Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Fizzarolli doesn’t register the heart monitor anymore, its monotone long since burned into his damaged eardrums. But he knows it’s there, like he intimately knows the wires he’s hooked up to, chaining him to his bed. Not like he’s going anywhere. He scans the room disinterestedly, noting the stained walls and outdated equipment. His eyes have passed over every detail in the little room countless times, but there’s nothing else for him to do. So he zones out, eyes glazing over with boredom and pain.

It has taken weeks for his ears to stop ringing. They're working better now, but his hearing is still fuzzy, like he’s floating underwater. The doctors are unsure whether the damage to his vocal cords is permanent or not, but he still can’t produce any sound from his throat, and it hurts when he tries. His head feels disorientingly light, unused to not bearing the weight of his horns.

Waking up with no limbs, no horns, no voice and no hearing was life-altering, to say the least. Fizz still feels like he’s in the middle of a nightmare, every second of every countless day that keeps dragging him along through the dirt. He still hasn’t recovered from the shock of it, stuck in a constant state of unrest. His body, usually so full of jitters that he can’t sit still, can’t move an inch. He doesn’t want to move, still scared of the feeling of emptiness where his arms and legs should be.

The pain has been unbearable. The nerve damage he sustained meant that he couldn’t feel much of anything at first, but it’s gradually escalated to a throb he feels in his entire body. Every single little shift of his body causes him pain, so much that he can’t stand being off any sort of medication to help soothe the constant hurt. Bandage changing is torture, and he dreads every moment the nurses walk in through his door because it usually means more pain in some way, shape or form. It hurts just lying here, feeling his skin flake and the stumps of his horns ache and throb. It’s changed him. He feels hollow, a husk of who he once was. The nurses give him pills to help stabilize his mood, but combined with the pain meds they only reduce him to a numb lump, a shadow rotting in the sheets. He wishes he could just melt and disappear, so no one would ever have to see him again. There’s no trace of his vibrant popping candy mind, the creativity and joy he used to feel. Now there’s only pain, pain and more pain, covering his mind like a thick, suffocating glaze.

No limbs, no voice, and still no Blitzo. Sometimes it feels like the wish to see his best friend again is the only thing keeping him going. Fizz concocts elaborate scenarios in his mind explaining why his friend hasn’t come to see him yet. Maybe he hit his head so hard in the chaos of the fire that he got amnesia, unable to remember what happened or where to find them. Or maybe he got kidnapped by a pirate crew and was forced to travel with them as their performing clown. He could be stuck on an island somewhere in Envy, waiting for the right moment to steal off with the ship in the night while the rest of the crew is sleeping. Because there has to be a good fucking reason for why Blitzo still hasn’t shown his face.

He spends just as long thinking about what he’s going to say to Blitzo when he shows up – if he can get his voice to work, that is. For lack of other things to do, he plays their imaginary conversations over and over again in his head. In most of them, Blitzo apologizes to him with tears in his eyes, explaining how it was all a terrible accident. He’ll cradle Fizz’s cheek and promise to stay by his side until he’s fully healed, personally nursing him back to health. Fizz will hold a grudge for a while, but ultimately forgive him.

Rarely does he dare to imagine Blitzo being smug and righteous about what he’s done. It’s too scary to think about, because it would mean his whole life up until this point has been a lie. The glimpse he got of Blitzo just before the tent went up in flames still chills his bones. His friend had looked anything but happy to see him, had glared and disappeared. He’s sure it’s all a misunderstanding, it just has to be. He knows Blitzo, how he practically wears his heart on his sleeve. He knows how tough he is on the outside betrays how soft he really is. The Blitzo he knows would never set fire to his family, his whole life. And yet, Fizzarolli vividly remembers reaching out to him while he was burning alive, begging for his help, only for his friend to turn on his heel and run away, leaving him there to die. Fuck.

He and Blitzo have always been good at improv, always managing to turn a situation around in their favour. When one of them messed up, the other was always there to save them, knowing each other just as well as they knew themselves. Blitzo is maybe moreso the brash, clumsy type, and he may have needed to be saved more often than Fizz, but he’s nonetheless a good problem-solver, good at thinking on his feet. Fizz stares down at where the blanket dips, much too high up his leg. There’s no way to improv his way out of this.

Fizz has tried to come to terms with things, after the initial shell-shock that left his bones rattling. He’s tried to accept the idea of being like this for the rest of his life, of never performing again. He was inconsolable for the first couple of weeks, would lose his mind and start screaming unstoppably whenever he woke up. He spent most of those weeks sedated, drugged into a blissfully unconscious state. It’s been a month now, and things still feel just as hopeless. He has no idea how to process having his whole life ripped away from him, their circus ruined forever – and his best friend isn’t even there to support him through it. Seven of his circus family are dead, and several others are in critical condition like him. Those who managed to get out aren’t faring much better. Everyone who has come to see him so far has looked haunted and distraught, with no home to go back to and having to rebuild their lives from scratch. Fizz grieves for them, and he grieves for himself and the life he lost. He can’t help but wonder what the point is. If he can’t ever walk, or talk, or tie a balloon ever again, what is he supposed to do? Just rot away for the rest of his life?

The door opens. He doesn’t look up, but he doesn’t need to to know who it is, the heavy footsteps over worn linoleum a familiar sound by now. Mister B walks over to stand beside his bed.

“Glad to see you’re awake, boy. You’re dead to the world more often than not, I always wonder if I’ll walk in one day to you having kicked the bucket.” One thing about Cash Buckzo is that he doesn’t mince his words, and his sense of humour is questionable at best. The gruff greeting is as familiar as it stings.

Fizzarolli still gets a few visitors, but most of them are too busy trying to survive to visit him. Barbie visited daily at first, but even she has started disappearing more and more often. Mister B is his most frequent visitor, who comes to see to him every few days, give him some updates, take care of him a little. Fizz has always seen the ringmaster as a father figure of sorts, but he’s been too scared of him to think of him as an actual father – he’s more like a scary uncle who frequently gets drunk and yells at people.

“How’re you feeling today, kid?” The older imp has come out of the whole ordeal with barely a scratch on him. The very tip of his tail is scarred white, the only indication that he was even there. He looks tired and wan, no doubt a combination of grief and running around trying to salvage and rebuild what he can of their circus – that, and the benders he’s still keeping up.

Fizz lifts what’s left of his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. His baseline these days is “awful”, so it’s hard to give an answer to that question that’s anything but. Cash seems to understand though, as his eyes soften slightly.

“Well, I got you another one of those magazines you like to read,” he grumbles, brandishing a second-hand fashion magazine that must once have been glossy but now looks just as faded as Fizz feels. He nods his head in thanks anyway. The pile of magazines on his bedside table keeps growing taller, put aside for when he can focus enough to actually register what he’s reading – which is never, these days.

“Oh, and I just talked to one of your nurses about those prosthetics.”

Fizz perks up a bit at that. They had an appointment about a week ago to discuss the possibility of him being fitted with prosthetic limbs. Along with the hope that his best friend is going to walk through his door one of these days, the idea of being able to walk again is pretty much the only thing keeping him going. It freaks him out a little bit, the thought that he’ll look like some sort of cyborg imp. But the alternative is infinitely worse.

“As soon as you’ve recovered a bit more, you should be good to go down for surgery,” Cash announces, and Fizz’s heart skips a beat. The thought of having more surgery is scary, but staying like this is even scarier.

“But they’re gonna be fucking expensive as all hell, so you’re gonna have to work real hard to pay ‘em off later. Right?” Cash levels him with a look – that strict ringmaster look he gets when he expects you to learn a new trick just a few hours before your next show.

Fizz nods as hard as he can without setting off a headache. As long as he can get new arms and legs, he doesn’t care what it will take to pay them off.

Cash studies him, before tutting and shaking his head. “Such a cryin’ shame… you were our best performer, and now look at the state of you…”

Fizz shrinks in on himself, gaze burning into the sheets until he feels a heavy hand on his head, settling between his horns. He winces, the touch too close to the aching stumps, yet another reminder of something that was taken from him. He’s well aware he’s not anything to look at anymore – he can’t bear the sight of himself, squeezes his eyes shut tight whenever a reflective surface comes anywhere near him so he doesn’t have to catch a glimpse of how broken he is.

“Don’t you worry, boy. I’m still here for you. Old Cash is gonna take care of you.” Fizz’s voice is still ruined, so he doesn’t try to reply. He just gives a tiny nod, looking down at the sheet covering the stumps that are left of his legs. The hand strokes him gently, and it’s a small relief. Someone is here for him, and he needs to take comfort in that.

~ * ~

The phantom pains get to him sometimes. He wakes up in the dead of night feeling his arms burning, skin dripping and melting. It feels like maggots crawling underneath his skin, eating flesh off the bone. He ends up writhing on the sheets just to take the edge off, panting and groaning. He lies awake for a long time after, unable to rest or sleep, the ghost of the explosion still echoing in his head.

It gets especially lonely at night. He isn’t used to being alone – he spent every waking moment surrounded by people back at the circus, and he was often the center of attention. He didn’t get his own tent until a couple of years ago, and even that had been a hard adjustment. He wonders if he’ll ever stay in a tent again, or if he’s doomed for a life on the streets. Would Cash abandon him, just like Blitzo has? There’s still no news of his friend’s whereabouts, and it’s only getting harder to come up with new stories. Fizz tries not to let his mind run away with worry about where he’s going to stay after he gets out of the hospital, or what he’s going to do, or where Blitzo could be, but his mind has always been a rollercoaster running off the rails. He’s never been an imp to sit still and be calm before, but now he can’t do anything but. Anything else hurts. He tries thinking through tricks in his mind, going through the motions of backflips and trapezeing and juggling with ten balls, but they’re all so ingrained in his body – the body he used to have. Now he’ll never create as much as a single balloon animal. He thinks he might be going insane.

He tries to think about the prosthetics instead. The idea of them still scares him. While they’ll certainly be a monumental upgrade from his current condition, he knows the chance that they’ll work as well as his healthy limbs did are slimmer than none. He’ll have to learn how to walk all over again, not to mention having to relearn all his circus tricks. But he has to do it. He stares out into the dark, eyes flashing with determination. He’ll claw his way back onto his feet, practice until he’s even better than he used to be. It’s the only shot he’s got at regaining his life, his identity, his worth.

Cash is back the next day, cigarette in hand. A nurse scurries up behind him and tells him to put it out, so he sucks up the last dregs of it and drops it to the floor where it gets crushed under his boot. Fizz twitches. His thrumming nervous system would love a smoke, but his burned lungs and throat demand gentler treatment.

Fizz looks expectantly at the older imp, tail swishing slightly at the sight of him. He’s been gone for a few days now, and Fizz has been dying to hear any news – about Blitzo, or about anything else at this point. He feels so isolated and alone, and even just seeing a familiar face is making him perk up. Some of his nurses are friendly enough, but almost passing out from pain every time they change his bandages doesn’t exactly help him feel comfortable having them around him.

He opens his mouth, tries to ask for Blitzo. He manages a weak rasp that only makes the older imp look at him strangely. He tries mouthing the name as clearly as he can, rolling his tongue between his lips and forming his mouth into an ‘o’.

Cash frowns at him. “I don’t read lips, boy, I don’t know what the fuck you’re tryin’ to say.” He seems more aggressive today, and the slight slur of his words makes it evident that he’s already downed some drinks despite it being before noon.

Fizz frowns angrily, frustrated with the other’s lack of cooperation. He tries again, mouthing the same word over and over. Blitzo. Blitzo. Blitzo?

Suddenly, it seems to dawn on the other. “Oh. You wanna know about that good-for-nothing, huh?”

