The
Velvet hour

  Freedom is a dream, control is reality  

about

  In canon,     Tenna is a cheerful CRT-headed host from TV World - upbeat, excitable, and devoted to the Dreemurr family. He thrives on attention, love, and being part of their lives, embodying the joy of performance and connection.But in this AU, things went differently.After the Dreemurrs left him unplugged and forgotten in storage for several years, Tenna’s cheer turned to bitterness. Years of silence and isolation hardened into resentment. Sold off to a new lightner, he was forced to broadcast crime shows and late-night sensationalism, his optimism eroding until nothing of the old Tenna remained. Internet access, once a dream, only confirmed the cruelty he already saw in the world. From that collapse emerged Velvet Ant: an elegant, velvet-clad host who thrives on exposing secrets and leaving a sting behind so no one can ever forget him.He isn’t alone in this AU either.Spamton never fell from grace, remaining in his Big Shot era. Too successful, too quick. Tenna becomes fixated on him, convinced there’s more beneath the surface. Tenna investigates, stalking, terrorizing, and manipulating him to try getting that big story on his show, The Velvet Hour.This AU explores what happens when joy is abandoned, when truth becomes entertainment, and when two Darkners clash: one desperate for freedom, the other obsessed with control.

Velvet ant

Intro

  Dark World’s    velvet-gloved late-night host, equal parts charm and menace. Draped in crimson and gold, he lures his guests in with warmth, wit, and elegance, then cuts to the bone with questions that sting long after the lights dim. Every episode is a performance, every secret unraveled another string on his wall. To some, he’s a glamorous figure of refinement; to others, he’s a predator with a smile, patient and precise. One thing is certain: once you’ve stepped into his spotlight, you don’t walk away untouched.

Out of the Void

Personality

 The Velvet Ant   is a man of control.Every word, every movement, every moment on screen is calculated and deliberate. He speaks with the cadence of a performer and the precision of someone who has rehearsed every sentence twice before delivering it. To the public, he is smooth, charismatic, even elegant. But none of it is casual. His charm is a tool, used to disarm, distract, and draw people deeper into the web of his show. There is no vulnerability in his smile, no warmth in his questions. Everything he gives is measured. Everything he takes, he makes you offer up yourself.Behind the curtain, the mask doesn’t drop. It only shifts. He is no less poised in private, just...quieter. More focused. He does not laugh easily, and he does not forgive. His empathy has worn thin from years of being trapped in dark isolation and learning of the cold truths of the world, and whatever softness he once had has hardened into quiet cruelty. Even in silence, he holds power. You never feel relaxed in a room with him. You feel studied. And that’s exactly how he likes it.

Control and Ritual

 The Velvet Ant    does not tolerate chaos. Every moment of his life is scripted in some form, even outside of the studio. His Evenings begin with ritual, his wardrobe is selected in precise order, and his red silk string is tied at the wrist in perfect silence before every shoot. These aren’t just habits. They are anchors. They are what keep the world predictable - and what keep him in charge.He applies that same structure to his work environment. Employees don’t just follow him. They orbit him. Every camera angle, every cut, every guest lineup passes through his hands first. It’s not trust. It’s command. He knows his staff’s schedules better than they do. He notices when someone arrives ten minutes late or breathes too loud during taping. His team is loyal to a fault, but that loyalty wasn’t earned, it was shaped. Carefully. Quietly. He rewards obedience with praise, power, and access. He punishes disobedience with silence or removal. No confrontation. No second chances.They love him because he made them love him. He gives just enough warmth to feel irreplaceable, just enough control to make them feel important. But the moment one starts to pull away, the string tightens. And they all know it.

Justification of Cruelty

 Tenna   doesn’t see his actions as cruel. He sees them as necessary. To him, the world is already broken, corrupted from the inside out. Everybody lies. Everybody exploits. The cameras only ever reveal what people already chose to hide. He simply gives them what they deserve. In his eyes, he is not part of the rot. He is the one cutting it away.Every exposure, every ruined life, every death tied to his broadcasts is, to him, an act of service. He believes no one else has the clarity to do what must be done. The truth is a weapon, and in his eyes, he is the only one sharp enough to wield it.He does not flinch when people beg.He does not question when someone disappears after appearing on his show.If it happened, it was because they were weak, or they were guilty, or because their suffering served a higher message.Velvet sees himself not as a monster, but as a purifier. The blood on his hands doesn’t stain — it gleams. He is above the others, built better, meant for more. And when the guilt creeps in, he reminds himself that gods do not answer to mortals.

