#obscured eyes Freddie

[biskysposts]

Christmas is coming soon so, here’s an early gift with dolly, Freddie and Kev.

@lovely-lauren-arts don’t worry about little Freddie here, he’s just teasing.

[lovely-lauren-arts]

Look at this dumbass

[alydrawzzz]

Freddie but even SMALLER!!!

[hellohello-human]

Freddie getting a bath

@lovely-lauren-arts

[chesterthechestnut]

[abibliophobiaa]

Summary: You’ve never been one for love. Especially after your last round with it. Halloween rolls around and in comes Eddie Munson. He’s only in town for a couple days, you’re looking for no strings, and chances are you’ll never see him again anyway.

Easy, right?

That is, until you end up with an unexpected party favor.

mini series masterlist

next chapter

——

warnings: alcohol; smut; unprotected p in v; unplanned pregnancy and associated symptoms; major miscommunication. eddie munson x afab!reader(7k words)

——

“You’ve been staring around for hours. No one is catching your eye? Not even slightly? You’re not doing brain surgery, you’re just trying to get your toes wet.”

You knew this. But the music had been too loud, the room too heated, your body tucked away against the bar as you sat beside your best friend, sipping on a watery margarita that the ice had long since dissolved into.

All around you people bobbed and swayed to ‘Monster Mash.’ Cliche by all means, and yet it felt fitting when you appraised the crowd once more and noted the mummy dancing with his zombified partner. Further out you caught a werewolf in a particularly compromising position with a vampire, and a group of clowns crowded together hosting what looked to be a meeting.

“What about that Westley guy?”

Right — the one everyone had been talking about all night. The man who had the nerve to dress up as the direct counterpart to your own costume. With a huff, you hiked your leg up, crossing one over the other against the stool. The red dress around you shifted and moved, fingers reaching to adjust the belt around your waist.

“I haven’t seen him.” You shrugged, taking another sip of your drink. “For all I know, he doesn’t exist.”

Micah glanced about the room once again, her makeshift halo wobbling on her head. Somewhere in the distance her boyfriend, Jeremiah, was invested in a deeply riveting conversation about football with some of his friends from college. All of which had dressed in their old football jerseys, dark lines drawn haphazardly under eyes, helmets covering heads. She lingered on him for a moment, and then glanced further over your shoulder, lips tugging upward into a devilish grin. Oddly fitting for the girl dressed as an angel.

“Actually, he’s right there.”

Gravity sent your heart tumbling into your gut. Silly, when you’d thought about it. Just because he’d worn a costume from one of your comfort movies didn’t mean he’d be anything special. Multiple pirates, doctors, and the occasional Michael Myers and Freddy Krueger had already attempted to rouse a conversation, only for it to fall flat. This could very well end up the same, and this night was lost to the turmoil of the inner workings of your mind, still reeling from the sting rumbling in your chest over the past few months.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

But it wasn't a joke when you swiveled around on your stool and faced him. Not at all. In a dimly lit bar, packed too tight with too many bodies bumping you to and fro even as you presently sat, you spotted him. Found the guy people had been mentioning all night as the other half of your ‘couple’s costume,’ saying you both looked amazing together, despite the fact none of them knew he was quite literally a stranger to you.

He sat at a lonesome table. Leaned on an elbow with a cheshire grin spread across the prettiest set of pink lips. His dark curly hair was tied behind his head, tucked into the mask that covered the upper half of his face. Even partially obscured like that, he was handsome, freezing you in place with those piercing brown eyes that were locked unwaveringly on your silhouette.

So he’d noticed you too. Inwardly, you were beaming. After two months of couch surfing and feeling sorry for yourself after a failed relationship wherein you’d walked on your partner of two years with someone who most definitely wasn’t you, you’d decided tonight was the night you’d get back out there. A night of fun, a night to meet someone new, to let loose a bit.

“What are you waiting for,” your friend Micah asked, shoving you forward with a hasty push. “He’s your Westley. If this isn’t some weird ass fate, I don’t know what is.”

Your Westley’s smile grew wider as you approached. Corners dragged upward to form that broad grin, bracketed by the sweetest set of dimples you’d ever seen on a man. Heart pounding a bit, you leaned up against the table, letting out a noncommittal huff. Puffed out a deep breath that caught his attention and had those chocolate brown eyes solely on you.

