#but its the same concept its so wild to me

[lukellios]

What a difference six years makes

[aturinfortheworse]

ok i know transphobia has nothing to do with logic or science but nonetheless. weird that transphobes would hit on chromosomes as the One True Sex Characteristic (except when its inconvenient for them) because I feel like in biology when we're trying to apply the concept of sex across a huge range of species with wildly different sex characteristics, it's germ cells (typically sperm cells and ova) that we fall back on. If it has ova, it's female; if it has sperm, it's male; if it has both, it's both. Like purely in terms of "How do we decide which tree is the boy tree?" since we apparently don't want to invent special tree sexes.

like it's definitely NOT chromosomes because that falls apart real fast and also lowkey implies that its male chickens who lay eggs. or else that chickens are neither male nor female but have their own special reptile sexes. so definitely not that.

[reel-fear]

people who still make Joey the ink demon despite canon steering far away from that being the case this is for you I am sending u kisses XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO <3

People who make Joey well-meaning, sympathetic, a lighter shade of morally grey than canon I am also sending u lots of love <3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3!!

And people who generally steer wildly from the direction Bendy takes with its characters and has fun with it I hope to see more from all of ur aus and rewrites!!

[yeonban]

★ - for Aha & Akivili!

Send me a ★ and I’ll bold what applies to your muse.

I like you / I hate you / I dislike you/ I love you / You are family / I would take a bullet for you / I would shoot you / I would lie to your face / I would say something cruel to you on purpose / I would say something cruel to you accidentally / I would cheat on you / I would physically hurt you / You annoy me / You amuse me / I’d laugh at you / I’d laugh with you / I’d manipulate you / You scare me / You confuse me / I wish I knew you better / I trust you / I don’t trust you / You inspire me / I consider you an equal / You are beneath me / You’re better than me / I would trust you with my life / I think you’re mean / I think you’re petty / I think you’re childish / I think you’re smart / I think you’re stupid / I think you’re a bad person / I think you’re a good person / I’m not sure what kind of person you are / I wish you would listen to me / I want to make you proud / I wish you would notice me / I want to impress you / I would hurt other people for you / I’m not sure how to make you happy / I’m a bad GREAT! influence on you / You deserve better than me / We make a great team / I’d have a one night stand with you / I’d have a relationship with you / I would marry you / I fantasize about our life together / I would trust you with my most treasured belonging / I would tell you my darkest secrets / You disgust me / You intimidate me / I hope I intimidate you / I’d hug you / I’d let you hug me / I’m scared of losing you The world wouldn't be as fun without you in it / I don’t think you like me / I want to be better for you / I respect you / I don’t respect you / You’re my mentor / You’re my friend / You’re my best friend / I have a crush on you / I could easily watch you die / I’d get drunk drink with you / I’d party with you / I’d comfort you / I’d prank you / I’d spike your drink / I’d act behind your back / I’d abandon you / I’d hurt you to get what I want / I would choose my happiness over yours / I would choose your happiness over mine / I despise how much I care for you / I need you / I’m dependent on you / I don’t know what I’d do without you / I’m scared of you leaving me / I’d give my life for you / You frustrate me / I’d call for you in a time of need / I would protect you / I’d visit you in the hospital if you were weakened / I’d carry you if you were hurt / I’d feel guilty if I hurt you / I’d let you be near me when I am vulnerable / I’d ignore a phone call from you / I’d call you at 3am / I’d break you out of jail / I’d get angry at you / I would shout at you / You’re too loud / You’re too quiet / You’re too sensitive / You can’t take a joke / You embarrass me / I feel nothing for you / You’re reckless / You’re bossy / You bore me / I would ask your advice / I would blame you for something I did / I would cry in your arms / You have the power to hurt affect me more than anyone else /

[kalashtars]

current state of politics really got me swerving wildly between "yes I want to present as a man" and "oh god is this even worth it maybe I'm not even really trans" and it's bringing me to my limit

[beemintty]

stories about death are also stories about life.

trope talk: personifying death, overly sarcastic productions

[arcaneyouth]

super random and personal rant but i have thoughts and i wanna let them out

one side effect of accepting my mortality and feeling really chill about the concept of death, is that i actually have a more positive relationship with my art now. my main reason for doing art has always been because its fun yes, but up until i was like. 18-19, the other big reason i did art is because i thought itd make me immortal. you know how it is, even if you dont Know it. "its like theyre still living on through us appreciating their work", "all writers put a little bit of themselves into everything they make", "if i do something great, I'll get in the history books and they'll always remember me". everything along those lines. the message was very clear to me. good art is immortality. make something they'll never forget, and you'll never die.

this was one of the few things that (i thought) gave me comfort in those trying times being aware id probably be dead in a couple years, so i worked my ass off to create. and as my therapist knows, it kinda just made me worse. i was so obsessed with finishing my long form comic before i died, i was driving myself to paranoia thinking i'd actually die at any moment and everything would have been for nothing. because i needed to live on. because i needed to survive, somehow. if i died with my lifes work half finished, it'd just add to my tragedy, which i was so sick of.

anyways. im like. normal about it now. deaths not really a big deal its just a thing that will happen. when i started reaching this point of acceptance, i also started thinking about what I'd want people to do with me after i die. for the most part, i just want to be forgotten. i chased after immortality so long, honestly i hope no one outside my close circle knows that ive died when the time comes. its a gift to myself for all the pain i put myself through. so, forget me. dont mark my grave especially not with a name, dash my name and details from all records, delete my accounts, and let me rest.

but. what about my art? if i want my memory to be removed, what will happen to my comic? my proudest art pieces? my silly doodles? art preservation is a big deal to me, so i thought this was gonna give me a lot of problems, but actually my gut feeling solved it pretty fast.

yeah, my art can stay up. its not me, so it doesnt matter.