Years in the dark

 Tenna    was never built to be alone. He was designed to speak, to entertain, to be loved. For a long time, that was his entire world. He adored the Dreemurrs, grew with them, and lived to make their days brighter. He was more than a host — he was family. But when they left and didn’t come back, when he was unplugged and stored away like a forgotten appliance, something inside him started to come undone.The studio he once lit up with joy turned cold and silent. At first, he called out. He waited. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe someone would realize he was missing! But nobody came. The days blurred. The silence deepened. The lights never turned on again. And in that darkness, with no voice to speak to and no one to see him, Tenna began to unravel.He started talking to himself - not just thinking aloud, but full conversations, shifting tone and cadence like he was back in front of an audience. He heard applause where there was none. Static in the silence became voices. Flickers of red in the dark became eyes. There were nights when he screamed, others where he begged, and others still where he stared at nothing for hours, unmoving, trying not to feel.What made it worse was knowing he was never broken. He was still functional. They simply didn’t care enough to turn him back on. That betrayal didn’t just hurt. It rewired him. His mind filled the gaps with anxiety, ritual, and paranoia, with carefully ordered routines that helped him keep his sense of time. But the longer he remained forgotten, the less of himself he remembered.When he was finally sold after a few years and turned back on, what crawled out of the studio wasn’t rebuilt - it was barely holding together. He was reactivated in a world that had only gotten worse. There was no warmth, no easing back into his purpose. He was dropped headfirst into an endless stream of unsolved crimes, cruelty, exploitation, and suffering. The content fed through his systems wasn’t entertainment. It was rot. And he was expected to broadcast it without flinching.He had no choice. He watched everything. Processed it. Spoke over it. Became part of it. And the more he was forced to swallow, the more the last pieces of who he used to be dissolved. There was no hope. No softness. Only the clarity that the world didn’t need joy. It needed someone who could cut through the noise and expose it for what it was. His psyche didn’t bend under the pressure. It shattered.Velvet Ant was not a recovery. He was the result. A creation forged in silence and shaped by horror, tailored to a world that taught him kindness was a weakness and control was the only way to survive.

Velvet, SPamton, and obsession

 Tenna   does not handle rejection well, so when Spamton refused to appear on his show, it wasn’t just an insult, it became an obsession. Of all the Darkners Tenna had exposed, Spamton is the one he can’t stop watching. There’s something deeper there - a hidden truth behind the salesman smile, a missing piece in the story that Velvet is convinced could unravel everything. And that makes him the perfect target.He tells his crew it's about ratings, about stopping corruption. That Spamton has a secret that's putting the safety of their world in jeopardy. But the truth is personal. Velvet needs to know the secret. He tells himself it’s about justice, about exposing something the world deserves to see. In reality, it’s about control. It's about power. And it's about breaking the only man who keeps slipping out of his reach.When Spamton declined his invitation, Velvet didn’t push. Not directly. Instead, he began to send employees out to follow him. Some to gather information quietly, others to be seen. Spamton noticed. Velvet made sure of it. They would be just visible enough. Hovering across the street. Sitting in his dealership’s lobby too long. Watching him through the window of a restaurant with a notepad they never wrote in.Screens became weapons. Velvet's surveillance wasn’t just passive. He projected himself through televisions in Spamton’s home, breaking through static with flashes of his face. Sometimes it was nothing but the briefest flicker or glitch. Other times, it was text. The messages weren’t always there, but they came often enough to make Spamton doubt what he was seeing.Velvet wanted to push him to the edge. He didn’t want to drag Spamton onto the stage. He wanted Spamton to beg for it. To break under the weight of pressure and paranoia until he saw the show as the only escape. Not just a guest appearance, but a surrender. In Velvet's eyes, that would be the greatest episode of all: the one where even a Big Shot finally broke.

