#animatronics at the end of the world

[talos-stims]

END-WORLD NORMOPATHY | source

[stump-salsa]

Why is the fnaf fandom so allergic to drawing fat characters you can draw toy freddy as a fatty it’s Ok fucking look at him

[ladyseidr]

i truly think my cassidy would get along with gregory. that's it. AU when?

[monty-glasses-roxy]

I can see Gregory throughing a squeaky toy and Roxy/Roxanne wolf would case it.

But then he see cassie.

Gregory.

So roxy little sister dasent react to squicky toy?

Cassie.

I may be a Wolf like my big sister Roxy but I do not react to dog toys !.

Gregory.

Humm. Let me think here. Fazbare...

* Wait *

* a evil grin appears on Gregory face as he pull out a dog whistle and uses it *

* I can see fazbare reusing roxy ears on cassie animatronics body to save at least a little bit of money *

* Roxy/Roxanne wolf and cassie both cover there ears and growl at Gregory win the dog whistle was used *

Oh my god a dog whistle...

I just looked it up and apparently they don't typically hurt the dog or cause any damage so long as they're used properly and not like... Directly in their ear and stuff. Apparently they're used for recall training and stuff which is neat! And with another look, there's sheepdog whistles used for training herding dogs which I really should have known since I've seen them do that before, but I didn't realise it was a specific kind of whistle. That's pretty cool! The more you know!

Honestly, at this point, all I can imagine is management or the Plex staff getting so annoyed at Roxy being Roxy and trying everything to try and get her to do as she's told for once. Like the manager assigns a handler to her who's whole job is try using the dog side of her brain against her by using dog training techniques on her. So some guy is trying to get her to do things on the whistle for a reward of some kind and it works, sure, but she's also not a dog. Like, she can figure out what they're doing here and find loopholes or just straight up steal the whistle. She can just take the reward when they're not looking cause she knows where they're kept and keeping it on a high shelf doesn't work with an animatronic wolf lmao

Maybe after several attempts going South, it's deemed a lost cause and now the whistle is only used to get her attention when she's ignoring all the messages they're sending her again. Or maybe to wake her up from a nap when she doesn't wanna cooperate or something I dunno but I love the mental image of management fucking chasing her around with a dog whistle, a clicker and a chew toy to try and get her to do stuff she doesn't wanna do lmao

If this starts happening in the Fazcade, DJ plays Yakity Sax every time. It's become free entertainment for the animatronics and staff members to watch management try every trick in the book on her and nothing ever works... It would be pretty funny if it worked in unintended ways though. Like, Roxy hears the whistle from across the Plex and in her brain, that means someone has something for her so she shows up immediately. She gets something, sure, but they also give her several commands or jobs to do that she may or may not do. It might give her something to do if she's bored, but I bet a lot of times she just shows up, takes the reward for showing up and leaves lmao

If the manager is particularly good at dog training, they might be trying so hard not to get frustrated with this. A dog is more likely to learn if they do it willingly and can leave if they want to, so if Roxy isn't willing, trying to force her will have the opposite effect. And they've come so far! She shows up for the whistle! And sometimes she does what she's asked to do! If they start trying to force her into things or start severely punishing lack of cooperation, she's just gonna go back on all of this! So they can't force her! No matter how much they want to just grab her by the nose and drag her where she needs to be! It's driving them insane but look how far they've come!

Roxy playing fucking mind games here. Shows up when whistled for, gets her reward and then sometimes does just enough of what they ask her to do to keep them thinking they're making progress, stringing them along as long as possible. It means she keeps getting rewarded for the absolute bare minimum she loves it

Of course, Roxy does everything she's supposed to anyway, but if they're going the dog training route, they've probably figured out she's bored most of the time. So now they're trying to keep her out of trouble with other things and this is the only one that's shown any semblance of success lmao she's so fucking lucky she's become the boardroom's favourite and is too expensive to replace now. Like as soon as she knows that, there's just no hope anymore.

I dunno that could be pretty funny maybe

Anyway, I know this isn't what you were asking about so... Imagine Roxy standing there, frozen solid, eyes closed, arms crossed, ears flat back and jaw tightly shut, because Gregory is trying to get her to chase a squeaky ball. He has a whole bag full of them. Roxy is struggling so hard with all the squeaks and she wants to just leave so badly but she knows if she moves even an inch, she's gonna break into zooms and she can't have that... So she's spamming Cassie with messages to come and save her right the fuck now.