Fizz’s tail thwaps angrily against the bed. He wishes the ringmaster wouldn’t talk about Blitzo like that. He never liked how he would put his own son down, pick on him as an easy target instead of helping him improve his skills.

Cash’s lip curls. “That useless idiot is never gonna show. And you know why?” The ringmaster’s eyes narrow with contempt as he growls. “Because that bastard’s to blame for this shitstorm. It’s all his fault! If you’re gonna blame anyone, blame him.”

No. That can’t be true, he refuses to believe it. He shakes his head, stumps throbbing and ears ringing.

Cash takes a step closer, doubling down. “Think about it. He was always jealous of you, wasn’t he? He was always a rebellious little piece of shit, too. It makes perfect sense he’d want to ruin both of our lives. He’s the one who set fire to the tent. He wanted to destroy us all.”

Tears spring to Fizz’s eyes, disbelief tugging at his heart. He shakes his head again. It just doesn’t make any sense.

Cash looms over him, practically in his face by now. “You don’t believe me? Well, why hasn’t he come to see you, huh? If he cared about you even a little bit, he’d have been here by now.”

Tears spill from Fizz’s eyes, and his breaths start coming quicker in wheezing rasps. It hurts all over, harsh breaths pulling at his bandages, but he can’t stop.

“Believe me, Fizzarolli. You’re better off without that loser. You always were.”

Fizz squeezes his eyes shut to escape that intense gaze and the words cutting him up from the inside. He shakes his head furiously, blood rushing in his ears. A hand suddenly grabs his face, forcing his chin up. His eyes fly open to meet Cash’s leering ones. He’s so close Fizz can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“You should be grateful, you know. You’d be dead if it weren’t for me. I’m the one who picked you up and drove you here. That fucker? He hasn’t done shit for you.” Fizz can’t move as Cash grips his jaw, sharp claws digging into the bandages on his face. His heart pounds in his ears as Cash whispers the words he’s feared since he first allowed himself to think the thought.

“I’m the only one you’ve got now.”

~ * ~

Barbie shows up one day. Fizz wakes up from one of his medicine-induced slumbers to find her curled up on the chair beside his bed, looking younger than she should. He can never predict when she’ll turn up anymore, but he’s always grateful when she does. She’s looking straight ahead at thin air, eyes far away in a world of her own. She looks run down, smudged makeup not helping the heavy bags under her eyes. Fizz wonders where she goes, where she stays, what she does in the days and weeks she spends outside of this room. She clearly doesn’t communicate much with Mister B. She seems to have cut ties with pretty much everyone else. Maybe she’s just here as a weird obligation, a pity party for poor little Fizz.

He shifts in bed where he’s sunk deep into his pillow, and her eyes snap toward him. She gets up and helps him sit propped against the headboard instead, his preferred position when he’s awake. He winces through it, body buzzing and aching.

She sits back in the chair with a huff, giving him a guarded look. “Hey, Fizz. You holding up?”

He performs his best imitation of a shrug again. He then points the spade of his tail towards her, as if to ask her the same. He’s gotten pretty good at using his tail for all sorts of things he didn’t have to before: picking up a glass to drink from, using a spoon to eat, flipping pages of magazines. Using it too much tires him out quickly, but it helps him perform a bare minimum of communication.

Barbie shrugs too, leather jacket bunching around her. “I dunno. Things are still just as shit.”

Fizz frowns, trying to catch her eye so he can send her a questioning look. She just sighs and slumps in her chair, averting her gaze.

“Fuck, it’s so annoying that you can’t talk. I’m going to actually go insane having these one-sided conversations.” His circus sister looks down at her hands, fidgeting with her claws. Fizz glares at the jab, annoyed by the thoughtlessness behind it – as if he’s mute by choice. But he worries about her, how she seems so isolated now, caught in a loop of grief and despair.

Barbie sighs again, looking at the floor. “I guess… I just miss my mom.” Her words give him pause, his thoughts drifting to Tilla. Her death has been hard on all of them, but it makes sense that it’s been especially tough on Barbie, as close as they were. Fizz himself didn’t even find out until several weeks later, when he was lucid enough to digest the news. Even then, it had been a shock. In many ways, Tilla was the glue keeping them all together, so it’s no wonder everything is falling apart without her here. Fizz doesn’t know how many times he’s wished for her comfort while stuck here, only to realize that he’ll never see her again, never hug her or see that warm, wise smile. As if his situation needed to be any bleaker. Still, he can’t imagine how Barbie feels. She was closer to Tilla than anyone, except perhaps Blitzo.

“Everything just hurts,” Barbie continues. “And it doesn’t fucking help that you’re stuck in here, dad’s going crazy scrabbling around for petty pennies, and that fucker Blitzo is nowhere to be seen.” Fizz’s eyes widen at that last name, and Barbie notices.

“You haven’t seen him, have you?” she asks.

He shakes his head slowly. He points his tail towards her again, and she gives him a long, searching look. Then she looks away. “No. And I don’t want to either.”

Fizz frowns again. He thinks about what Cash told him about Blitzo, about how he’d set fire to the tent intentionally. But that doesn’t make any sense. Blitzo loved Tilla more than anyone, he would never do anything to put her in danger like that. It just can’t be true.

“Oh, stop looking so forlorn! Don’t you get it, Fizz? He tried to kill you!” Barbie thunders, surging forward and gripping at the sheets on Fizz’s bed. A cold sensation goes through him, stomach turning into jelly. Her words are more scathing than even her father’s were, slicing right into his bruised core.

“Think about it! He was always jealous of you! This was all to serve his own twisted ego, so he could have the spotlight for once in his miserable life,” Barb snarls, eyes wild and angry like she’s spent hours and hours trying to convince herself this is the truth, like nothing can sway her anymore.

Fizz gulps, heart pumping faster under his bandages. Is that really what the fire was all about? Come to think of it, was Blitzo really ever the jealous type? Sure, he could be quiet, almost reserved at times. He would definitely get stormy and broody at times, whenever Fizz got praised by Cash while he himself was ignored. Fizz can see how that might have been a breeding ground for jealousy, but he struggles to think that it could have morphed into something so ugly. He recalls how his friend would recoil sometimes when Fizz would cling to him, almost as if embarrassed. They would never talk about it, but Fizz always took it as a soft rejection. Because that’s just how Blitzo is – tough on the outside, soft on the inside.

“Look, accident or not, our mother is fucking dead.” Barb’s voice breaks on the last word, but she powers through, rage flashing behind her eyes. “I don’t think he tried to kill her too, but he sure as hell succeeded!” Her tail is agitated, slashing through the air behind her like a sword. Fizz’s own tail twists and twitches anxiously against the sheets, fidgeting in place of hands he doesn’t have.

“You know, if he felt sorry at all, he’d be here right now,” she continues, too far into her rant to stop now. “But what did that asshole do? He just ran away from it all. He didn’t see the way they had to peel your clothes off you, or how what was left of your arms was just hanging off of you in strips of skin. I’m the one who had to help hold you down while you screamed and cried like you were being tortured, while he was off Satan knows where.” Fizz winces at the imagery. He doesn’t remember any of that, and he doesn’t particularly want to know about any of it, happy to remain ignorant of the gnarly details.

“So no, I don’t want anything to do with him, not now and not ever. He can fucking rot in a hole for all I care.” She sniffs, and a couple of tears escape her eyes to roll down her cheeks. Fizz is crying too by now, soft hiccups leaving him as he shakes. Barbie might as well have picked him up and shaken him around for how dizzy and sick he feels.

He misses the old Barb, who always knew how to cheer him up. She’s never been the most touchy-feely demon, but she’s always been caring and observant, helping him fix tears in his favourite costumes and letting him use her makeup brush when he lost his own. She seems so lost in grief and anger now, and he has no idea how to pull her out of it, doesn’t have the words anymore. She’s drifting away somewhere he can’t reach her anymore, he can feel it. It hollows him to the core, feeling yet another precious thing being ripped from him in real time with nothing he can do to stop it.

Barbie leaves not long after that, saying she needs to cool off. In her wake, Fizz sits alone with the little seed of doubt that’s just been planted like a lump of coal in his gut. He rolls it around in his mind, examining it from all sides, blows on it until it sparks to life, pulsing and breathing. The imp he loves tried to kill him. The imp he loves wants him dead. Is Blitzo disappointed, knowing he didn’t succeed? Is he ashamed? Is that why he’s so reluctant to show his face? Or is he rejoicing in the fact that Fizz won’t ever be able to perform again? Has he left them to start a circus of his own, like he always dreamed of doing? To think that had been Fizz’s dream too, once upon a time. He hangs his head down, turmoil splitting his heart apart.

~ * ~

“Discharging Mr. Fizzarolli is not an option right now, Mr. Buckzo. He still needs to recover more before we can go through with the surgery.”

“Bullshit, he’s fit as a fiddle. He’s just as eager as I am to go through with it!”

“It’s not safe for him to undergo the procedure yet, sir. We need to make sure his body will be ready to accept the new limbs.”

“Look, lady, keeping him here is already costing me an arm and a motherfucking leg. And I still need to pay for a new set for him, too! How much longer is it gonna take?”

“Unfortunately sir, we’ll need to keep him for at least a few more weeks to monitor his healing process.”

“A few--? Blazing hell, do I look like I’m made of money? Can’t ya speed it up a little? I’m sure he can adapt just fine, he’s the most talented clown in the entire Greed ring, for fuck’s sake!”

Fizzarolli’s heart sinks, listening to Cash arguing with the nurse again. The ringmaster is starting to get frustrated about the costs of keeping him here. He keeps pressing for Fizz to be released into his care, but they can’t do that without giving him the surgery first. His stomach tightens. Getting prosthetics is all well and good, but the cost has turned out to be a lot more than they can afford. It’s going to take a long time to pay them off, and that money could be spent on rebuilding the circus instead. He looks down at the sheets, anxiety bubbling inside of him. He hates being a burden. He’s worked hard all his life to not be one, only to end up a useless lump. He worries at his lip, the spade of his tail tapping anxiously at his chest from where he’s curled it protectively around his waist.

The nurse gathers up the tray carrying his morning meds and shoots him a sympathetic glance as she leaves the room. He catches a glimpse of himself reflected in the metal and quickly looks away. His face is a shock of white now, compared to the ghastly grey it turned in the weeks after the fire. Now his skin has completely scarred over, turned him as stark white as the sheets beneath him. Maybe it’s only fitting – he certainly feels like a ghost of who he used to be.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Cash tells him. “You were always a fast learner. You’ll make a speedy recovery, we’ll slap some prosthetics on you and you’ll be good as new. You’ll be performing again in no time.”

Fizz tries to smile for him, to show him that he can still be counted on, that he’ll be worth all this effort the other is taking to care for him. But he’s not so sure he believes that himself anymore. The idea of prosthetics is exciting, but he can’t see himself ever getting up onto a stage again, not looking like this. The corners of his mouth hurt where he stretches it further than he has in a long time in a poor imitation of his signature grin, straining his scarred cheeks.

Cash seems to consider him, looks him up and down. Fizz follows his movements as he comes up close to the bed, a strange unease growing in him. Then, before he can react or jerk away, the ringmaster reaches out a hand and grabs onto Fizz’s jaw, turning his face this way and that. He has no way to resist it as the older imp leans over him with a curious expression.

“Poor kid, you don’t even got hands to jerk off with…”

Wait.

“The nurses must help you do your business, but I bet they don’t help with that, do they?”

What?

Fizz’s mind freezes over. What is he talking about? Of all the things he expected to hear, this is completely out of left field. A cold feeling goes through him as he processes those teasing words, their inappropriateness catching him completely off guard. He can’t reply anyway, just balks at the ringmaster with wide eyes.