its not me. <3

my soul is not in my art. i am not my art. my creations are not a 1:1 replica of me. my art is something ive created and nothing more. it has 0 ties to me other than my name i put on it sometimes. it has nothing to do with me, my life, my self worth. it is art. that is all

and boy lemme tell you that sure loosens up a lot of pressure on literally every negative thing ive ever felt about my art

[barking-barkive]

BESSEL VAN DER KOLK AND BRUCE D. PERRY JUMPSCARE IN THE PHILADELPHIA AIRPORT BOOKSTORE

[puppmeo]

Have you ever been assumed to be romantically attracted to someone and even just the thought of that makes you want to throw up . Anybody

[arolesbianism]

Y'know I know I've said like a billion times I don't want to know shit abt Jackie's past but erm. Hi klei. Please just tell me if Josephine and Alan are her parents or some miscellaneous relative this is so important. Did Jackie seriously come from a household with a colonel and another person with a doctorate or does she just happen to be related to them this is so important for how I decide to move forward with my Jackie hcs and with my aus in general I need to know so bad tell me right fucking now

[dieinct]

i was just talking about this after being wrecked by the discovery that the little elf-goblin fellows my parents/family used to tell me warnings and stories about as a little kid are regionally specific, and that you can trace people's geographic origins by what word they use for "little spirit-fellows who live in your house". no matter what you call them (domovoi, kobolde, brownies, so on); for purposes of this post henceforth "little guys"

i think one of the things that i find frustrating about like, idk, modern animist revivalist movements is that very few of them ime spend a lot of time romanticising and spiritualizing human habitation. obviously, we as a culture need to think more about protecting and defending nature/the earth/so on, but like.

if you don't have room in your heart for making up a little guy who lives in the water heater, or who squats under your stove and makes it run 15 degrees off the programmed temperature, and thinking of him with the same kind of respect/affection as you do for the spirits (or whatever) of the wildlife you interact with like.

genuinely: what are you even doing. you are removing a source of richness and fun and whimsy from your life! like, pip @creekfiend made up the concept of "little guys who live in an airport (and are the reason it's so shitty to be in an airport)" and i already like airports like 30% more just knowing it's the little airport inconvenience guys doing that.

more importantly, like. genuinely: interrogate what parts of the world seem ~rich with spiritual meaning~ to you. what parts of the world are "wild"? what does that make the rest of the world - a chore? a burden? who has to carry that burden?

we're never going to like, "return to nature", because that's nothing and the concept of untouched nature is also nothing; we're always going to have some sort of human habitation and interaction and cultivation with nature. if you can't extend grace and whimsy and genuine and sincere meaning to human habitation, including its inconveniences and annoyances, you are making your own lived experience duller!

notably, most of these kinds of little-guy-spirits historically exist in the parts of human habitation that are partially abandoned, partially removed: haylofts, inside the walls, under the house, in the bathhouse, behind the furnace... i've been thinking a lot about urban wildlife lately, and the animals who make space for themselves in and around human habitation. the "natural" and the "wild" persist inside and around the edges of the "tame" and always, always have. if you have a crawlspace, there's a little spirit who lives there and he's the reason the dryer always eats your socks.

LIVE WHIMSICALLY.

[maxlarens]

Driver!reader and oscar starting the race from p1&p2 and before they put their helmets and stuff they kiss one last time on the grid and people go like "awwwww" because it was somehow filmed

i feel like u sent this in to be like a concept or something but I HAD to write it. i’ve been writing for lando so much lately i’ve very much been missing oscar + driver!reader. plus i’ve not ever written them in an established relationship before!

It’s not like you and Oscar are a secret.

It might have been easier that way, to keep your relationship from the public’s prying eyes, but it’s not really your style. It’s not Oscar’s either.

Being public comes with its problems— questions from the media, awkward interviews, your respective PR teams going a little buck wild, extra contracts and NDAs to sign— but it also has its benefits.

You like be able to talk about him, like being able to call him your boyfriend. ‘Oscar Piastri, the driver for McLaren? Yeah, that’s my boyfriend’. You like hearing him say things about you, praise your driving skills, talk about you as a rival and as his girlfriend. It’s all you can do to stop grinning like a madwoman whenever you’re in his vicinity. You equally like that the press can’t comment meaningfully on it, can’t speculate wildly about the nature of your relationship when you’ve made it clear.

Some people hate it. They think you’re a silly little girl with her head full of romantic notions. No room for skill, for ruthlessness. Which is funny, given that Oscar receives only praise for “bagging you”. You think they’re just jealous; if not of the fact that Oscar’s dating you and not them, then of your duality. The way you can love Oscar wholeheartedly and also race Oscar wholeheartedly.

They’re not mutually exclusive in your experience.

Naturally, there’s a massive buzz about you and Oscar being P1-P2 on the starting grid.

You’re not particularly surprised. The MCL’s had been performing well all through practice, just as you and Lewis had. You pull out pole in quail, fastest Q1 and Q2, with Oscar hot on your tail. There’s a barrage of bizarre questions in the media pen,

Do you think Oscar’s grid position will impact your performance during the race? Why would it?

Will this affect your relationship with Oscar? No.

What happens if one of you wins and the other doesn’t? The same thing that happens every time anyone wins ever?

You’re confused by it. Bordering on snarky and sarcastic the fifth time someone asks if you and Oscar might break up over this. Rolling your eyes, thinking your true feelings are obvious, you tell some Italian journalist that yeah no we might break up if he doesn’t let me win.

It’s funny, objectively it’s hilarious. You and Oscar laugh over it later that afternoon. Send the clip to a group chat you’re in with a few drivers closer to your age. And so what if it’s still funny when clickbait articles and gossip sites start saying that the two of you have broken up.

There’s even more buzz about it by the morning of the race. Journalists you’ve already talked to have suddenly become convinced that you and Oscar are on the rocks. You can’t help but play into it a bit— partially for the benefit of your PR team— arriving separately, forgoing the couple snap that you usually grace Kym Illman with, giving vague no-comment answers when the media accost you.

