#Mike Mak

[crassinova]

Idv doodles (mostly willganji because

Thank you for this awesome community. If u see a person named ijnaGlliW especially wit their duo u are fucked the match ends in .5 seconds we will LOSE Filipinowrekr if ur out ther I’m sorry for failing you I didn’t know you werealready dead on chair i miss you

I have a psychologistvisit at. Uahhhhhh. 11 am. It is 1am I’m going to live yes I wil

+ terribly embarrassing willganji coa5 comic warning: ass I guess I

[damagecompilation-a]

nancy isn't allowed to have a fnaf verse because everything would be solved right away there would be no mystery she'd be like that one officer

[princema-k]

hi guys <3 (blows up insta)

[hybridreviews]

Decibel Boost Album Roundup (MAK Music Version): MARCH

Music for March!! Yeah, it's a long one!

I had a feeling this would happen. January and February were such dry months for music and when it got to March…. It increased! By a lot! So, not only was this month packed with music, it’s in the double digits. Granted, I covered months that had a bunch of albums (i.e. June 2018) larger than this but still, there were some records that I took time to listen to. Hell, most of them were EPs so it…

[racointeur1]

home      is      such      an      unfamiliar      term     to      you.      sure,    yeah,      you     had     a     house      that     you     lived    in     with     your     mom     and     your    dad      and     your     sisters     and     that    had    been  .    .    .     okay,        and      then    it    was    just     you    and    your     off     campus     apartment     in      los     angeles     and     that    was    even     better     if     not    a     little    lonely.        the     house     in     hawkins     never     felt    very      homey      for      you      because      your     family    never    really   felt    like   a    family.      there     was     no     love    there,      only     convenience.       part   of    you    has     no    idea   if    you    can    even    say    that      because    that    was     all     you     had    ever      known.         

HOW     DO     YOU       KNOW     WHAT    LOVE    IS    IF    YOU’VE     NEVER     REALLY     SEEN     IT?        

another      doubtful      thought.        you     have     seen    love,      or      well,       what     you    can     only     assume     is    what    love    is.         love    is     what    nancy     and     jonathan    have,       what    lucas    and    max    have    had    since    you    all     were     just    barely     teenagers,       what     richie    and    eddie    (     annoyingly    so    )     and    bill    and    stan    have.         love     has     to     be     that     feeling     you     get      deep     in     your     core     every     single     time      william     byers    looks    at     you.         it      deepens     with    everything    he     does.       the     breakfasts    made      on      the     weekends     when    classes    aren’t    stealing    you    away.     the     doodles    and    paintings    he    makes     you,      all      joining    the     pile     that’s     been     growing    since     you    were     a     child.          the     text     messages     and    the   letting    you     have    your     pick     of     which     side    of    the    bed    and    the     soft    kisses    and    hushed    whispers    of    affection.     see,     in      your     mind    .     .       .      

HOME     &     LOVE    &      WILL      BYERS    ARE     ALL     STARTING    TO    FEEL     LIKE     THE    SAME     THING.       

sleep     is      still      pretty     heavy     on     your     features    as     you     lazily     enter     into     the    kitchen      of      your     now     shared     apartment.        it    didn’t    make    much    sense    to     have     to     keep      inviting    him     over     practically    every    day     because    being    away     from     him     felt    like    actual,     real    life    torture.      eleven     had     to    have    been     getting    tired    of     becoming    a     third    wheel     in     her      own     apartment     too.       it    was    a     natural     progression.      will     would    stay     one    night    and    then    maybe     two    and    then    that    turned    into     one    week     or     two,     and    now    all    of    his      stuff    is    sharing    the    same    space    as     yours    and     you’re     really    not     complaining.       waking    up     early    feels    less    miserable     when    you    wake    up    and    find    will    making    breakfast    and    humming    softly     to     himself.        (      there’s    that    feeling    in     your    chest     again!     )

arms      go     around     his     waist      and     you     pull     him     carefully    into     your     frame,       nose     nudging    the     top     of    his    head     before    you’re    placing    a     gentle   kiss     there.          “i     really    don’t    know     how     you    do     it.”         chin     settles    on    his     shoulder,      watching    the    way      he    works    on    the     food     over    the    stove     and    keeping     yourself    close.       “wake    up     so    early     to     do     all     of     this,     i     mean.”         lips    curl     into    a    gentle    smile.       anyone    else    could     mistake     it     for     judgement,      but     will     knows     you.       he    has    to    hear    the     appreciation      seeping    into    the     words.         it’s    a    playful     back    and    forth    for    a     minute.       conversation     laced    with      gentle      laughter     and     will      playfully     slips    out    of     your     hold     to      go     for    the    plates,     portioning    breakfast    onto     each     of    them     and     you     listen     when    he    motions    for    you     to    sit    down.    

ADORATION       is      bright      in      your    eyes    as     you     look     at     will     from     across    the     table      and    there’s    a    fondness    toward    him     that     touches    every     part    of    your     face     before    you     take    a    bite    of    your     food.     it’s    a    nice    silence,      sitting    at    the    table    having    breakfast    with     will.      your    best    friend,      YOUR     BOYFRIEND.      eyes    lift    from    your    plate    when     he    finally    speaks.

i like taking care of you .  i’d be happy to do it for the rest of our lives .     

THERE’S     THAT     FEELING    AGAIN,       EXCEPT     THIS     TIME      FEELS      MORE     INTENSE     THAN     ANYTHING     YOU’VE    EVER    FELT    IN      YOUR    LIFE.             the      fluttering     beneath     your     ribcage    is     wild    and    unpredictable     just    like    the    pounding    of     your    heart    against     your     chest.       it’s     almost     dizzying,     and     you    can     feel     the     heat     from     it     all      rushing     all     over     your     body     and     settling     onto     your     cheeks.         FOR     THE     REST    OF     YOUR     LIVES.            that’s    love     too,      right?             and     you     think      you      really     like    that     idea.         you    love    that    idea,    actually.           a      grin     now,      one     that    touches    your    eyes    all    of    the    same.            “on     top     of     the     D&D     and     nintendo?”       translation:      I     WANT    THIS    FOREVER    TOO.

[mikewheel3r]

DYNAMICS TAG DROP.

[regressionschool]

Getting laid

In the dimly lit living room of the frat house, the smell of pizza and stale beer lingered in the air. The walls were adorned with posters of rock bands and scantily clad women, typical decor for a fraternity. Two frat boys, Jack and Mike, lounged on the worn-out couch, half-empty beer cans in their hands.

"You just need to get laid, dude," Jack said, a smirk on his face. He took a swig from his beer can, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Mike chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, easier said than done. Did you see how Professor Collins looked at me today? Like I was some kind of bug she wanted to squash."

Jack laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the room. "That old hag? She’s just mad because no one wants to bang her. I mean, have you seen her? She’s got that permanent scowl."

"Yeah, true," Mike agreed, his voice dripping with disdain. "But did you catch a glimpse of Sarah in class? Man, those tits... they’re like... gigantic. I can’t even focus when she’s around."

Jack nodded, his eyes gleaming. "I know, right? It’s like she’s got a couple of melons under her shirt. She probably uses them to get what she wants. You know how girls are."

Mike snorted. "Yeah, always playing the game."

Jack leaned back, his gaze turning thoughtful. "You know, we could always mess with her a bit. She needs to be taken down a peg or two."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Jack’s smirk widened. "You’ll see. Just follow my lead."

As the two boys plotted, they didn’t notice the figure standing in the doorway, a small, discreet smile playing on her lips. Professor Collins had overheard their entire conversation, and she had plans of her own.

A few evenings later, the frat house was alive with the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking bottles. Jack and Mike moved through the crowded rooms with a sense of purpose. Their mission was clear: get laid. The air was thick with the smell of cheap cologne and sweat, mingling with the ever-present scent of pizza and beer.

Jack nudged Mike, pointing to a group of girls by the makeshift bar. "Target acquired," he muttered, a sly grin on his face.

The two boys sauntered over, their swagger exaggerated by the alcohol coursing through their veins. "Hey ladies," Jack said, leaning against the counter with what he thought was a charming smile. "You girls look like you could use some company."

One of the girls, a petite brunette, rolled her eyes. "We’re fine, thanks."

Undeterred, Mike leaned in closer. "Come on, don’t be like that. We’re just trying to have a good time. How about a dance?"

The girls exchanged glances, clearly unimpressed. "Maybe later," one of them said dismissively, turning her back to the boys.

Jack scowled, but before he could say anything more, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Sarah, the girl with the 'gigantic tits' they had ogled in class, smiling at him.

"Hey, Jack. Hey, Mike," Sarah said, her tone warm and inviting. "Enjoying the party?"

Jack’s eyes lit up. "Sarah! Yeah, it’s great. How about you?"

"I’m having a good time," she replied, her smile widening. "In fact, my roommates and I are throwing an after-party at our place. You guys should come."

Mike’s eyes widened with excitement. "Seriously? We’d love to."

Sarah laughed, a sweet, melodic sound. "Great! Let’s get a taxi."

The boys followed her outside, practically tripping over themselves in their eagerness. They piled into a taxi, squeezing in beside Sarah, who gave the driver her address.

As the taxi sped through the city streets, Jack and Mike exchanged triumphant glances. This was their chance. They were sure of it.

A few evenings later, the frat house was alive with the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking bottles. Jack and Mike moved through the crowded rooms with a sense of purpose. Their mission was clear: get laid. The air was thick with the smell of cheap cologne and sweat, mingling with the ever-present scent of pizza and beer.

Jack nudged Mike, pointing to a group of girls by the makeshift bar. "Target acquired," he muttered, a sly grin on his face.

The two boys sauntered over, their swagger exaggerated by the alcohol coursing through their veins. "Hey ladies," Jack said, leaning against the counter with what he thought was a charming smile. "You girls look like you could use some company."

