#don't have to tag all outta spite anymore!

[floofballsammy]

Rewatching the FNaF Movie and like... . The scene where Golden Freddy was at the house. I often see people asking how he got there and I had a thought.

Have we considered... that Golden Freddy.... had been there for a while?

I mean, we never see the robot in the pizzeria. And he is way more withered than the others, who actually seem to be in pretty good condition. So having the animatronic be somewhere near the house could make sense (i know there are other plausible reasons).

And like, Abby already has an imaginary friend (which I do think is the Golden Freddy kid), way before Mike gets the job there.

Idk I'm not thinking much about it. Just a random thought that popped into my head.

(though honestly, i personally like to imagine Golden Freddy just sprinted down the street at mach 3 to go get Abby as soon as he saw Mike enter the building-)

[steviewashere]

You Make it Digestible

Rating: General CW: Overstimulation (not the fun kind), Mentions of Marijuana (no using/smoking) Tags: Established Relationship, Deep Pressure Stimulation, Neurodivergent Eddie Munson, Cuddling For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is bodies touching..."

💕—————💕

Eddie was a rowdy kid growing up. He ran off of pure adrenaline and spite. Knew what buttons to push to get his way. He also knew that he didn't really have a gauge for when the steam would just—poof—right outta him. He'd yell and stomp and mimic the noises of everybody around him, rock on his heels and sway in place, would thump his chest and slam his hands on hard surfaces (not for the sting, but the noise). And he'd feel better for it. Be satiated enough to complete his day, as rough or unadulterated as it was.

But there was one way in which he liked to seal off his nights, though he hasn't been able to accomplish it in a long while. Not since he was a little kid, when Uncle Wayne was less achy limbs and more physical. Eddie liked the comfort of something weighing down on him, not metaphorically, quite literally. Loved being swaddled in heavy duty blankets, squeezed tight by Wayne's arms, just enough until a little squeak would leave him—breathless, winded—and he'd relax into the pillows and drift off.

Hasn't had it in a while, though. Used to be addicted to the sensation. And he's been in withdrawal for too long.

After March, 1986, the rough days pile up on Eddie's shoulders. People yelling at him in the streets. Jumping at sounds and flickering lights. Eyes glazing over when they spot a blonde cheerleader from the other side of some parking lot. Living is a lot. He can't get all his energy out. Can't hum under his breath, slam his hands to his chest, set his cheek against a cold surface. None of it renders him relaxed, if anything it only makes him more buzzed—realization setting in that his old ways of cooling down simply don't work anymore.

It makes him tired. He hates being tired. Hates waking up as if he never fell asleep. Doesn't like how heavy his eyes get. Or the incessant buzzing of background noise in his ears. The itchiness of new scars. Hands shaking in front of him, nausea pooling in his stomach. Like he greened out. Like he got a really bad pot brownie.

Being restless makes him spacey, too. An air cadet. Putting the stooge in The Three Stooges. So, one particular day, after grueling exams and being shoved into lockers and a tipped over lunch tray (God, can graduation be any farther away?), he forgets all about Hellfire. That hasn't happened since his freshman year of high school, when he was still just a regular player. That isn't supposed to happen. But he got in his van, rested his forehead on the steering wheel, didn't even bother to turn on his radio, put the clunky thing in reverse, and got outta dodge.

The house that him and his uncle were granted after Everything, is quiet, discreet, far away from the rest of civilization. Like something lost to time, frozen, forever held in solitude. And today, it should be especially comforting. But damn it, of course it isn't.

Wayne's home when Eddie gets there. Tries to start up a conversation, but all Eddie can do is shake his head, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides, hums overcoming his body, and slam his bedroom door behind him. He paces. He slaps himself a little. Pops his knuckles, twists his rings, pinches the skin of his palm. Shakes his head, huffs something from his nose, blinks to get rid of the exhaustion, blinks some more just to forget the array of mess in his room.

The point is, he tries. Tries everything he could possibly think of to try and get himself steady on the floor. But it’s feeble and he’s feeling stupidly crazy and time seems to stretch in front of him forever. He can’t take it. The buzzing, the exhaustion, the tight pull of his chest and prickling in his eyes. But, then again, he can’t make it go away. Doesn’t really know how. Doesn’t really know if there’s a when to it’s end.

There’s noise and noise and heat and space and tight skin and itchy scars and…and everything. God, there’s everything. There’s nightmares and blood and popping bones and a cheerleader at school and Jason Carver’s lackeys and spilled milk and his friends watching on in horror and their voices and a dice roll and…there’s Hellfire, fuck there’s Hellfire.

He checks his watch and immediately wants to smash it to little pieces. Of course he forgot. Of course it’s an hour past when they were supposed to meet. Of course he’s so worked up over what feels like nothing, which in turn is insurmountably something.