Maybe it’s a little childish, a little dramatic. But it serves them right for jumping to conclusions.

You avoid any presenters on the grid walk, sinking into the protective circle made by your engineers. Staying behind the roped off areas until about 10 minutes to race start when you finally hop over the MCL in P2.

Oscar’s drinking water, looking smug when you push through McLaren engineers, so used to your continued presence that they let you in with ease.

“Hey,” you greet, reaching out to smooth the collar of his fireproofs, “How’s it goin’?”

“Mm,” he hums, cutting a glance behind you, which you take to mean that there are cameras trained on the two of you, a reporter trying to get your attention maybe, “I’d be better if I was on pole.”

You hiss mockingly, “Yeah, too bad. You gonna break up with me about it?”

He raises an eyebrow, lashes brushing his cheekbones as he looks down at you, “I didn’t know you read F1 gossip sites?”

You shrug in response, “Don’t need to. The media make enough noise about it.”

He hums again, smile pulling at his mouth while someone from Mercedes shouts at you to get back. Rachel probably. You should go, you really should. But Oscar’s so close and so cute in those black fireproofs.

“Good luck,” you say,

leaning forward to kiss him, hand on the back of his head. A slip of tongue, not so much to be publicly obscene, but enough to leave him wanting,

“You’ll need it.”

You hear the sweet sound of him laughing as you slip away, back to where your car is sitting on pole. Ignoring the reporter dogging at your heels for a comment you don’t really need to give.

like maybe unrealistic. who cares!

[theluckiestrose]

Finally got to watch Everything Everywhere All At Once and i loved it. Definitely my favorite kung fu movie.

[attapullman]

Bob From Stats | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: College is a wild time, but absolutely nothing could prepare you for the quiet guy from Stats riding around campus as a cowboy. Or what a good kisser he is.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: f!reader, smut, 18+ ONLY as always, dry humping, alcohol, drunken party games, mentions of studying because that gives me PTSD, semi-exaggerated Greek life for theatrical reasons

A Note From Mo: Somehow my frat!Bob, drunk Bob is Rhett, and 7 minutes in heaven ideas all rolled into one fic - wild! Massive shoutout to everyone who listened to me talk about Stats Bob (who is now officially my #2 Bob, I love him) and for supporting this here lil blog. May you find a hobby-horse-wielding future WSO to sweep you off your feet too!

“I hate this. I’m going to quit school and become a stripper.”

Anna gives you a wry look. “That joke was only funny the first time you said it.”

“So you admit I’m funny!”

The two of you have been spread out in the library the majority of the evening. Textbooks, snacks, and highlighters littering the glossy dark wood. You’re on hour five of assignments and your brain is pounding against the front of your skull. Your other classes aren’t too bad, a bit time consuming, but Statistics is a foreign language. Thinking in probable numbers? It was one thing when the nice guy who sat behind you helped explain concepts, but Anna does not have quite the same analytical mind.

The sky outside is an inky black and the library is quiet except for your frustrated huffs. It’s Saturday night. The rest of campus is indulging in cheap beers at Barney’s, slinking along Greek Row, or enjoying tonight’s episode of Saturday Night Live. It’s time to get out of here and crawl into your soft bed. Torturing yourself with Stats homework will be just as painful on Sunday.

“If I buy us a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, can we blow this off and hang out back at the dorms?” Anna is nodding before you’ve even finished. Stuffing notebooks into backpacks and capping pens low on ink, you’re strolling down the library stairs not even five minutes later.

As the balmy evening campus air hits your face, you already feel fresher. Campus is quiet, late enough that most people are settled into their Saturday night plans. As the two of you near Greek Row, there’s a comfortable silence as you appreciate the breeze through the trees and the warm glow of campus housing windows.

That is, until a low whoop rings out. An undercurrent of boisterous cheering and what sounds like stomping feet. You exchange eyes with your roommate. What is that?

As if summoned, a group comes galloping through the neatly trimmed cypress trees around the corner. They’re stomping their feet in a rhythm, hands held mid-air to imitate holding reigns. Drunken laughs ring out between cries of “Whoa!” and “Steady there, Lucky!” To round it off, the leader of their horse play (literally) is full-on cosplaying as a cowboy, his jeans tucked into boots and a Stetson perched atop his head. 

Wait, is he holding a hobby horse? It’s been decades since you’ve seen those horse heads stuck on a stick. The stuffed felt Appaloosa head is reigned in the cowboy’s hands, where he pretends to spur it back into action. 

Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

The group continues its way toward you and you’re equally secondhand embarrassed and amused. As they grow closer you recognize a few guys from the Pi Kapp house and wave. But it’s Anna who makes the most shocking discovery when Mr. Cowboy tilts his brim up.

"Is that Bob from Stats?" 

It takes a second to look past the brown felt hat and the hobby horse he's taking for a spin, but that's definitely the same pink-cheeked Bob Floyd who has lent you a pencil all semester. 

“Howdy, ladies.” He tips his hat to you, all toothy grin and droopy drunk eyes. "Can I offer you a ride?"

You stare open-mouthed. Shocked. That slow rancher drawl is new. The unbridled confidence is new. Actually, the entire getup is new. For nine weeks you’ve seen him in the same trucker hat and sweatshirt combo while going over homework answers together. What is going on?

He’s clearly in the middle of his house party crawl, bright blue eyes half open behind his metal frames. Just as gorgeous as ever as a tendril of sandy hair curls against his forehead. Normally your reaction to him is tender, a puppy dog crush. But this wild, inebriated version of him? You’re hot under the collar.

“You think there’s room on your horse?” Ever since that first Stats class he’s made your brain feel like it’s on RedBull. The way he noticed you missing a writing utensil and offering you his extra. His kind smile when you get a homework answer completely wrong. Anna hasn’t noticed your crush, but it feels obvious with the way you can barely keep eye contact with him yet are unable to look away. Especially with that stupid cowboy hat on.