One of the girls, a petite brunette, rolled her eyes. "We’re fine, thanks."

Undeterred, Mike leaned in closer. "Come on, don’t be like that. We’re just trying to have a good time. How about a dance?"

The girls exchanged glances, clearly unimpressed. "Maybe later," one of them said dismissively, turning her back to the boys.

Jack scowled, but before he could say anything more, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Sarah, the girl with the 'gigantic tits' they had ogled in class, smiling at him.

"Hey, Jack. Hey, Mike," Sarah said, her tone warm and inviting. "Enjoying the party?"

Jack’s eyes lit up. "Sarah! Yeah, it’s great. How about you?"

"I’m having a good time," she replied, her smile widening. "In fact, my roommates and I are throwing an after-party at our place. You guys should come."

Mike’s eyes widened with excitement. "Seriously? We’d love to."

Sarah laughed, a sweet, melodic sound. "Great! Let’s get a taxi."

The boys followed her outside, practically tripping over themselves in their eagerness. They piled into a taxi, squeezing in beside Sarah, who gave the driver her address.

As the taxi sped through the city streets, Jack and Mike exchanged triumphant glances. This was their chance. They were sure of it.

The taxi pulled up to a quaint, two-story house in a quiet neighborhood. Sarah led the way inside, where they were greeted by her roommates, a group of equally attractive young women. The living room was cozy and tastefully decorated, a stark contrast to the frat house.

"Welcome to our humble abode," Sarah said, gesturing for the boys to take a seat on the couch.

Jack and Mike plopped down, their eyes scanning the room. "Nice place," Jack commented, trying to sound suave.

"Thanks," one of Sarah’s roommates replied with a smile. "We like to keep it comfortable."

Sarah disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of drinks. "Here you go, guys," she said, handing them each a glass. "Drink up."

Jack took a sip, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through him. "So, what’s the plan for the after-party?" he asked, leaning back into the couch.

Sarah’s smile turned mischievous. "Oh, we’ve got something special planned for you two."

The boys exchanged excited glances, their minds racing with possibilities. They had no idea what was in store for them.

The boys downed their drinks, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through them. They relaxed into the couch, exchanging excited glances and chuckling softly. Jack turned to Sarah, his eyes slightly glazed. "So, what's the special plan?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

Sarah's smile widened. "You'll see," she said, her voice sweet but with an edge that sent a shiver down Jack's spine.

Minutes passed, and the boys started to feel strange. A warm, tingling sensation spread through their bodies. They shifted uncomfortably, realizing too late that something was very wrong. Jack felt a sudden, uncontrollable urge and before he could react, he heard a faint hissing sound. He looked down, horrified to see a wet stain spreading across his jeans.

"Mike!" Jack gasped, his voice shaky. "I think I just... wet myself."

Mike's eyes widened in panic as he felt a similar sensation. He looked down to see his pants darkening with wetness. "What the hell?" he muttered, his voice trembling.

The girls around them burst into laughter, their mocking giggles filling the room. "Looks like our big, tough frat boys can't even keep their pants dry!" Sarah teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Jack's face turned crimson with humiliation. "This isn't funny, Sarah!" he snapped, his voice cracking.

"Oh, but it is," Sarah said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "You guys wanted to get laid, right? Well, the only way you're getting laid tonight is on a changing table."

The girls' laughter grew louder as they surrounded the boys, their mocking words stinging like venom. "Looks like you two are nothing but big babies," one of Sarah's roommates taunted.

The boys, overwhelmed and humiliated, could do nothing but sit there, their soaked pants clinging to their skin. Sarah and her friends pulled them to their feet, guiding them through a doorway and into another room. The sight that greeted them was both surreal and terrifying.

The room was a giant nursery, complete with oversized cribs, a changing table, and shelves stocked with diapers and baby supplies. The walls were painted in soft pastels, decorated with cartoon characters and playful patterns. The scent of baby powder hung in the air.

Jack and Mike stood frozen, their minds struggling to process the bizarre scene before them. Sarah and her friends moved with practiced ease, leading the boys to the changing table. They were too stunned to resist as the girls began to strip them of their wet clothes.

"Welcome to your new home, boys," Sarah said, her voice a mix of amusement and authority. "From now on, you'll be treated like the babies you are."

The boys watched in a daze as the girls produced large, fluffy diapers, decorated with childish prints. Their hands trembled as they tried to cover themselves, but the girls were relentless. They gently but firmly laid the boys down on the changing table, their teasing voices a constant backdrop to the humiliating process.

"Don't worry," one of Sarah's roommates cooed. "We'll take good care of you."

Jack felt a mixture of fear, shame, and a strange, inexplicable sense of surrender as he was powdered and diapered like a baby. The thick padding crinkled as he was helped off the table, his legs wobbling slightly.

Mike, equally overwhelmed, found himself in a similar state. The soft, bulky diaper felt foreign and embarrassing, but he was too shaken to protest.

Suddenly, the door to the nursery opened once more. Professor Collins, the very woman they'd been deriding just days ago, stepped inside, her presence commanding the room.

At the sight of her, both boys felt an involuntary release, the warmth spreading through their diapers as they wet themselves in sheer terror. The professor's lips curled into a cold smile.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Professor Collins said, her voice dripping with mockery. "Two big, tough frat boys reduced to helpless little babies. How fitting."

Sarah and her friends giggled, their laughter echoing in the room. Jack's face burned with humiliation, his earlier bravado shattered. Mike looked away, too ashamed to meet anyone's gaze.

Professor Collins stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "It seems you boys have learned a valuable lesson. But we're not done yet. In fact, your reeducation is just beginning."

The boys exchanged horrified glances, their confusion evident. "Reeducation?" Jack stammered.

Sarah stepped forward, a confident smirk on her face. "Yes, reeducation. You see, Professor Collins has been working with us on a special project for her research in feminism. We're going to turn frat boys like you into good little babies, and then raise you to be better men."

The professor nodded, her gaze unwavering. "You've been chosen as our new research subjects. We'll be documenting every step of your transformation. From arrogant, misogynistic boys to respectful, well-behaved men."

Jack and Mike were too stunned to respond. The realization of their predicament sank in slowly, bringing with it a wave of dread. This wasn't just a humiliating prank. This was a complete, enforced regression.

Professor Collins leaned over Jack's crib, her voice a low, mocking whisper. "Think of this as a second chance, boys. A chance to learn respect, empathy, and humility. Traits you clearly lack."

Mike's eyes filled with tears of frustration and shame. "You can't do this to us," he said, his voice trembling. "We didn't agree to any of this."

Sarah's roommate, the one who had cooed at them earlier, patted Mike's head patronizingly. "Oh, but you did agree, the moment you stepped into this house. And now, you're ours to care for and mold into better people."

Jack clenched his fists, his anger bubbling beneath the surface. But he was powerless, trapped in a diaper, surrounded by women who held all the control.

Professor Collins straightened up, addressing the group. "Sarah, let's make sure our new 'babies' are comfortable. We'll begin their first lessons in the morning."

The girls nodded eagerly, each taking a turn to coo and tease the boys. "Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it," one of them said. "And who knows, you might even start to like it."

As the reality of their situation settled in, Jack and Mike felt a profound sense of defeat. They were no longer the cocky frat boys who had strutted into the party, thinking they could conquer anything. They were now just two scared, humiliated boys in diapers, facing an uncertain future in the hands of those they had once looked down upon.

Professor Collins turned to leave, her final words lingering in the air. "Goodnight, boys. Sweet dreams. Tomorrow, your real education begins."

The door closed behind her, leaving Jack and Mike in the oversized cribs, their minds racing with fear and confusion. They could hear the soft hum of a lullaby playing from a speaker in the corner, adding an eerie touch to the surreal nursery setting.

Sarah leaned over Jack’s crib one last time, her expression softening slightly. "You brought this on yourselves, you know. Maybe after this, you'll learn to treat people with respect."

With that, she turned off the lights, plunging the room into a soothing darkness, illuminated only by the soft glow of a nightlight. The boys lay there, their thoughts a chaotic mess, knowing that their lives had irrevocably changed.

As the lullaby played on, they realized there was no escaping this new reality. They were now the subjects of an experiment designed to reshape their very identities, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

[bratshaws]

through the hourglass 350.brb x oc

a/n: eeeee (comments and reblogs are super welcome and encouraged!)

pairing: plus size!oc x rooster

warnings: none uwu

goodness gracious (pls read this one to know more what this fic is about!!)

chapter

1/

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(pls let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! )

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-

Beatrice is nibbling on a piece of toast as she sits besides Rooster, watching her husband learning truco - quickly too -  was so relaxing. None else was there yet, Nicole was playing with Bianca and Ewoyn while the twins were on a playmat her mother bought for them in case they came over.

The brunette propped her chin on Rooster’s shoulder, smiling at the waft of his cologne, as she watched, “You are doing good,babe.” she says, “Michael looks…disgruntled.”

Rooster grinned, his eyes focused on the cards in his hand. "Thanks, gorgeous. Michael's a tough opponent, but I'm picking up the strategies."

“At least you agree.” Michael grumbled, “See Leo? Brad think I’m a tough opponent.”

“Well,Brad hasn’t shared a room with you,so he doesn’t know.”

Beatrice chuckled, reaching for a glass of homemade limoncello that her mom had just brought over. She took a sip and savored the citrusy sweetness. "You'll fit right in with this competitive bunch. Truco gets serious around here."

Rooster raised an eyebrow, his attention momentarily shifting from the cards. "I can see that. Michael is giving me the 'I'm plotting something' look."

Beatrice laughed, taking another sip of her limoncello. "Oh, that's just his terrible poker face. Don't let it intimidate you.”

"I'll be on the lookout for any sneaky moves, then."

Claudia, returned, placing a plate of freshly baked biscotti on the table. "Biscotti, anyone? Get it before Guillermo arrives, you know how your older brother is."