Cassie shows up, sees what's going on and immediately drags Gregory out and confiscates all the squeaky balls. The door shuts behind him, she turns to Roxy. "Heehee he's gone!" and Roxy gives her the biggest puppy eyes ever. "You ready?" Cassie asks her as she holds a ball up. Roxy makes a little dog noise of affirmation, and in a flash, the ball is squeaked and thrown across the Raceway as far as Cassie could manage.

Roxy is fucking gone. Cassie can't keep up with her. All you can hear in the empty Raceway is excited squeaking and laughter. Roxy is zooming around the place so fast she puts her go-karts to shame, squeaking the ball like crazy, jumping off the walls and flying over the railings, while Cassie keeps picking up more squeaky balls, squeaking them for Roxy's attention, and throwing them for her as far as possible again. She's curious how many Roxy will try to chew and squeak at once. If the Minis are here, they're helping grab and throw more of them, sometimes drawing her in three directions at once so she doesn't know who to run to first.

This is Roxy enrichment of the highest level! Her favourite game ever! Her brain just switches off and all that's going through her head is squeaks and the need to run even faster! She's having an absolute blast and a half! The game only ends once she's ran out of steam and flops over on the floor for a rest. Her tail does not stop wagging and the squeaking may slow down, but also won't stop at all for at least another hour lmao

It just hits the perfect spot in the dog half of her programming, it's so much fun for her and the most effective way to de-stress she's ever found. And of course, Cassie loves it too. It's so fun to play these kinds of games and to see how excited Roxy gets. If Cassie is an animatronic dog here too in the scenarios you've created? Sure, she doesn't wanna chase the ball too, but even humans roughhouse. There's no way Roxy doesn't crash into her and start a play fight, or that Cassie doesn't try and wrestle the ball away from her sometimes. And if it's a squeaky bear or something? Well there's always tug of war!

Only problem is Roxy getting too carried away and accidentally hurting Cassie a little bit. It's not usually that bad, and sometimes Cassie returns the favour in the next game by also getting carried away, but it upsets Roxy every single time. But she's still very much in her dog brain usually so she comes over to Cassie, eyes all big and pathetic, whining and nudging her with her nose all sad and apologetic... Cassie hugs her every time, says it's fine, she's not hurt that bad, it was an accident, it happens... And then grabs the squeaky ball from behind Roxy and brings the fun back by insisting they keep playing with a lot of squeaks lmao

[justagaycryptid]

Just saw the fnaf movie and I am literally so glad that my favorite stupid fucking bastard was in the movie and we got a springlock failure scene like was the movie the greatest no but I got exactly what I wanted so goddamn it I'm gonna be happy about it

[haemosexuality]

fuck it fnaf tierlist

[gamequeenanya]

The Park Ranger - (Lee!Phone Guy, Ler!Animatronics) (Freddy and Friends on Tour)

Summary: Freddy discovers a sweet park ranger putting up safety signs. His name tag has been scratched off and he seems kind of nervous. After investigating, Freddy finds his boss and evidence of abuse. Can Freddy help this poor man? // Warning for dark themes, through the lens of children’s show characters.

...

During one of his treks around the area, Freddy found a man in the forest putting up signs. The signs warned people that there was dangerous wildlife in the area and for them to be careful around it. Freddy appreciated the warning, but he was perfectly happy performing here. After all, he could easily scare anything unpleasant off if he had to. The man smiled and leaned against a tree, deciding to take a break and watch the performance.

Freddy smiled at him and performed with the band. Later, he came by to introduce himself, but found the man had fallen asleep! Heh. Well, he knew how to fix that!

"Tickle, tickle~!" he teased, drumming his paw pads along the man's sides and waist. The man kept his eyes closed, but tensed and started to laugh.

"Hahahahahhahaaa! Q-quihihiihiiit ihihihit! Ihihihih'm awake!" He laughed, wiggling around and pushing Freddy's paws away. Looking up, he gulped, seeing how large Freddy really was. "Heh. S-sorry I fell asleep during the concert! N-no hard feelings?"

Freddy looked at him sympathetically. "Of course not. We all need our sleep. And you look like you need more of it!" He noted his eye bags.

The man looked away. "Uhh, yeah... I kind of need to work eleven hours a day right now, without overtime. M-my boss isn't too happy with me, b-but I'm trying my best, really!"