He bites his lip, considering your response, and his buddies all razz him as he drawls out, “There will be if we squeeze in.”

The wink makes your mouth dry.

Someone from the back of the group complains of the cold and the group prepares their steeds to head back to Pi Kapp. Anna explains you’re headed back to the dorms, tone deaf to the sexual tension, and Bob nods with his brow furrowed. 

“Another time then.” His white tshirt practically glows in the moonlight. “Have a good night, chickadees. Get home safe!”

With another tip of his Stetson to you, Bob Floyd gallops away toward another keg. 

You’re sprinting across campus, cursing how late your meeting with your advisor went. There was ten minutes to get across campus and he had spent four of those questioning whether you really needed another semester of French. You make it into the lecture hall with a minute to spare, finding your preferred spot in the lower rows where you can actually see the board. Right in front of Bob.

“What? No cowboy hat for class?” His cheeks flame red, the hope you’ve forgotten about his Saturday antics lost. He looks like himself today, his signature trucker cap keeping the hair off his face. Those friendly ultramarine eyes shyly focusing on his notebook because god forbid he makes eye contact after you’ve seen him gallop across campus on a fake horse. 

He rubs the back of his neck over his soft-looking crewneck, an awkward smile playing on his lips. “It’s at the cleaners.”

You give him an amused grin before settling yourself into one of the classically uncomfortable lecture seats. Anna waves to you from where she’s rushing in, historically always late. The professor is shuffling notes at the podium as she collapses into the seat next to you, nodding her head in greeting to you and to Bob. She raises her eyebrows to you, a “remember when Bob was dressed as a cowboy” gesture, and your lips twist happily. 

“Alright, class, who’s ready to talk probability?” The collective groans and hollers mark the start of lecture. You flip open your notebook and start digging around for a writing instrument in your bag. Like usual, you seem to be missing a pen or pencil when you need one most.

A tap on your shoulder. You turn and lock eyes with the frat boy-turned-cowboy with the shy smile. He holds out a pencil to you. Taking it sheepishly, you mouth a thank you and turn back to lecture. After nine weeks it shouldn’t be this embarrassing, but every week he’s given you a pencil since you whispered shoot! a little too loud on Week 1.

Risking a quick glance back at him, engrossed in the Empirical Law of Averages while he twirls his pencil, you’re not sure you can survive the rest of the semester.

By the end of the Stats lecture on Thursday, you have one brain cell to your name and seven pages of notes. What a brutal class. Midterms were quickly approaching and not a single professor had any mercy. As you pack up your stuff - including the borrowed pencil that would promptly disappear before next class - you make a study plan with Anna for that evening. She brings the chips, you’ll supply the vodka.

“Are you two not hitting the houses tonight?” He looks uncomfortable having interrupted the two of you.

Bob shifts his backpack to his other shoulder, adjusting the collar of his navy blue sweatshirt. Other than when he’s kindly exchanged homework answers before class - or been drunkenly galloping across campus - the two of you don’t speak much. The odd quip here and there, but overall the two of you exist in pencil-sharing quiet. “Everyone’s having pre-midterm parties before buckling down to study.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” You look at Anna encouragingly. As needed as a vodka-infused study session was, one night out couldn’t hurt. And it was Thursday. No classes tomorrow meant you had three days to buckle down and attempt to understand anything you’ve learned this semester. 

She eyes you warily, but agrees that Greek Row sounds like a better option than highlighting textbooks. Bob flashes you his timid smile beneath the brim of his cap. “It’ll be a fun night. Maybe I’ll see you? If not, have a good weekend!” 

As he starts to walk out, a feeling takes over you. “Bob?” You watch him slow down and turn, wide blue eyes watching you from behind those unconventionally cute glasses. “You’ll be at the Pi Kapp house, yeah?” He nods. “Cool. See you around!”

Despite standing next to it the entire conversation, neither of you notice the pencil sitting on the desk, left behind as you head out for your respective weekends.

“What did you say?” You’re practically yelling to be heard over the EDM that Sigma Chi is blaring. They’ve turned their house into a rave with glow sticks, body paint, and music so loud your eardrums must be burst. The beer is warm, your arm has supernaturally purple paint smeared across it, and Anna has been unsuccessfully telling you a story for ten minutes.

Huffing, she grabs your arm and drags you toward the entrance, tossing your cups onto a random hallway table where a heated makeout session is taking place. They move out of the way just enough so the two of you can slip out of the old colonial house and out into the cool night. The ringing in your ears subsides slowly as you lean against the columns of the front porch. 

“House number three? Also sucked. Three strikes and you’re out? Can we go home?” Anna grabs your wrist and pouts. She wanted movie night with vodka and a pizza from Pietro’s. You wanted to blow off steam.

But Alpha Sig had mostly been freshman and Phi Delt, while not a terrible party, had the most smarmy men on campus. The bleeding eardrums of Sigma Chi was preferable to pushing off men in polos just to grab another drink. You just wanted a semi-decently flavored alcoholic beverage - maybe three - while chatting with some friends. You weren’t asking for much.

Allowing Anna to drag you in the direction of the dorms, ready to admit defeat, you slow to a stop seeing the bricked entrance to Pi Kappa Phi. Bob’s fraternity. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, right?

It takes a little convincing, but soon you’re in the warmly lit foyer of the Pi Kapp house. The vibe is more relaxed than Sigma Chi, with a keg in the corner, an array of liquor bottles in the kitchen, and hip-hop softly filling the house. You’re impressed they’ve even gone the extra mile with multi-colored string lights across every surface to brighten up the otherwise dark house. 