“A sweet tooth with a bitch face yeah-FUCK!” Michael grumbled in annoyance, slamming his forehead down on the table, “Fuck how did Brad get so good,so fast?!”

Rooster chuckled, looking genuinely amused. "Beginner's luck, maybe?"

Michael groaned, rubbing his temples. "If this is luck, it's seriously unfair. Leo, help me out here."

Leonardo smirked, glancing at the cards in his hand. "Sorry, Michael, but you're on your own. I can't help you win against the newcomer."

Beatrice grinned, kissing Rooster’s cheek "Looks like Roos has found his hidden talent. Maybe he was a Truco champion in a past life."

"Next round is mine," Michael declared, shuffling the cards with determination.

“You are too competitive,Mike.”

“Shut up.”

“What’s happening?” Guillermo’s deep voice broke the banter and his immense form covered most of the doorframe as he watched all of them at the table. His green eyes dropped to his siblings then to Brad, “Brad’s winning?”

"Hey, Guillermo. Yeah, you won't believe it, but Roos is giving Michael a run for his money in Truco." she says, proudly, hugging Rooster’s arm.

Guillermo's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really? B?"

"Surprised me too," Michael grumbled, looking at his cards with a determined scowl. "Beginner's luck or something."

Rooster grinned, playing along with the banter. "Just adapting.

Claudia joined them at the table, offering a plate of biscotti to Guillermo. "You're just in time. Join the game and give Michael some competition."

“Who else is missing?”

“Our other sisters,” Michael grumbled, “God damn it. Gui,help!

Guillermo hummed, taking a biscotti. "I'm afraid I've retired from the Truco battlefield. My skills are rusty."

Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Rusty, my foot. You're just scared Michael will cry if he loses."

Michael shot her a mock offended look. "I never cry." they all looked at him, “I never cry.”

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, "Really? Because I distinctly remember the time you lost a bet and had to watch 'The Notebook' with us."

Michael's face turned a shade of pink, and he grumbled under his breath. "That was a one-time thing."

Beatrice laughed, leaning into Rooster. "Maybe we should have a movie night soon. Watch something that will make Michael cry again."

Michael shook his head, waving off the suggestion. "Not happening. I've built up an immunity to tear-inducing movies."

“You didn’t honey,” Hannah says, “You cried watching tik tok a few days ago. And you cried while playing something with yoru friends.” and Michael felt the utter betrayal coming from all sides…so much he just huffed and kept his eyes on his cards

But as the Truco game reached its final rounds, the competition intensified. Rooster, still adapting to the game, managed to hold his ground against Michael's ‘experienced’ plays. In the midst of the game, Sabrina's laughter echoed from the doorway as she entered the scene. "What's all this noise about?" she asked, glancing around the table.

"Roos is schooling Michael in Truco," Beatrice announced with a proud grin.

Sabrina raised an eyebrow, her eyes flickering between Rooster and Michael. "Really now? Brad, a card shark in the making?"

Rooster chuckled, nodding. "Beginner's luck."

Beatrice lookd back to cyheck on the twins, who were now carried by her dad who just walked around the backyard, pointing at the orange tree growing close to the fence, bouncing the babies now and again.

Suddenly,Nicole zipped closer to Bea, ‘Mama, look!” she was cupping something in her tiny hands, “S’a fwend!”

Beatrice leaned down to Nicole's level, her eyes widening as she saw a small ladybug nestled in Nicole's palms. "Oh, it's a little friend. How did you find it?"

Nicole beamed, "It has spots!"

Beatrice smiled, "That's so sweet, Nicole. Ladybugs are good luck. Let it crawl on your hand gently." She watched as Nicole carefully extended her hand, and the ladybug crawled onto her tiny fingers. She gasped, then giggled, “There you go, are you having fun with cousin Bibi and cousin Eowyn?” 

And Nicole nods, “Yesh.” she giggles more, “Mama,keep it?”

“Keep the ladybug?” she nods, ‘Oh,honey, no,no we can’t. She has to go back to her own mama,okay?”

Nicole pouted slightly, her eyes widening with a hint of disappointment then she looked down at the little bug. "But... I like fwends."

Beatrice chuckled, her heart warmed by Nicole's innocence. "I know, sweetheart. We can enjoy our time with the ladybug, but then we have to let her go back to her family. It's important to share our friends with others too."

Nicole considered this for a moment, her brows furrowed in thought. After a brief pause, she nodded in agreement. "Okay, Mama. We share fwends."

"Exactly," Beatrice said, giving Nicole a gentle hug. "Now, let's go show your little friend to nonno and the others."

Nicole walked over to where Rafael was now seated next to Michael,still holding the twins to his chest. Nicole excitedly displayed the ladybug to her grandfather. "Nonno, look! Fwend!"

Rafael's eyes lit up as he examined the tiny creature. "Ah, a ladybug! You know, in our culture, ladybugs are considered a symbol of good luck. It's said that they bring happiness and prosperity."

Nicole blinked at him, “...huh?”

“Papa,please,” Beatrice laughs, “She’s only one year old, she only got half of that.”

Rafael chuckled, "My apologies, little one. Ladybugs are like tiny messengers of good things. They bring smiles and good wishes wherever they go."

“Whu’s that?”

“What?A wish?” she nods and Rafael blinks, still holding the twins and furrowing his brows, “Uhhh…well….a wish is something you want really bad.” Beatrice noticed that while her father was speaking, Nicole just watched him intently, unblinking, “And stuff has that power.”

“...mkay! Papa!” Nicole quickly turns on her heel and shows the tiny bug to Rooster, who immediately stops to smile at her, “Wish!” 

Rooster grinned at Nicole's excitement, gently picking her up from under her armpits, “Oh you got a ladybug,huh? That’s nice.”

Nicole's eyes sparkled with innocence as she gazed at the ladybug. "Wish fwends forever!"

The simplicity and sincerity of Nicole's wish brought smiles to everyone around. Beatrice exchanged a glance with Rooster, their hearts warmed by the genuine joy of their little one. 

"Well, I think that's a beautiful wish," Rooster said, his voice filled with warmth. "Wishing for friends forever is something special."

Nicole beamed at Rooster's approval, and she continued to showcase her newfound friend to everyone that looked over at her. Beatrice smiles more, her hand rubbing her heart as she inhales shakily.

Sometimes she can’t believe this is her life.

She got not only the man of her dreams - said man winked at her before he got back to the game - she got amazing kids and a family that loves her husband just as much as she did…and he deserved it. She couldn’t help but feel her eyes stinging, because like her aunt said ‘they were meant to be’ 

If there’s any universe where the two aren’t together, she hopes her other version runs over and finds him there…because there’s no way life would be the same without him. She clears her throat, checking the time and seeing she had to make sure the twins’ got fed, “Roos.” her husband looks over, “I’m going to feed Gavin and Aurora,okay? I’ll be in my old room.”

Rooster nodded, his eyes following Beatrice as she made her way inside, only looking back when she disappeared from view. Beatrice entered the familiar halls of her childhood home, the echoes of her footsteps seemed to harmonize with the music being played outside As she approached the door of her old room, she couldn't help but smile at the flood of emotions.

Pushing the door open the soft glow from the bedside lamp illuminated the room, it made her smile. Her mother was slowly making it more neutral, it was a slow process but it was happening.

Settling into her old bed, Beatrice cradled Gavin in her arms, his tiny hands reaching out as he fidgeted in anticipation of the meal. Aurora, on her opposite arm just babbled quietly. Just as she was about to feed both, she saw her mother’s head pop in, “Oh, hi mom.” she says, gently pulling her shirt up “I’m going to feed them–you alright?” her mother’s eyes were shining with tears, but she was smiling.

Claudia walked into the room, her eyes gleaming "Oh, Beatrice, it's just so heartwarming to see you here, with your beautiful family."

Beatrice smiled, a softness in her eyes. "Thank you mama…”

Claudia approached, sitting on the edge of the bed. She gently brushed a strand of hair from Beatrice's face. "You're a wonderful mother, tesoro. I couldn't be prouder."

Beatrice's heart swelled with warmth at her mother's words. She had come a long way from the young girl who once inhabited this room, and now, she was a mother herself. Gavin latched onto her breast, nursing peacefully, while Aurora, in her own baby babble, seemed to share in the moment. “...I—”

“You are amazing, oh tesoro, I…” Claudia inhales, “When you told me about Bradley I have to admit, i was worried, I was worried…but the way he looks at you oh-” she shakes her head, “He doesn’t look away a second…and that fills me with joy and happiness and…and now you have three wonderful kids.”

"Mom, I couldn't have asked for a better partner," Beatrice admitted, her voice soft. "Brad…Brad is so…h-he has been my rock, especially through all the ups and downs. “ 

I didn’t think he’d stay, she wanted to say.

Claudia beamed, her eyes still glistening with emotion. "He's a good man, and he loves you so much. It's evident in every glance, every touch. I'm glad you found each other." she cups her daughter’s cheek, “...your life will be filled with love and joy, tesoro. It will.”

“...thank you,Mama.” she says softly, sniffling, “I…thank you…I…I know it will. It’ll be amazing.”

As Gavin finished nursing, Beatrice carefully shifted him to her shoulder, patting his back gently to soothe him. Claudia watched with a soft smile, her hand still resting on Beatrice's cheek. "You've become such a natural at this, sweetheart. It's like you were born to be a mother."

Beatrice chuckled, a hint of exhaustion in her voice. "I think Nicole,Gavin and Aurora did a good job training me. It's a learning experience every day."

Claudia laughed warmly, the sound like a comforting melody. "That's the beauty of it, tesoro. Motherhood is a journey of continuous learning, and you're navigating it beautifully."