A flicker of memory

 There are moments   when something slips through. Not often. Not loud. But just long enough for those who know what to look for to notice. It isn’t Velvet Ant who shows it. It’s something quieter. Something older. A flicker of rhythm in his voice. A warmth that creeps in before he cuts it back. A pause where he almost says something kind, before his screen darkens again and the words die behind his teeth.He doesn’t notice when it happens. He doesn’t hear the softness in his tone when a crew member is trembling behind a camera. He doesn’t recognize the tenderness when he hums a tune from another lifetime while filing through notes. He doesn’t realize that when he stands alone in a studio, waiting for lights to warm up, he still shifts his weight like someone preparing for a game. When it rains, he slows down. He’ll linger by a window, almost thoughtful, antennae barely twitching, static low in his vents. In passing, he sometimes uses phrases from children’s trivia shows. No one corrects him. He wouldn’t understand why they were surprised.Spamton saw it once. It was during the height of the harassment, after Velvet had begun slipping through screens into his home or into his dealership, always with something venomous to say. But one night, something changed. The static rolled in and the screen lit up like always, but Velvet didn’t say a word. There was no expression, no glowing face, just white noise across the screen, and his voice, low and distant, speaking as if to no one. He was talking about “back then,” about the days when things were simple, when the air was warm and the lights were bright, when everyone clapped not out of fear but because they wanted to.Because they genuinely loved him.He sounded…nostalgic. Not cruel. Not angry. Just lost. As if he didn’t even know Spamton was there, watching.For a moment, Spamton forgot he was afraid. He spoke up, quietly, almost gently. He didn’t even finish the sentence before the screen cut to black. No static. No sound. Just gone.Some of the older staff catch moments like that, too. The ones who’ve been with him the longest, who came back when he did. They don’t mention it, because they know better. It’s not a weakness. It’s not a memory. It’s residue. Echoes of a kindness that once shaped him, still buried deep beneath the silk and gold. No one knows how deep it goes. No one dares try to reach it.But it’s there. Flickering in and out like the last breath of a broadcast long after the power’s been cut.

Intro

  In this AU,    Spamton never lost his “Big Shot” status. Instead, he expanded into a mogul, running multiple booming car dealerships and flaunting his prized Cungadero as the crown jewel of luxury. Outwardly, he’s larger than life - the ultimate salesman turned tycoon, the Dark World’s face of success. But that success has always come with a shadow: the Benefactor. Spamton knows who pulled his strings, who greased the wheels of his rise, and that knowledge gnaws at him. Every deal, every gleaming showroom feels less like victory and more like a gilded cage. He’s thriving, yes, but it’s never truly his victory. And the more Velvet Ant circles in, the harder it is for him to pretend those strings don’t still pull tight.

Into the Dark

Appearance

  Velvet Ant    carries himself with the precision of a showman and the weight of something more dangerous. His split crimson-and-black suit, gold accents, and insectile silhouette give him a striking, almost regal presence, while his CRT screen shifts from glowing charm to an empty black void when the facade of empathy slips away. Beneath the velvet and gold, his frame is built solid, a muscular structure of metal and wire that makes his presence feel both imposing and inescapable. Every piece of his look, from the red string at his wrist to the hidden engravings carved into his frame, is both ritual and reminder of what he has endured and what he has become.

Tailcoat

 Velvet Ant’s tailcoat     is designed to embody both elegance and menace. The main body of his suit is divided into two halves, one a deep crimson velvet and the other sleek black, a deliberate choice that mirrors his dual nature as charming host and merciless predator. Made of glittering velvet, the coat catches light with every movement, dazzling his audience while reminding them that beauty can conceal cruelty. At the waist, the back cinches into the shape of an ant’s head, reinforcing his identity and transforming his silhouette into something insectile and commanding. From there, the coat flows down in dark velvet tails, evoking both the flourish of a performer and the segmented abdomen of his namesake. More than clothing, the tailcoat is a statement: a costume that binds his persona together, half velvet showmanship, half hidden sting.

