Spamton / human au / END OF BIG SHOT era

Spamton jerked awake with a sharp, ragged gasp, his body bolting upright as if he’d been electrocuted. For a few agonizing seconds, he sat frozen in the oppressive silence of the bedroom, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He blinked rapidly, his bloodshot eyes darting through the dark, searching for the source of the noise.

The ringing. It had been so clear—that shrill, demanding electronic chime of a telephone. The sound of the benefactor's call.

He didn't think; he just reacted. He shoved the expensive linens aside, his movements frantic and clumsy. He scrambled out of bed, his bare feet slapping quietly against the hardwood floor as he hurried toward the door. He paused once, glancing over his shoulder into the yawning void of the bedroom, half-expecting to see something standing there, watching him.

By the time he reached the home office, the ringing had grown louder, and Spamton fumbled for the light switch, the harsh fluorescent glow flooding the room and making him wince. He looked small in the sudden brightness, stripped of the armor of his designer suits and gold jewelry. He was wearing a pair of oversized, navy blue flannel pajama pants that bunched at his ankles, and a thin, heather-grey t-shirt that hung loosely off his broad shoulders, clinging slightly to the softness of his stomach. The shirt was wrinkled from sleep, and his jet-black hair was a chaotic mess, save for that one stubborn curl that clung to his forehead.

He crossed the room in three quick, desperate strides and seized the telephone receiver. He pressed it to his ear so hard it hurt, his breath coming in uneven, shallow hitches.

Nothing.

The line was dead. There was no voice, no dial tone, not even the faint hum of electricity. It hadn't been ringing.

Spamton frowned, his underbite prominent as he stared blankly at the wall. "...Hello?" he whispered, his voice raspy, the thick New Jersey accent cutting through the quiet.

Silence.

He slowly pulled the receiver away, staring at the plastic device with a mixture of confusion and burgeoning terror. He knew the phone had rung. It had to. He had heard it—he had felt the urgency of it in his bones. He felt a cold sweat break out across his neck, an all too familiar feeling of losing his grip on the world around him.

He began to lower the receiver back toward its cradle, his hand trembling slightly, when a shadow flickered in the doorway.

Spamton practically launched a foot into the air, a strangled yelp escaping him as he whipped around. "Jesus fucking Christ, Tony!"

He clutched his chest, his lungs burning as he tried to catch his breath. He stood there for a moment, wide-eyed, staring at the silhouette of his husband. The fear didn't vanish instantly; it just shifted, morphing from the terror of the unknown into a crushing sense of shame.

He let out a breathless, nervous laugh, rubbing a hand over his face to wipe away the sleep and the panic. He tried to pull the "Big Shot" mask back on, even here, in the middle of the night in his pajamas.

"Holy— Christ, you scared me," he managed, though the laugh sounded brittle, almost fragile. He carefully set the phone back down, his fingers lingering on the receiver as if to convince himself it was just a piece of plastic.

"I— I didn't hear you come in," he stammered, his voice softening, the bravado slipping. He looked up at Anthony, and for a fleeting second, the desperation leaked through—a silent plea for Anthony to tell him he was fine, that he wasn't losing his mind.

Then, the fear returned, reminding him of the debts, the benefactor, and the danger that followed him. He stepped back, creating a few inches of distance between them, his smile turning strained and weary.

"...You gotta stop doin' that." he muttered, though his eyes remained soft, aching with a love he was too terrified to fully voice.

The gold watch on Spamton’s wrist felt heavier than usual, a gilded shackle pulling his arm toward the duvet. He had already stripped off the designer jacket and the silk tie—the armor of the Big Shot—but he still felt exposed, as if the lack of fabric made him transparent.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched, his spine curved into a question mark. The room was dim, lit only by the distant, golden lights of the city filtering through the curtains. He didn’t look at Anthony. He couldn’t. Instead, he stared down at his own hand, his thumb obsessively tracing the band of his wedding ring. The metal was cool, the only thing in his life that felt solid and honest right now.

For several minutes, the only sound was the ragged, shallow rhythm of his own breathing and the faint, cruel echo of a whisper in the back of his mind—laughter that wasn't there, telling him he was slipping. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the noise, trying to remember how to be the man Anthony deserved.

"Do you ever..."

His voice broke, a harsh, grating sound that betrayed the New York grit of his accent. He stopped, the silence of the bedroom suddenly feeling cavernous and suffocating. He cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully, and tried again, his voice smaller this time, stripped of its theatrical command.