Beatrice's gaze shifted to Aurora, who was now peacefully nestled against her other arm, her little fingers curled around Beatrice's shirt. "I always wanted a family like this," Beatrice admitted, her voice soft with nostalgia. "I wanted to recreate the warmth and love we had in this house."

Claudia nodded, her eyes reflecting the shared memories. "You've not only recreated it, but you've also expanded it. Our home is filled with new laughter, new stories. Bradley and the kids have woven themselves seamlessly into our family tapestry."

A thoughtful expression crossed Beatrice's face. "Roos has become an integral part of our lives, hasn't he? It's strange to think about the time when he was this new face in our world."

And how scared she was then.

Claudia's eyes twinkled with affection. "It's not strange at all, tesoro. Sometimes, the most unexpected connections become the most precious ones….Your father and I feel so blessed to have all of you here," Claudia expressed, her voice a gentle whisper. "Our home is filled with love, warmth, and the pitter-patter of little feet. I couldn't ask for more."

Beatrice sighed contentedly, gazing at her sleeping children. "Mama…you are going to make me cry.”

Claudia reached over, her hand gently resting on Beatrice's cheek,swiping a tear that dared to go down. "Crying is not a bad thing, tesoro. It's the overflow of a heart that's bursting with love and gratitude."

"We're truly grateful for everything you and Papa have done for us," Beatrice confessed, sniffling . "And–and,” she closes her eyes to regain her composure, “And everything is going so good now, with the kids and my job and Brad’s promotion–”

“...what?”

“What?”

Claudia’s eyes widened, “...Brad is getting promoted?”

“...I…I didn’t tell you?” oh no. Her mother’s face started to change and before she could stop her very fast Italian mother, she heard it, loud and piercing, with some teary tones downstairs.

“BRADLEY YOU ARE GETTING PROMOTED?!”

Funny,she was pretty sure she told her mother that.

[piperbolt3]

WHAT CHARATER ASK BLOG SHOULD I REPLACE WITH THIS @mak-tha-one BLOG??!?!

PLEASE REBLOG I WANT PEOPLE TO SEE MY ART AND VOTE THIS!!! (ALSO I GAVE UP ON THE DSAF AU DUE TO NO MOTIVATION)

[makbubblefandom]

Hello Fnaf Fans !

I’m Mak, I’m 23 and I’m looking to do a Securitywaiter rp !

I’m looking for someone to play the Mike to my Ness !

We can brainstorm a story together and discuss headcanons !

I’m looking for 18+ offers only ! I rp on discord - semi lit

I’m looking for someone pretty active, so if you are interested please dm me or interact with this post in any way and I’ll let back to you ! ❤️❤️

[robinswise]

okayyyy unpopular opinion that will more then likely turn into a rant!

EDDIE 'THE FREAK' MUNSON IS THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE

AAAAAA

ok.

I. Do. Not. Like. Eddie. Munson.

Just to get this out of the way, I don't hate Joseph Quinn at all, he's a great actor, but I hate Eddie.

OKAY I NEED TO ACTUALLY GET TO THE POINT-

Eddie is an asshole

Why couldn't he push the dnd campaign to a different day? Is there a reason? I don't think there was, I don't remember there being one and when I googled it, sure enough, there doesn't seem to be a reason.

Really couldn't his role have been given to pretty much any of the characters?

Mike.

Lucas.

Dustin.

Jonathan would've made the most sense (to me) if he wasn't in Cali (in season 1 we know some people thought Jonathan might've k!lled Will, so they could've thought he did the same to Chrissy)

Even Steve.

Honestly, even Max could've been given the role

Also, I don't dislike most people who like Eddie, alot of them are just really obsessed (like a scary level of obsession)

ALSO STEDDIE-

I posted about them positively one time a while ago but no I do not ship them.

The context for that post was that I didn't hate Steddie - at the time I even vaguely liked them (or more specifically, I liked the way that certain people wrote them) but I didn't ship them, they just made the most sense for that specific idea and I didn't hate them at the time.

I was reading something that was part of a longer series of posts and the person had hinted that Stonathan would be in it but then suddenly Eddie appeared and Steddie was heavily implied - which normally wouldn't be an issue but they didn't tag it with Eddie or Steddie.

Anyways, Argyle is in my opinion the better character added in season 4.

Another thing, it didn't bother me initially but Eddie stans acting like Eddie and Dustin's friendship is so unique is really annoying to me-

Because- no- like sure, he's close with Eddie, but the friendship is not unique whatsoever, in terms of older brother like friends he had Steve, in terms of outcast nerds who like dnd he had the party, and in terms of friends with attitude problems he had Mike and Max

Also, was his death really all that shocking? It fit the st formula perfectly! Introduce a new character just to k!ll them off

Benny

Barb

Bob

Billy

Even in search 4 we got Chrissy Fred and Patrick

About his crazy fans - not all are like this, I've met some genuinely nice Eddie fans who've written genuinely good Steddie ficlets - but was sending death threats necessary? Because I just don't get why that whole thing happened.

I think Eddie coming back in any form other then a flashback or Vecna vision would just maks me upset tbh, like actually, what would be the point? They already pulled "look he's actually alive!" Trick with Hopper (and to an extent, Will) so doing it a third time (even for such a fan favorite) would just feel lazy to me

Also, in my opinion, Will would dislike Eddie, so many people say that Will would love him but to me, I feel like it would be very out of character for him to like Eddie (knowing that Will doesn't like extra attention - at least not from people who might judge and/or ridicule him - and Eddie actively draws it)

I feel like the fact we only got a reaction to Eddie's death from Dustin and Wayne is really telling as to how little importance he actually had, because even Mike who was friends with Eddie didn't know about his death - or at least his reaction wasn't important enough to show.

I found Eddie's guitar solo to be very pointless and even rather boring.

Also, there are people who ship Eddie with Billy?? Ew.

Even as someone who does not like Eddie at all I can confidently say that he deserves better and would probably not fall for that walking piece of dog shit (once again, I don't hate Dacre Montgomery I just hate Billy)

Anyways, in short, I don't mind Joseph Quinn or Eddie's fans, I know there's definitely worse characters in the show, and at the end of the day I'm just a nerd on the internet who's been fixated on the same subject for probably way to long so it's fine to have a different opinion then me

[roosterforme]

Did you ever reveal the name of Cat’s ex? Because the second Disease Patterfucker said “Let's just say, my career in Annapolis outlived my bad marriage” I’ve been suspicious. Is he the garbage Cat had to toss?

Always I read this name and went “of course his name is Derek.”

OMG! Okay, Cat's ex husband's name is Mike (and he was dishonorably discharged from the Navy), but he and Derek sound like they are cut from the same cloth.

The other night, I was like, "I need a name for this asshole," and @mak-32 said Derek. And I said yup. So of course his name is Derek.

[mm9688x]

I'm rewatching S1 and it has come to my attention that Steve's infamous bat is technically not his. Jonathan was the first to use it. He and Nancy made it. Nancy supplied the bat. Jonathan the nails. The real love triangle isn't Steve/Nancy/Jonathan. It's Steve/the Bat/Jonathan.

Steve and Jonathan share custody of it. Steve gets primary custody since he's "always the goddamn babysitter". Jonathan gets custody whenever he feels the need to beat the ever loving shit out of Mike for hurting his little bro. After Steve found out what a little shit Mike has been to Will, he doesnt fight Jonathan on it. Jonathan just shows up gives him the look and Steve hands over the bat and says "bring her back safe and clean". (Yes the bat is a her. It's the 80s and guys always call inanimate objects they love "she/her".) 

Her name is Bat Benatar, after Pat Benatar and her famous song "Hit Me With Your Best Shot". Its the only song both men enjoy. Steve insists Bat likes to be called "Battie".

Nancy and Robin think the two of them have finally lost it. Even tho Nancy does insist that she gets custody of Bat on occasion cuz she helped create her. Nancy only uses Bat to intimidate people who piss her off tho. You kno Nancy would be like "Steve, Jonathan, I need to borrow our child for a minute. Someone is picking on Max."

They all kno when Nancy asks for custody of Bat, all hell's about to break lose. Cuz Nancy never asks for Bat. Shes always too busy w/ taking care of her other children: Smith, Wesson, Colt, and her sawed off shotgun, Winnie. Theres also her adopted son, Mak whom she rescued after the Battle of Starcourt Mall. If you dont think Nancy doesnt name her guns, then ur wrong.

Robin thinks they're all losing it until Steve points out that she has named her trumpet, Jett.

Hopper has also named his gun. Her name is Maggie.

[khaylin27]

New Year, Big Surprises

Blurb of DODGERS VS PHILLIES BABY!!!

It was New Year's Eve, you and Miles arrived in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to spend New Year with Miles's family. You loved Miles's family and you were excited to give them their gifts since they couldn't make it to LA for Christmas.

"Thank you Auntie Y/N and Uncle Miles for my gift." Amelia, Miles's niece, gently hugs you since you were holding her newborn brother, Oliver.

"You're welcome, little bug." You look at her and smile. " I have another surprise but you have to bring everyone to the living room." Amelia nods yes and gets each family member one by one to the living room.

" You look good with little Oliver over here Sugar," Miles compliments how calm you're kept Oliver. " I can't wait to tell my family our big surprise!"

" Me too," you tell Miles as all of the family came into the living room.

"So what's the big surprise?" Miles 's dad, Mike, asks you two. Miles takes invitation sized cards out of your bag and gives each family member one.

"Here's our little surprise." Miles says to his family as they open their cards.

"OH MY GOODNESS! Y/N YOU'RE PREGNANT!!" Miles's mom, Merry, gets up and hugs you. "Congratulations you two!"

"No wonder you wanted to take care of Oliver for a bit." Miles's sister, Dana, figures out. "You guys wanted some practice."

"Sort of but I also want him to know who his favorite aunt is." The whole family starts laughing at your comment.