Eddie can’t help it, he goes back to pacing and popping his knuckles and waving his hands as if he could conjure the calm with his palms. He’s gotta meet his boyfriend later and have a nice dinner and maybe watch a movie and brush his teeth at precisely 7pm and lay down by eight and wake up early and go back to school and—Eddie groans; why is nothing working, he wants to scream.

A knock startles him. Little hesitant sound, verberating through the hardwood of his door. He wrenches it from its frame and comes face to face with Steve. His wonderful, smiley, goofy boyfriend, Steve. His golden skin and chestnut hair and—concerned eyes and furrowed eyebrows and wrinkled mouth. And, god, Eddie doesn’t know how to also take care of whatever fuckass thing is going on with Steve right now. He just wants to melt into a puddle.

Panting, breathless, Eddie greets, “Hey, Stevie. Hey, uh, what’re—what brings you to my humble abode?” His voice strains, squeaky, gravelly all at once. He tightens his hand on the doorknob.

“Dustin radioed me. Said that you didn’t come to Hellfire. Are you okay? Are you sick or something?” Steve cuts right to it. How he knows right away, Eddie will never understand. For all the shit the party says, about how dumb Steve can be, he seems to be the most intelligent being on the universe right now. In hindsight, maybe that’s just Eddie’s exhausted brain. But, then again, Steve’s perceptive by a fault. And if that doesn’t make Eddie’s skin crawl more.

Heaving a sigh, Eddie’s grip loosens on the door. “It’s been a long day,” he mutters. “My mind is—“ He waves a hand at his own head. “Scrambled, I guess. I can’t get it to just shut off and I’m so tired and everything is just—And the buzzing, there’s so much noise and I hate the sound of my own voice right now, but I can’t—Nothing’s working, Steve,” he finds himself rambling, the words going wet and sideways. He scrubs a loose hand down his face and groans. “I forgot. I completely forgot. I’m so stupid right now, it’s ridiculous. I—“

“You’re not stupid, Eds,” Steve gently cuts in. “Just overworked and tired. Is there something I can do to help you? Don’t like seeing you so upset.”

“You’ll think it’s weird.”

“If it helps, it isn’t weird.”

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and stutters out something like a sigh. He doesn’t like asking. And he doesn’t like explaining himself. But he can’t escape the soft warmth and the welcomed presence of Steve. Him and his extremely careful, noticeably cautious, and wonderfully patient demeanor. “Can you lay on top of me? Like crush me? And—Hold me in your arms, but also squeeze me?” He paces away from the door and collapses backwards onto his mattress, pulling himself to be long over the bed. He pulls his hair up and fanned onto the pillow. And waits. Because, maybe, Steve will think the request is weird. And, maybe, Eddie will have to go with old reliable—four blankets too many, overheated, and still vibrating out of his skin.

Without much pretense, Steve gently lays himself over Eddie. Just plops right down. Arms wrangling under Eddie’s torso, hands intertwined, biceps flexing with the squeeze. “Like this?” He has the audacity to murmur, as if he hasn’t just solved world peace for Eddie.

Nodding, Eddie whispers, “Yeah, exactly like this.” His own hands come up and hold onto Steve’s hips, still clothed in jeans, and they pet down to his thighs. He exhales.

And, as if the world has gone to sleep, Eddie’s brain becomes blissfully quiet. The thrum under his skin melding into the regular beating of his pulse. The itch and tight pull of his chest, barely sore from the panting. He’s surrounded by warmth and heaviness and Steve’s cinnamon, spicy aftershave. Though he forgot Hellfire, and he truly hates forgetting things, he’s able to let go and forget all about the shit of his day. The lunch he was eager to eat. The last question on his math test. The cheerleader that tried to trip him. The overlay of everybody’s voice.

He can finally focus on just the breath in his room. That’s it. That’s all he can hear. There isn’t any buzzing from his overhead light. Television in the living room is pleasantly turned off. It’s as if, truly, the world went to sleep.

He can relax. He’s safe.

Welcomed tears leak down the sides of his face. With a quick, jittery breath, he murmurs, “I love you, Stevie. I love you so much.”

Steve chuckles. “I’m just laying on you.”

“It’s quiet, Steve. You made my world quiet.”

Steve’s stubbled cheek brushes against Eddie’s soft one. He nods and tucks in close. Doesn’t say anything, just kisses the seam of Eddie’s neck, closes his eyes, and lets out an unmoored sigh.

The ease of the afternoon is enough to lull Eddie into a peaceful rest. He snores into Steve’s left ear, volume low, air puffed gently.

A hand rakes through his bangs, pulling them up off his forehead, and Steve leaves a simple kiss on the skin. “Love you too, Eds. I’ll be right here.” And he wraps his arms back underneath, settles in completely, and remains over the length of Eddie’s body.

💕—————💕