Freddy tilted his head, wondering who the man worked for. And why they demanded so much of him. "Well, you can rest in our van if you want."

"No, I-I can't!" The man looked down at his watch worriedly. "I-I've got to get back real quick! The boss needs me."

He ran back into the woods before Freddy could ask any more questions.

...

Later, in the van, he'd told his friends about the mysterious man.

"Awww, poor little guy! It sounds like he needs a friend." Chica said worriedly.

"Yeah, we should talk to him before we go. Maybe give him free concert tickets?" Bonnie offered. From the corner, a voice piped up.

"...Ayyy, it's worse than that, me friends. I'm afraid our poor matey's sufferin' from an abusive relationship. That boss is givin' him an illegal amount of work."

The others gasped.

"What can we do...?" Freddy said.

Foxy rubbed his chin in thought. "I suggest we don't take our eyes off him."

They came over to the window to check on the man. And he was gone.

...

At a lone cabin at the edge of the forest, there was a single light flickering in the window of the room.

Freddy knocked on the door.

"Is anyone home?!"

There was a scuffling sound as whoever it was came to the door. It was a brown haired man in a purple uniform. He grinned at Freddy.

"Oh, hello. Don't worry, Mr. Bear. There have been no forest fires around here recently! You may go now." And he hurried to close the door. Freddy held it open.

"Wait. I'd like to come in and talk to you a little. Are you employing that nice young man who put up the signs?"

Purple man's smile fell. "Mm. Perhaps..."

"Can you tell me where he is right now?"

Just then, someone came out of the kitchen. It was the man who'd put up the signs. And he was holding an ice pack up to his cheek. He looked curiously to see who was at the door, but quickly stepped back into the kitchen when he saw it was Freddy.

Freddy rushed inside, not bothering with manners. Going right up to him to check him over. "Hey! You! Are you alright?"

The man backed up more.

"Yeah, I-I'm fine! I just, uhh, slipped on some ice!" He said quickly.

"But it's summer..."

Seeming more panicked, he took Freddy's hand and began to lead him to the door.

"Please. Y-you need to go now. Trust me, I-I'll be fine." He smiled, trying to look convincing. As he looked up at Freddy with his fake grin, he realized he forgot to press the ice pack to his cheek. There was a dark mark that looked like it had been made by a hand. And there were multiple points of impact. The ice was quickly put back to hide it.

Freddy growled. "No." He glared at the older man in the purple uniform. He was smiling back at him from the sofa, holding a cup of tea. Like there was nothing Freddy could do and that he needed to leave. Freddy felt an overwhelming urge to clobber the guy right then and there. But sighed and walked up to the door. He felt horrible about leaving, but he didn't want to just attack someone and get sued. So he'd go. There had to be something else he could do...

...

Coming back to the campsite, Freddy told the rest of his band what was happening.

"Poor little guy..." Foxy said. "There must be something we can do."

"Like what?" Bonnie said.

The others thought for a while.

"Well, hmm..." Foxy said. "Now bear with me on this. How about we invite him on our tour? That way he doesn't have to deal with that smelly old brute."

Freddy raised his hand. "Wait. I've seen what he's like. He thinks he's fine, and would probably shoo us out of there..."

Chica put her hands on her hips. "Then what do you suggest?! Kidnap him??"

"No," he shot back. "There has to be a better way."

...

So there the man was, sleeping on the bed in the back of the van. Freddy had made sure to scratch some things up in his old room to make it look like a wild animal had come in through the window and had gotten him. It had been 12 hours since their little heist, and the man was still asleep. The sun was just beginning to rise.

"You think he'll be mad at us...?" Bonnie said.

"Oh yes," Chica replied. "Very, very mad."

Freddy was driving, but he was very worried. They'd just made an impulsive decision to save someone that could cost them. He hoped they made the right choice.

"W-who'll tell him the bad news?" Bonnie wondered. Foxy trotted over.

"Make way, will ya? I'll tell 'im." He sat down in the booth in front of the man and looked him over. It appeared that the man's nametag had been scratched off by a pin. He wondered why. "Err... landlubber, we've err, set sail."

The man hummed happily in his sleep. He was kind of handsome, with light brown hair and soft features. Foxy smiled.

"Ain't he precious?"

He reached out to nudge his shoulder to try and wake him. But the man just rolled over, refusing to get up. Foxy looked at the scene helplessly. Observing his hook, he knew he could easily hurt this man, and that wasn't what he wanted.