"Do you ever look at me... and think you made a mistake?"

He let out a small, jagged laugh. It was a reflexive habit, a piece of the persona he used to deflect pain, but here in the quiet, it sounded hollow. It sounded like something breaking.

"Marrying me, I mean," he added, his gaze still fixed on the carpet. "I mean, look at me. I'm a mess, Ant. A total... a total wreck."

He shifted his weight, his fingers tightening around the ring so hard the edges dug into his skin. He felt the phantom weight of the benefactor’s gaze on him, the crushing debt of a life built on shortcuts and lies. He felt like a fraud who had accidentally stumbled into a paradise he wasn't allowed to keep.

"Because lately I—I don't know. I feel like I'm messing everything up. The business, the studio... you..." He trailed off, his breath hitching. The paranoia flickered—a sudden, stabbing fear that Anthony was already planning his exit, already disgusted by the sweat and the trembling and the whispers that Spamton couldn't make stop.

He finally turned his head just a fraction, his bloodshot eyes catching the light, brimming with a desperate, fragile longing.

"I don't want you to leave, baby," he whispered.

The admission was so quiet it barely reached the air, a raw and bleeding piece of his heart laid bare. He looked small—not like a CEO or a star, but like a man terrified of the dark, clinging to the only person who made the world feel quiet.

The heavy steel back door of the studio didn't just close; it slammed, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the quiet corridor.

Spamton stood frozen for a heartbeat, his chest heaving. He was gasping for air, the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped animal. He felt the sweat slicking his palms and the cold tremor running through his broad shoulders, making his designer suit feel like it was shrinking around him.

He looked down and felt a surge of genuine nausea. His outfit—the armor he used to tell the world he was a winner—was a disaster. One of his cuffs was shredded, the expensive fabric torn open to reveal a raw scrape on his wrist. His silk tie, usually knotted with mathematical precision, hung limp and crooked, like a noose. A smear of grey street grime and something darker—blood—streaked across the chest of his jacket. Worst of all, the kind of perfection he maintained for the cameras had vanished; his jet-black hair was a mess, and that one stubborn curl had completely collapsed, slapping across his forehead.

Then there was his face.

He reached up, gingerly touching his mouth. He winced as his fingers met the wet, tacky heat of an open wound. His lip was split wide, the skin jagged and pulsing. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were stained a vivid, bruising crimson.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed, the words whistling through the gap in his lip.

"Mr. Spamton?"

The voice made him jump, nearly losing his balance. A junior staffer was standing at the end of the hallway, clutching a stack of financial reports. The man’s eyes widened, his gaze darting from Spamton’s disheveled hair down to the blood dripping onto his white shirt.

"Are you okay?" the man asked, his voice laced with genuine alarm.

"I'm fine," Spamton snapped. The response was an instinct—a reflex designed to shut people out before they could see the cracks.

He started walking, his polished loafers clicking rapidly against the linoleum. He didn't look back, his pace bordering on a run.

"Wait, you're bleeding—sir, you're really bleeding—"

"I'm fine!" Spamton barked over his shoulder, his New York accent sharpening into a blade.

"Should I get Anthony? Should I call Mr. Tenna?"

Spamton stopped dead. For a second, the world tilted. The mere mention of his husband sent a wave of vertigo through him. The thought of Anthony seeing him like this—broken, bleeding, and smelling of fear—made his stomach flip. He turned sharply, his eyes bloodshot and wild.

"No!" he yelled, his voice cracking. He immediately shifted, forcing a jagged, artificial smile that only served to pull the wound in his lip open further, sending a fresh trickle of blood dancing down his chin. "I said I'm fine. Don't make a whole production outta this, alright? I've got a schedule to keep. I'm a busy man!"

"But your face—"

"Move!"

He shouldered past the man with a forceful shove, not stopping until he reached the sanctuary of his private dressing room. He slammed the door shut and twisted the lock with a trembling hand.

He leaned his back against the wood, closing his eyes. In the silence, the whispers started—the faint, distorted laughter that had been haunting the edges of his mind for weeks. He ignored them, shaking his head violently, and turned to the mirror.

"Jesus," he whispered.

The reflection was haunting. The split in his lip was deep, the tissue shredded. One side of his mouth had already begun to swell into a purplish lump, making his underbite look more pronounced, more desperate.