“I dunno what I’d do if it were me. I know I’d be going stir-crazy. Probably proposition the nurses, if you know what I mean.”

Mister B is drunk as hell, that much is certain. But drunk or not, he’s never talked to Fizz like that before. It makes his skin vibrate, alarm bells ringing in his head. The hand holding his jaw is relentless, leaving no wiggle room to escape.

“You lost your legs, but your plumbing still works right, don’t it?” All of a sudden, Cash pulls his sheets back, gaze fixing itself between his legs. Fizz tries to squeeze his thighs together, but there isn’t much he can do to hide from the older imp’s scalding gaze.

“I know you’ve been aching for it. You could never keep your legs closed for long,” the ringmaster taunts, gaze raking over him greedily. “Now there’s no one here but me who can help you out… right?”

The truth is, his libido is completely gone, sucked up with all the rest of his personality. The thought of touching himself has barely even occurred to him, what with his life hanging by a thread and all. Even now that his wounds are in recovery, it doesn’t exactly seem appealing to him – especially not when his pseudo-father is the one offering. Fizz shakes his head vigorously, eyes growing wide with fear. His splintered horns immediately start throbbing with the motion of it, but he has to prevent this from escalating somehow.

That’s easier said than done, when Cash lifts up his hospital gown to reveal his bandaged thighs and the underwear he’s wearing underneath, plain white hospital cotton. His legs twitch shut, trying to block the view, but Cash is faster. He reaches for him, and Fizz tries to squirm away, but it’s futile. Long claws brush against his clit and he jolts, a cold and slimy shudder zipping down his spine. A whine of protest builds in his throat, but all that comes out is a rasping gurgle.

“Come on… you need someone to take care of ya. It’ll do ya no good to be all pent up.”

Fizzarolli gasps as the hand paws at him, in disbelief that this is happening. His nerves fire up at the fumbling touch, clumsy pets to his sex that barely brush against his sensitive clit. It feels alien, like it’s not even happening to him – he might as well be watching it happen on a flimsy VHS tape. But he feels himself react all too acutely, growing hot and cold all over with shame and humiliation.

His mind is frozen in fear as he keeps shaking his head furiously, tears welling up in his eyes. He tries shouting, tries screaming “no”, but his damaged vocal cords refuse to listen. Despite himself, he feels spikes of pleasure in his pussy, hypersensitive from going untouched for so long.

He mouths the word “no” again, keeps trying to yell it over and over, but Cash still keeps running claws over his underwear, leering grin deepening with each involuntary twitch of Fizz’s hips. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, his broken horns aching at the movement. He starts thrashing, wanting the hands off him, but Cash pins him down with a heavy hand on his stomach. His tail swishes wildly, trying to smack his attacker in the face, but the larger imp grabs onto that too, pinning it along with the rest of his body. Fizz’s throat cracks and tears with his efforts to scream for nurses, doctors, anyone. His mouth fills with blood as he struggles, but the only sounds coming from his throat are horrible rasping gurgles.

“Stop struggling, boy. You’ll thank me later,” Cash reprimands gruffly, fingers pinching Fizz’s clit through his underwear. He’s soaked through it by now, unintentionally gushing months’ worth of slick. His hips arch off the bed, twitching into the overwhelming sensation of being pleasured after feeling nothing but darkness for so long.

“There we go… I knew you wanted this.” The words send a new wave of shame rocking through him, skin breaking out in a cold sweat. His chest heaves to keep up with his hammering heartbeat as he pants and wheezes against the harsh rubs just where he needs them, smearing his slick around through the friction of the fabric.

The ringmaster moves his fingers to slip inside his underwear, and it only takes a couple of strokes and rubs before Fizz is coming hard, shuddering and shaking underneath the hand pinning him down. Cash removes his fingers and licks them obscenely before pulling the sheets back up over Fizz, adjusting him so he’s lying properly against the pillows again.

“Good boy. That feels better, don’t it?”

It feels disgusting. His underwear sticks to him, cold and damp. He sniffles, tail curled tightly around his waist.

Cash straightens back up, looking pleased with himself. “Don’t say I never did nothing for you.”

The nurses find him later, with vomit down his front and spattered on the blanket. They help him change out of his gown, prop him up in a wheelchair while they change the sheets too. He zones out the whole time, staring blankly at the wall as his nether region throbs dully, suddenly alive with a lonely ache.

~ * ~

Fizzarolli sighs, flipping a page with his tail. He’s reading through the book on infernal sign language the nurses gave him to study, but the reality of it hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Though his hearing is still swimmy, it’s functional enough that he can get by with the implants they’ve given him. The reason he’s been advised to start learning sign language is not only so he can get by without his implants, but also to help him communicate in case his voice never comes back. The thought of that still scares him, but it’s not like he has anything better to do. So far, he’s made his way through the alphabet, basic greetings and simple vocab for everyday situations. He’s not much of a reader, but the book has plenty of pictures that show in detail how to make each sign. He studies the signs, stumbling through the words on the page, twisting and curling his tail to try and memorize how to sign each new word he learns. But what’s really the point of learning at all when he has no arms?

Once again, Fizz thinks about the new limbs he’s supposedly going to be getting. He’s seen pictures of what they look like – clunky, bulky hunks of metal with awkward-looking joints and fingers that look completely robotic and alien to him. He tries to imagine what it would be like to have something even better than organic limbs, prosthetics with hidden buttons everywhere that do all kinds of things, like unveiling secret compartments for clown props like water guns and confetti bombs and infinite scarves. He imagines having limbs that can bend all sorts of ways that would otherwise be impossible, letting him spring like a jack-in-the-box or flop himself around like a slinky. It’s a ridiculous dream, but then again, he’s always been a big dreamer.

Fizz slumps back into his pillows, letting the book fall shut. He heaves another deep sigh, feeling the slight pull on his bandages. What he wouldn’t give for some shitty Greed air right now. He looks towards the small window on the far side of his room, but all he sees is green smog and the top of the factory building next to the hospital. He lifts one leg stump, then the other in alternating turns, testing his flexibility. It’s the only form of exercise available to him now, just about the only way he can move himself at all. But his burns are recovering – soon he’ll be able to take his bandages off completely and make do with just the daily creams and ointments. By all accounts, that means he should finally be ready for the surgery soon, too. It feels like he’s been here for years, slowly rotting down to the molecular level. Boredom will be the end of him, his mind moving between running tireless laps and standing sluggishly still like a quagmire.

The door to his room creaks open. This time, Fizz tenses when he registers those familiar footsteps. It’s been a week since the ringmaster attacked him, and he’s been shaken up about it ever since, dreading the next time the older imp deigns to walk through his door. He keeps his eyes trained on Cash, warily watching as he nonchalantly trudges up to him, acting just like normal despite the heavy tension in the air from Fizz’s coiled up nerves. He even has another magazine with him, dropping it unceremoniously onto the heaping pile on the bedside table. Not much of a peace offering, Fizz thinks.

“Chin up, boy. Look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Cash grumbles, raising a brow. Fizz just looks at him, guarded and morose.

“Come on now, don’t look so sullen. You’ll be out of this shithole real soon. I’ve fixed you up a nice tent, just for you.” He seems to be trying to cheer Fizz up, and the idea of getting to have his own tent again is exciting, but he feels so sick that it’s taking up all of his concentration to hold onto his breakfast.

“Come on, you want those new limbs, right? Because there’s nothing stopping me from taking you home right now and making a freak show out of you.” Those words jump-start Fizz’s brain immediately. He nods vigorously, heart jumping up into his throat. Anything but that.

“Alright, calm down.” Cash looks him up and down, and Fizz doesn’t like the way his gaze lingers on him. “All I’m saying is, you better be grateful. Think about everything I’m doing for you.”

Fizz gulps, not liking the smug smile or the dark look in Cash’s eyes, like he enjoys playing himself up and making the people around him feel small. Fizz has seen it many times before, with Blitzo and others at the circus, and occasionally himself as well. But Fizz can’t argue against any of these words, because they’re all true. Without Cash, he wouldn’t be here right now, receiving this treatment. Just like the ringmaster had told him, he would almost certainly have been dead a long time ago.

“Matter of fact…” Cash drawls, the high pitch of his voice taking on a darker tone. “I know just how you can make it up to me.”

The sound of a zipper breaks the silence, and Fizz’s eyes widen in fear as he looks down to see Cash pull his cock out of his pants, already fat and turgid. Three terrifying black spikes sit on its underside, catching the glaring light from the ceiling.

The older imp gets close and grabs onto the back of his head firmly with a large hand. “Help me out here, kid.”

No. Not this again.

Fizz goes stiff, heart pounding as he tries to shake his head, tries to move away, but the grip is too strong. There’s no escaping it, he can only close his eyes in defeat as Cash hooks a finger in his mouth and feeds his cock inside. Fizz lies there, motionless and helpless as the cock gets stuffed down his throat, the blunt end of it poking his palate. He gags, shuddering hard against the grip the ringmaster has on him. He struggles to stay calm and breathe through his nose even as the intrusive appendage blocks his airway off, smearing slick against the back of his throat.

“Come on, now. Suck it properly,” Cash urges. “Quickly, before someone comes.”

Numb with disbelief, Fizz squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his mouth around the cock, sucking it like he’s told to. Cash sighs above him and starts guiding Fizz’s head back and forth onto it, meeting him with tiny thrusts of his hips. The small room is soon filled with harsh grunting noises, combined with the slick noise of too much spit in his mouth. The older imp reeks of cheap booze and cigarette smoke, the smell permeating Fizz’s nostrils and making tears spring into his tightly shut eyes. He tries to focus on the shapes and colours he sees behind his eyelids, the dancing and moving figures not enough of a distraction from the numb panic building in him.

“Yeah, just like that. Shit, you’re a natural at this too,” Cash groans. He keeps moving Fizz’s head for him in a slow back-and-forth that makes him queasy. He gags slightly every time Cash lingers too long in the back of his throat, before moving away again before he retches for real. He can only lie there with his jaw unlocked, breathing levelly through his nose and trying not to notice the taste of warm skin, the spit-slick slide of cock over his tongue, the spikes scraping dully against it. Despite himself, his nether region throbs, empty and dripping.

After what feels like an age of wishing someone will barge in on them and hoping they won’t, Cash grunts and his cock pulses as he suddenly starts thrusting into Fizz’s mouth with abandon. It isn’t long before hot spunk splashes his throat, the bitter taste flooding his mouth.

“You better swallow it all, boy,” Cash growls. “Don’t want any suspicious looks, do we?”

Cash holds his head until he’s cleaned his cock off, swallowing down the astringent fluid with difficulty. Hot tears threaten to fall from his eyes as the older imp finally pulls out, leaving him feeling used and humiliated. Cash is looking at him gently now, like he’s something precious, but Fizz feels like a new kind of show pony, jumping through new hoops just to please his ringmaster. Just like he always has, just so he’ll be taken care of.

A jarring, horrifying realization creeps up on him: he can’t stay like this for the rest of his life. If this is all the good he is, a worm of an imp who’s only good for sucking cock, he would rather just die. He needs to get back up, needs to prove that he can do more, that he’s worth more.

It bubbles up from somewhere within him, a desperation that needs to be communicated. “M… ister B…” he croaks out, making his own eyes widen. It’s not much of a voice, but he talked!

“The limbs… please. N-need them.” He stops to cough, wheezing weakly. “Won’t… ask for anything… ever again.” He sounds like he’s swallowed a chainsaw, and he has to fight with all he has just to spit the words out, but he’s talking! Using his voice this much sends him into a coughing fit, and his throat feels like it’s being repeatedly stabbed with knives, but he just spoke! He finally loses his fight against his tears, letting them roll freely down his cheeks with elation.