Chica chuckled, and handed Foxy one of her feathers. "I have an idea!"

Remembering Freddy's actions at the start of their concert, he grinned. So Foxy carefully secured the man's ankles, being careful with his hook and only pierced the couch cushion. Chica slipped the man's shoes off and paused. She brushed the feather over his socked feet to see if that did anything. A flinch, but nothing more.

So she continued slipping off his socks, and then ran the yellow feather along the sole of his left foot.

The man curled up, giggling.

The friends smiled.

"Aww, is someone ticklish?" Bonnie said. He observed the scene with a grin.

"N-noooooo~!" the man whined.

"Someone needs to wakey wakey!" Chica sang, brushing her wing all over his soles.

"HAHAHAHAAHAAHAAAHAAHAHAAAA!" He gasped, not expecting a full attack so soon. And realizing his feet were trapped. "OKAHAHAHAHAHAY OKAHAHAHAHAAAAY! I'LL WAKE UP!"

Curling up and opening his eyes, he saw the band members whom he'd dreamt about having actually put him in their van. And they were moving.

"Wahaait. W-what's going on?" He looked out the window. "Where are we headed? What have you done...?"

Instead of sounding mad, his voice was sad and a little fearful.

"We rescued you, silly!" Bonnie said. The others nodded.

"Ayy, it's true." Foxy admitted. "We didn't want you around that rapscallion any longer. He wasn't fit to scrub barnacles off the sides of me boat."

Freddy turned around in his driver's chair.

"It's not really a kidnapping. You can get off the bus at any time. If you want, we'll drop you off at a police station and they should be able to help you. Put you in protective custody and all that." He explained.

The man blinked away tears. "N-no one's ever c-cared about me this much... T-thank you. But h-how do I know your plan will work? I-I don't want him coming after you too..."

There was worry in his voice.

"Hey." Foxy placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll take care of it, alright?"

He didn't have a plan but didn't want the man more stressed than he already was.

And then there were arms around him. And there were tears. Lots and lots of tears. Foxy didn't know what to do, since he wasn't usually the one people sought comfort in. He uncertainly patted the man's back.

"There, there... Things will be alright. Don't worry about a thing."

...

It was now midnight of the following day. The man had sought custody and was assigned a therapist for what he'd went through. The band was stopped at their last location for the tour. Freddy was currently on  the phone with the manager. He looked more and more down the longer the call went on.

"Bad news guys... Our manager quit; he said he found all the constant hassle of the job was too overwhelming. He's settling down for something more local."

The others gasped.

"But-but what about the band?!" Chica said.

"Is this our last spot ever?" Bonnie said worriedly.

Foxy hummed. "Perhaps not. I think we know a guy..."

It was a bit of a long shot, but they had nothing to lose. So they called up their friend.

"Hello-hello?" he answered.

"Yes; it's Freddy and friends. How are you doin'?"

"A-a lot better, actually."

"Okay, so we might just have a job offer in store for you. It pays better than what that jerk gave you, and for less hours. You'll be our new manager! So, what do you think?"

"Oh, yeah. Uhh, what will I be doing?"

Freddy explained that the duties of a manager were to call different places and book showtimes for their band. He'd also be handling all the money and payment duties.

"Ooo, that sounds easy! I'm in!" He said with a smile.

"Great!"

Freddy smiled as he hung up.

"We have a new manager!"

The others all cheered and high-fived each other.

[dragon-tamer-1]

Ok seriously, I promise to get to the requests I have soon, just gotta do a few things first but I promise to start drawing/writing them as soon as I get done with these.

[pumpkinrootbeer]

My take on the fnaf movie is if u liked security breach you'll like the movie

[bumpscosity]

every fucking post I make that even remotely is related to star tours becomes an infodumping ground for that ride what the hell

[kuyatecallate]

...taking this as an excuse to throw up in the tags because I'm a coward.

I went down a Youtube rabbit hole today of watching horror games framed as computer viruses, to videos on the history of actual computer viruses and trojan horses, to then just thinking about video game creepypastas, so I've just been kinda in that clashing thoughts stage of "there is an incomprehensible DCA AU just outside of my grasp rn." Yeah, it sure is a vibe. Don't know what it is though

[naffeclipse]

A sort of mad scientist AU where Y/N is, of course, a mad scientist. You suffer from chronic illness and you are desperate to make your experiments work but you struggle without help. You refuse to take on a human assistant out of a desire to not be treated as lesser--as if you can't conduct great, horrific experiments like the other crazed scientists. You stubbornly set yourself to work without any such succor in your tower and the days pass, wearing heavily on your soot marked hands and aching, waning body.