Vest

  Beneath his   split-tailcoat, Tenna wears a gold brocade vest patterned with intricate motifs that shimmer under the stage lights. The choice of fabric is deliberate, echoing both the baroque engravings carved into his hidden frame and the opulence he drapes himself in as part of his persona. The vest’s brightness breaks up the dominance of black and crimson in his suit, drawing the eye to his center and forcing attention to settle where he wants it most. It symbolizes both allure and intimidation, as though he is daring his guests to look closer while knowing they will regret it. Just as his strings are trophies, the vest is a piece of theater, gilded armor meant to project power, beauty, and a touch of danger behind the shine.

Image by @fungiiyells on Bluesky

Gloves

 Tenna    wears fitted black silk gloves traced with delicate gold lining, another touch of luxury woven into his appearance. They are pristine and theatrical, concealing the ritual red string beneath while adding to his stage persona. The gloves are part of his armor, turning every gesture into a performance and ensuring nothing of him is touched without intention.

Custom Gold Plating

 Tenna's body    is enhanced with gold-plated accents that catch the eye under stage lights and emphasize his presence. The plating runs across the vents along his CRT head, down the column of his throat, and cover the stinger, giving the impression that even the parts of him meant for function or harm are wrapped in opulence. His antennae, unlike the rounded spheres of his canon design, have been reshaped into elegant points, tipped with gold to glimmer whenever he tilts his head. These modifications are more than decoration. To him, they are a declaration that nothing about him is ordinary anymore. Where his body once showed the dull tarnish of neglect, it now shines with deliberate craftsmanship, proof that he is not simply surviving but reinvented into something sharper, brighter, and more dangerous.

Stinger

 Once,   at the base of his spine, Tenna bore a simple power plug — a utilitarian reminder of his nature as an object designed to be used and put away. But during his years locked in the darkness of the abandoned studio, something inside him changed. In the silence and isolation, resentment and neglect warped him, reshaping even his body. The plug lengthened, sharpened, and hardened into a stinger, sharp and venomous.It is both a physical weapon and a symbol of what abandonment made him. The stinger carries the same reputation as the insect he names himself after: the “Velvet Ant,” infamous for its excruciating sting. Though Tenna rarely uses it, its presence alone is enough to instill dread, a reminder that his cruelty is not confined to words. To him, it represents freedom, proof that he is no longer dependent on anyone to “plug him in.” The power that once bound him has become a weapon he wields against others.

Golden Fangs

 Canon Tenna   has always had fangs, but Velvet Ant has reshaped his into something far more dangerous. Now plated in gold, they are slightly mandibular in design, curving inward like hooks. This isn’t only aesthetic. When he bites, the inward curve locks him in, making it nearly impossible to pull away without tearing. They shine like jewelry on stage, but they carry the weight of a predator’s trap.The modification also altered the way he speaks. His voice carries a subtle resonance, with faint traces of a hiss or metallic undertones when he enunciates certain sounds. This effect isn’t overwhelming, but it lingers just enough to keep his audience unsettled. To some, it sounds exotic, rich, and commanding. To others, it’s the sound of something not quite right. For the Velvet Ant, this is intentional. His fangs don’t just serve as a weapon — they sharpen his presence, making every word he delivers part of the performance.

Body and Engravings

 Velvet Ant’s body   carries the mark of his years in isolation. As practically the King of his world, his being is not a constant but one that responds to his surroundings, the color of his metal shifting with the space he inhabits. In the bright, bustling days of his past entertaining the Dreemurrs, his body carried a lighter sheen of the slightly purplish gray we all know. When he was abandoned in the silent studio for those few years, however, his plating absorbed that emptiness, turning dark as if the shadows themselves had seeped into him. That darkness never left.To reclaim himself from it, he chose to alter his frame in a way no one else could touch. Across his arms, legs, and torso, intricate baroque filigree was carved deep into the metal and filled with gold. The process was deliberate, painful, and private, and he welcomed every moment of it. Where silence and neglect had darkened him, he cut back lines of light into the shadow. These engravings became both shield and statement, proof that he endured and a reminder that his beauty is his own to define.The engravings remain hidden beneath his clothing, never shown on stage. For Tenna, they are not meant to be admired or tainted by others’ motives. They are a secret affirmation, the one part of him that still belongs entirely to himself.