Here's to be added to the taglist

Taglist: (crossed out means I couldn't tag you) @eternalsams @angiem219 @mizzysx @xylnnx07 @withakindheartx @lethalbeautiful @atarmychick007 @sharimallina87 @adoringsebstan @mak-32 @nograce-nomercy @brittancqs

[genuine-wrestleboy]

the attraction (5/5)

words: 8,333

You know immediately, with iron certainty, that Mike has gone to Fazbear’s Fright. It's a little while longer than that before you realize he's taken your car keys with him. You pace the tiny kitchen, surrounded by everything you'd torn out of your bags in the search, listening again as his phone rings out to voicemail.

“Come on, Mike,” you hiss into your phone. You've chewed the nail on your thumb down to the quick. “Please pick up.”

What would you even say to him if he did? Would you ask him to turn around? Tell him to be careful? Warn him that he's walking into a trap? You seriously doubt that he'd listen to you at this point, and you can't even blame him for that. If he's walking into a trap, it's one that you willingly helped set.

Just let me be there, you think, frantically tapping a new number into your phone. It feels like the only thing the dozen overlapping voices in your mind can agree on. Please just let me be there.

Your friend picks up on the second ring. Your name is half a question on their tongue, like they hadn't ever expected to say it again.

“I need your help,” you say by way of a greeting.

“What does that mean?” they ask, already wary.

“It means you have a car that's not totaled and a leg that's not in a cast,” you tell them. “And you owe me for ditching me at Fazbear’s.”

“That wasn’t my idea,” they say defensively.

You let the moment hang in silence. Guilt might be the only real tool in your arsenal right now, and even if you don't feel great about employing it, you can't afford the time required for anything more diplomatic. Your friend makes several sounds that want to be protests, but none of them can quite commit.

“What do you want me to do?” they ask finally, weakly.

“Nothing—I, well, I need to borrow your car.”

“Don't you have a car?”

“It's a long story.” You do your best not to snap, but every second they stall, Mike's headstart on you gets longer and longer. “I don't really have time to explain. Please, this is important.”

“Shit,” they say, then with feeling, “shit, okay, are you home?”

“No.” You tell them the name of the town and hope that might be it, but they make a confused noise and ask, “Wait, what are you doing there?”

“That's also a long story.” You can hear the exhaustion in your own voice. “Can you get here?”

Your friend breathes out tightly through their nose. “Send me the address.”

A rush of relief fills your lungs, and the breath you pull in leaves you light-headed.

“Thank you, really. You're saving my life, here.”

“Yeah, well. As long as I live to regret it, we're square.”

They hang up without further word, and you swipe a hasty hand across your eyes and dial Mike's number again. Again, he fails to pick up. You think about leaving another message, but the box is full. You open your texts and stare at the last two he sent you, hours ago now.

Are you hungry there’s not much food in the place…

I could order a pizza? Or I make a mean spaghetti and meatballs if you’re into that

You think about it, sitting at the shitty little table with a plate of spaghetti instead of standing here cutting crescents into your palms with your nails. Simple, easy, mundane. Utterly impossible now. The thought makes the knot of tears tighten behind your eyes.

You reach up and touch your throat, bruises fresh and hot under your fingertips. Something inside it constricts nastily. You tear your hand away and dial Mike's number again.

By the time your friend pulls up, it's full dark outside, and a frigid, misty rain hangs over the lot. You sprint out to meet them, hood pulled up to shield your face. Everywhere the rain touches feels like a thousand chilly little pinpricks, and you throw yourself into the passenger seat just to get out of it.

“Sorry,” you say, shaking yourself like a dog.

“For what specifically?” Their voice has the forced lightness of someone who isn't joking doing their best to make what they're saying sound like a joke. Another pang of guilt goes through you.

“Getting your seat wet,” you reply hollowly, and their mouth thins.

“It's fine. Where are we headed?”

“I—” It takes you a beat for the implication of their question to slide through to your brain. “You don't have to come. I didn't—you can stay here, if you want.”

Your friend looks at you like you just started stripping next to them. “Why would I do that?”

Right. They don't know. You study their face, their vaguely annoyed expression. The distance between you feels suddenly like miles, like years.

“It's—” You wave your hands, at a loss to sum up everything that's happened since the two of you parted ways. “—dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” they say flatly.

“I have to go back to Fazbear’s,” you elaborate, though you’re not sure it actually clarifies anything.

Their eyebrows climb towards their hairline. “Fazbear’s Fright? It burned down, dude.”

“I know that,” you snap, ire rising. You have to remind yourself again that they don’t know, couldn’t know. “I was there.”

Your friend at least has the good grace to look taken aback. “Did—you didn’t do it, did you?”

“No,” you assure them tiredly. “It’s a long story.”

They nod. “So you keep saying. But we’ve got a long drive.”

“You don’t understand,” you insist, but they’re already shifting the car into gear.

“Save it. I’m not ditching you again, okay? That’s the whole, you know, the whole fucking thing. Explain it to me or don’t, I’m driving you to Fazbear’s.”

“Okay,” you say weakly. Despite yourself, you can’t deny that the prospect of having company for the drive is a welcome one. You don't think you can be alone with your thoughts much longer before they start to unravel and take you with them. “Thanks.”

“Mhmm.” They ease the car into motion, knuckles white on the wheel. 

“I'm not sure how much I can actually tell you,” you admit after a moment, mostly to break the pull of tension. Still, it's not untrue—you're not sure how much they'd actually believe. You wouldn't believe half of it yourself if it hadn't happened to you.

Your friend glances over, unimpressed. “Sure. What's at Fazbears?”

“Uh.” Your thoughts scramble around the question. What is Mike to you? What is Springtrap? “A…friend.”

“A dangerous friend?” they prod.

“Maybe.” You pretend not to notice the way their eyes go wide at that. “A friend in danger, at least.”

“Jeez,” they say, clearly aiming for a lighter tone than they manage. “Can't leave you alone for two seconds.”

“Sorry.”

They click their tongue. “Don't do that. It was just a joke.”

Both of you falter into silence after that, broken only by the occasional ping from your friend's GPS. You start and abort a dozen sentences in your head, the easy normalcy of smalltalk more appealing now than it's ever been, but all the words sit in your mouth like marbles, garbled and clacking.

Mindlessly, you scroll back through Mike's texts, through the unanswered line of your own. You can't even tell if he read any of them. From there you flick through the usual distractions, dismissing notifications from all the frivolous apps that used to seem so important. It works, for a little while at least, to keep everything else at bay, quickly melting ice over the white-water roar of emotions at the back of your mind. 

But it doesn't last, and the silence does. Doubt starts to creep in at the edge of your thoughts, furling out dark and unending as the road beyond the windshield. At the end of it, the phantom of Fazbear's looms shrouded and huge, the staring windows, the gutted mouth. Empty and expectant, hungry and cold. 

Are you stupid for this? What’s stopping you from having your friend turn off at the next exit, turn around, forget any of this ever happened? Springtrap was right—Mike should never have involved you in the first place, so who could blame you for walking away? You kept your promise, by all rights you should be able to wash your hands of it and leave the two of them to whatever awful fates they have planned for each other. What can you even do, really, for either of them, other than get in the way?

Fuck, you think emphatically, gut churning, and briefly consider asking your friend to pull over so you don’t get sick all over yourself. They must be able to tell that something is wrong, because they shoot a glance sideways at where you slump in your seat, mouth slanted.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just thinking.”

As if to prove it—to them or to yourself, you can’t quite tell—you readjust your posture and casually return your phone. You’re scraping the bottom of your available distractions, cycling through the home screen until you’ve opened and closed your email three separate times, when you remember the pictures you’d so hastily hidden from Mike earlier. Tapping open your gallery, you flip through them, tilting your screen judiciously, one by one deleting images of the inside of your pocket, the seat of your car, a blurry glimpse of one crooked rabbit ear. 

The final picture seems to have been taken just before your phone slipped itself into the folds of your backpack. You have to turn the screen sideways to make out what it is, but eventually the muzzy details resolve into glass-glare and gilded frame, the corner of the prize you’d wrested from Fazbear’s burned-out remains. Just the photograph is visible, the waving yellow rabbit suit, big mitted paws and one long, crooked ear.

A thrill goes through you. You zoom in on the photo, drinking in the familiar details with the giddy glee of a schoolgirl with a crush. If there’s a caption, it’s been cut off, but you know what you’re looking at all the same. Springtrap stares out from the screen, heavy-lidded and grinning, across the span of the long, rotting years that brought him to you. Nostalgia sits bittersweet on your tongue, the sort you get for stiffly posed sepia-toned portraits from a hundred years ago. Lives you'll never lead, people you'll never meet. Real the way stars are real, blazing and beautiful and impossible to reach.

You touch the image with careful fingertips, and it twitches and snaps back to original size, then flicks away entirely. You start to swipe back over, then stop. The picture on your screen is not one you remember taking, but you recognize it all the same. It's a newspaper article, one of the many pasted on the walls of Fazbear's before the fire. You must've accidentally taken a picture while you were using your phone as a flashlight. The angle is a little weird, but you can still read all the words.

Five Children Now Reported Missing. Suspect Convicted.

Five children are now linked to the incident at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, where a man dressed as a cartoon mascot lured them into a back room. While the suspect has been charged, the bodies themselves were never found. Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza has been fighting an uphill battle ever since to convince families to return to the pizzeria.

Understanding rips through you like a blade. The nausea from before returns with a vengeance, acid burning through your sinuses, and you swallow thickly as the back of your throat floods with sick-tasting air.

“Hey.” You aim for casual and end up somewhere in strangled. “Can I ask you something?”

Your friend inclines their head in your direction. “Go ahead.”

“What happened at Freddy Fazbear's?”

Their eyes dart to you briefly. “The real stuff or the stories?”

You twist your fingers together to stop them shaking. “What's the difference?”