A solution appears right at your feet one evening while rummaging around for some material in the grimy streets (dead animals, toxic waste--the usual to carry out unethical tests) and discover two abandon animatronics in the back alley, left to rot and turn to rust. There's close to zilch hope for the two but you're not a mad scientist for no reason. You drag the endoskeletons home before prompting collapsing for a day or two after overextending yourself and paying the price.

Once you get your strength back (and cursing your weakness) you turn all your effort to cleaning and preparing the endoskeletons. The celestial model of the animatronics would be helpful in your work, no? One after the solar ball of gas which beams heat and light onto the world and the other after the gray rock which brightens the night and tugs on the tides. Sun and Moon. You solder wires and revamp the servos. You hold and handle the limbs and heads of the animatronics as if they were sleeping. Soon, they will wake.

There's just one problem. They need a spark. Not a bit of ember from fire or the first crack of electricity from a splitting fork of lightning. A spark of life. And you contain such material within yourself. It's dangerous to lord over life and play god, but you need them.

The night storms when you prepare the animatronics with their chassis open, lying down on tables. You are steady despite the buzz in your veins in the face of the most dangerous experiment you have conducted yet. With these two are your side, there will be many to come. You spill your blood, split away two pieces of your pulsing core, and set two tiny sparks of life from your beating heart into the animatronics. Your head spins with pain and hope. The hum of servos whirling to life touches your eardrums. A great rumble of thunder shakes the tower. Your vision is slowly swallowed by darkness as you start to collapse but before you fall, two glowing pairs of eyes open.

When you wake, you're in your bed, in the dark, and your chest is bandaged. You hardly have the strength to touch the blood-stains soaking into the gauze but a silver and blue hand stops you. Red eyes pierce you at your bedside, a dark personage holding your wrist. Standing on the other end of your bed is a tall figure with ghostly pale optics falling over you. Dread fills your marrow at what exactly you brought back from death. A raspy voice raises a question. Who are you?

The animatronics. They're alive. They want answers, and you are more than willing to supply them. You give a very detailed, breathy response about how this all came to be, and when you propose that they become your assistants in your endeavors, they silently share a glance and nod in unison.

Though you fear you got off to a rough start with them putting you into bed after making sure your heart was still beating, they prove to be everything you want—and more. They have no desire to return to whoever tossed them to the street and left them as scrap metal, and you finally have extra hands to hold together metal contraptions and nimble fingers to set the exact scalpel blade size you need in your hand when cutting into a carcass.

They do not infantilize you in your sickness, much to your aching relief. Sun, however, is poignant in reminding you that pushing yourself past your energy capability, such as walking into town and dragging back a metallic frame for a killing contraption, will result in you needing a day of recovery. Moon sharply remarks that willingly subjecting yourself to an overnight of experimenting with beating hearts and lightning strikes will most likely cause a pain flare, but they never stop you. They never decide for you. They see you—not the unending illness clawing at your edges and leaving its marks on your flesh.

Though you learn to manage yourself better—for science, of course. You request Sun's assistance for lifting heavy plates into place before you bolt and screw them down. He's all too cheerful to lend a hand. When it grows late, you allow Moon to lead you to bed before the fire in your muscles becomes a roaring inferno. He tells you softly that he's been recording the number of good and bad days you have, and that your flare-ups don't appear as often when you have a full night's rest. Your assistants are pleased—with the improvement in your experiments, of course.

It's rare, but sometimes you'll catch an odd sentence or two from Sun about where they were before, and how much nicer it is here. You give them much. You don't shout or throw things at them. He lays a hand over his chassis and smiles. Moon will look at you sometimes, and when you ask why he's staring, he says that you have never raised a hand to them. It's strange. He thought all mad scientists were the same. He's glad to be wrong.

You're glad they're with you too. Your science has never been madder and you don't lay through bad days alone anymore. You don't like talking about your chronic illness. The discussions you've had in the past with peers and professors revolved around how you're handling it and what it's doing to you today. Can you still do your work? It's not mad or experimental or new—it's just sad. Other people think you're sad and pitiful, and you would rather die trying to conduct a hazardous experiment than ever stop to tend to yourself.