“Is this space taken?” you asked, and he dipped his head in greeting. “So you’re the guy everyone has been talking about all night.”

“Ah, yes,” he laughed, and you couldn’t help but to smile at the very sound. It’s a lovely, hearty sound. The kind of laugh that seemed dangerous, because you might like it too much. “And you’re the girlfriend I didn’t know I had.”

“You too, huh?”

“Yeah,” he echoed, taking a step closer. “Though it’s all very flattering. Prettiest Princess Buttercup here.” He dropped the lowest part into a whisper, “Definitely a compliment because, if I’m being honest, you’re way out of my league.”

Your cheeks burned with the compliment, feet fidgeting beneath you where you stood. He reached over and slid a chair beside his hip, patting the surface so you could hop on up and join him, a hand of his reaching out to steady you when you wobbled a bit. Another round of drinks were ordered and you learned quickly his name was Eddie and he’d been in town only for a couple weeks now. Had a few gigs in the city for the band he played in and would be off in another two days. Blew in and out like the storm that presently raged outside, wind howling, rain splashing against sidewalks, lightning painting the night sky in a shock of white before leaving it dark once more. He’d grown up in a small town, but realized he’d only ever had dreams that were too small for the walls he’d been raised in.

So he’d ended up on a short tour and would head off to California to start laying down tracks for the band’s first ever album. He sounded so hopeful and eager, so rejuvenated and excited about life, and it had you endeared to him. Drifting closer as the night went on and he asked you about your own life. Learned you grew up here in the city but craved something quieter, very much unlike him. You’d studied creative writing and English in college and wanted to write the stories people would one day know and love and shelve in their homes, but in the meantime you worked at a library. It wasn’t the most thrilling job, but it kept you abreast, and he regaled you with the endless fantasy titles he’d known and loved through the years.

It wasn’t long before the hours trickled on by and Micah approached the two of you with a sulking Jeremiah in tow. The latter of the two a little too inebriated based on the slight sway in his form and the hand Micah kept firmly planted around his forearm.

Her blue eyes flickered up at Eddie’s face, then drifted back to yours. “I’m taking this idiot home. He’s in time out —”

“Noooo,” he moaned, forehead pressing into the crook of his girlfriend’s neck.

“Are you coming back with me or…?” Micah’s eyes trailed back upward to Eddie once more, brows arched curiously.

Eddie looked at you and shrugged. “Up to you, Buttercup.”

“I’m gonna stay…actually.”

Micah nodded, giving you both one last glance over before tugging her boyfriend along behind her in the direction of the door. As she passed, she leaned up against the hollow of your ear and said loud enough over the music, “Be careful. Have fun. You’re beautiful and I love you and you deserve to enjoy yourself tonight, okay?”

Once they were gone your attention returned to the man swathed in black standing before you, shoulder bumping his. “It's too loud in here,” you shouted for emphasis, insides nearly rattling from the music booming from the speakers positioned about the room. “Is there somewhere we can go that’s a little more…”

“Private?” he asked, leaning down toward your ear. Chills skittered along your arms as his lips nearly brushed your skin there, gooseflesh pimpling in its wake. “I have a hotel room two blocks over. How do you feel about running?”

“Let’s go.” You grinned.

“As you wish.” He beamed, holding out a gloved hand for you to take.

Outside, the two of you huddled up beneath the small awning growing smaller by the second with the other patrons who had similar ideas of waiting for their rides and cabs or braving the fall storm head on and taking off into the soaked streets in their full Halloween costumes.

Laughter bubbled up from your lips as a particularly hard jolt against your back sent you tumbling into his form, a quick hand of his reaching out and curling low around your back. He tensed, eyes locked on yours, awaiting your response and you leaned further into him, relishing in the heat of his form.

Moments skittered by under the awning. His eyes roamed your form, dark and beautiful, ringed with those little crinkles that appeared in the corners whenever he smiled. He’d been smiling all night — at you, a thought that has little butterfly wings quivering low in your belly, and lower still at the suddenness of the desire ramping up in your bloodstream.