His mind flashed back to the alleyway. He could still feel the grip of the 'friend'—the benefactor's debt collector. The man hadn't used a weapon; he'd used his hands and his teeth. The memory of the man's fingers crushing his jaw, the sudden, visceral snap of teeth sinking into his flesh to remind him who owned him, made Spamton shudder violently. He had tried to negotiate. He had tried to play the Big Shot. He had been reminded that he was nothing more than a puppet on a string.

"Don't think about it. Just... think," he muttered, grabbing a handful of tissues from the counter and pressing them hard against his mouth. He groaned as the pressure stung, the white paper turning a deep, saturated red almost instantly.

He needed a lie. A good one. A Big Shot lie.

A business accident? Too vague. A fight? No, Anthony would ask who. He'd want to protect him, and that was the one thing Spamton couldn't allow. If Anthony got involved, the benefactor would turn his sights on the studio. He'd turn his sights on Anthony.

An accident on set? He looked at his reflection. No one would believe that. There were no stunts today. No falling lights. Just a man who had been broken in an alleyway because he couldn't pay a debt he didn't even understand.

"Jesus, you're pathetic," he whispered to the glass. His voice sounded small, stripped of all its usual bravado.

He tried again, louder. "Got jumped. Yeah. Some mugger." He paused. "Guy tried to rob me. Took my watch." He looked at the gold watch still gleaming on his wrist. "Dammit."

He tossed the bloody tissue into the trash with a frustrated growl. He was a terrible liar when he was this tired. And he was so, so tired. The sleep deprivation was making the room vibrate, the edges of the mirror blurring.

Then, the door handle turned.

Spamton spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. The lock hadn't held—or perhaps Anthony had a key. He didn't care. Anthony was there.

Anthony stood in the doorway, his presence filling the room with a warmth that Spamton felt he no longer deserved. For a long, agonizing second, neither of them spoke.

Spamton’s hand flew up, slapping across his mouth in a desperate attempt to hide the carnage.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" Spamton asked. His voice didn't sound commanding; it sounded fragile, cracking under the weight of his panic.

Anthony didn't answer immediately. His eyes traveled slowly down Spamton’s form—taking in the ruined suit, the torn cuff, and finally, the blood leaking through the gaps in Spamton's fingers.

Spamton felt his stomach sink into a cold abyss. He backed away toward the mirror, his movements jerky and paranoid.

"The hell are you lookin' at?" he snapped, though the bite was gone, replaced by a pleading tremor. "I've got work to do, Anthony. I'm busy. Whatever this is, it can wait!"

He glanced toward the door, his mind racing. That damn coworker. He knew it. The man had run to Anthony the second Spamton was out of sight.

Spamton swallowed hard, and the movement caused a sharp, searing pain to shoot through his lip. He winced, his eyes fluttering shut for a second.

"I'm fine," he whispered, his voice suddenly quiet, almost broken. "I'm f-fine."

He looked away, unable to bear the sight of Anthony’s worry. He wanted to lean into him, to bury his face in Anthony’s chest and sob until the whispers in his head stopped, but he couldn't. He had to be the Big Shot. He had to keep the monsters away from the only thing he actually loved.

The heavy oak doors to the office didn’t so much open as they were surrendered to, swinging wide without a single knock. Spamton didn't just enter the room; he reclaimed it, his polished loafers clicking sharply against the floor. He looked every bit the "Big Shot"—expensive tailored suit, a gold watch glimmering on his wrist, and his jet-black hair slicked back with precision, save for that one stubborn curl that always dared to defy him.

He didn't head for the guest chair. Instead, he bypassed the desk entirely and made a beeline for Anthony.

With a practiced, feline grace, Spamton maneuvered himself directly into Anthony's space, sliding onto his husband's lap with a soft, heavy sigh. He settled in, his broad shoulders relaxing as he draped one arm around Anthony’s neck, pulling him close enough to smell the familiar scent of his skin.

Spamton’s dark-brown eyes, bloodshot from a week of barely any sleep, fluttered open as he reached for a stack of papers on the desk. He didn't look at the documents so much as he judged them.

"Mm. This one's garbage," Spamton muttered, his thick New York accent cutting through the quiet of the office. He flicked the page away with a dismissive snap, sending it fluttering onto the mahogany surface.

He shifted his weight, grinding his hips slowly and deliberately against Anthony's thighs. He felt the tension in the room spike, and a small, smug smile tugged at his lips, revealing the small chip in his tooth.