Sun and Moon learn to take your mutters and curses in stride when another flare-up hits. They ask questions occasionally, wondering how long you've lived with this and if it would ever be cured but they seem to already suspect the answer. Sure, you've tried several times to manufacture an antidote to whatever poison sits in your veins, but such endeavors have only ended with you waking up, lying in your own vomit. They don't give you pity, not like the others have. No, Sun holds your hand between his large digits and asks if you've eaten anything yet. Moon touches your shoulder when you stare out of the circular window in your tower and asks if he can walk you to your bed.

They need you, and they know what great work you're doing here, crafting weapons of mass destruction, simmering glowing liquids, and putting together new creations—not like them, no. Nothing compares to your assistants.

[popfizzles]

What started as a joke with @kittyacelia about making FNAF animatronics ACTUALLY kid-friendly, ended up snowballing into an exercise in character design and world-building.

We call them Nanny Animatronics (since "Toy" and "Plush" have already been taken). They're far softer with pastel palettes, rubber teeth with plush exteriors to avoid accidentally hurting children! They're all housed under a pizzaplex type building that functions Entirely as a daycare.

I'll add extra notes about them individually under a readmore!

Nanny Freddy is the one kids go to for advice and generic help. He's super comforting, makes his rounds across the daycare saying hello to everyone. He gives GREAT bearhugs and specializes in calming down tantrums or panic attacks.

Nanny Chica loves playing house with children! She teaches general safety, like how to properly interact with stoves or electrical outlets. She's also equipped with a database of every kid's food allergies, and makes sure nobody eats anything they're not supposed to! Her cupcake (unpictured) is named Sugar and is basically just a fully sentient stress ball toy that loves to be thrown and fidgeted with.

Nanny Bonnie is the music teacher, and loves to help kids stay in touch with their louder and excitable sides. He loves to listen to kids talk about whatever they may be interested in, and has a learning database equipped with trivia to hold conversations with kids about any topic. He's the one children infodump to!

Nanny Foxy is the smallest of the bunch, and he loves to run around with the kids! He will play pretend with children, and is even equipped with the ability to detect injury and proper First Aid knowledge to help if a kid trips and hurts themselves while playing.

Nanny Monty is the art teacher, and teaches kids to use their hands for good (like creating art!) instead of bad (hitting, pulling, or smacking). He's very good at breaking up fights and helping kids deal with anger in a reasonable way.

Nanny Roxy loves to play dress-up with kids, but her main objective is to be there for kids, and recognize self-esteem issues. She's ready to pep-talk children at a moment's notice. Everyone is a winner in Roxanne's eyes, after all!

The Mediocre Melody animatronics are all localized on a stage in the daycare, and take turns putting on different types of shows for the kids. Nanny Mr. Hippo loves telling stories for kids, even stepping in to tell naptime stories for the younger kids. Whereas Nanny Orville does small magic shows, along with his assistants Bonbon and Bonnet! The other Mediocre Melodies (Happy Frog, Nedbear, and Pigpatch) are present, but undesigned. When they aren't doing their shows, they act as an extra set of hands for the others.

Nanny Springtrap (modeled ONLY in design after a horror show attraction) is activated during October for Halloween events, and teaches kids that there's no reason to be afraid of monsters. He also advocates for safety around strangers, and that it's okay to always tell an adult if you see something scary. He (along with a currently undesigned Nanny Dreadbear) come every Halloween to give goodie bags to the kids.

[venomous-qwille]

FIrst attempt at drawing clip.exe from GITM! I avoided designing him for a while cause there are a lot of elements I wanted to include that are difficult/pain in the ass to draw! Clip.exe is [REDACTED].

Ghost in the Machine AU is a DCAverse style AU set in the future, where an eccentric collector of Superstar Daycare memorabilia hoards the rarest and most elusive of treasures from the (long defunct) Fazbear Entertainment Company: the Daycare Attendant animatronic line. The story of the AU follows this motley group of DCA animatronics brought together from all over the world, as they try and figure out what living looks like.

[ID: a digital art of clip.exe, an ethereal, smokey, glitchy version of eclipse, he has four arms and his body is dark and jagged, colour flakes off him in glitches and sharp shapes. The colour palette is dark red and blue with bright pops of pink and cyan. /END ID]

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability. 

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning. 

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations. 

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays. 

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret. 

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards. 

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival. 

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains. 

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter? 

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet. 

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation. 

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship. 