Cash gawks at him, eyes going wide at this new breakthrough. Then he smiles, a softness coming over those usually harsh features of his. He brings a hand up to stroke Fizz’s head again, curls it possessively around the back of his neck. “Don’t you worry, kid. We’ll figure something out.”

Chapter Text

The lights are way too bright. They really need to fix that. Who decided hospitals should be so goddamn blinding, with their stark white walls and shining sterilized surfaces? Dark spots float in front of his eyes as he pushes one foot slowly along the floor, all the muscles in his body protesting. He wobbles where he stands, sure he’s about to lose his balance and crash to the floor.

“Come on, Fizz. Just a little more, I know you can make it.”

His favourite nurse, Adrian the hellhound, cheers him on as his physiotherapist watches, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. He pushes, moving his foot painstakingly forward, spurred on by spite and pure willpower. His head is throbbing, every nerve screaming at him to just let go and give up. Fizz is used to ignoring his body’s signals. His whole life has been spent training, pushing himself past the limits of his own body. He’s no stranger to pain or frustration. But it’s never been as intense as this, the immense amount of willpower he has to pull from the depths of himself to manage just a single step.

He’s so close to the finish line, just a couple more steps to go. He takes another step, searching deep inside himself, pulling every ounce of concentration into that single, pathetic, wobbly step. And then he takes another, cursing every single moment. The joints of his clunky, heavy metal legs pop and crack as he strains with all he has, sweating and groaning.   

He collapses at the dotted finish line at the end of the hall, losing control of his limbs and letting them flop uselessly as he gasps for breath. Adrian cheers for him as he rushes to help him up, putting an arm around him and hauling him back to his feet.

“That was great, Fizz! You really outdid yourself today!”

Fizz leans heavily into the nurse, still panting. “It’s not enough. I need to get back to performing as soon as possible,” he grumbles, dejected that his recovery is taking so long.

Adrian looks at him with a sad smile. “I know. But you’re doing great, trust me. Remember that recovery is a process, it’s not done in a day.” Fizz rolls his eyes, having heard those words many times before, but allows himself to take today as a win. He doesn’t reach the finish line every time, no matter how hard he tries. He knows he just has to keep doing the grueling work of gradually building his strength.  

It’s strange how quickly one can adapt to a new way of life. A few months ago, he had thought he was doomed to a life of being a bedridden worm. Now he’s determined to take his old life back – as much of it as possible, at least. There are a few crucial things – a certain someones – missing for him to be able to rebuild his life as it was, but he wants to believe he has enough to slowly build the foundations of something new.

The surgery itself was easy enough to deal with. He went down for the procedure and woke up on a lot of pain medication, unable to feel the new prosthetics. The pain came later, and lots of it. But he was already more accustomed to dealing with pain since dealing with losing his limbs and horns and suffering third degree burns over more than half of his body. Pain is the new normal for him now, when he wakes up after his meds have worn off, when the nurses peel his old bandages off to replace them with new ones, when he moves his head too fast and feels his horns throb and glow red hot. Now, his stumps don’t always agree with the way his new arms and legs fit against him, pinching and squeezing his scarred skin. They’re heavy, uncomfortable and unfamiliar, frightening alien growths. But they’re also cool, sleek, shiny, a hope and promise of a new future. He finally has a means of getting around again, if only he could master them, if only he could absorb them into his identity.

After the procedure, he had to endure months of training to even be able to walk a single step unaided. He had first practiced standing, then re-training his core strength and balance, then walking while holding onto bars to support his weight. Then came the walking rehabilitation he’s currently going through, devoid of support bars. What once came so naturally to him has become a grueling, dreaded ordeal, but he’s determined to get back to where he used to be. When he has walking down better, he’ll practice turning, stepping over obstacles, walking up and down stairs and walking while carrying something. There’s so many steps, and his progress is frustratingly slow. Not to mention that Cash is more impatient than ever. He still makes infrequent visits, still makes Fizz suck his cock and promise not to tell anyone every time he does. Fizz has already resigned himself to this fate – he’s the one who said he would do anything for his limbs, after all.

Barbie hasn’t visited him once since she lashed out at him when she was here a couple of months ago. She’s up and vanished without word or trace, leaving Fizz alone with the ringmaster. He doesn’t know how to feel about everything. On the one hand, he knows he should be grateful to his guardian. He’s taking care of him, and he expects so much from him. But part of Fizz just wants to be left alone, to run away somewhere and start over again somewhere he doesn’t have to worry about living up to another’s sky high expectations, or invoking their rage when he doesn’t. Back at the circus Cash had liked him well enough whenever he did a good job, but he could be scathing and scary too, especially when he drank a lot. Plus, Fizz grew up seeing how he treated Blitzo, his own son. Cash is taking care of him now, paying for his treatment and his limbs and his rehabilitation, but he’s also hurting him, touching him roughly and making him swallow his rotten spunk. It’s a lot to sort through, his head is a quagmire of sinking thoughts and worries.

Later on he’s back in his bed, going over some new phrases from his book on sign language. The nurses have encouraged him to keep practicing it as a way to relearn muscle movement. It takes a lot of concentration and minute coordination to be able to move his arms and fingers right, but it makes for a great way to practice using his new arms. Plus, his voice is still weak and gets easily worn out if he talks too much, so he uses sign language whenever he needs to rest his vocal chords as well.

He lifts his head from his book when he hears the door open and sees Adrian coming into his room, signing how are you? Fizz signs back that he’s fine, just tired. It’s been great to have someone who already knows sign language to practice with. Adrian corrects him whenever he makes a mistake, showing him the proper way of signing certain words. It’s slow going with the delay from Fizz’s brain to his new limbs actually doing what he wants them to, but between the two of them they’ve managed to hold many decent conversations. They go back and forth for a bit, talking about their day, before the nurse leans in, looking serious.

That guardian of yours… does he bother you as much as he does us? the hellhound signs, a concerned look in those big brown eyes.

Fizz stiffens. He wonders if anyone has noticed anything off about them. Cash certainly gives the doctors and nurses a hard time every time he visits, complaining about Fizz’s recovery time. But he’s always made sure to be secretive about their ‘private time’, always made sure Fizz won’t squeal a word to anyone. He shrugs sheepishly, not really at liberty to say anything.   

If you want we could ban him from visiting for a while, give you a break from him?

Fizz shakes his head more firmly this time. That would just look suspicious, and he can’t afford to garner the wrong kind of attention.

Is he going to take you back with him? Will you be alright with him? Adrian presses, concern clear on his face. Fizz nods quickly, gives the nurse his best reassuring smile even as his stomach sinks at the thought. He just has to convince everyone that he’ll be fine. Because really, what’s the alternative? He’s already accepted that he isn’t strong enough to survive on his own, and he has no one else to lean on. Adrian searches his gaze, then sighs in defeat. He squeezes Fizz’s shoulder supportively and stays with him for a while longer, keeping him company as he continues studying new phrases in his book.

~ * ~

Fizz isn’t sure what he expects when Cash takes him back home for the first time, but the sight of the “new and improved” circus his guardian has kept on raving about is jarring, to say the least. The ringmaster has clearly been working to rebuild things – the grounds have been cleared of most of the remains of their old circus, and there are a couple of tents standing here and there, as well as a new big top from who knows where. But to Fizz, everywhere he looks is a poor reminder of what used to be. Compared to the colourful tent town they used to live in, with its jaunty music and billowing pennants, imps in bright costumes chatting and laughing, guests milling about eating and playing games, this feels like a ghost town. It’s a husk of what it once was, a couple of drooping tents rising out of the debris of their old life like a decrepit phoenix.

“Don’t look so glum, everybody has to start somewhere. We’re gonna build it all up again, you’ll see.” Cash slaps Fizz on the back, making him stumble on his unsteady legs. He’s still like a baby fawn, wobbly and shaky, but determined to walk on his own. He tries to smile, but he can’t shake the looming thought that he’s standing on top of a graveyard.

He brightens a little when he’s greeted by the other performers. Some of the faces are familiar – there’s a small group of clowns and acrobats from their circus family who, with few other options to turn to, have stayed loyal to Cash, helping him rebuild what used to be. They practically tackle him to the ground with hugs, and it turns into a tearful reunion, Fizz’s heart soaring at seeing his old family again. There’s also a few new performers recruited by Cash – a sharpshooter, a sword swallower and a contortionist. The ringmaster introduces Fizz as their number one moneymaker, and he forces a sheepish smile, unsure if he’s still fit for that role. The others look at him with a mix of expectation and doubt. They ask to see his new limbs, and he shows them off, lifting his sleeves to show the metal underneath. The others crowd wide-eyed around him, reaching out to feel for themselves.

“Whoa, you’re a robo-clown now!”

“Does it hurt?”

“Can you still juggle?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I’ll have to practice,” he rasps out uncertainly. He can’t feel them touching him, maybe that’s why he feels so uncomfortable.

“Whoa, what happened to your voice?”

It’s a relief when the others leave to go practice their routines. Fizz heaves a sigh, feeling exhausted after the encounter. Maybe he’s been spending too much time alone. He lets Cash give him the rest of the tour, which doesn’t end up taking very long. The last place he gets shown to is his accommodation. As the older imp had promised, he gets his own tent. But it’s small and run-down, equipped with nothing but a dirty old mattress on the dirt floor. Part of him longs for his nice, white hospital bed when he sees it. He grits his teeth, tail curling around himself. He can’t think like that. This is his new life, and he has to make the most of it.   

“Wow, this is, uh… nice.” He looks around, noting the thin, cheap material of the tent. How terribly flammable everything looks. It’s never really occurred to him before, but now he can’t help but think about it, how one little mishap with a candle would be enough to bring this whole place down again.

“I know it’s no fancy Goetia mansion, but at least it’s your own, right?” Cash nudges him. “None of the others have their own tent, so you should consider yourself lucky.”

“Thank you, Mister B.”

“My bed is nicer, if you wanna try it.” The ringmaster laughs cruelly, and a cold shock goes through Fizz. His tail twists tighter around his legs, and he can’t hide the fear in his eyes at the hungry look his guardian gives him.

“I’m good… thanks.”

So the bastard intends to keep this up even after he’s left the hospital. He might have new legs now, but something tells him he won’t be able to outrun the older imp for long.

~ * ~

His first few days are rather uneventful, spent slowly adjusting to life outside the hospital. He keeps up the exercises his physiotherapist gave him, getting ready to dive back into practicing juggling and acrobatics as soon as possible. He hangs out with the others, helps out with chores and watches the shows they put on for a meager crowd. It’s not much, but it still leaves him exhausted at the end of the day, stumps aching from being rubbed against all day.

Even though it’s a relief to be done with his daily duties, he still dreads the day nearing its end. He hangs out with the others for as long as possible, playing cards and exchanging stories. If he ignores every other detail of his life, just focuses on being right where he is, it almost feels like old times. Until the sound of a throat being cleared behind him makes him turn around to see the ringmaster holding the tent flap open, expectant gaze turning his insides into a knot.

“Come, Fizzarolli. It’s time for your bath.”

“It’s okay,” he tries, waving a clunky arm. “I already bathed this morning.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Now come on, before I bring the damn bath in here.”

The “bath” is just a bucket with some soapy water and a sponge. He can’t even bathe himself anymore, because his prosthetics aren’t waterproof. He’s already felt what happens if he comes in contact with water, having accidentally washed his hands out of habit. Sparks had gone all the way up his arms and into his stumps, shocking him painfully. The memory still makes him shudder. He sighs, slinking out of his chair and following the ringmaster out of the tent and into his own. The others watch him go curiously, perhaps wondering why he puts up such a fuss about bath time.