“The real story is that some kids went missing there in, like, the eighties. There were never any bodies, but they never found them, either. They arrested a guy, but he never even went to trial, I don't think. The others would know more,” they add, which gets a hollow laugh out of you. You don't want to know any of this, but the question burbles poisonously up and out of you anyway.

“What about the guy they arrested?”

Your friend shrugs. “Like I said, I don't know that much. It might just be the stories, but I think it was one of the owners? The legend is that he wore one of the Freddy's suits while he did it.” They wave a hand vaguely, waggling their fingers, spoooky. “That's what the Springtrap was supposed to be, the undead remains of the killer or whatever.”

You remember, with sudden, perfect clarity, the body of the guard in that dank back room, the horribly bent neck, the dark spreading blood, the glassy, vacant eyes.

You’ve known all along what Springtrap is capable of, but it hadn’t seemed real, and then when it had he had been there too, so much realer, so much more. Caught here, staring down the truth, you feel like some woozy woodland creature, leg shattered by a snare, your vision swallowed by the unfeeling muzzle of a gun.

“God,” is all you can manage. Your breath feels thin in your lungs.

“Yeah, it's pretty nuts,” agrees your friend mildly. They seem happy to end it at that, blissfully unaware that the floor has dropped out of the world.

Mike hadn’t mentioned any of this—why? Did he not know? But Springtrap is his father, if he really was arrested, how could Mike have missed it?

Maybe, suggests a venomous little voice at the back of your mind, he didn’t think he had to. Maybe he thought the murder you already knew about would be enough to keep you away. Why wasn’t it?

The sob that punches its way out of you seems to catch you and your friend both equally by surprise. They flinch, regret seeping into their expression like oil on water. You cover your mouth with both hands. Grief and terror vye for the top spot in your horrified mind, and you can’t even explain why, because there’s no world in which your friend doesn’t turn around once you tell them that they’re driving you to meet a murderer. You can’t even blame them for that. You like to think you’d have done the same, in their place, before Springtrap became the gravitational pull at the center of your spinning world.

“Still just thinking?” they ask warily.

“Sorry,” you rasp, “It’s nothing.”

“If you say so.”

This time, you have your friend pull straight up into the main parking lot, yellow tape catching from the branch of a tree and flailing desperately from the side mirror. Mike’s car is predictably already here, pulled up sideways along the curb, the door hanging ominously open. Something about it puts the steel back in your spine, and you start unbuckling your belt before your friend has even cut the engine.

“Holy shit,” they say, “that’s the security guard’s car.”

“Thank you again for this,” you say distractedly, “but you should probably go now.”

“You want me to leave you here?” they ask, like that’s somehow the strangest thing you’ve said so far.

“I told you, it’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, which isn’t exactly making me feel good about leaving you here alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” you remind them.

They drag a hand down their face. “Right, the weird security guard is in there, how comforting. Is he your dangerous friend?”

“No. Can you just trust me and get out of here? I’m trying to keep you out of another ditch.”

“Another—what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out later,” you suggest, unkindly, but your patience is a ragged thing right now. Being back here has ignited all the nerves in your body, and you feel like you might explode if you stay in this car for another second.

“No—no, you know who ran us off the road last night.” They jab a finger in your direction, accusing. 

“So do you!” You catch yourself right before you shout, hissing it through your teeth instead. “At least everyone else seems to.”

There’s a desperate edge to the careful skepticism they level at you. “They were imagining things. They had to be, I—he tore the door off the car.”

“So you understand why I think it would be a good idea for you to go.”

The panicky fear in their eyes sharpens to anger. “Are you serious? You’re gonna sit there and tell me the fucking Springtrap almost killed us and not even try to explain why?”

He wouldn't kill you, you want to argue, but you realize that you can’t.

���I don’t have time,” you tell them instead, guilt rising. “Please, I promise I’ll tell you whatever I can later, but for now I really need you to not be here.”

“Whatever you can,” they say, without much hope. “You get yourself into the weirdest shit, you know that? Fine, fine, I’m going. Tell the security guard we all say thanks.”

With that blessing, you swing yourself out of the car, pausing for a moment to lean through the door. “Get home safe.”

“You too, crazy. Don’t die, okay?”

“I'll do my best.”

You can’t let yourself consider it any longer than that, can’t see your last chance to change your mind racing away from you like flame eating a wick. You avoid your friend’s eyes and set your teeth together, half certain they’re going to start chattering. The door slams with a muted thud, and you hit a sprint before your mind catches up to the fact that you’re moving. You don't look back.

Even from a distance, it's clear that the front door has been forced open. The glass is smashed, the rest all but wrenched loose, hanging from the frame by a single straining hinge. It sways miserably back and forth, screeching under the strain of its own weight. You step carefully around it, hands out, as though you'd have any chance of safely catching it should the inevitable occur while you're in the way. It feels far longer than the handful of seconds it actually takes before you successfully stumble through, the air whooshing out of you in a relieved exhale.

The relief doesn't last. Something has changed since you were here earlier. The air is charged and still, like the whole building is holding its breath. It's not the silence of a mausoleum, or even of waiting, but of a forest where every living thing has fled moments before the wildfire catches up.

You think about calling out, but no name comes readily to your tongue. Instead, phone clutched in your hand like a protective talisman, you edge your way forward. There’s at least something of a path here, presumably cleared by the cops and firefighters. The charred hulk of what was once the front desk has been shoved against the wall, a shadow amongst shadows. Without the daylight streaming in from above, the whole place is nothing but.

With shaking hands, you turn on your phone's flashlight and sweep it along ahead of you. Your ears strain for any sounds above your own nervous breathing, the catch of your footsteps. Debris crunches under your boots, equal parts glass and ash and, unexpectedly, a sparse trail of fallen leaves that trickles on ahead into the ruined dark. Other than that, nothing, and nothing, and then—

From somewhere up ahead, you hear the faint snatch of an impossible sound. It's so impossible that at first you assume you imagined it, your frazzled nerves conjuring ghosts. But then you hear it again, and your body floods with deep, panicky adrenaline. Care sets itself aside in service of speed as you rush forward, pulled as if by a string tied to your ribcage, towards a room where you can hear a child laughing.

Your thoughts slam hard into the memory of your friend's words in the car, five children missing and no bodies ever found. You're not sure what your stance on ghosts actually is, but if there were going to be haunted buildings, Fazbear's is definitely a strong contender. The alternative is somehow even harder to explain, that a child managed to get themselves here on their own. Or that somebody brought them here, you suppose, but that's stranger yet, why would anybody—

Oh god. Please, not that.

Nausea roils in your throat as you catch onto the doorframe and swing yourself into the room just in time to watch Springtrap snap a cheap little bluetooth speaker in halves. The laughter cuts out immediately, but he still closes his mitted fists on each half in turn, crushing the black plastic into fragments.

The sight of him is riptide, a sudden, grasping, drowning emotion, half terror and half joy, and both so strong you can barely breathe past them. He turns to you with a quick snap of attention, as though he was expecting someone else, and though the mask doesn’t change you watch all the lines of his broad, battered body relax with guilty gratification.

“You came.” He tosses the speaker aside and holds out both hands to you expectantly.

“What was that?” you ask instead. You need to keep your head right now, and if you go to him, you know, you’ll be his.

He scoffs. “A nasty trick of Michael’s. There’s an AI override in the suit designed to make the animatronics move towards sound. Apparently, he’s discovered that he can activate it using these ridiculous things, and turn me into no more than a helpless passenger running around this cursed place while he does whatever it is he thinks he came here to do.”

“The AI is still active?” It seems like a stretch that anything so delicate could still be up and running after all this time, and all that damage.

“It’s a very well-built suit,” Springtrap tells you smugly.

“Maybe too well built,” you laugh despite yourself.

Springtrap closes the distance between you in two long strides. His hand is firm but gentle when it cradles your chin, and where it touches your skin, the metal is freezing cold.

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show up.”

“Mike took my keys,” you explain.

“Of course,” he simpers. “Your good friend, Mike. Trying to keep you safe from me, was he?”

He drags a sharp thumb along your jawline, and you thrill, grasping at his wrist. Under your palm, you feel the mechanisms shift, gristle and metal and bone.

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No, of course not,” you say.

Springtrap hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps he should.”

“What?” That clears your head as well as a shake, and you edge back on your heels.

Springtrap tightens his grip, nearly to the point of pain, and tugs you back towards him. He seems like he's about to speak, but then he goes still, head tilted cautiously to one side. His broken ear twitches.

Then you hear it too: a small, shy voice, floating in from somewhere deeper in the building.

“Hello?”

Unlike the laughter, or maybe just because you know to listen for it now, there's a cold, mechanical echo to it that gives away its artificial origin. The word repeats, eerily identical in its delivery, and gooseflesh prickles along your arms. Another of Mike’s speakers, you tell yourself, but you can't help thinking again about ghosts.

You see the control go from Springtrap when it happens. The suit shudders and jerks, servos shrieking as they kick in, and as he spins away his hand rips away from you so quickly that it snaps your head to the side. It leaves you with a shallow scratch along your cheek, and a moment of struck dizziness sparking stars behind your eyes.

Springtrap lurches forward, great unsteady steps that belie the slow, deliberate grace you've come to associate with him. Every part of him moves as if with a motive of its own, shoulders rocking forward as the torso pulls back, arms shuddering as they swing. You watch him attempt to turn to you, to speak, but whatever’s left of the suit’s speaker system crackles with overwhelming static. Here and there come what might be words, barely audible and distorted like a toy running low on battery.

“H-– ki–s! My n— —s Spri–g Bon–ie! W— y—s?”

As he reaches the doorway, Springtrap lets out a roar of frustration that cuts through the static like a knife, keen and hot with rage. Both hands catch the doorframe and hold on, fingers splintering into the fragile wood. You can see him trembling with the effort of it.