“Yooooo, how’s it going?” A drunken loaf of snapback and Deep Eddy envelopes you in a hug. It’s Tyler, one of your freshman seminar PK friends. Exchanging pleasantries - the best you can with someone that far gone - he drags you further into the house. Miscellaneous groups of Greek and geed litter the hallways. Anna sees her friends from Delta Gamma and ditches you, promising to get home safe. Tyler continues on his mission to god knows where.

At least he’s considerate enough to stop in the kitchen so you can grab a whiskey lemonade to sip.

Eventually you’re spat into a sitting room of sorts, groups crowding the ring of sofas while drunkenly jeering at the game. You set yourself on the arm of one, trying to make sense of the theatrics. The latest victim laughs out a “Truth!” before everyone giggles wickedly. Are they playing truth or dare? 

Your eyes gloss over the group, trying to figure out who else you know. A few PK’s you recognize, a girl who smiles but looks unfamiliar, and…a cowboy hat that is a dead giveaway.

Standing up and walking around the group, you tap him on the shoulder. The biggest blue eyes meet yours, a surprised smile splitting his face. 

“You made it!” That deep drawl is back and that tingle reappears on your spine. Bob jumps up from the couch, beer bottle dwarfed in his hand, and comes to stand with you. “You having a good night?”

Ironically, your night is much better now that you’ve found him. He’s back in his cowboy gear, a worn denim shirt tucked into his jeans and those same cowboy boots scuff against the hardwood. You’re tempted to steal the felt hat from his head just so he looks a little bit more like Bob from Stats. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, letting the alcohol be an excuse, you succumb to the obvious question. “I need to know - what’s with the…cowboy?” You gesture up and down, drawing a chuckle from him.

He blushes under the felt brim. “You know I have a slight accent, yeah?” You attempt to stifle your laugh as he incidentally talks in a thicker accent. “When I was a pledge they started calling me cowboy. Saw the hat while I was in town one week, ended up leaning into the joke.”

“And the hobby horse?”

He beckons you closer, bringing his lips to your ear. “Stolen from my little sister over summer break.”

There’s that wink again making your knees weak. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and takes another sip from his beer. Despite the party raging around you, nothing else seems to exist past him asking about your night and if you want another drink. You’re wrapped in the warmth of his words, itching to snuggle into his broad chest. 

The spell is broken when “Cowboy Bob!” rings out from the crowd. The entire room is turned to you two. “Truth or dare, man?”

In the background of your intimate conversation with Bob, the truths and dares have reached full raunchiness. People have been stripped of clothes and dirty secrets. A bead of sweat gathers at Bob’s collar, aware that neither option is safe. 

His worried gaze flits to you, as if you hold the correct answer, before tipping his hat back and exhaling, “Dare?” 

It’s gutsy, but if there’s one thing you’re learning about the quiet guy from Stats, he’s full of surprises. The crowd bubbles with excitement, anticipating what dare will be dealt out. Next to you, the wannabe cowboy looks more annoyed than anything. He was enjoying talking to you not in a classroom and with a little liquid courage.

An evil smile crosses the dare-dealer’s face. He knows Bob and isn’t blind to what’s going on. He’s gonna help his buddy out on this one.

His arm stretches out and he points (with the red plastic cup in his hand) to the coat closet at the end of the hall. “Hmmmmm, I dare you to, hmm, play Seven Minutes in Heaven with…” It’s no surprise when the cup-turned-pointer lands on you.

Ice water down your back wouldn’t be as panic inducing. It’s hard to tell who swallows harder, you or Cowboy Bob. Every instinct is telling you to run, but that little voice in the back of your head wins out. As Bob starts to tell you it’s okay, they’re joking, you don’t have to, you grab his thick wrist and give him a nervous smile. You don’t even care what the punishment is for not completing a dare, this stupid drunken game has given you an opportunity.

The dealer of the dare follows the two of you down the hallway, leading the whoops and wolf whistles. Bob’s cheeks flame scarlet in the low light. You keep your chin high and eyes forward. He can definitely feel the way you’re trembling around his wrist.

Whether in anxiety or excitement it’s hard to tell.

The inside of the closet is dark, the faint light under the door casting only the faintest of shadows. Your heart is pounding, blood pulsing through your ears. Bob rubs his lips together nervously. It’s all you can do to not run your tongue along them. 

“We don’t have to do anything, we can just talk.” The way he prioritizes your comfort makes heat pool between your legs. The brim of his hat is as far back as it can go, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as he gauges your emotions. He’s welcome to figure them out, you’re unsure of them yourself. 

His large, warm hand rubs your forearm comfortingly, your skin too cold without his touch. You’re suffocating under his sweat-and-bergamot scent, citrusy and warm.

You bite the bullet. “What if I want to?”

His breath stops. Fingers find yours in the dark, interlocking on either side of your hips. Eyes you know are the deepest blue lock onto your gaze, a million emotions passing behind his irises. Face descending upon the space between you, tentatively showing his intentions. You meet him in the middle, caution out the window.

The kiss is gentle, puzzle pieces slotting together for the first time. He tastes like malt sugar and peppermint. Mouth warm and soft, enveloping you fully in his comfort. It’s even better than what you’ve imagined for the past nine weeks.

Bob begins to pull away, ever the gentleman. Your hand finds his collar, holding him in place. “Not yet, we still have, like, five and a half minutes.”

Despite the low light, his smile lights up the closet.

His lips return to yours in a rush, swallowing your mouth in a passionate heat. The press of his body to yours is delicious. Hands previously at your side meet your hips, lightly squeezing as you moan into his mouth. You reach up and hold the back of his neck, bringing him even closer as your lips toy with the tiniest bit of stubble along his jaw.

“You know,” he starts, holding the moan in the back of his throat. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since September.”

You pull back momentarily, a crinkle upon your brow. “Bob, we didn’t start Stats until January.”

He kisses the confusion from your face, his hands wrapping further around your body. “And you looked very pretty in that green dress at the homecoming barbecue.”