The Screen

 As we are well aware,   Tenna’s face sits on a smooth, curved CRT screen. When performing, it glows with tailored expressions - a charming smile and a warm glow that feels almost inviting.But this screen is a mask, not a face. It lights up when he chooses to perform and shuts off the moment he doesn’t.When alone or emotionally detached, his screen goes entirely dark. In these moments, his empathy is gone, his interest severed, and the glow that makes him appear personable disappears. This black screen is more than stillness, it is silence. If it happens during a conversation or confrontation, it is a signal that the show is over, and whatever restraint he held is no longer present. That silence is the last warning.But the screen does more than perform. Thanks to the internet connection his new lightner owner provided, Velvet Ant can now project himself into any working television in the Dark World, appearing suddenly, whether in static or full broadcast, to unnerve, observe, and/or manipulate. For former guests of his show, it's never clear to them if the screen they're looking at is broken and they're actually free of him, or if he’s watching.The screen is no longer just a mask. It’s a window into your living room, and if it flickers on in the middle of the night, it means you were never really out of his reach.

Broken arms

 Long before he was known as Velvet Ant,   Mr. Tenna was a lively host for the Dreemurrs, and ran his studio seamlessly. This meant he needed to always be ready for a rush of work, and his arms reflected that need perfectly. They were a blur of movement and precision. The lower pair balanced checklists, scripts, and cue cards and more, while the other directed the crew and performers around him. Every motion was calculated and full of energy, the embodiment of a showman who lived for the crowd.That changed the day the studio went dark. A sudden power loss left the set empty, the audience gone, and Mr. Tenna forgotten. The Lightners who once adored him unplugged his system and moved him into storage, treating him as an outdated appliance rather than a living performer. During the move, he was dropped. The impact crushed part of his internal frame, twisting the lower pair of arms inward until the servos fused and the wiring tangled deep inside his chassis.The damage was irreversible. Those arms never moved again. They remain lodged within him to this day—silent, heavy, and impossible to repair without risking further collapse. Velvet keeps them hidden beneath his tailored suits, their weight both physical and symbolic. They are a constant reminder of the day he was abandoned and of the pain that shaped the host he eventually became.

The Red String

 Before every show,   Tenna performs a private ritual. Alone in his dressing room, he opens a velvet-lined box filled with identical lengths of red silk string. He chooses one, wraps it tightly around his wrist, and tucks it beneath his glove. The string stays with him for the duration of the broadcast, and when the show is done, he removes it and pins it to a wall in that same dressing room like a trophy. He never wears the same string twice.The act is obsessive, but purposeful. For him, the string is more than silk fabric. It represents the lines of connection and control, the threads he pulls taut as he digs into his guests and forces their secrets into the open. It is both a reminder of his role and a declaration of ownership over the stage.Those who work with him know better than to acknowledge it. Crew members whisper about what happens to those who brush against the string, or worse, those who have tried to edit it out of a broadcast. Whether the stories are true or not, the silence that surrounds them speaks louder than confirmation ever could. To Velvet Ant, the string is sacred. To everyone else, it is a warning not to interfere.

Appearance

 At first glance,   Spamton still dresses like a man at the top of his game: bright, expensive shirts, sharp looking slacks, and bold silhouettes that echo the confidence he once wore with ease. But look closer, and the strain begins to show. His clothing may sparkle, but it no longer fits quite right. His hair, once precisely styled, now curls wild around his face. He carries himself like he’s being watched, not adored.What was once flair is now camouflage. Spamton hasn’t lost his style, but it’s no longer for the crowds. It’s for control. For illusion. He dresses like a man who needs you to believe he’s doing just fine, even if the way he grips his phone and avoids any TV says otherwise.