The bath itself isn’t too bad. But being without his prosthetics is triggering – he feels so vulnerable and helpless again, completely unable to defend himself. It just reminds him of how miserable and worthless he felt in the time after the fire, how easily he could fall back into that same state if anything happened to his new limbs. But at the same time it’s a relief to be free of them, his whole body aching after a day of having to support itself on clunky legs.     

Cash helps him out of his clothes before detaching his limbs, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He props Fizz up on his own thigh, making him lean his weight back into the ringmaster’s chest. Fizz flushes. He really needs help with everything now. It’s bad enough that he has to be naked for this – being at Cash’s mercy, feeling his hands all over him when he knows the fucker gets off on it makes him want to die.

“Can’t Jolly do it? I heard him say he was bored earlier…”

“Bullshit, he needs to practice his joke routine. He really lost his touch after the fire.” The older imp grumbles, dipping the sponge into the water before rubbing it gently over his scarred skin, starting with his neck and working his way down his chest.

“What about Merry? This is such a chore, one of the others should…” Fizz squirms a little at the ticklish sensation as the sponge moves over his skin, gritting his teeth to ride it out.

“Don’t you trust me, boy? I’m gentle enough, ain’t I?” The sponge brushes across his nipples, and they firm up as the water cools on his skin. Cash’s hands move slowly down his stomach, then down his back. Fizz tries to breathe, wills himself to relax in the older imp’s arms. He closes his eyes, tries thinking of anything else to get this over with faster.

The sponge dips between his legs, making him jump.

Cash chuckles. “Sensitive there, huh?” The filthy fucker knows exactly what he’s doing, makes sure to scrub him good, getting every crevice. Fizz feels himself heat up with humiliation, his tail twisting this way and that.

When Cash deems the job done, he rubs him down with a towel and grabs the ointment for his scars. This is another dreaded part of their new nightly ritual. Fizz has tried to assert that he can apply the ointment himself, but Cash always insists on helping him, so he can “get to all the parts he can’t reach”. It’s a flimsy, see-through veneer of kindness, because Fizz knows for a fact the ringmaster wouldn’t be here at all if he wasn’t deriving any sick pleasure from this himself.

He starts with Fizz’s horns, rubbing soothing salve around the sensitive base and into the cracks and splinters of his broken pride. Fizz lets out a little whimper at the sensation, his horns still aching painfully when touched. Cash shushes him, seemingly focused on his task, continuing to rub him gently. He then moves onto Fizz’s burns, smearing cream into his white skin. He starts with his face and head, then travels down his neck to his chest. Fizz’s skin is already flushed and sensitive from the bath, and the soothing cream feels so good on his hot, dry skin. He lets out a sigh, slumping further into Cash’s arms.

The ringmaster seems to perk up as Fizz starts to relax back against him again. “That’s it, let me help you relax.” His guardian rubs over one of his scarred nipples, making Fizz gasp. Those large fingers rub at him with firm intention, tweaking and teasing, and panic spikes inside Fizz. He tenses and squirms, tail going rigid. He can’t do anything to fight back with his arms off like this, can’t get away with no legs.

“Please…” he rasps. “Give me my arms back.”

“What for? I’m taking care of you, ain’t I?” Cash’s hands move down the mottled skin of his stomach, then reach around to the scars on his back.

“Mister B, please… I can do the rest myself.” Fizz squirms again as those hands move lower down, rubbing into his thigh stumps. The touches linger on his thigh for longer than necessary, brushing up to his inner thigh, and Fizz jumps. He squeezes his thighs and eyes shut, flushing again.

“Who’s your daddy, boy? Hmm?”

The words make his eyes fly open again, unsure of what he just heard. “W-what?”

“Who’s taking care of you right now? Giving you what you need?” The finger travels closer, questing up the crook of his pelvis and ghosting over his crotch. A shiver runs down his spine, cold as ice. He shakes his head, desperate to escape the situation.

“Say it.” A large hand clasps onto his jaw, making him flinch. The authority in that voice is one he has never been able to defy.

“Y… you…” A tear finally forces its way out of his wide eyes, rolling down through the ointment on his cheek.

“And what do you call me?”

He knows what the older imp wants to hear. He knows, but what will happen if he says it?

Mister B is the closest thing he’s had to a father, even if he’s been more like a scary uncle than anything. Growing up, he would dish out encouragement and admonishment in equal measure, all depending on his mood and the daily form of his performers. It had practically been a full time job trying to stay on his good side, practicing just that much more to get his tricks just right, to earn his ringmaster’s approval. It hurt to be scolded by him, but it felt so good whenever he got praised, because he knew he’d earned it. Pleasing the ringmaster was vital to their survival, as a happy ringmaster meant happy performers, which meant a successful circus. He knows the ringmaster has always been perfectly aware of how to use the people around him, how to keep them hanging off his every word and begging for the scraps he’s willing to give. He always kept Blitzo firmly under his shoe, held him down so he always hungered, so he wouldn’t try to defy him. Fizz saw what it did to him, how it slowly crushed his friend’s spirit, replacing it with a broken self-esteem and bitter rage. But that’s why he knows he needs to be grateful for whatever he gets. Without Cash he’d be out on the streets, left for dead. He grits his teeth, another piece of his pride crumbling away as he shakes with a suppressed sob.

“D… Daddy…”

“Good boy.”

There it is, that warmth that comes from pleasing the older imp, spreading through his distressed body. But it also fills his stomach with disgust, the knowledge that he’s being seen this way by someone he has looked up to – as a helpless thing that can be used as one pleases, that even asks for it. He jolts as those fingers that have been hovering on his pubic mound finally slide down, rubbing against the most sensitive part of him. “Just relax,” Cash croons in his ear. “Enjoy it.”

His traitorous body responds to the touch, slick pushing out of him to meet the fingers rubbing between his lips, letting them glide effortlessly against him. Cash is the first person to touch him there properly in a long time. He can’t even touch himself anymore, the metal of his new hands too cold and harsh against his skin. He’s tried using his tail, tried rubbing the spade firmly against himself, but the touch feels foreign and strange, too rubbery somehow. Now, the pressure builds fast, a string pulling taut in his lower stomach. He twitches, hips jerking into the older imp’s fingers.

“Yeah, you like that, huh? I can tell you’re about to bust.” Cash spreads him wider, rubs his clit just right with those calloused pads. Then he puts two fingers inside him, scissoring them with soft squelching sounds. Fizz squirms, torn between pulling away from the touch and leaning toward it. He hasn’t felt good in such a long time. He wonders if he can shut off his brain for once, turn off all the alarms blaring about how wrong this is, and allow himself to just feel. A sigh fizzles out of him, and he leans his head back onto Cash’s shoulder as the older imp fingers him.

Fizz closes his eyes, tries to imagine it’s Blitzo touching him instead. Would Blitzo touch him like this? He used to imagine it all the time, what it would feel like to have his crush’s hands on him. He remembers dirty fantasies of being woken up in the middle of the night with the other’s lips on his, sometimes even lower down. Sweet, passionate kisses, so hot that— no. He’s not supposed to think about Blitzo like that anymore. He doesn’t want to. Once again, the look on his friend’s face before the tent went up in flames pops up in his mind. The image keeps haunting him, green fire shooting out of those scornful eyes.

And even though Blitzo does look similar to his dad in many ways, this is too different. There’s no mistaking these large hands, the goatee tickling the back of his neck, the smell of rotgut and tobacco. Even the heavy breathing in his ear is too distinguishable, especially after having to hear it one too many times in the hospital, huffing and groaning while he sucked reluctantly. But even his physical revulsion isn’t enough to curb his swiftly approaching orgasm, his hips moving helplessly by themselves to meet the fingers inside him. A moan slips out of him, drooling tongue hanging out of his open mouth.

He doesn’t want to come. He tries to fight the wave building in him, but his resistance is just as futile as always.

“Say my name.” The words are grunted harshly into his ear, and he whimpers.

“Daddy…”

He tips over the edge. He gasps and writhes, tail scrabbling for purchase. It finds its way around Cash’s wrist where his fingers are still pumping in and out of him, trying to speed him up or slow him down, he isn’t sure. They slow to a stop eventually, pulling out of him with a slick noise.

“Fuck yeah, that’s right,” Cash growls. The next thing he knows, the familiar sound of a zipper fills the tiny tent. Fizz gulps, heart sinking to the dirt floor. He’s known what was coming, has been feeling the older imp’s hard-on poking him in the butt this whole time. Cash holds his legs with one hand and gets his cock out with the other, rubbing the tip of it against the puffy slickness of his pussy. Fizz shrinks back into the other’s squishy beer gut, shaking his head.

“No, please…” he whimpers. It’s not enough to stop the ringmaster from pushing his cock inside of him, fucking roughly up into him. It hurts. It feels good. He doesn’t want it, but this is the only thing he has now. This is the only thing he’s worth.

He lies on his dirty mattress in the dark after, staring up at the tiny holes in the canvas ceiling. He imagines living out the rest of his life like this, as a pathetic puppet that’s good for nothing but being used. Not for the first time, he wonders if it would have been better if he had been part of the ashes that still lie scattered over the grounds.

~ * ~

As Fizzarolli exits his tent one morning, something hung up on the fence catches his eye. Curious, he hobbles up to it to get a closer look. It turns out to be a poorly shopped graphic poster showing an old picture of him performing, swinging on a trapeze with a giant smile plastered on his face and a rainbow in the background. There’s a picture of him in hospital too, unconscious and with his broken horns on full display, accompanied by a trail of sad smiley faces along with a couple of fire emoticons. Help Fizzarolli Fly Again, the poster implores. There’s a short text at the bottom too, hamming up what a tragedy the fire was for Fizz and the rest of the circus, asking people to donate as much as they can to help him in his recovery so he can once again dazzle people with his tricks.

A wave of shame rolls through him. How many people have seen this? How many people are going to see this picture of him looking practically half-dead? His horns, which he used to take so much pride in, he now keeps permanently covered with a baggy knitted hat. Yet here they are, presented front and center for everyone to see. He takes a few steps back, darting his eyes back and forth over the grounds. He sees a number of posters fluttering in the wind, hanging from every tent, mocking him from every angle.

He barges into Cash’s tent, for once not caring about being rude. The old imp has already started on the bottle, a fat jug of rotgut clenched in his large fist. He looks up in surprise mid-swig, before wiping his face with a smug grin.

“Mr. Buckzo… this… this poster…” Fizz holds up one of the posters, ripped down from where it was hung up and crumpled carelessly in his hand.

The ringmaster laughs and takes another swig of grog. “Great, isn’t it? Nothing like a little pity party to get suckers to empty their pockets.”

“But… my horns… you…” He can’t finish the sentence, just lets it hang awkwardly in the air like a failed punchline, too ashamed to even properly explain his issue.

Cash gets up off his mattress and stalks over to him, the alcohol swishing around in its bottle. The smell of it hits Fizz like a wave as the ringmaster gets close enough to hiss into his ear. “Listen up, boy. This fundraiser is gonna help us pay off those shiny new arms and legs faster. So the posters are staying up, whether you like it or not. Capiche?” He straightens up with a pointed look, then claps him solidly on the back.

“Now, you better get yourself ready. I want you to put on a show today.”

“A… a show?”

“That’s right. Gotta milk those dumbasses for all they’re worth, so you’re gonna make sure they get in the mood to cough up. Got it?” Cash gives him a nasty grin, and Fizz’s heart sinks. He doesn’t know what he expected, but this is decidedly worse. He can only give a numb nod before stumbling out of the tent.

