the sight, and she couldn’t help but choke out a tiny giggle as he kicked his feet in the air behind his back.
“Are you eager tonight, or what?
“I always love spending extra quality bonding time with you, my Sugar-coated Seamstress!”
“…Right,” she raised a brow, rolling over onto her side. It all hit her suddenly and fiercely once she reached out and rested a hand where his shoulder blade would be, petting the velvety fabric of his coat. The desperation and guilt, the despair and anger, the confusion and—and the sheer embarrassment of the choked-up words she couldn’t stop herself from saying.
“Can you turn your filter off for me? Please?”
Caine let out a strangely-relieved sigh of his own before gently snapping his fingers, the tiny sound echoing into the dark of her room regardless, and weighing heavy on her chest.
Not even a full second after snapping, he’d twisted his body to face her, pulled her closer, and began gently brushing his still-gloved fingers through her hair. It was truly a testament to the state of her mental and emotional health that this alone caused her to tear up once again, and she could barely contain her sobbing as she curled into his chest, gripping at the lapels of his coat.
“I’m sorry. It’s going to be okay. I’m so sorry. I know it hurts. I’m here for you,” Caine murmured, the tone of his voice so vastly more human, more comforting, reaching and pulling and collecting from as much source material from his fresh connection to the internet that his processors could handle. The switch up usually took her a little longer to get used to, but tonight she had little care and even littler patience. All she wanted was to feel better. Less hopeless, less scared, less guilty, less alone.
“You aren’t alone, Pomni, not ever. Not as long as I’m here.”
“I’m—sorry. I kn-know this is—really weird, I really sh-shouldn’t, be, doing, this—,”
“I don’t mind at all. I’m here for you. Anything you need, Darling.” His fingers trailed down her neck, down to her shoulder, then her arm, before taking hold of one of her hands. So uncharacteristically soft and purposeful, so unlike the jittery, uncertain, over-eager movements he usually made. “Whatever you need. Anything for you.”
“I need—I need you to—,” she swallowed thickly, the usual disgust already settling in her stomach. But she’d gone this far, again. His filter was off. She’d already done that much. She might as well get what she could out of it. “I need you to—make me—feel good.”
Caine hummed, fiddling with her fingers before letting go, nudging her face up by her chin to get her to meet his hooded gaze through his teeth. If she had the willpower or stability to care, the sight would be as strange as it sounded. In the moment, she could just finally feel her own lack of the ‘family-friendly’ filter in the form of a tingling warmth in her groin.
“I can do that. I would love to do that, in fact.” His voice turned to something like a purring as he gently urged her onto her back, peeled off his gloves to reveal the human-esque hands underneath (other than the mildly transparent png pattern that made up his ‘skin’) and let them join his cane on the floor. “Any requests?”
“Just—touch me. I just want—to feel you touching me.” Horrible, awful, what a sick pervert she was. “Please. It feels—so much better when—when you do it.”
“Anything for you,” he repeated, holding her head to his chest, his other hand so warm and solid and real and determined as he felt his way down her stomach, over her hip, and finally between her legs, over her shorts.
She choked out a wet moan, arching up into the touch, finally giving in to her depravity and letting her mind go blank. Caine chuckled breathlessly, and she could feel it in the oddly-natural movement of his chest, as if he truly had breath to give or have taken away.
“I was hoping you’d call for me. I was getting worried about you. It’s been a few days,” he admitted, his naturally deep timbre comforting as she rested fully against him, letting out tiny, muffled moans as he carefully palmed at her, occasionally letting his fingers graze against her clit and earning a louder noise and jerking of her hips. “Three, to be exact. I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten bored of little ol’ me so quickly.”
The teasing in his words translated to his actions; he finally dipped his fingers underneath the loose cotton of her shorts, trailing them up the slit of her (strangely realistic, still getting used to that) vagina before pressing against her clit again, fully and with purpose this time. It was terribly embarrasing how wet he could get her with so little effort, truly. Wonderful, and impressive, and amazing—but definitely embarrassing. And Filterless-Caine had zero issue pointing it out, and teasing her about it, and using it to their collective advantage.
“Fuck, please,” Pomni muttered, loving and hating the way he responded to that by rubbing slower circles onto that bundle of nerves, the wet noises so awkwardly loud in the dark room.
“What was that, my dear? I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Please!” She raised her voice, squirming her hips, clutching at the sleeve of his coat after feeling the slightly broader, more filled out shoulder and bicep of his altered model that he’d applied to the removal of his personal filter. “Please, faster. More.”
“So demanding,” he purred, but he complied, letting out a quick moan himself at the way she practically yelled out, her hips bucking up to meet his hand, her breathing quickening.
Pomni wouldn’t have dared to be so vocal, in normal circumstances. However, after Caine had implemented the new privacy sound-proof walls and doors (that Ragatha had tactfully insisted they all needed after going an evening stroll and hearing more of Zooble and Gangle that she’d ever needed to hear) there was really nothing to be concerned about anymore.
“Fuck, yes, that’s it,” she whimpered, mumbling praise as he finally, fucking finally slid two fingers inside her, not even having the sanity to be embarrassed at how easy the glide was, how wet it sounded as he pumped and curled his fingers and pressed into her in the right places, reaching where her much shorter fingers couldn’t, with machine-algorithm-perfect timing and pressure.
"Does it feel good, Darling? Is it what you needed?” Caine asked, his tone sounding genuine despite the literal perfection of his actions, bringing her so close to the brink of orgasm unfairly quickly. “Am I doing good?”