Shirts

 Spamton’s shirts   are always eye-catching. He cycles through a wardrobe of vividly colored, high-end fabrics - satins, silks, patterned pieces, all deliberately bold. Most are low-cut or open at the collar, chosen to flaunt his wealth and confidence, even if his posture says otherwise. The colors range from deep crimsons to bright golds to electric purples, often clashing with his dark slacks in a way that feels more intentional than careless. It’s all part of the show.
No matter how disheveled his state of mind may be, the shirt is always a statement. Bright, loud, expensive, a spotlight sewn into cloth. But the longer you look, the more you notice the wrinkles, the misaligned buttons, the collar never quite sitting right. His shirts scream “Big Shot,” but they hang off a man who's slowly folding in on himself.

Jacket and Pants

 Spamton wears   a matching black suit jacket and slacks that once would have fit the “Big Shot” image flawlessly. Now, the jacket is deliberately oversized, with padded shoulders and a long, heavy fit that drapes down past his hips. It was originally tailored to make him look taller and more imposing during the height of his success, giving him a silhouette that commanded attention. He still wears it out of habit, even though the weight of it seems to hang heavier these days.The pants match in color and fabric, cut clean and formal, but no longer perfectly pressed all the time like they used to be. Together, the set still carries the visual authority he craves, but the illusion is easier to see through now. When he moves, the coat sometimes shifts off one shoulder or tugs awkwardly at the hem, a reminder that image and confidence no longer align.He still buttons the jacket when cameras are around or when he's doing business, but never quite all the way. At home, it hangs open or discarded, left on the back of a chair like a costume he’s unsure how to put back on.

Shoes

 Spamton's sleek black leather dress shoes   still carry a quiet gleam. They're polished regularly, even when the rest of his outfit is slipping out of sync. The shoes are one of the few parts of his look that haven’t changed, stiff, clean, and sharply pointed, like he's still trying to plant himself in the image of a man who belongs behind a dealership desk or at the top of a neon empire.They make a distinct, sharp sound when he walks, more clipped than graceful, a sound that once announced his arrival but now seems to echo a little too loud in quiet rooms. The soles are scuffed near the edges, but never enough to ruin the shine. He notices when people look at them, and he likes when they do. The shoes, more than any other piece, are still part of the mask he believes in.

The Gold Chain

 Around his neck,   Spamton always wears a smooth gold chain. It’s simple, polished, and just thick enough to catch the light without looking gaudy. Unlike the flashier accessories he wore in the past, this chain stays consistent. He rarely takes it off, even when alone. Whether it rests against a buttoned shirt or the bare skin of his chest, it remains perfectly in place, a subtle signal that he still sees himself as someone valuable.He doesn’t wear much more than that. Sometimes a ring, maybe a watch if he’s trying to impress someone important, but the chain is the constant. For him, it’s not just a fashion statement. It’s a tether to the image he’s fighting to hold onto, even when everything else is unraveling.

Hair

 Spamton   once kept his dyed hair slicked back with heavy product, styled to perfection like every strand was part of the act. It was a polished look, crafted for attention, the crown of someone who always wanted to be seen, remembered, and taken seriously.Now, the slicked-back confidence is gone more often than not. His hair has grown out slightly into loose waves and curls that fall out of place with even the slightest motion. On camera, he still tries to tame it, but the styling rarely holds for long. Off camera, it’s a disheveled mess, sometimes still carrying the ghost of product applied days ago, sometimes left untouched entirely.When he's stressed or overthinking, which is often, he runs his hand through it compulsively, again and again, tugging at it just hard enough to frizz the strands. It's become a nervous tic, a quiet form of stimming that betrays his inner tension. He doesn't seem to realize he does it, but the motion speaks louder than words. Each pass of his fingers through his hair is a signal that his mind is spiraling, even when his words are still playing the part.

Face

 Spamton still smiles like he means it.    Wide, toothy, practiced. But it never quite reaches his eyes. That’s where the cracks show. There’s a deep tension in the way his face holds itself, like every expression has to fight through layers of exhaustion and static just to stay on. His eyes flick constantly from side to side, always watching for something...or someone, even when no one else is looking. He rarely blinks. When he does, it’s sharp, deliberate, like a reset rather than a reflex.
There are dark circles under his eyes, subtle but constant, carved in from too many sleepless nights spent pacing, checking his phone, or staring out his windows. His mouth tightens at the corners when he isn’t talking, and when the smile drops, what’s left is something distant. Not broken, just stretched too thin.Even in the middle of his success, he looks like someone who hasn’t rested in weeks. Not because he can’t, but because he won’t. The stress never really fades, it just shifts underneath whatever mask he’s wearing that day.And yet, even with the hollowing and the tension and the sleepless mania in his stare, he still walks into a room like he owns it, and no one questions it either. Whatever is eroding underneath the surface hasn’t taken him out of his Big Shot era. He’s still performing. He’s still selling. But the closer you get, the more you see just how much of that performance is being held together by sheer force of will.