Outside, Fizz sinks to his knees and heaves, feeling sick to his stomach. It’s not just about his horns. He doesn’t want to be some pity project. If he succeeds, he wants it to have been down to his own effort and hard work, not someone else’s wallet. He used to be a great performer, good enough to bring in large crowds just by word of mouth. That’s what he wants, for people to spend their money to come and see him because of his talent, because they want to see what he can do. He wants to earn his fame, not just sit there and beg for money like a useless lump.

The One and Only Fizzarolli’s Super Spectacular Survival Show. That’s what it says on the glossy new posters flanking the entrance of the big top. There’s another picture of him from when he was slightly younger, grinning from cheek mark to cheek mark and spreading his arms wide under the stage lights. Thankfully there’s no fire emoticons or other triggering potos of himself, but the posters are still unsettling. They’re too grandiose, promising a show greater than any he’s able to give at the moment. Fizz rubs at himself anxiously, feeling his stomach wanting to rebel. He hasn’t been given a lot of time to prepare, but then again, he’s had all the time in the world to come up with new material lately.   

He sits in the dressing room before the show, trying to come to terms with seeing his own face in the mirror. He’s been avoiding it ever since he woke up in the hospital as a completely different person. It’s still jarring to see how white his face is, with just the little smidge of red that remains at the tip of his snout. How ironic that he doesn’t need much makeup to look like a clown anymore. As if his life could be more of a joke. The insignia on his forehead hasn’t been burned away, either. It sits there still, forming a stark contrast against his bleached forehead. It mocks him, reminding him who he is, where he belongs – who he belongs to.

He does his own makeup with shaky hands. It comes out looking like an uneven mess, and he almost has a panic attack until Merry offers to fix it for him. He feels just about as ready as he’ll ever be when Cash enters the dressing room.

“You’ll do the show without your limbs attached.” The words are spoken with no preamble, gruff and to the point as usual.

“What?!” The block of ice in Fizz’s stomach suddenly grows a thousand times colder. He immediately widens his stance and curls in on himself, trying to protect himself at any cost.

“You’ll make people pity you way more without them. I swear, they’ll be throwing their money at ya!”

“No— please! I can’t!” Fizz protests loudly, struggling as Cash comes up and grabs him by the arm, reaching for the clasp to detach it.

“Merry, help me! Please!” Fizz yells, but the other clown just looks at him sadly, frozen to the spot.

Fizz puts up a fight, at one point whacking Cash on the underside of his jaw, but the limbs get manhandled off him all the same, one after the other. Next, the ringmaster reaches for his hat, trying to remove that as well, but something snaps in Fizz. A growl emerges from the back of his throat, and he bares his teeth and snarls at the older imp’s hands, prepared to bite if he dares get any closer.  

“The hat stays on.” The words come out as a hiss, fiercer than he can ever remember acting in front of the other. His hat is the last piece of his dignity. He needs to protect it, no matter the cost.

Cash backs off, hands raised. “Alright, have it your way. Just make sure you advertise that fundraiser, got it?”

He looks down at Fizz, and his hard frown seems to soften a little when he sees just how wounded and backed into a corner he looks, a small cowering animal. He leans down again, stroking his cheek with a gentle claw. “You can do this, Fizzarolli,” he murmurs. “Make me proud.”

When his cue is called, Jolly carries him out onto the stage and props him up in a chair set up in the center. Even though he’s wearing clothes, Fizz feels completely naked. He can practically see the shockwave going through the stands at the sight of him. The stands aren’t full by any means, but there’s definitely a larger audience than their regular shows bring in – people must be curious about what kind of show the circus star who got blown up can offer.

He sits there awkardly, hot humiliation welling up in him as they all ogle him. He’s used to being watched on stage, but never like this. He had really hoped that his comeback to the stage would be more dignified. He wants to curl up and cry, but he wouldn’t be the one and only Fizzarolli without his grit. He packs his emotions into a neat ball he can unpack later, clenches his jaw, then puts on the largest grin he can manage.

“Hey, folks! Glad you could make it. I’ve got some standup comedy lined up for you today, or should I say sit-down comedy? I can do roll-around-on-the-floor comedy too, just don’t ask me to juggle!”

That gets a couple of chuckles, but most of the audience looks as if they don’t know if they should be laughing or not. Fizz decides they just need some warming up, and presses on.

“If you’ve seen my shows before I turned into a living log, you must be wondering, what the hell happened to you? Well, you know what they say about fireworks: don’t keep a big box of them in a flammable tent. You never know, your best friend could turn out to be a pyromaniac!” He cackles a little too loudly at that. He gets a few scattered laughs in return, but the silence after is deafening.

He clears his throat noisily. “Anyway, I know you must be wondering what happened to my beautiful voice, right? I’d heard stories about how bad hospital food is, but man, those chainsaws they serve for lunch every day really didn’t do it for me.”

That joke doesn’t land quite right either. He looks out into the audience and sees only sad eyes reflecting back at him. This isn’t right. He’s meant to be on stage to make people laugh, not cry. He usually loves interacting with the crowd, expertly reading the room and knowing just how to keep them interested and engaged. He loves scanning the audience and soaking up their energy, letting it encourage him to put his all into his tricks to keep impressing them. But tonight, that energy, usually so light and full of awe and adoration, is the complete opposite. Fizz can feel the gloom like a wet blanket in his mind, making him freeze up and his mind go blank. The air is full of pity, everyone feeling bad for this poor little broken imp. He doesn’t want people to look at him or even see him at all, and it affects how he carries himself on stage, his lack of confidence shining through.

“Heh, anyway… you know, I was in the hospital for six months, and I’ve never been so happy in my life to choke on Greed smog as the day I was released. You guys don’t know how good you have it, seriously!” He tries putting on a big grin, but no one is laughing now, the vibe is just way too sad. His tail droops, and he fights the urge to curl it protectively around his torso. This feels too miserable, all he’s doing is getting the audience down. Cash is going to kill him afterwards.

“Boo! Say something funny for a change!”

Fizz’s gaze shoots up to see where the call came from, and spots an imp near the front standing up from his seat to heckle him. His heart drums in his chest, but at the same time he feels himself perking up a bit. Finally, someone else to pick on besides himself.

“Oh yeah? Well, your little beard is pretty funny. How about that?” he shoots back, pointing his tail defensively at the imp, who does indeed have a rather intricate moustache. That gets a couple of laughs, to his delight.

“This is a ripoff!” the heckler shouts. “You used to be able to do cool shit, now you’re just pathetic!”

“Oh, you think I’m pathetic? Pretty rich for someone who’s heckling the guy with no arms and legs!”

That gets more laughs, and even some applause. Fizz smirks smugly, tail swishing. He feels great, confidence returning to him in droves. Turning to insult comedy to deflect attention from himself might not be so bad – like he’s taking control of the situation and making it his bitch, taking back whatever dignity he’s lost.

“Fuck you!”

“Yeah buddy, right back at you. If you can’t tell, I’m flipping you the bird right now.” Fizz jerks one of his shoulder stumps in the heckler’s direction, earning more chuckles. The angry imp leaves in a huff, and a decent sized chunk of the audience gets up and leaves with him, disappointed with the quality of the show. The other half of the audience looks disappointed that the altercation didn’t escalate.

Fizz just does his best approximation of a shrug. “Looks like someone couldn’t take the heat. Unlike me.”

As expected, Cash is glaring at him when Jolly brings him back off the stage again later. “That was a fucking disaster! You’re supposed to make them pity you, not make them angry!”

Fizz forces down the smile that threatens to break out on his face. “I’m sorry, Mister B. It’s just, I really prefer to make people laugh. I guess no one wants to see a freak show like me…”

The ringmaster grumbles incoherently under his breath, but he reattaches Fizz’s limbs for him anyway. “You’d better make sure to have some better jokes for the next show.”

He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers as much as the janky metal will allow. “I just have to learn how to use these first. Then I’ll be back to making you money, you’ll see.”

~ * ~

When Fizzarolli leaves the dressing room after his performance one evening, a noise coming from around the corner catches his attention. It sounds like someone arguing. He walks closer, careful not to make too much noise with his creaky legs. He peeks around the edge of one of the tents, and is greeted by the sight of Mister B facing three large shark demons wearing suits. One of the sharks has a large, menacing scar over his face, the other is holding a pocket knife and the third one a gun.

The one with the scar grabs Cash by his lapels, pulling him off the ground and sneering into his face. “You better have the money by next week, Buckzo. You won’t like what’s comin’ to you if you don’t.”

They’re loan sharks, Fizz realizes. They must be in more debt than he thought. Even with the fundraiser going on they still haven’t paid off the prosthetic limbs, but Fizz suspects most of the money from that has gone into Cash’s alcohol fund anyway.

The ringmaster kicks his feet, struggling for purchase. He nods his head frantically as much as his constricted position will allow, sputtering and gasping. “Alright, alright! I’ll get your damn money!” he wheezes. The shark releases him abruptly, and he falls to the ground coughing. The shark with the pocket knife kicks him in the stomach as he tries to get up, and Cash flops back to the ground, folding into his enormous horns. Fizz ducks back behind the tent. He crouches on the ground and wraps his arms around his knees, squeezing his eyes shut and cowering. He doesn’t dare move until he hears the sharks start walking away, laughing cruelly.

Fizz peeks an eye open, leaning around the corner again to see if the coast is clear. He decides to wait until Cash has gotten to his feet with a groan and shuffled off. He’s just about to get up again so he can get back to the safety of his tent when a green and yellow flyer on the ground nearby catches his attention. Curious, he crawls over to it on his hands and knees, picks it up and turns it over. Mammon’s Super Extra Fucking Rad Clown Pageant is emblazoned on the front of it in a stylish circus font. There’s a picture of King Mammon too, wearing dollar sign sunglasses and his iconic toothy grin. Fizz’s heart starts beating a little faster at the sight of it, old memories coming to the surface.

He's been a Mammon fanboy for as long as he can remember. Not only is he a deadly sin, he’s also the coolest clown to ever exist. As kids, they always used to watch the Mammon Channel on the dingy little TV the Buckzos owned, sitting glued to the screen even during all the endless commercials for Mammon Brand cereals and guitars and lunch boxes. Blitzo and he once even fashioned their own guitars out of cardboard and put on their own little show, gathering their whole circus family and– no.

His train of thought freezes. He’s not supposed to think about Blitzo, all it does is make him feel crazy. But no matter his feelings about it, his dream of one day entering Mammon’s clown pageant is inseparable from the memory of going with Blitzo to the show where the first ever pageant was announced. It was their first and only time ever seeing Lord Mammon in the flesh, and they had been scrounging every coin from each and every odd job they took on ever since it was announced so they could afford to go. The encounter with one of his stalker fans soured the memory a little, but the show itself was still unforgettable.

So the pageant is still going on. Fizz thought he had blown his chances of ever entering by being blown up, but… He looks down at his metal hands, creaky and heavy. Can he still do it?

“I think, if anyone’s gonna be the new clown face on everything… it’ll be you, Fizz.” Those words are stuck in his brain like a brand. He tries to push the memory down, not wanting his ex crush to take up so much space in his head. That was almost two years ago now. The first winner was some juggling jester demon from Avarice, apparently. Fizz hasn’t been keeping up much, but he hardly hears anything about him these days. If he’s that irrelevant, maybe that means it’s almost time to replace him.

He thinks of his own face, scarred and gnarled. Would he want his face to be everywhere? But no matter what he looks like now, the embers of his old dream still glow inside him. Maybe, if he works hard, harder than he ever has before… maybe this could be his chance.

~ * ~

After their daily evening show, Cash grabs Fizzarolli’s arm and takes him back to the supply tent. Three sharks in suits and hats are waiting for them there, menacing rows of teeth glowing in the dark. Fizz recognizes them as the loan sharks that were hounding the ringmaster the other day.