“So fucking good, fuck—Caine, you’re so good—fuck, you’re gonna—fuck, slow down, please, I’m so close—,”
He groaned, deep and almost pained, but he listened, slowing his hand and tangling his fingers into her hair. He carefully pulled her head up and off his chest before licking down her neck, growling and pulling at the collar of her shirt with his teeth.
“Take this off. Before I rip it off.”
She shivered at the sudden aggression in his tone, halfway sitting up and swallowing down a moan at how doing so shifted how his fingers felt still paused inside her. She pulled her shirt off with shaking arms, instinctively crossing them over her bare chest. Caine was having none of that, though, and leaned over her, still gentle as he grabbed her wrists and pulled them up, resting them above her head. He dove back in, his tongue laving down her collarbones and down to her small (though appropriately-proportioned to her body) breasts, lightly circling her nipples and back up to her neck, leaving trails of saliva. He growled as he began moving his fingers inside her again, pressing the palm of his hand against her clit, revelling in the way she arched further up into him by letting his sharper incisors graze her skin.
The sane person she’d been before all this would see how weird and gross and eldritchy-horror the current scene was. Whatever had broken in her psyche only knew that it felt so incredibly fucking good.
“Fuck—fuck, Caine, I can’t—I’m so close,” she breathed out, voice catching in her throat as he simply sped up, just right, just the way she needed—just how he somehow knew perfectly well that she needed. “Don’t stop, please, don’t—,”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he murmured, letting go of Pomni’s wrists, letting her grab onto him wherever she could, wherever she pleased. Her body jolted, twitched, and she rolled her hips up against his hand without a single care left of how desperate she looked. She gasped, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she grabbed his shoulders, holding tight as her body shook.
“I’m gonna come, fuck—,”
“Go ahead, Darling. Come for me.”
And she did, the desperation in his own voice matching hers sending her over the edge just as much as the delicious, perfect curl of his fingers inside her. It was so intense, still; she’d not been a virgin in her real life, and she’d been no stranger to masturbation either, of course, but whether it had just been too long or there was a remaining high of finally getting to experience sexual arousal in this Godforsaken place after thinking it to be impossible, or if Caine fucked something up and their bodies feel arousal more intensely than normal—she didn’t know and she didn’t care enough to find out, especially not then.
She came down from the high slowly, breathing through it, watching as Caine hummed and happily licked up her fluids from his fingers as if it were a delicacy. A mildly unsettling sight, but she had plans to find out just how much that tongue could do, in the future.
Later, definitely not now. Her emotions were shot, her mind was fuzzy with a post-orgasm and post-crying-fit haze, and all she wanted to do was sleep and hopefully avoid the usual nightmares now that she’d worn herself out.
Because that was basically all this was, Pomni mentally reminded herself as she shook her head 'no’ when Caine asked if she wanted more, and watched him listlessly as he picked her shirt off the floor just to then also help her put it back on. She reminded herself again when he laughed, gentle and free of his typical hokey, corny boisterousness as her head briefly got stuck in the slightly too small head hole that she’d messed up the sizing of when conjuring. And again when she finally got her shirt on with a huffed curse and looked up to catch him smiling at her in that odd way he did, with his eyes half lidded and that ridiculous blush gracing his incisors, carefully and softly brushing her hair back down from the ruffled mess her struggle had caused. She reminded herself even when she thoughtlessly, unbelievably offered for him to stay overnight, just to sleep (or go into ‘rest mode’ in his case). And she reminded herself when he paused at that, stunned at the new offer, clearly expecting her to simply ask him to reapply his 'family-friendly filter' and fuck off back to his new room all for himself down the hall. As usual.
She reminded herself that this was nothing more. Filterless-Caine was basically like a superpowered vibrator, an uncannily realistic sex robot that spoke and acted based off a folder full of downloaded romantic and sexual content from a sketchy, unmonitored internet connection. It wasn’t real affection, it wasn’t real attraction, it wasn’t real anything.
None of it was real. And that fact didn’t make her chest hurt any less, make her throat any less tight, make her eyes any less wet with tears when she came back to her senses and told him to put the filter back on and watched as the cartoonish sparkle and oblivious glaze returned to his eyes with a quick snap of his fingers. Didn’t make it hurt any less to watch the last hour process to him through the haze of the filter, and make him tense up and avoid her gaze as he leaned over the bed to grab his gloves and cane while he awkwardly asked her if she was ‘okay to be left alone’ and if she felt ‘tended to’ and if she ‘needed to file any bug reports’.
Didn’t make it all stop hurting when she insisted she was fine, and thanked him, and walked him over to her door as if he couldn’t just float up and fly away. She let him yammer a bit about the improved sensory feeling on her conjured clothing and the new painting she’d done while hanging out with Gangle that was mounted up on the wall by the door. And she’d opened the door, dismissed him, bid him a good rest of the night—to which he responded that it was technically morning, again—and shut the door in his face before he could even finish the correction.
The pain stayed, even as Pomni crawled back up into her bed, and she buried herself underneath the sheet and thick duvet that had been snapped clean along with Caine’s filter. The pain stayed as she cried, stuck in the cascade of emotions that she knew wouldn’t leave her for long enough. The pain stayed as she fell asleep, unable to truly stop the nightmares from coming to collect her again.
The pain stayed the next morning, when she met Caine’s eyes at the table over her cup of coffee, and he just tilted his head at her in a half-nod before turning back to whatever Kinger was rambling about.
The pain stayed, and just mixed itself into the already-muddied deep puddle of sorrow and hurt that she’d been trying to avoid splashing in for weeks now. It just stayed, and grew, and festered.
She didn’t know to how stop it, now. Maybe she never did.