“What am I supposed to do?” you ask him helplessly.

His shoulders hunch as he takes another staggered step forward, the wood creaking in protest. Ashy remnants flake to the ground between his fingers.

“The kitchen,” he grinds out, or at least enough of the syllables that you can piece the rest together. 

“I don't—do you need me to go there? To bring you there?”

Springtrap doesn't answer. With a final crack, his hands bite clean through the damaged wood of the doorframe and swing free, the momentum forcing his whole body forward several steps. You rush to his side, struggling to keep pace as the suit takes over in earnest. You watch his fingers clench into fists as the voice calls again from the distant speaker.

“Go!” he hisses, and you have to dodge the misfiring gesture as his arm almost makes contact with your chest.

“Okay,” you say, hands held out placatingly. You get the distinct sense that he's less angry with you than with being seen in this compromised state. “I—”

‘Good luck,’ you want to say, or ‘be safe’ or ‘please find me’. They all fall laughably flat.

“Okay,” you say again, miserably. You don't want to leave him like this, which makes you want to laugh and scream and cry all at once—maybe you’re wrong about everything, all the terrible things he’s done, maybe some mad, coincidental circumstances have all conspired to make a monster of him where there isn’t one. But you’re beginning to understand that as long as you’re around him, the truth will never matter as much as the way that he holds your heart in his rotted rabbit’s hands, and that puts a cold despair in your gut that you can’t scrape out.

Springtrap sets his shoulders and turns away with a growl, striding as if in full control as he knocks aside a mutilated carousel horse and disappears around a corner, into the pitch black halls of the attraction. You stand and listen to his thunking footsteps carry him further and further away.

Where do you go from here? To the kitchen? You don’t even know where that is. You press your face into your palms and breathe, in and out, until the world feels less like it’s lurching beneath your feet. With a slightly clearer head, the options lay themselves before you in insulting simplicity: you can do what Springtrap told you to, or you can do something else.

What else would you even do? You’re so far out of your depth you can’t even see the bottom anymore, who could blame you for clinging to the only thing keeping you above water? And what harm could it do, really, just to see what’s there? If it’s something horrible—and what does it say about you, that you’re fully prepared for it to be something horrible, and determined to do it anyway—then you can stop there, can. Well, you can take it one step at a time. Springtrap has his own plan; that can be yours.

So, back into the labyrinth. Ignoring how badly it’s shaking, you put your left hand against the wall and start picking your way through the ruins.

As before, you have to weave around the cluttered carcasses of ceiling beams and the black maws of collapsed flooring, stepping carefully across the weakened wood. Eventually you come to a doorway blocked by a fall of rubble, chunks of concrete crisscrossed by charred wooden slats and what look like the stacked remnants of chairs. You climb up into it far enough to peer through the gaps and your heart sinks. 

Darkness hugs the unmistakable shapes of countertops and piles of moldering pizza boxes, seeping silver vats and a huge oven on the far wall. The kitchen, obviously, but how the hell are you supposed to get in? You shift a slat of concrete aside with no small force of effort and crane your neck as far as it will go, but too much of the room is lost to shadow. You can't even clearly make out how big it is.

Your fingers are starting to ache from where you're clinging to the debris, splinters under your nails and your knuckles scuffed and bruised. You'll have to keep going and hope there's another way in. The failure rankles in you like bad food, but you don't know what else to do. There's no more than an inch or two of give anywhere, and even where there is, half of the debris weighs more than you do. You try not to see it as a sign as you start the perilous climb back down, nearly losing your footing when something beneath you scrapes loose and clatters away. You hear it roll and drop, cracking against something else that cracks in turn.

Then you hear the mournful groan of wood bending to snapping point, and the rubble shifts beneath you as the floor starts to give way.

Panic makes you mindless. Instinct kicks in, and you scramble for the top of the pile even as it tumbles down around you like the beginnings of a rockslide. You don’t let yourself look back, but the sound of the floor caving in is deafening, and the pile starts to disappear more and more quickly. In turn, though, it means that the doorway to the kitchen is starting to clear; you can make out a gap at the very top that’s probably large enough for you to squeeze through. But the more you try to climb, the more everything just falls away under your hands. It's like treading water at the edge of a waterfall. 

If you could only get close enough to reach the doorframe, close enough to risk a jump—

The floor cracks a final time and gives out. There’s a brief, delirious moment where you’d swear you’re fully airborne, and then a hand snatches your arm and hauls you bodily up onto solid ground. Without thinking, you throw your arms around your rescuer, struck through with a heady combination of gratitude and stringy, lingering terror. It's like hugging a coat rack.

Mike hisses in pain and tears himself away.

“Shit,” you say, “I'm so sorry, I—oh my god, what happened?”

The left side of Mike's body is black with burns. The worst of it seems to be his arm and shoulder, which hang limply at his side, but the marks lick up the side of his neck to his jaw and down his back as far as his waist. Through the sleeve of his sweater, his skin is a vivid, angry red, raw muscle cut here and there with the yellow white gleam of bone. His mask has been torn aside, and his expression is tight with pain.

“My father happened.” He sounds more tired than angry, though the anger is certainly there. “How did you get here?”

“I asked a friend to drive me, from the other night. They asked me to thank you,” you add, feeling small.

“Please tell me they're not waiting for you outside.” 

“No,” you assure him hurriedly, “no, I made them leave.”

“Are you here to help him?”

You start guiltily at that. “No, I don’t know, I—why didn’t you tell me, about the missing kids?”

You wonder if keeping it covered most of the time has lost Mike the knack for keeping his emotions off his face; you see the surprise clearly as it comes, and a helpless, hopeless sadness that makes him look, briefly, unbearably young. Then it all darkens, and he passes a hand over his eyes.

“I thought—I’m sorry, I should have. You already had so much to deal with, I don’t know. I guess I hoped I could spare you it.”

Part of you wants that desperately, to be spared that still unspoken truth. Your heart plummets into your gut even as your racing thoughts refuse to settle on the words. They sketch broad, hysterical strokes around them, a flock of frightened birds fleeing into the air, and you want to slap yourself, take yourself by the shoulders and shake out every cowardly, lovestruck softness until the harsh reality can clatter coldly into place.

“He killed them.” You feel a small gutter of triumph for not phrasing it as a question.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” says Mike.

You feel your nails bite into your palms, and a hollow shudder of sorrow folds you forward over yourself. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

He reaches out, pauses with his hand hovering right above your shoulder. “No, it's not your fault. He’s fooled a lot of people. Unfortunately he’s very good at it.”

You’re not sure that actually makes you feel better, to be the most recent in a long line of fools.

“What am I supposed to do?” You wish he would touch you; you feel untouchable.

“That's up to you,” says Mike gently. “There’s another door that leads out back. I have to see this through, but I can still get you somewhere safe before it really hits the fan.”

“No,” you say automatically. “Don't ask me to leave, not now. Please.”

Mike turns away. You watch the line of his jaw tense. “Come with me, then. I want to show you something.”

The scorched shell of the kitchen's massive walk-in is the most intact thing you've seen in the building so far, so the last thing you're expecting when Mike hauls open the door is the stench of gasoline. It hits you in an acrid, metallic wave so strong you actually take a step back. Inside, the walk-in is full of the expected, bare metal shelves bolted to the floor, the strong hint of black mold, but there's more than just that. The trail of leaves you'd seen earlier starts to make sense, because nearly every flat surface is covered with them, leaves and twigs and huge dead branches dragging canopies of matted plant matter behind them, draped and littered over bits of half-burnt furniture, all soaked nearly to dripping in gasoline.

“What is this?” you ask, looking at Mike.

Mike stares straight ahead. “My father was expecting me. He had traps set up all over the building when I got here. Some of them I noticed—” He gestures to his arm. “—some of them I didn't. But I think this is really where he wants me.”

“I don't understand,” you admit.

“The handle is broken off inside,” he says. “If I had to guess, I'd say he wants to force me in there with a lit match and slam the door.”

The thought of that makes you woozy. “What is it with you two and setting each other on fire?”

Mike doesn't laugh. He just studies you, and you realize with a terrible start that he's trying to decide whether or not to trust you again. What's even worse is that you're not entirely sure that he should. Then he pulls a lighter out of his pocket, flicks a flame to life, and snaps it out. He tosses it to you, and you send up a silent prayer of thanks that you manage to catch it without incident.

“From what I've read of my father's research,” he says finally, “high heat is the only thing that can permanently destroy Remnant. I can't risk him surviving anything else. It would seem that he feels the same way.”

“Oh,” you say. “So is your arm…?”

“Permanently fucked?” He gives you a wry smile. “I don't know. But I've come back from worse. I'm not the one I'm worried about.”

“Yeah.” You are patently aware in this moment that you would not come back from worse, that you have a pretty good chance of not coming back from much better.

“Whether or not I leave this building tonight,” says Mike, “I could never forgive myself if something happened to you because you got caught in the middle of this.”

“I don't think it's that simple anymore,” you tell him.

Mike sighs heavily. It's sort of impressive, since you know he doesn't technically need to breathe. “You're probably right about that.”

He still insists on making sure you know where the door is, just in case, and informs you that the fire damage makes it stick.

“There's a trick to it,” he says, lifting the knob as he twists, clearly struggling to do it one-handed. Eventually, the door swings open with a shriek of protest, and Springtrap reaches through and seizes Mike by the throat.

“Knock knock,” he says conversationally, before hurling Mike across the room. 

Momentum carries him to the far wall, against which his skull makes audible, crunching contact. Some sound leaves you, but whether it’s a cry or a scream or a word, you can’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears. Every synapse in your brain fires at once, and you feel your body try to move in three different directions without your permission—to Mike, to Springtrap, to run—all entirely without success.

Instead, you stand there uselessly as Mike staggers stubbornly to his feet, fumbling for something in his pocket. Even from your distance you can see that he's unsteady, and a small shape drops from his hand and skitters across the floor to where you stand.