Cash pushes him forward. “You’re gonna help these gentlemen relax. You better show them a good time, Fizzarolli.”

His stomach knots itself tighter than any balloon creature he’s ever made. He knows what those words mean. He doesn’t want to believe his ringmaster would stoop so low, but he must be more desperate than Fizz thought. He freezes in place, terrified to take another step. He looks back at Cash, pleading with his eyes to let him leave, but he knows better than anyone that he’s stuck here.

One of the sharks comes close, leering at Fizz. It’s the one with the giant scar across his face, presumably the leader of the little posse. He unzips his pants, pulls his cocks out – two of them! – and sticks them in Fizz’s face. “Why don’t you say hello?”

Fizz hesitates. He looks back again, considers making a run for it, but Cash is blocking the entrance to the tent.

“Go on, down on your knees,” the shark commands. Heat filling his cheeks, Fizz slowly gets down on the floor in front of the large demon. The shark raises an expectant eyebrow at him, until he leans forward and presses his lips to the tip of one of the cocks. It feels leathery to the touch. He moves to the other, giving the head a gentle, hesitant kiss.

“So polite. You can be a little friendlier than that,” the shark grunts, shoving a thumb in his mouth to force it open. Fizz’s eyes widen at the intrusion and he tries to jerk his head back, but large hands grab onto the back of his head and bring him forward, one of the cocks poking him in the cheek and the other sliding down his throat. He chokes and struggles, but more sets of hands show up to hold his arms and shoulders to keep him still.

“There, that’s better. You can get proper acquainted now.” Scarface starts rolling his hips into Fizz’s face, rubbing the cock that’s not in his mouth against his cheek, getting sticky slick all over it. Fizz squeezes his eyes shut, mind already starting to drift away to white static, just like in the hospital.

He jumps when one of the pairs of hands restraining him slides around to grope at his chest. He groans, unable to move as the hands reach up beneath his shirt to fondle bare skin.

Scarface eventually pulls out, stopping to drag both of his cocks over Fizz’s lips. “Now then… time for me to get to know you better.” He grabs Fizz’s shirt and rips it down the middle, exposing his bare chest. Still being restrained, Fizz can only kneel there as he feels the sleazy gaze rake over him. The scarred shark keeps rubbing against him, bending down to smear slick over Fizz’s nipples with both of his cocks at the same time. He motions something to the two others, who suddenly lift him up into the air. His pants get ripped off unceremoniously, leaving him in just his black boxers with his metal legs fully exposed.

“Whoa, talk about circus freak. What happened, sawing trick gone wrong or something?” Scarface and his friends snicker darkly, and Fizz can’t stop the angry grey blush blooming over his face and chest. He scowls, keeping his mouth pursed shut.

“Aw, don’t be so mad. We’re friends now, aren’t we?” Scarface leers, reaching out to fondle him through his underwear. He jolts hard, knowing it was coming but still caught off guard. The shark strokes him none too gently, digging large fingers into him through the thin fabric. Soon enough his underwear is removed as well, until he’s stark naked with his legs being spread wide.

“Look at that…” Fizz shudders, leaking a little as the large shark praises him. Rough fingers come up to drag some slick down to his ass, circling his hole before shoving inside, making Fizz jerk in their hold. No one has ever touched him there before, and it makes his stomach roll with shame and disgust to feel so invaded.

When he deems Fizz prepared, Scarface lines up both of his cocks at once. Fizz’s heart pumps desperately, stomach clenching in fear as he feels them poking against both his entrances at the same time. It makes him feel lower than dirt, the way the stranger holds his legs open and forces his way in all at once. It’s too rough, too much. He throws his head back and keens, the pressure making him see stars.

The shark doesn’t wait for him to adjust. He pulls out, then shoves roughly back inside. Out and in, rinse and repeat. It hurts badly, but Fizz is used to pain by now, his mind can glaze over it, fogging up until he isn’t there anymore. He zones out as he gets fucked, eyes squeezed tightly shut, far away in his own head. He can’t suppress the noises that get pushed out of him, grunts and groans he has no control over as his insides get rearranged.

He’s barely aware of his surroundings, barely registers when he gets lowered down to the ground to get bounced on the shark’s lap. He struggles to hold himself up, flopping into the large shark’s chest. One of the others grabs his jaw and lifts his head, feeds another swollen cock into his mouth. He sucks it without protest, gagging and drooling, eyebrows knitting together as the cocks inside of him rub him exquisitely. He whines, bouncing a little harder, starting to mindlessly chase the pleasure. Scarface makes an appreciative sound, gives his ass a smack and grabs the base of his tail. Fizz keens, rolling his hips into an orgasm that rockets through him like lightning. He shudders hard, aftershocks racking his body.

“Look at that, he likes having his tail pulled! Little slut.” They all laugh at his expense, but Fizz can see the hunger in their eyes as the other two sharks touch themselves, no doubt waiting for their turn.

But Scarface isn’t done with him yet. He grabs hold of him, then stands up, maneuvering Fizz so he’s hanging upside down. The loan shark grabs onto his tail and holds him like that, pierced on a set of dicks and hanging limply by his tail. Dazed, Fizz just hangs there, finding no purchase with any of his limbs. He drools sloppily, tongue hanging out and eyes drooping as the fucking starts up again, gasps and obscene squishing sounds filling the air.

Cash lurks in the corner, his dark, watchful eyes glinting through the dark. Fizz only catches a glimpse of him before his eyes roll into the back of his head, his mind sliding away.

~ * ~

Fizz dreams about flying. He feels so light, lighter than the air he soars through as he switches effortlessly from one trapeze bar to the next. He’s completely fearless, just as at home in the air as he is on the ground. How wonderful it feels to feel the wind on his face, stomach swooping and swirling as he flips and spins. The spotlights, the audience, the music – everything coming together to form the atmosphere he loves. The canvas ceiling of the big top is his sky, this enclosed space is his whole world. This is home, exactly where he wants to be.

He leaps up and lands on the platform, soaking up some applause. Then he’s off again, soaring high above the crowd. They look like little jewels down there in the dark of the stands, rows and rows of shining beetle eyes turned up towards him. He grins, then refocuses his attention on his act – this is his grand finale, he has to make it count. He looks up at his hands clutching the trapeze bar, and freezes. The trapeze is burning. Green flames are licking up the ropes attaching it to the wire it hangs from, creeping towards his hands. He lets go of the bar with one hand out of instinct, then he’s hanging by one arm as the fire creeps ever closer, the ropes fraying thinner and thinner. The flames engulf him as the ropes burn off and suddenly he’s falling, his arms burning, his whole body burning to a crisp. The entire audience is burning too, their faces melting off like wax figurines. Everyone except Blitzo, who sits in the middle of the stands. His ex best friend grins at him with a manic, crazed look in his eyes as Fizz lies in the center of the stage, burning down to ashes under the spotlight.

He flails awake with a rusty shout, sweating and gasping. His breaths come hard and fast, vision swimming and heart pounding. His joints ache sharply, phantom pain thrumming into his prosthetics. He doubles over, clutching at himself, digging metal hands into soft skin to feel that he’s still there. Curling himself into a ball, he shakes and gasps and sweats as he tries to ride out the pain and discomfort. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, but Blitzo’s menacing face sits fresh in his mind, taunting him. Great, he thinks. From one nightmare to another.

Later he’s panting and sweating again, but for a different reason. He needs to nail this back handspring, can’t stop practicing until he gets it right. He remembers how to do it, and muscle memory helps him along a part of the way, but he keeps ending up in a heap on the floor because he doesn’t have actual muscles in his arms and legs – he can’t phsyically feel his hands touching the ground, making it much harder to execute the whole move. He knows he should be grateful for the prosthetics, but they’re so janky that he just ends up a frustrated, achey mess. He also needs to account for the new lightness of his head after losing the majority of his horns, adjusting his balance to accommodate the weight shift.  

He grabs his towel, wiping off the sweat streaming down his face. Recently, he’s been spending every waking moment practicing his tricks, grinding himself down to the bone. It’s hard work, but it’s what he’s used to, and in a way it feels wonderful to be back to practicing and using his body actively instead of having it be used all the time. It also helps that he has the pageant to train for now. It gives him motivation, a goal to work towards, a beacon of hope to cling to. He’s determined to get better, to grasp onto the chance of a new life, of being able to leave this shithole.

He takes a deep breath, clearing his mind. He visualizes how he used to execute the trick, bending his knees and leaping backwards with his whole body, putting all his faith in the ground beneath him. He breathes out, breathes in again. He leaps backwards, timing the moment his hands meet the ground just right, leaning into the impact to shift his balance and spring all the way up onto his legs again. He sticks the landing, but just barely. He wobbles on his unsteady legs, pain shooting up into his stumps from overuse. He crumples, collapsing to the ground with a thud. He lies there, panting and shaking, tears of pain and frustration springing into his eyes. His entire body is throbbing all over, and he whimpers, curling in on himself to ride out the pain.

Eventually, he pushes himself up onto his knees and takes a deep breath, centering himself. He almost had it. Almost. But he needs to be perfect before he can be satisfied and call it a day. He just needs to practice a little more, until he can do it like he used to, with no effort, without thinking. He signs to himself, a mantra that helps him stay focused on his goal. You can do anything you want to do.

He gets to his feet, and tries again.

~ * ~

“Whoa, he’s still flexible even with no legs!”

Big hands grab at his thighs and force them open, stretching them into a would-be split. His legs take the stretch easily, the slight burn even kind of pleasant, at least as far as foreplay goes these days. Rough fingers waste no time in digging between, plunging inside of him like there’s some kind of treasure to be found in his depths. It doesn’t change how empty he feels, wrung out like a cheap cloth. Sharp fingers dig into the roof of him, forcing a grunt out of him, a croaky rasp of a thing.

“Listen to that voice, he sounds like a chainsmoking hooker.” Cruel laughter fills the small space of the tent as they laugh at his expense. He tries to curl in on himself even more, but his face is already burrowed in the crook of his shoulder, there’s nowhere for him to hide except inside his own mind. The fingers get pulled out of him and unceremoniously replaced by a cock, pushing up inside him and starting to move in and out with no regard to his pleasure at all. It feels like being fucked by a brick.

“I bet he gets off on this, fucking cripple.”

He keeps his eyes shut. He’s not here. This isn’t happening to him, he must have already died. He doesn’t really exist at all, he’s just a spirit floating through the clouds.

It’s a novelty, fucking a quadruple amputee. Being sold to curious customers who want to test a new kink is a whole new level of degradation for Fizz. The utter humiliation of not being able to resist or even move as he gets manhandled by total strangers makes him feel cheap and disgusting, a used tissue on the ground. Drugged up on pain meds, floating away inside of his mind, he tries finding his way back to a time when life was simple. Memories, so far out of his reach now, of giggling under a blanket, secret stories and hushed conversations in the safety of the dark. Of landing his first somersault, the joy and elation of it, the giddy triumph. Of drinking too much soda and almost missing his cue running to the bathroom, hooves cutting through the tall grass. Of summer festival nights, music and dancing and bonfires and drinking themselves giddy. Of the faces and touch of everyone he’s ever loved, everyone who’s gone now. Tilla, Barbie, kind smiles and crinkled eyes. Of Blitzo— no. Fuck him. He did this to you. Think of something else, anything else.