Bless your love of school spirit and free food. “Why didn’t you? Kiss me?”

“I don’t normally make a habit of kissing girls I don’t know. And clearly it takes an entire fraternity for me to get you alone.” The way his chuckle bounces against your skin has you squirming. Your schoolgirl crush on him wasn’t one-sided, and suddenly you’re hot for teacher. 

You capture him in another kiss, tongue searching the seam of his lips for entrance. He obliges immediately, groaning as you explore his taste. Four hands roam skin, finding purchase in anything and everything. Your body has a mind of its own as you press against him, chest heaving with your passion. The right shift of fabric on fabric reveals that he’s equally as affected by the chemistry.

Reluctantly, he pulls away once more, threading his fingers across the back of your neck. Takes a moment to capture his breath as he sees the lust in your eyes. A deep breath. “As much as I like you, I don’t want to do anything if you’re drunk.”

Soft fingers follow the line of his arm to where it wraps around your waist. How is he this impossibly sweet? Thoughtful, respectful, and looking hot as sin with swollen lips. It’s unfair.

“I promise I’m not.” You stroke the back of his hand. “Please kiss me?”

His large hands unwrap from your waist and travel down, shifting behind your legs and pulling you up, resting your back against the wall. You tangle your legs around his waist as best you can in the small space, relishing his firm body pressed deliciously close, warm and solid. Kisses smeared across lips and jaws as noises crescendo. You’re panting as you trail down to his impossibly long neck, desperate to cover it in affection.

You’ve barely explored the expanse of skin when the door flies open, the boisterous party sounds flooding in. Reality strikes like a slap across the face. The truth-or-dare ringleader takes you in - legs wrapped around Bob and hands creeping toward your ass - and whoops in delight. Who knew Cowboy Bob had it in him!

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” He crows and reaches forward to slug Bob lightly on the shoulder. 

Not skipping a beat, Bob shoves his friend back and throws up his middle finger. “Fuck off, Milburn.” 

The closet door slams shut, blanketing you again in the intimacy of the moment. You’re looking at him with unsure eyes and he’s praying the moment hasn’t been ruined. He’s waited seven calendar months for this opportunity and his fingers are so close to enjoying the plump squeeze of your ass.

“We can go back to the party if you want?” Your voice is so small, nervous outside of those bold seven minutes. Tentative breaths exist between you. 

In lieu of an answer, he bows his head to give you a searing yet gentle kiss.

That cramped coat closet suddenly is an inferno, his tongue slipping inside your mouth and groaning at the burning sweetness of your taste. Your hands grip his shoulders as you fight for dominance, fingers tangling in denim. Hips brushing together, still clinging to the idea of this being innocent. 

An innocence immediately lost when Bob strikes up the courage and palms your ass. Soft and pliable and perfect to squeeze in his palms. He remembers the exact day you came to class in the tightest jeans known to man (laundry day) and the way he had dug his pencil in his palm to avoid a semi as your curved ass met the lecture seat. Something unavoidable now as you squirm against him, moaning your pleasure against the pulse in his neck.

Nothing has ever felt as good as rubbing against Bob Floyd’s clothed bulge. One glance down and you’re dizzy with arousal. Rutting yourself against him as best you can with your limited mobility, sloppy kisses exchanged as the two of you can barely keep your mouths closed. It feels so good, too good. 

Lost in the moment, one hand slips below the hem of your skirt, warm skin on skin. Any noise from outside the closet dims to a hum. Two hearts beating rapidly as desire fully consumes, directing lips to too hot exposed skin. You murmur your need in his ear. You don’t care where you are, you need him.

Bob tucks a finger under your thong, feeling the slick coating your folds. The whine that leaves him is desperate and gruff. He groans against your throat. “Shit, I don’t have a condom.”

Undeterred, your lip catches between your teeth, core muscles contracting as you grind your hips forward. “Doesn’t mean I can’t go for a ride.”

He’s immediately on board, teasing you briefly before extricating his hand to support you better against the wall. His hands practically swallow your ass, flooding you with lust. You thrust your chest against him, desperate to touch every spot on his handsome body as your hips begin to grind. 

His hands are sweltering as they trail down, effortlessly clutching the back of your thighs to give you leverage. Your clit finds friction against his jeans and your mouth hangs open as you buck frantically into him.

“Look at you move, cowgirl,” he breathes out, infatuated. The nickname spurrs you on, whimpering against his lips.

One hand clutching his bicep, holding on for desperate life, while the other snakes its way atop the damned cowboy hat that’s stayed on the entire encounter. Gripping the top of it and holding fast as you ride his clothed bulge with everything you’ve got. Denim and lace against your clit, rubbing deliciously as your brain fuzzes. His hot mouth focused at the hinge of your jaw, sucking soft bruises into the skin; moaning when you brush him just right. 

“I’m close,” you whisper against his cheek. Time has stood still, but it’s embarrassing how close he’s gotten you to orgasm with just his clothed cock and strong hands. 

He ruts his hips forward, meeting your thrusts in heavenly synchronization. You’re panting as the pressure on your clit catapults you, so close to the ultimate prize. Whispers of you can do it, cowgirl, cum for me, doing so good riding me, just a bit more, cowgirl fizzle your senses. 

“O-oh!”

It’s intense, the blinding pleasure coursing through your body. Prolonged by the thick bulge still rutting against you, ready to burst itself. Lips tickling your ear as he praises you. You want to live in this perfect moment of bliss. A moment only perfected when Bob’s fingers grip too hard and his hips stutter up into yours. His all-consuming orgasm only muffled by the skin of your shoulder as he rides it out. 

The rhythmic slowing of your breaths is all you can focus on. You breathe in, he breathes out. Small smiles and a blush barely visible in the low light. 

Delicately, like he knows you might break, he releases you back to the ground; taking his time to smooth down your skirt and straight out your top. Your own hands reach up to his chest, fixing the fabric that had bunched up in your passion. Adjusting his fogged glasses to look into his beautiful eyes.