“Pick that up,” snaps Springtrap, as Mike swears and calls, “Don't let him get it!”

Still on autopilot, you bend to retrieve whatever it is, and find yourself holding a palm-sized black remote. The face of it is dominated by a round purple play/pause button, flanked by the familiar symbols of stop, skip, and reverse. Your finger hovers curiously over the smooth plastic glint of the play.

Springtrap takes a step towards you. “Well done, darling. Now, give it here, if you'd be so kind.”

You start to obey, then stop, though you couldn't yourself say why. Your grip on the remote tightens, and Springtrap says your name, very quietly, and so sweetly it makes your heart ache in your chest.

Behind him, Mike catches himself on the countertop for balance. “Don't,” he says again, though if there's more to the sentence he can't quite seem to gather it.

Springtrap laughs. It's not a pleasant sound, and gooseflesh sears its way up the back of your neck even as the beginnings of heat prickle between your legs.

“Don't,” he mimics, mocking. “Honestly, Michael, what do you think is going to happen here, hm? Because if you believe that this ends with anything but your death, then our dear mutual friend has not been entirely honest with you.”

“You'd know about dishonesty,” snaps Mike, but his voice is surer than his expression. His eyes flicker over to you; you stare back at him, frozen as a deer in the headlights of a car.

“Shall we all be honest with each other, then?” suggests Springtrap airily. “I claim the blood on my hands, Michael.”

“The blood on your hands is of innocent children,” Mike reminds him, seething.

Springtrap tilts his head to one side. “Your brother wasn’t innocent?”

“That was an accident,” says Mike immediately, in the practiced tone of someone who has had to repeat it to themselves for a long time, and still doesn’t quite believe it.

“And which part, precisely, was that? The part where you tormented him on his birthday? The part where you roped your ghoulish little toadies into it? The part where you dragged him kicking and screaming to the stage? Or was it the part where you stuffed your baby brother’s head into the hydraulic jaws of a moving animatronic?”

“I didn’t know—” Mike sounds like he’s about to be sick. “I was just a kid, I just wanted to scare him—”

“And he died terrified,” says Springtrap coldly. “I hope you take comfort in that.”

Mike’s expression collapses like a rotting house. “There hasn’t been a second since his death that I—”

“That I have not spent cleaning up your mess!” Springtrap slams his hand down on the countertop. The metal gives way beneath him, leaving a dented shape as perfectly aligned to his fingers as the one on your neck. You flinch.

Mike finally glances in your direction. Something like embarrassment bleeds out onto his face, like he’d forgotten you were even there.

“Jesus,” he says, “shit, I—”

“Don’t mind us,” interrupts Springtrap smoothly, no trace that he had forgotten at all, “bring me the remote, please.”

There it is again, that awful tearing sensation in the cradle of your chest as your body processes the simultaneous urges to go to him and shrink away. You don’t want to make this choice, don’t want the stain of its consequences on your hands. It pushes the tightness of frustrated tears under your skin, not least of which because you’ve never considered yourself a coward before.

Mike says your name with an edge of desperation. “I’m so sorry that you were forced into this, but—”

“Forced?” Moonlight glints off the edges of Springtrap’s teeth. “Oh, but I assure you, Michael, anything that’s happened between our good friend and myself has been done with enthusiastic consent.”

Self-conscious heat slaps itself onto your face. This time, when Mike looks at you, you can’t meet his eyes in return. This is not—well, no, you  hadn’t intended to have this conversation with him at all, had you? You’re still pretty determined not to have it right now. And you’re doubly determined not to let the knowing cadence of Springtrap’s tone bring back the murmur of compromising memories tapping at the glass of your mind.

“I don’t—” Your throat feels like sandpaper.

‘Help me,’ you want to say, ‘please someone tell me what to do,’ but that’s the problem all over again, isn’t it? Too many voices and no clear right answer, no way to resolve this in a way that means that you’ll be able to live with yourself when it's all said and done. You gnaw anxiously at the inside of your cheek. What happened to Mike’s brother, the way he’d looked when his father brought it up—Springtrap had implied before that something terrible had happened there, but looking back at it now you can see that he’d only done it to distract you from your questions about Elizabeth. Is that what he’s doing now? Trying to throw you off a line of questioning you may be getting too close to?

“You don’t have to,” says Springtrap, all sympathy. “I haven’t forced you to do a single thing you haven’t wanted to, have I? I would very much appreciate if you afforded me the same courtesy.”

Wouldn’t it be a shame, says his voice, if you forced me to do something terrible? If I had to clean up your mess too?

You don’t recognize the emotion that spikes down your spine, only that it’s cold, and ugly, and that it's been inside you for a long time now, waiting for its moment to hatch. It hollows out a home in your chest with neat, precise teeth and lays there to roost, well-fed and content.

Springtrap takes another step towards you. Over his shoulder, Mike opens and slams a drawer, groping for what only registers to you as a faint gleam in the sparse light. Springtrap turns just in time to have the knife forced into his chest rather than his back. He grunts dully, pain or annoyance or both, and grabs Mike by his uninjured arm. You can hear the crack of bone from where you stand, and the way Mike hisses in through his teeth so tightly it's almost a scream.

“I always knew you'd die doing something stupid,” Springtrap sneers. Mike’s arm is impossibly thin in his mitted fist.

Panic like a camera flash, sudden and blinding; your thumb finds the purple play button, and presses down.

“Hello?” says a voice from the walk-in.

Several things happen in the time it takes you to register what you’ve done. Springtrap’s head snaps in your direction, silver eyes blazing. Mike takes advantage of his father’s distraction to pull himself free and stumble backwards, arm crooked protectively across his chest. Springtrap rallies and rounds on him. The knife makes a sick wet sucking noise as he yanks it from his own chest and slashes at Mike in a broad, desperate arc, sloppy with fury. It doesn’t catch Mike, but it does drive him back another step. A high, sweet laugh floats out of the walk-in, and you watch Springtrap’s arm twitch and flail into a wave, the knife falling from his fingers and clattering to the ground.

“H-– ki–s! My n— —s Spri–g Bon–ie! W— y—s?”

Mike goes still and pale at the sound, memories like old wounds reopening messily on his face and in his posture. He wheels backwards, dazed, as Springtrap lunges for him, ruined paws twisted into claws. Too late you notice how close he is to the door—not the exit outside, but the one where he’d rescued you earlier when the floor collapsed, the dark empty doorway that drops away to whatever black labyrinth lies beneath the building. His back is to it, the distance quickly closing, but neither Mike nor Springtrap seem to notice. 

You have to fight out enough of your voice to shout his name, but even then it’s strangled and weak. Laughter comes again from the speaker in the walk-in, and Springtrap shudders and twists and backhands Mike viciously across the face.

Mike hits the doorframe hard, one hand scrabbling for purchase against the wood. His arm crooks at an angle that makes bile rise in your throat, and he lets out a bitten-back cry of pain as his whole body jerks sharply.

You can’t make your brain comprehend it. One moment he’s there, and the next there’s nothing but you and Springtrap and the deafening empty space where he last stood. Icy shock seizes your fingertips, a weight like clammy grasping hands.

“Oh my god,” is all you can manage.

“Turn it off,” hisses Springtrap. His voice is low and crackling with bare-toothed violence.

Grief seeps through you like spilled ink, thick and black. It fills the ventricles of your heart, sits its slick weight in your stomach. Oozes up your throat, over your tongue, between your teeth. Stains the whorls of your fingerprints as you raise the remote and pause the speakers.

“I’m sorry,” you say, choking on it.

“You’re sorry,” spits Springtrap flatly. “Well, that makes it all alright then, doesn’t it?”

You don’t want to cry, but your body has other plans. Tears cling to your lashes as you blink them rapidly back, feeling like an idiot.

“Oh, come now, darling, there’s no need for all that. I’m not angry.” Springtrap spreads his hands, freezing when you take several steps back at his approach. “You believe me, don’t you?”

You want to, is the horrible thing. But you want a lot of things right now, and they’re looking less and less possible with every passing moment. What you need is another story entirely, and with every impossible beat of your heart, every unwanted tear shed, things begin to fall into place. Something clarifies in you, calcifies, settles. The truth will never matter, you know. And you need it to matter.

“You have to leave,” you realize.

You watch the words pass through Springtrap with bitter understanding. He doesn’t even seem all that surprised.

“Come with me.”

An order, more than an offer, but it pangs through you all the same. It’s the closest to unsure you’ve ever heard him sound. You shake your head, stepping back again. Springtrap looks between your face and the remote clutched to your chest. He makes a short, aborted gesture, like he wants to touch you, then thinks better of it.

“I’ll find you,” he says, a promise.

“I know.” You don’t say that you hope he does.

You watch him go, teeth clamped tight against the urge to call him back. It isn’t until the sticky outer door thunks shut behind him that you let yourself fall to your knees and sob.

By the time you hear Mike calling up from the basement, you’ve managed to recover yourself enough to turn the speaker back on, flick your borrowed lighter into the walk-in, and slam the door. Just enough sound escapes, just enough smoke to sell the thing. You drag the metal skeleton of a shelf over to the hole in the floor and wrangle it into something Mike can climb, though there’s some satisfaction in being able to repay the favor of hauling him up to safety. He doesn’t ask any questions when he sees the state of the walk-in, just lets himself lean on you as you half-carry him back out to the parking lot.

“Thank you,” he says finally, propped in the passenger seat of his car. “I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

“Don’t mention it.” It comes out a little more sharply than you’d intended. “You hungry? I could really go for some pizza.”

“I don’t get hungry,” Mike reminds you with good humor, “but pizza sounds good.”

[shackld]

"mak how is ur 3am going"

im sending hot mike faist caps to @lattehearted as i watch challengers and moaning duh