"This one's even worse," he groaned, tossing another report aside. He leaned back, pressing his softness into Anthony’s chest, his voice dropping to a low, teasing purr. "Tell me, honey... who hired these idiots?"

He paused, glancing up at Anthony with a look of mock disbelief.

"You did?"

A silence stretched between them, heavy and electric. Spamton let out a sharp, sarcastic huff, but he didn't move to get up. Instead, he shifted again, his hand sliding down from Anthony's shoulder to trace the line of his jaw, his thumb brushing against his husband's lip.

"...Well, you oughta pick better employees," he murmured, though his tone suggested he found the situation immensely entertaining.

He let out a long, shaky breath, the mask of the arrogant CEO slipping for just a second to reveal the exhausted, desperate man underneath. He clung to Anthony, needing the warmth, needing to feel something real and solid amidst the whispers and the paranoia that usually clouded his mind. He decided right then that the paperwork could rot.

"Anyway," Spamton whispered, rubbing himself against Anthony with a slow, provocative rhythm that left no doubt about what he wanted. "I'm stayin' right here..."

The gold watch on Spamton’s wrist was ticking, a loud, rhythmic heartbeat that seemed to echo the frantic drumming in his own chest. He had been stalking Anthony through the corridors of the studio for twenty minutes, moving like a ghost in an expensive suit.

He told himself it wasn’t pathetic. He wasn’t following him; he was simply occupying the same spatial coordinates as his husband. He’d lingered in the same hallway, drifted into the same room, and circled back through the same corridors, his polished loafers clicking softly on the floor.

Finally, Spamton stopped. He leaned against the doorframe of Anthony's office, arms folded tightly across his broad chest. He looked a mess, though he’d try to kill anyone who pointed it out. His jet-black hair was slicked back, but that one stubborn curl had escaped, damp with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. His bloodshot eyes tracked Anthony’s every move, his jaw working with a restless, irritable energy.

"Hey," Spamton barked, his thick New York accent cutting through the silence.

Anthony looked up. Spamton didn't move. He just stared, his expression a volatile mix of arrogance and desperation.

"Listen. About earlier."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Spamton snapped his head away. He suddenly found a very interesting piece of molding on the wall, staring at it with intense, fake concentration. His fingers flew to his wrist, obsessively adjusting the strap of his watch.

"I was—" He stopped. He paced two steps into the room, then two steps back, like a caged animal in a designer suit. "I mean, what I said was..."

He scoffed, a harsh, jagged sound. "I was having a bad day. What a joke. That’s a stupid excuse. Everybody’s havin' a bad day."

He rubbed the back of his neck, his skin flushed. The paranoia was humming in the back of his mind, those faint, mocking whispers that told him he was losing his grip, but he pushed them down. He looked at Anthony, and for a moment, the "Big Shot" facade cracked. His shoulders sagged.

"...I don't know what I meant," he admitted. The confession seemed to irritate him more than the argument itself. He hated not having the right pitch, the right words, the right leverage. "I shouldn't have said it."

He swallowed hard, his chipped tooth catching his lower lip. Then, the defense mechanism kicked back in, his voice rising. "But you know how I get when I'm—"

He cut himself off. He didn't finish the excuse. He just stood there, rubbing his thumb frantically against the gold band of his wedding ring, the metal cool against his skin.

"Forget it."

He turned to leave, making it three steps before he stopped dead. "Christ." He spun around, his face crimson. "Fine! I was an asshole, alright? I knew I was being a complete prick while I was doing it, and I said it anyway because I was angry and I wanted to hurt you."

Silence stretched between them. Spamton cleared his throat, his hand flying to his tie to straighten it with a sharp, jerky motion.

"...I'm sorry."

The words sounded like they were being dragged out of him with pliers. He immediately bristled, trying to reclaim his dignity. "There. Done. You heard it. Don't make me say it twice, or I'll charge you for the repeat."

But as he looked at Anthony, the hardness vanished. His expression softened, his eyes searching Anthony's face with a hunger that had nothing to do with business.

"...I love you," he whispered.

He stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne and stale cigarettes clinging to him. He exhaled a shaky breath, his voice trembling. "I've got a lot of crap in my head lately, Ant. And sometimes I get scared, and then I get angry, and then I say things before I can stop myself." He gave a small, humorless laugh. "Real mature, huh?"

cyos