The glowing lights from the bar filter out onto the street. Flashed orange and red across Eddie’s features, painted him in vibrant color, highlighting the plushness of his lips, the curve of his jaw, the bump of his chin. Hesitant fingers reached up to brush at the curls tied behind his head, curled one of the ringlet strands around and around a fingertip, your forearm spreading over the space between his shoulders, around his neck until he pressed in closer to you. Those chocolate brown eyes flickered southward. Lingered on your lips briefly before traveling back up, asking that question without words. Your only answer was the upward tip of your mouth, leaning into the space, waiting to feel him warm against you.

Electricity danced in the moments shared between you. In the fingertips that pressed into his shoulder and gripped tight as his nose nudged at the space beside yours, your mouth tipping up closer to his. From here, you could smell the mint he’d tossed in his mouth on the way out, could feel the tremble of his breath against your sternum, feel the heat of it fanning over your lips.

But the kiss never came. Behind you, a group of friends pushed and shoved toward the front door, nearly sending you and Eddie into the sidewalk and out of the shelter provided by your awning. It dawned on you then, however begrudgingly, that maybe you should move, give others a space to wait for their vehicles, and start to head in the direction of his hotel room.

He seemed to agree, sliding his palm down your forearm to twine his fingers between yours. “Guess that’s our cue, huh?”

“Bet you’re glad you wore the equivalent of tights for pants today, huh?”

“Suppose it makes it easier for me to whisk you away in the night, now doesn’t it?” He barked out a laugh, and clutched your hand tighter, dragging you out onto the street and into the rain.

——

You were presently in the midst of what was officially the weirdest, most endearing hook up you’d ever had. Moments after rushing out into the busy city streets and getting absolutely drenched from head to toe, Eddie tugged you toward a grocery store, suggesting he had nothing back at the hotel. Had looked a little bashful about it, even when you reassured him it was fine and you’d manage without, though he wouldn’t hear any of it.

As a result, you trailed behind him, dress sopping wet and clinging to every inch of your body, helping gather some things you might need in between what you hoped would be an eventful afternoon. Water, snacks, and the like. He seemed so giddy with it, and you hated the way his dimple in his cheek had your heart and thighs clenching. You preferred only the latter of the two, and couldn’t afford yourself the emotional aspect that came along with the former.

Eventually you had both found yourselves in the frozen food aisle, his shoulder bumping yours, your fingers dancing in the spaces between the two of you, the anticipation of after burning brighter with every minute that passed.

“How do you think they know what…oh, I don’t know…Moose Tracks taste like?” Eddie asked, turning his head over his shoulder.

Fortunately for you, he’d removed his mask, revealing more of his features. Those curls that dangled along his brow line, the smattering of freckles along high cheekbones, the crinkled corners of his eyes whenever he smiled at you.

“What?” you asked, once more reminding yourself of just how differently this night was going than you’d originally anticipated.

“Like what makes a Moose Track a Moose Track?”

“I think it’s just a…mix of things that remind them of…you know what?” His eyes twinkled, and you shifted a little closer. It really sucked that he was cute — obnoxiously so. “I actually don’t know. But, I do think we have more than enough stuff here to feed an army. And I think the rain finally let up.”

“You want to head out?”

“I think we should,” you agreed, tugging him along behind you down the aisle, in search of the nearest check out line.

The walk to the hotel room reminded you both of what you’d intended for that evening. The curious glances you would catch him shooting your way, the way you’d do the same when he focused his attention ahead. It increased with every step closer to the looming building, the desire for closeness, to feel, to touch, to taste.

Burned brighter when he swiped his key card and you started shoving the things he’d brought inside of the mini fridge, before snatching two water bottles and placing them down on the bedside table. He whistled as you walked around the room, fingers snapping, one of his curls tucked against the fullness of his mouth.

“You know, we don’t have to do anything,” you reassured him, sensing the nervousness radiating from his form.

Those dark eyes settled on yours as you approached, palm coming up slowly to rest against his sternum, right where you could feel his heartbeat clanging against his ribs.

“It’s been a while,” he settled on, voice softer than it had been all evening, a tremorous quality catching your attention.

“We’ll go slow,” you promised, leaning up to finally, and happily, close the space between the two of you.