It doesn’t matter how much you clean up, one look at you two and anyone would comment you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

With one final kiss to your lips, you feel something land on your head. The brown cowboy hat with the rip along the edge. Cowboy Bob showing off his cowgirl.

You tentatively open the closet door, eyes adjusting to the normal light. Painfully aware of the wet splotch on the obvious front of his jeans, Bob holds your body against him as a human shield. The party is still going strong - your antics have not interrupted anything - and you slip toward the front door without notice. Well…mostly, as a few wolf whistles reach your ears.

“It’s not that late, you want to go back to mine? I’m just off Thornton. It’s quiet since everyone is here.” His eyes are so hopeful in the dark night. So desperate for you to say yes. For you to be his cowgirl beyond tonight.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close, careful to avoid the spot where your bodily fluids have drenched his jeans. “I’m in.” Your smile is blinding. “We have about nine weeks of Stats to make up.”

The brick is uncomfortable behind your back, but it’s hard to care when his lips feel so good. Broad shoulders shielding you from the hallway, trucker hat turned around and glasses in his pocket so there’s not an inch between your faces. Agreeing to meet outside before lecture was such a good idea.

Despite spending most of the time between Thursday night and Tuesday afternoon in Bob’s apartment trying every position in the book (with teasing hollers from his Pi Kapp roommates adding to the soundtrack) you can’t help but steal these five minutes. He looks so cute, to not kiss him would be a crime.

Bob squeezes your hips, lips trailing down your jaw. “What’s on your mind, cowgirl?”

“I’m trying very hard to convince myself that we pay a lot of money to attend this school and should go learn about statistics. Even though I really only want to head back to my dorm and see how sturdy that loft bed is.”

From where his nose traces your ear, a guttural whine leaves him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to go to class.”

You pull back to look at him, fingers tickling the close cropped hair at his neck. God, he makes it so hard to want to be responsible.

“Let’s make a deal, okay? We’ll go to class, learn, and tonight you come over and for every study guide question you get right I’ll take off a piece of clothing. Sound good?” He’s practically panting as he smothers your mouth in another kiss. He’s really good at Stats. A steady stream of students files past Bob’s back, a sign that class is about to start.

You press another kiss to his lips. “Let’s go or we’ll miss out on seats. Plus I need to dig through my bag for a pencil.”

“Do you think you actually have one today?” He smirks, amused. The eighteen pencils he’s lent you say otherwise.

Your cheeks are hot under where he kisses them. “Uh…if I don’t can I borrow one? If you have one, that is.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and holds you closer, rubbing your noses softly.

“You do realize I’ve been buying pencils all semester just to give to you, right?”

Turning his cap around - insides fully melted - you know you’re in this rodeo for the long run.

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[ddejavvu]

I need anakin to bend me in half, my legs over his shoulders with his hands intertwined above my head to hold me in place and rabbit fuck me until he fills me up with his seed and holds me upside so not a drop spills then do it all over again the next morning. and then pulls up my panties, pats my clothed pussy and tells me to go on with my day with all his cum snug inside me🧎‍♀️

keep the anakin thoughts coming please <3 just like he'd keep me comi- [gunshots]

this post is 18+, minors dni.

the part about- the- the part about... patting it. like a little reward. please i'm convulsing i need him so carnally

he spends a fair amount of time in the morning loving on you, because he's been touch/love deprived all his life and he's enamored with the concept of just being with you. But he's like a leech, and more often than not, when he gets his hands on you, he's gonna latch on and suck and take take take take take from you, so having your knees over his shoulders just becomes a regular morning routine for the two of you.

it's really very casual, too. that's not to say it lacks passion, because anakin is passion in human form, and it would be impossible for him to do anything without an underlying current of it running through his veins like scorching oil, fueling his every move. but it's routine, it's usual, it's expected.

all he has to do is tilt his head up, chin pointed towards the bedpost, and you know to wrap your hands around it and hold on for dear life. he doesn't even need to say it anymore, but sometimes a sleep-thickened, groggy 'bedpost' will fill the anticipatory silence that your blearily buzzing bodies exude.

he is a pussy !! eater !! if you're not already slick and wet and begging for his cock from whatever varying degree of foreplay he'd managed in his freshly awake state, he parts your thighs with an easy wedge of his hands and buries his face in your cunt to say good morning. he probably talks to it too, squishing his nose up against the underside of the hood of your clit and offering a murmured 'morning' to your pussy. he likes when it elicits a response, a shudder of your spine, a fluttering clench around the slack ring of his lips, and he's more than happy to tongue-fuck you open in preparation for his cock. he's rutting it against the bed, ignoring the squished discomfort in search of stimulation that you can give him so much better.

he eats you out the same way he kisses you; a confident, probing tongue and a lot of spit. so much, in fact, that you can't tell what of the foamy residue he sucks up and spits back out onto your cunt is your own juices, or his. but it's wet, disgustingly so, and it's enough lubrication to aid in his master plan.

once you're sufficiently wet and ready, he doesn't hold back. he's been grinding against the stiff mattress for too long to take it slow, once the crown of his cock breaches your eager hole he's blacking out and going all in. his hips start at a jackrabbit's pace instantly and don't slow until he's pulling out of you, a relentless rhythm that you're always woefully unprepared for in the early morning.

you always cry out things like 'ah! anakin!' or 'easy- gentle! please, ani' you sob with tears brimming in your sleepy eyes as you grip at his cheeks, trying to tame whatever wild beast has him in its clutches while your cunt sucks him in, 'easy, baby, please.'

you're lucky you can use your hands, too. because he used to restrain them with the force, something that anakin knows obi-wan would be satisfyingly disapproving of if he ever found out. but once you'd learned to keep them around the headboard, you'd been permitted to hold them there yourself, and you can get away with touching his face or clawing at his back. as long as you don't use them to shift your weight somewhere, or touch your clit, or anything that he can handle. your legs burn as he's thrown them over his shoulders but don't move them, he wants them there.

anakin's a voracious kisser, licking your mouth out and providing it with an abundance of saliva and the residue of your own wetness. it's another hole he can fuck, his tongue prodding at the suction of your throat like his dick does to your cunt. he likes making you gag on it, sticking his tongue so far down your throat that you choke. all the while his drool is leaking into your mouth, pooling and swirling obscenely with your own, and making his cock twitch inside of your sloppy cunt.

he's very vocal during sex, but sometimes the morning sleepiness still has its clutches on him, and he's not very verbal. typically, though, he's grunting and groaning at every thrust, his mouth squelching as his tongue slides wetly against your own and his pornographic growls flowing straight down your throat and to your core.