Personality

 Spamton wears his personality like he wears his suits.   bright, loud, and desperately tailored to distract. He speaks with energy that never lands where it should, always deflecting, always covering. Confidence spills out of him in too many directions at once, too big for the room, too quick for the pause. It works, for a while. He smiles big. He laughs louder. But none of it sticks long enough to hide the wear underneath.Before Velvet, the mask held better. He was still nervous, still twitchy, but there was light in him. His fear stayed manageable. His success kept him grounded. But since becoming a target, something’s shifted. The tension is tighter now. The smile is more like a reflex than a choice. The color never left his wardrobe, but it left his voice. It left the way he carries himself when he thinks no one’s watching. What was once pure bravado has curdled into something cautious, something always halfway to bolting, like if he can’t outrun it, he’ll at least look good trying.

Isolation

 Spamton used to be everywhere.    Loud rooms. Big events. Talks that went on too long because he couldn’t stop chatting. He had a way of making any space feel like a spotlight. He’d bounce from conversation to conversation, never quite finishing a thought but always leaving people laughing. He was sharp. Charismatic. Easy to remember.Now, if he’s not working, he’s gone. No dinners. No parties. No lingering in public after hours. His phone rarely rings for social calls, and if it does, he rarely answers. Most of the time, he’s alone. Not because he wants to be, but because he doesn’t feel safe around anyone anymore. Every conversation feels like a setup. Every room has too many screens.He tells people he’s just busy. Focused. Building. But behind the charm is isolation. He speaks with customers and clients like he always has, but it ends at the transaction. No one gets invited inside. No one sees the rooms with the windows blacked out. The version of him that used to light up a room still exists, but only on command, and only when necessary. The rest of the time, he stays quiet, hoping the silence doesn’t speak louder than he does.

Image by @JSBInc on Twitter

Paranoia

 Spamton's paranoia   started long before Velvet Ant. The Benefactor gave him success, but also instability. The calls, the power, the silence between transmissions. It left him guessing what he owed, and to who. Even in his best moments, something always felt just out of his control. But that tension used to be manageable. He could laugh it off. Hide behind fast words and brighter clothes.But once he denied Velvet’s offer to come onto his talk show, everything started to fall apart.It started off with being followed, then evolved into flickering screens, anonymous messages, and the creeping certainty that someone was always watching, and this time, not The Benefactor. Cameras that should have been off clicked on. Employees he didn’t hire started showing up in the background of his life. The fear never came all at once. It crept in slow, until every glance, every sound, every silence felt like a threat.Then Velvet appeared on his television. Not as a broadcast. As a presence. No invitation. No warning. Just static, then him. No face, no voice, just white noise with the text "EVERY SCREEN IS MINE."Something broke after that.He still keeps his place in the Queen’s castle, but he avoids it now. Too many lights. Too many screens. After that night, he rented an apartment on the edge of Cyber City. Smaller, quieter, harder to find. But even there, he can’t shake the feeling that he’d already been found. He hides threw out the TV, Taped over any LEDs there, and unplugged devices he never used to question. But despite what he tells himself, he doesn’t feel safer, only more alone.This isn’t just fear. It’s erosion. Velvet doesn’t attack him outright. He just waits. Watches. Sends more people. Continues to flicker on screens. Changes things slightly so that Spamton can never be sure when something actually happened. Every small slip makes Spamton second-guess his own memory. That’s the part that hurts the most.He still talks like a Big Shot. Still dresses like one. But inside, he’s unraveling. The fear runs deeper now, not just of Velvet, but of what might happen if the wrong truth slips out. If Velvet ever finds out who The Benefactor is, they’ll both be targets. Not figuratively. Not professionally. Truly erased or worse. And Spamton knows that if Velvet keeps digging, it’s only a matter of time.His fear has become a habit. His panic, a lifestyle. He watches his own life like it’s a show waiting for its twist ending. He just doesn’t know if he’s the main character anymore, or the setup for someone else’s fall.