Anything but what’s happening to him now, passed around like a cheap blunt, a living fleshlight for people to stick their dicks in. Hands touching him all over, rubbing his chest and holding his legs open, pinching his clit until he squirts with a feeble keen, leg stumps shaking uncontrollably as he slumps weakly into their hold. It’s too much, the way he's had to sit there on that big top stage night after night telling his stupid jokes, utterly humiliated as he gets ogled by kids and creeps, some he even recognizes as old regulars and fans of his. The first time one of them had shown up outside his tent after a show, puffing excited breaths through their mouth with that oh-so-familiar deranged look in their eyes, Fizz had wanted the ground to swallow him up. He wanted his old friend to step in with his loud voice and yell at them, make them swallow their fangs. But Cash was there, lurking in the shadows with dollar signs behind his eyes as usual, ushering Fizz forward to take their hand. And just like that, the ringmaster’s greed had made a devastating decision for Fizz, taking away his right to protest in the name of ‘paying off his limbs’. “Just for a little bit,” he insists, every time. “You just entertain these people for a bit, and you’ll make me a very happy ringmaster, Fizzarolli.”

They each take their turn with him. It feels endless, and he gets stuck in a dreamy, dissociated state, eyes squeezed tightly shut to block everything out. When he comes to properly later Cash is cleaning him up, sticking fingers into him and scooping cum out of his used pussy. His guardian’s arms are strangely comforting after his ordeal.

“Please…” he rasps, voice broken and miserable. “I can’t do this anymore…”

Cash frowns at him. “Don’t talk nonsense, boy. You want to keep those arms and legs, don’t you?”

He does, desperately so. He nods frantically, a sense of despair welling up in him. “Well, do you know how much debt you’re in right now?” Cash shoots back. His fingers give a cruel twist inside of Fizz, making him gasp. “Like it or not, you’re gonna help earn the money back in any way you can.”

It’s always the same conversation. No matter how many times he does this, how many times he gets dragged through the mud, it’s never enough. They never seem to get any closer to actually paying off their debt. They keep putting on performances every night, and Fizz keeps giving these ‘special performances’ after hours, but they’re somehow always just as broke. And yet the ringmaster’s booze crate keeps getting fuller and fuller, and skimpy, colourful new pieces keep showing up on Fizz’s costume rack.

“No one is gonna love you like this, anyway. Might as well bleed some suckers dry, right?”

Fizz turns his head away to hide the way his eyes sting and start tearing up. He’s right. The thought that anyone could still love him now that he’s so broken is laughable, but it still hurts. Sure, the ringmaster might love him in some drunk, twisted, money hungry way, but Fizz longs for something more. He yearns for someone’s soft hands to come and gently wipe away the layer of unwanted touch clinging to him like grime, for someone to look him deep in the eyes and see who he is underneath it all, how his desperate soul still hangs on.

~ * ~

It's a warm night in Greed. Firebugs flitter around the tents and hide in the grass, twinkling with a warm yellow glow that matches the fairy lights strung up all around the circus. The guests have all left for the day, and the other performers are all hanging out a few tents over, their raucous laughter carrying all the way over to where Fizz sits in his tent, looking at the flyer for Mammon’s clown pageant. It’s all he thinks about these days, consuming his every waking thought. He’s done practicing for the day, but he can’t wait to dive back into it tomorrow, perfecting his newest routine. He’s just started relearning how to juggle more than three clubs at once, and the amount of concentration and coordination it takes leaves him completely exhausted after a session. But he can do handsprings and walk on his hands now, and he’s well on his way to being able to perform flips too.

He signs quietly to himself. You can do anything you want to do.  

The curtains at the entrance part, and his heart sinks. His stomach clenches in nervous anticipation as Cash comes in uninvited, barging in like he does most nights. Fizz quickly hides the flyer underneath his mattress as the ringmaster sidles up to him, stopping in front of him and towering over him. He wobbles slightly in place, clearly inebriated from drinking all day.

“It’s time for bed…” he slurs. “You know what that means.”

Fizz blushes. It’s practically a conditioned response by now, this happens so often. He keeps quiet, watching the ringmaster’s shadow dancing on the opposite wall.

“Come on. You know the magic words.”

Of course, he won’t let him off without making him ask for it. Fizz swallows. “P-please…”

“Please what?”

He blushes even harder, sure his whole face is going ash grey. “Please, Daddy… please t-touch me.”

The ringmaster doesn’t need to be asked twice. He grins, then kneels down to get to Fizz’s level.  He starts taking his clothes off, pulling his little top over his head and kissing and licking at his exposed skin, mouthing at the small swell of his chest. He moves lower, licking down the groove in his stomach and exploring the sensitivity of his patches of unmarred skin. Fizz likes when he takes his time to warm them both up, instead of going straight for penetration. It makes him feel appreciated, like he’s worth more than being just a cumdump. He sighs, biting his lip and watching as the other moves even lower, mouthing at his bony hips.

His pants and underwear get removed next, slid down his slippery metal legs. Cash then maneuvers Fizz so he’s lying on his stomach, tail swishing in the air. He wiggles his hips invitingly, knowing what it will do to the dirty old imp. Sure enough, he hears a string of curses, then gasps as a pair of hands grabs onto his ass and spreads it, exposing his twitching holes. He gasps again as the ringmaster licks a stripe up his cleft, giving attention to both of his holes, kissing and licking his way inside.  

Cash licks him out, eats him from behind, the broad fork of his tongue bracketing his clit and squeezing it between them, sucking roughly, reverently. Fizz can’t squirm away with the way he’s being held in place, can only lie there and receive the onslaught of sensation head on. He loses himself to it, cheek smushed into the mattress, zoning out. He lifts his hips and pushes back into the eager presses of lips and exquisite swirls of tongue, and the concentration of heady pleasure at his clit makes him squeal. He lets Cash suck an orgasm out of him like that, grunting and growling behind him. He lies panting after, twitching and drooling from both ends, head blissfully empty. He hates how this has become the best part of his day.

Even after his orgasm his body feels empty and unsatisfied, and he knows the night is far from over. He whines, rolls over onto his back and spreads his legs open, exposing the glistening mess between them.

“What do you want?” the ringmaster asks, voice gruff with arousal.

“Please, Daddy… fuck my pussy…” Asking for it is humiliating, but it makes him hot all over again.

Cash drops his own pants, the fat chub of his cock pointing directly at Fizz. He gets onto his knees on the mattress and pushes his way in, and Fizz hates how good it feels as he’s filled. The spikes on the other’s cock flare inside of him, rubbing just right against his walls.

“Ahh, please please please…” he starts babbling, losing the tight grip he normally keeps on himself, grabbing the other’s broad shoulders to have something to hold onto.

“Look at you, begging for it like a filthy whore... couple of months ago you were begging me to stop. I knew you’d come ‘round sooner or later.”

He whines, shakes his head. The words make him feel disgusting all over again, but it’s also an undeniable fact that his body has grown to like being fucked, to crave being filled.  

“Satan, you feel good…”

Fizz throws his head back and keens. The compliment makes him feel warm all over, and a loopy grin spreads over his face. The mattress creaks in unison with his squeaky limbs, a weird symphony accompanying Fizz’s whines and moans.

“Yeah, that’s right. This cunt belongs to me.” Cash fucks him harder and Fizz hangs on for dear life, raspy squeals escaping him as those spikes drag just right inside of him. He thinks of how Blitzo would react if he saw them like this. A sick feeling of satisfaction twists and curls in his gut as he imagines the whole scenario in vivid detail – of his ex friend finally deciding to show his face, only to walk in on them wrapped up in each other. How shocked and betrayed he would feel. How it would absolutely shatter his confidence, the fact that Fizz chose his abusive dad over him. As disgusting as doing this makes him feel, some tiny part of him feels smug about it, as if he’s somehow actually hurting Blitzo, wherever he is. Part of him wishes it would happen, that Blitzo would really show up – anything to get a reaction out of him, make him take a good look at Fizz and see what he’s done, what Blitzo has reduced him to. Maybe he’d feel even a semblance of the hurt he’s caused Fizz. He would do anything to hurt that asshole.

Fizz wails through his second orgasm, clenching tight around the cock still driving into him, still seeing Blitzo’s stupid, idiot, handsome face in his mind. It doesn’t take long before Cash follows suit and comes inside of him, painting his walls with spurt after spurt, sighing into Fizz’s neck. They stay like that for a while, slumped clumsily on the mattress, panting in unison.

Eventually Cash pulls his dick out of him with a quiet exclamation at the gush of liquid that follows. “Satan, your cunt’s a sloppy mess.” Fizz just shudders, blearily watching the steady flow of it create a wet spot underneath him, thinking how much it’s going to suck to lie on later.

Cash falls asleep after, cuddling into him. Fizz lies there on his wet spot listening to his snores, exhaustion weighing his worn down body into the ground. He thinks about the flyer under his mattress, imagines he can feel it calling to him through layers of foam and coils. He’ll get back to practice first thing tomorrow – the sooner the better. He falls asleep to the thought of showing everyone up at the pageant, of Lord Mammon himself noticing him and plucking him out of the lineup, holding him up in front of a whole stadium full of people rooting for a stubborn little circus imp.

~ * ~

Fizz groans, his whole body aching from pushing it too hard. He feels lightheaded, downs a bottle of water so he won’t faint. Frustration curls inside of him, licking hotly into his empty stomach. He just isn’t good enough yet. Still too wobbly, too unbalanced and too inconsistent. He’s spent countless hours of practicing to get back to the level he was at before the fire. He’s gotten good enough to join the other acrobats in their act, performing synchronized leaps and stunts. Soon enough he’ll be able to move on to performing solo like he used to, but he keeps second guessing himself. He’s alright, but he’s not perfect like he needs to be.

He sighs, thoughts once again going to the pageant as he stumbles tiredly back to his tent. The signup period is almost over, and if he gets picked to join as a contestant he’ll have a couple more months to create a routine and perfect it. He closes his eyes, imagines once again what it would be like to win. He wants the freedom, no one to tie him down or take advantage of him, no one to tell him what to do. Once he’s taken under Mammon’s wing, he’ll surely be treated like a king. He daydreams about the performance he’ll put on, showstopping stunts and heart-gripping musical numbers. Mammon and his performers always have the most glorious, expensive costumes. There’s endless props and special effects, no expenses spared. The things Fizz could do if he had free reign, the acts he could perform if he had access to high-end equipment… he could wow everyone, really show off his talents. If he wins the pageant, he could even get his own place to live, be able to eat good food every day, and be introduced to people who see him for who he is, people who don’t just want to pump and dump him – Lord Mammon surely knows a ton of classy, fashionable people who appreciate the craft of clown just as much as Fizz does.

But most importantly, he could be truly, properly free. Free from debt, from this place, from ogling eyes and grabbing hands. Free from him. Maybe if he becomes famous, Blitzo will be forced to see his face. He’ll rub it in the other’s face, how successful and happy he is, no thanks to him. He’s been able to run from what he’s done all this time, but Fizz won’t let him run forever. And then there’s Mammon, who will treat him like a stepson, maybe even spoil him and shower him with gifts, hug him and praise his talents. He’s completely parched of the kind of attention he wants, the warm love he’s never known.

He sighs as he looks through his costumes, trying to decide what he should wear. He has a lot of sparkly, skimpy outfits, but they all show off his metal arms and legs a bit too much, he would prefer people to focus on his tricks rather than his body. But on the other hand, maybe the uniqueness of his prosthetics is exactly what would make him an exciting contestant. His stomach churns, his damaged self image warring with his desire for positive attention, his desire to win. Maybe showing off his body is the way to go, after all? For how much he feels like one third of an imp, there sure are a lot of people that still seem to want to touch him.

No matter what he chooses, he’ll have to put his all into it. This will be the start of his new life. He whispers to himself under his breath, repeating the mantra that’s kept him going through everything. “You can do anything you want to do.”

it's been a while i'm made of ribbon
he's been inside now i'm full of him
to here knows when, our clearance cold
i'm dressed for space, now can i go?