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup. 

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. “I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear. 

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device. 

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.” 

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine. 

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned. 

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age. 

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs. 

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn. 

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally. 

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter. 

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind. 

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life. 

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown. 

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care. 

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst. 

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts. 

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall. 

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries. 

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him. 

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess. 

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system. 

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important. 

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock. 

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ‘getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart. 

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions. 

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame. 

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness. 

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it. 

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once. 

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left. 

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react? 

How did she react? 

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?! 

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

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[jaeyunologyy]

Anonymous asked:

02z fucking you with fnaf animatronic heads on 🫢

a/n: not gonna be lore accurate bcs im horny as fuck for them, at first i wanna use the ogs fnaf 1 characters but fuck it let's pick one hot character from the first 3 fnaf(s) + my two worlds colliding :)

edit: felt like reposting this for spooky szn :)

jay wearing springtrap's

the worn out green bunny head covering his masculine face only making his sharp eyes visible making you feel some type of way. dirty but thrilled. scared but aroused.

you sensed fear in your veins while you look at the psychopathic killer bunny animatronic head that you despise so much is now being worn by your lover while his cock is pounding you so good not missing any spots, his fat tip is throbbing inside of you because you're tighter clamping down on him today.

is it the springtrap head making you scared so you behave with your best or you're just actually a fucked up little girl living her best life with her dark fantasy?

his big hand wrapped around your throat pressing the sides lightly making you lightheaded, you're already a bit fuzzy from small space of the vent that's been pinning him against you since earlier when you guys were crawling in it to explore the place more and you found springtrap's head in one of the lanes in the vents.

his voice echoed within the small space of springtrap's head. "little bunny is too tight on me today, is she enjoying herself hmm? my little doll is pretty with fear in her eyes. did you like getting fucked by a monster. who could kill you in an instant baby? hell you're gushing on me right now. guess i know the answer now, and if i'm not satisfied with it i can always come back right?" and the growly voice of his was accompanied by creaking noises of the vent while he was pistoning in and out of you or maybe you just have a visitor that's enjoying the show?

jake wearing mangle's

you're bent over the counter in the pizzeria's kitchen while your whiny boyfriend is fucking you with a white & pink fox head he found while trampling around the abandoned placed.

while you were looking around the kitchen he creeped up behind you catching you off guard which was so hot because he was so light on his steps that you did not catch a sound you felt so small to him. you could feel his breath right by your face that was pressed against mangle's muzzle.

jake was a huge a fan of mangle and he admitted to you during halloween that he wanted to fuck you while he's wearing a mask preferably mangle's.

and that's how you ended up breaking in to the pizzeria to find the head for him to wear while he's angling his tip to press against your gspot making you trickle out on the floor from squirting for him. the excitement from the fear made the sex much more enjoyable. the intermission noise sounded from the surveillance, you knew they were near but fuck you're too brainless for it.

"you like my mask baby? you squirted all over the floor because of it. need to take you again in our bedroom many many times you want while i put this mask on." you felt he nuzzled against your neck with the mask on while lightly grazing the razor sharp teeth on your nape. "need to mark you with it so you can't never run away from me. i'll always catch you puppy. you're mine, you're under me forever."

sunghoon wearing foxy's

sunghoon has been so mean to you ever since you told him you liked foxy and how you found him attractive for an animatronic.

it's so ironic when he was fucking you on the security guard table while wearing foxy's head. he knew about your fantasy and even though he's mean about it, he's still willing to be dragged by you to go 'visit' the pre-demolished pizzeria in order to bring home foxy's mask.

ever since you got the mask you can't stop gushing on how cool it is, how pretty it is, how valuable it could be and how bad you want to be fucked by the animatronic if it's capable of it. it pissed sunghoon off so much, he pulled you into the surveillance room, closing both side doors and made you sit on the table while he put the mask on snapping the jaw at your face everytime you made a too loud sound and finger you open to take his cock.

"really pup? you wanna get fucked by a fox robot, so fucking nasty. i know stupid girls like you only think about getting stuffed by random things in their cunny but a fox? that's disgusting little vixen. i can always fuck you baby. anytime. and i'll make you feel much better than that stupid fox could."

you guys left the guard room with cumstains and bite marks on your shoulders, neck and chest from hoon's biting using foxy's teeth. it might've been your imagination but you were sure a growl outside the door when hoon was talking down the fox while fucking you.