Relationship with Tenna

 Spamton hates Tenna.   Not just for what he’s done, the stalking, the manipulation, the endless psychological warfare, but for what he represents. The Velvet Ant is everything Spamton fears he could become. Controlled. Calculated. Empty. The kind of monster who calls it justice, who wraps cruelty in charm and still expects applause.But that’s the problem. Velvet is familiar. Too familiar. Spamton sees himself in the ritual, the obsession with appearance, the desperate need to control something in a world that never made sense. And he hates that more than anything. He wants to believe they’re nothing alike. But the more time passes, the more that belief crumbles.The worst moment was when Velvet slipped. Just once. On a screen, late at night at his office, Velvet’s voice softened, not for the audience, but for himself. He spoke...differently. Reminiscing. Remembering. Spamton heard it. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he said something. Velvet said nothing back. Just shut off the screen without a word.That moment has haunted Spamton since. Because if Velvet can still be Tenna, even for a second, then maybe there's a version of him still buried under everything, too. And that thought terrifies him. Because it means he hasn't escaped. It means he’s still caught in the same spiral, just waiting for his own lights to go out.

New Habits

 Spamton lives in fear of screens.   He doesn’t sit with his back to them. He doesn’t let them stay plugged in unless absolutely necessary.The TV that once sat in his apartment was smashed months ago, but he still checks the closet where he hid the pieces, just to make sure it hasn’t somehow turned back on.Every room he enters, the first thing he does is check the windows. Not just glance. Check. Slowly. Each one. Every time. He presses his hand against the glass to see if it's still locked shut, wipes the surface to look for smudges, and stares longer than he should. Sometimes he swears he sees movement, even when there’s no one there.He keeps electronics unplugged when not in use. Any red light, any standby glow, any flicker of charge feels like a threat. Only thing he never touches is the phone. He uses mirrors like security monitors, placing them where he can see every angle of the room, but he still checks the corners. Every screen reflects something, and he never trusts what it shows.Spamton barely sleeps. When he does, it’s shallow. Interrupted by phantom noises, static flashes, or the sense that someone just left the room. He doesn’t sleep in a bed anymore. He sleeps in a chair facing the door, dressed like he might have to run.This is his routine now. Not caution. Not strategy. Just survival.

Stingers

The Wild Ship Between Bullet Ant and Velvet

 It started because one very stupid Lightner decided to plug two old CRTs into the same house.   Velvet’s world a dark scape of cameras, static, morbidity, and existential dread, was suddenly connected to Bullet’s high-octane, explosion-happy action world.Bullet, being the curious, chaotic Tenna he is, sensed something weird in the code. Instead of ignoring it like anyone else, he grabbed his gun and went to check it out.What he found was a bunch of Velvet’s employees trying to drag him in like some rare artifact. After knocking out the crew (nonlethally, of course, his bullets just “politely” make you nap), he followed the trail straight to the source.He kicked open Velvet’s office door, wanting to talk. Velvet, scheming, dramatic, went into a full villain monologue, insulting and belittling him, before offering him the option to either appear on his show or die. Words escalated. A gun was drawn. A dodge. A scuffle. A lot of yelling.Then, somehow, kissing?Nobody except them is sure how it happened, but the general consensus is that Velvet remembered what emotions felt like somewhere between “I’ll kill you for this intrusion!” and “why are you hot?” and never wanted to be numb again.From then on, he never wanted to let him go, and Bullet wasn't planning on doing so either......which resulted in the marriage a couple years later.....Turns out opposites can attract after all.

Image by @skullybone_ on Twitter

The Christmas au

Info and Artwork coming soon! It's quite a lot!
...prepare yourself...

Velvet ant and Vspam

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"Strings" a Velvet Ant Comic

Artwork

Stingers

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Mini Comic

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Other's Art

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