It felt like a long, shared exhale. The way he immediately knew which way to turn his head, how you liked for his calloused fingers to rest against your cheekbone, that you wanted to be as close as possible, pressed flush against his form. Your head swam as he turned you around and walked you backward until your backside thumped against the edge of the dresser positioned against the wall opposite the bed. Grunted as he reached a hand up the back of your neck and sought out that pesky zipper you wanted so badly pulled down.

As if he’d read your mind, the man in question gave the zipper a nice, hard tug and the fabric shifted and dropped around your shoulders, baring the similarly colored bra beneath. So maybe you’d gone shopping for your first foray back after your break up? Based on the darkened eyes honing in on the lacy fabric, you’d picked correctly.

“Such a shame,” he groaned against the curve of your collar bone, fingers pushing the dress down and onto the floor, “really liked that dress.”

“My turn,” you mused, fingers reaching forward to tug the tunic free from his obscenely tight pants.

He helped you with ease, arms lifting just enough to help pull it over his head, giggling as his endless mane of curls sprang free. Tattoos jumped to life before your eyes. The multiple on his arms and torso, some looking faded and older, likely done in someone’s house, and others freshly inked, leaving a tapestry of stories he’d likely tell you if you’d only had the time.

“Fuck it.” He reached down and cupped your jaw, bruising kiss after bruising kiss laid upon your mouth, your toes digging into the carpet below as pale fingers trailed down the center of your chest, and then lower still, pausing at the hem of your panties. “Can I touch you?”

You might burst into flames if he didn’t. “Please.”

“Never have to say please with me, Buttercup,” he said, fingers pushing past that lacy barrier until they met your flesh, knowing exactly what he’d find there. “Sweetheart…this all for me?”

“Don’t tease.”

A broken sigh spilled from your lips, fingers clutched tight around his forearm as those expert fingers dragged a slow circle around your clit before sliding back to your center, pushing in. Your head rolled back against the wall, heat blooming anew as he stepped closer into the circle of your thighs, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest, enjoying the sounds made only for him, the slickness of your center practically pulling his fingers back in with every perfect thrust curled in that spot right where you needed him the most.

“Fuck, just like that, sweetheart,” he panted, mouth pressed tight to yours, grinning against your skin as you keened high and tight, creeping closer and closer to your edge.

And just when you’d thought you were about to explode into dozens of tiny stars like in the night sky above, Eddie stopped. You nearly cried out his name in your frustration, only to find him dropping down onto his knees in front of the dresser, capable hands tugging you closer to the edge, before he pushed the dainty fabric back to the side and swapped his fingers for his tongue.

One long stripe from center to clit was all you'd needed for the rubber band to snap. For the shaking to start, the chanting of his name like a mantra or a prayer to rouse the neighbors likely next door and alert everyone in the building to what magic Eddie had worked between your thighs.

“Not,” you gasped, leaning your head forward to rest against his heaving chest, “fair.”

“What’s not fair, sweetheart?”

“Too good at that.” Another rasped breath pooled from your lips, quieted by the sound of your lips pressing to his chest. Hazy eyes lifted to his face, a satisfied exhale slowing the rise and fall of your chest. “Get on the bed.”

“What do you —”

“On the bed,” you repeated, grinning wickedly as he backed up just enough so his kneecaps hit the mattress. “I want to look at you.”

And god, what a sight he was. Once you’d finally managed to tug his pants down, revealing the boxers beneath, you were rewarded with the fullness of Eddie Munson in the flesh. The narrow waist, the smattering of hair you kissed along his abdomen, the curve of his chest, the freckles along his chest and shoulders. Traced along the tattoos on his chest, the sides of his ribs, the one on his upper thigh, before dragging upward to slide over the increasingly — and massively impressive — hardened cock peeking out from the waistband of his boxers.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he blew the words out on a shaky exhale as you squeezed a little tighter, gauging what he liked.

Your grin grew as you wiggled the remnants of his clothing off his hip and cupped the weight of him in your palm. Perfect. He was absolutely perfect, and you wanted so badly to show him just how much you thought so, sliding down further onto the edge of the bed, tongue dragging a long line up the underside, along that prominent vein that had him bucking upward off the bed.