He always holds himself back from cumming until after you have, maybe because he revels in how sensitive you get while he's still pumping his cock into you like you haven't just finished and spasmed around him. he usually spills warm, thick loads of cum into you not long after you work through your own orgasm, the feeling of your climax pushing him to his own.

but he doesn't slump down onto you, he doesn't roll over, he doesn't go fetch a washcloth, no. he slides his strong hands under your hips, one flesh and one durasteel, and lifts your hips off of the mattress, folding your stomach in half and keeping your cunt elevated.

His seed spills obscenely from its clutches but he prods at it with sloppy, haphazard fingers and licks them clean once it's no longer spilling outside of you. he wants it to sink into you, he wants it to take and be trapped in your cunt for the entire day. he knows gravity isn't on his side in that wish, but he dips down to nudge and kiss it between your puffy lips, tasting it on his tongue as he pushes it further into your sex.

when he's satisfied with its placement, he takes your underwear, sliding it over your ankles and hiking it up to your waist. it takes a little maneuvering to secure it under your ass, but once it's there he pats over your now-clothed, still filthy pussy, offering up an appreciative, 'good job, angel'. you can't tell if he's talking to you or your pussy but your brain is simultaneously exhausted and on fire at the same time, so you let him get up and shower for the morning while you recover beneath the bedsheets. when he leaves for his duties he drops a kiss to your lips, much more chaste and quick than it had been before, and tells you to have a good day, pretty girl.'

and that's it.

like he hadn't just fucked you raw and rough into the mattress. like your hands don't have imprints of the bedpost on them.

'have a good day, pretty girl.'

[directdogman]

Hi, I hope you're having a decent day! I'm sorry if this is an invasive set of questions - feel free not to answer - but do you still actively like DSaF as your own creation, or is it more of a "it was fun while it lasted but i outgrew it and it's for the best to leave it behind" kind of project? Do you ever regret making the games? If you knew they would get so popular, is there anything you would have changed about them? Is there anywhere I could read more of your writing.

It fluctuates a bit. These last couple of years, I've really just been sorta nostalgic for it. I've seen a lot of people discuss those games being a source of comfort during bad times in their lives, people talking about how much the characters mean to them and it's hard not to smile when you see that.

It's a funny thing for close friends of yours to see people WITH fanmade DSaF merch out in the wild, or to watch a random youtube video and being hit with a DSaF reference outta nowhere. It happens from time to time, even today. On a few occasions, I've even had a person reference my work to me in real life and not realize who they were talking to, believe it or not. It's really fun to play dumb and get someone to explain your work to you like you don't know what it is.

I certainly didn't think any of that would happen when I first made the series, or even during development. I think the normal assumption would be to look at DSaF as it exists now and assume its release was a peak for it, but believe it or not, the official discord only had 30 people in it shortly before 3 dropped! The archive listing of the series (reposted to a single page after the series ended) is now sitting at over 1.1 MILLION downloads.

People kinda assume the true heyday of something is when it's new, when it's fresh and novel. For instance, some people look back at when FNaF itself was new and see that time as its peak because it had a lot of internet cultural relevance as big new indie thing on the block. But, raw numbers don't lie. The series has been continually growing since its conception and that growth has similarly bled over to its fan projects. This explains why DSaF, despite not having a new series release in almost 6 years, seems to be inexplicably growing.

Just recently, I saw someone post footage of a scene from DSaF 2 on Twitter, which got over 16k likes. People praised its writing and largely celebrated the scene. The ironic thing about that particular scene is that I remembered being unsure if it was good or not, so I showed it off in one of the FNaF community hubs. The response was broadly lukewarm to negative. Now, it's held up as one of the best scenes in those games. That's kind of the point I'm trying to make, my thoughts on the series have certainly changed with everyone's else with years of hindsight.

Heh. I'm not sure if I've talked about this in a long time, but y'know, the very first scene I implemented in-game was actually the very first Phone Guy scene in DSaF 1, more or less exactly how it appears in-game today. This was before I'd even written the bulk of the game. I was pretty unfamiliar with visual novels as a whole, pretty unsure if something like this would be palatable to a fandom that was really just used to sit 'n' survive stuff that were far more gameplay than text. I mean, there wasn't any FNaF fangames really LIKE DSaF before that point. Closest was FNaFb, a jokey turn based RPG made in the same engine.

The engine I made the game in is also not exactly fit for VNs out of the box either, and I wasn't 100% sure the idea would actually work. But, the very first time I added the image of the prize corner, Phone Guy, the audio of that iconic cheesy stock track and booted up a test screen, I had a little moment where I said "Oh. I think I'm onto something interesting here." I kinda remembering instantly realizing in that single moment how much potential the idea had. Over 8 years later, I still remember that moment like it was yesterday.

I think lately, that's the sort of stuff I think of when I see people coming to me and asking about the series. Yes, it's really rough around the edges, yes, there's jokes that've aged poorly. But, it is a source of comfort for people and entertains tens of thousands of people each month. And that's gotta count for something, right?