“Can I, Eddie?”

He watched through hooded lashes as your eyes zeroed in on his leaking tip, thumb sliding over the pre-cum there, before gliding your palm in a slow downward motion around him. He nodded, breath nearly cutting off completely as you finally, and blessedly, welcomed him into your mouth, immediately knowing nothing would compare to this moment and this girl.

Ruined. You’d ruined him for others, your pretty smile around his cock driving him too swiftly to a precipice he didn’t want to see the end of. Not yet. “Wait, wait, wait. Fuck. Your mouth is perfect, sweetheart. But — mmm — I need you.”

He pulled you upward with a gentle hand on the back of your neck, rolling you over beneath him, tongue marking a path along your chest, the peaks of your nipples, the delicate skin of your abdomen. With each pass of his lips over your flesh, you sank deeper into the mattress, knee bent, foot digging into the space above his hip, drawing him close enough that you could feel his glistening, wet hardness brushing your abdomen.

“Someone’s impatient,” you teased, moaning as his finger circled your wet entrance. “Want you inside me.”

“Patience, Buttercup,” he practically purred, reaching over into the bedside table to find…nothing. “No. Oh shit. We didn’t get condoms. I’m such an idiot, I —”

“Shit,” you whimpered, jolting upright and nearly smashing your skull into his as he double checked the inside of the drawer. “What about your suitcase? Wallet?”

“I told you I don’t exactly do this often.”

Those dark brows knitted together on his forehead, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. You remembered then the fortunate and recent development of starting birth control after Micah suggested she could never live without it, and suddenly you wanted nothing more than to clasp your hands together and thank the heavens for the little pills you had back home in your friend’s bathroom.

“I’m on the pill,” you told him, swallowing the nervousness that grew with every beat of your heart. “And I’ve been tested recently. I’m clean.”

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe you should have known better.

“I’ve been tested since my last time too. I’m good,” he said, unmistakable desperation filling his voice.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whispered as he rolled onto his back.

“Me neither,” he agreed as you clambered over his lap and bracketed his hips with a thigh on either side.

Lured with the wonderful bliss that was Eddie Munson’s lips warm and plus against yours, you gripped him in hand and slowly lowered yourself down onto him, completely bare. There was something so raw about the moment. About the shuddered breath you both released, the way his hands cupped your hips as he pushed in deeper than you ever thought possible, his voice a broken mix of ‘that’s a good girl,’ ‘taking me so well,’ ‘look so good full of my cock,’ as you move over him.

You wanted to hate that you end up doing something between fucking and making love. For something so casual, it feels almost too intimate, the way you collided together like two pieces fitted together of a puzzle that had only been missing those parts.

And it wasn’t gentle, his fingers clutched in your flesh, feet planted on the bed as he eventually pounded up into you — but it was also somehow tender. A complicated mess, just like the shattered pieces of your heart as he groaned one last time and urged you to come with him, pulling you closer in his arms. His fingers circled your clit until you cried his name and clenched down around him, whimpering at the warmth of him spilling inside.

As you both drifted back to reality, he maneuvered around the bed and washed himself from between your thighs. Cooed when you winced at the cold contact, dropping a kiss against your forehead and telling you that it had started storming again. He could either call you a cab or you could stay the night, he’d suggested. You hadn’t anticipated spending the night with him, but after he dug around for the ice cream and M&Ms you got from the supermarket, you found you couldn’t say no to him.

Especially when he turned on the television and, funnily enough, The Princess Bride was on. Fate, or something more, seemed to laugh in your face. Gleeful as you sprawled out beneath the covers naked as the day you were born beside the man who you quickly learned enjoyed handfuls of popcorn mixed with his sweet chocolate treats.

It didn’t take long before he’d grown hard again, the lights dimmed and the food forgotten, your soft sighs and pleasured peals filling the room as he pushed in and watched as your eyes rolled back and back arched prettily for him.

And later, after you were both satiated and satisfied, you fell asleep to the sounds of Inigo Montoya’s famous speech, and the gentle inhales and exhales of the man sprawled out beneath you.

——

Daylight streamed in through the olive curtains positioned against the wall across from you. You hadn’t noticed them last night. Hadn’t noted the wooden walls, the pale ceiling above, nor the cream bedspread across your hips. Hadn’t noticed a lot of things, it seemed, other than the man who dozed behind you, tattooed arm slung low around your waist, keeping you in close.

Fallen asleep — you’d both fallen asleep watching The Princess Bride, much to your grunted amusement as you shifted up and into a sitting position. Eddie’s arm thumped onto the bed, leaving a wrinkled mess around his sinewy forearm. Sparing a glance over your shoulder, you took in the curve of his jaw. The way he looked more boyish than his nearly thirty years, lips parted in a sleepy breathing pattern, curls strewn all about his face. A smile graced your lips, fingers of yours rolling over the curve of his back, the heft of his shoulder, the breadth of his bicep.

Part of you craved curling back up beside him. Wanted to feel his mouth roving over yours, across your skin, between your thighs once more. Would probably dream about the way his face had scrunched up in pleasure before he came apart beneath you last night for weeks to come. But your eyes noticed the time ticking on the far wall, alerting you that work started in two hours. Some weekend reading activity for the children in your town you’d volunteered to work weekend hours for; hindsight, as they say, was twenty-twenty.

“She’s running away in the night,” he grumbled beside you, mouth rolling over to press into the pillow you had slept soundly on for a shocking eight hours, letting out a loud yawn. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d done so. That curly head of hair lifted, too-long strands falling into his gaze as he pinched one eye shut and glanced toward the giant bedroom window. “Or…morning, I guess?”

“I have work,” you said, reaching over to snatch your underwear from off the floor.

He watched with rapt attention as you whirled around and clasped your bra into place, cheeks burning despite the fact he’d seen every inch of you merely hours ago. The man propped himself up onto one elbow, your eyes catching the bat tattoos on his arm as his fingers reached over to curl around your hip, dragging you back down into bed.

Soon enough it was loud giggles, his fingers dancing along your sides, noisy kisses against your own. But it didn’t take long before you were reduced to breathy sighs. His fingers against the span of your hips, his chest pressing yours into the mattress. Lips over yours, against your cheek, the curve of your throat, the hollow between your breasts, the valley of your abdomen. He stopped with a nip along your hip bone, tongue laving over the sensitive skin there.

“Do you have to go?” he groaned against your stomach, placing a final kiss there before crawling back up your body and cradling the back of your head with one hand, his body weight perched on the other elbow, face hovering over your own. Pretty, he was so damn pretty and you wished you could hate him for it.

“I guess I have a few minutes,” you suggested coyly.

And it was all Eddie needed before he had you beneath him once more singing a tune he knew he’d never forget.

You dressed in silence after. He pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a thin sweater while you glanced at the wrinkled heap of your dress from the night before. It hadn’t dawned on you the complications of getting your feet wet on Halloween — at least, not until now.

“I can’t walk back to Micah’s in that,” you groaned, pointing to the messy ball of fabric on the floor.

“Wait — I have an idea!”

Eddie rummaged around a box in the far corner of the room and tossed a tee shirt your way. Across the front was ‘Corroded Coffin’ in a messy font that reminded you of how your brain often felt after one too many cups of coffee in the morning.

“Your band?” you asked, turning the shirt around to show him.

“Yeah.” He nodded, white teeth flashing with his smile. “You know, you could see us some time.”

You quickly slipped the dress over your head and let the skirt ruffle messily along the floor, then moved to roll up the billowy sleeves to your shoulders.

“I can’t say that I’ll be in California any time soon,” you told him, pulling the tee over your head next and draping it over the belt. Like this, it looked more like an oddly fitted skirt and a top. You already decided that was much better than a Halloween costume, so it would do until you got home and could change.

He nodded rapidly, like he knew that, but hadn’t realized that you’d be coasts apart in only a couple of days.

“Well…” he trailed off, searching around the bedside table for a moment.

Once he procured a pencil and a piece of paper, he scribbled down a string of numbers you immediately knew were the hope for something more from a boy with kind eyes, a beautiful smile, and a heart of gold. Your chest ached. If only you’d met him two years ago, at a better time, in a place where you were more open to whatever this could not be.

“My number — for the place I’ll be staying at for the next couple months,” he explained, tucking it into the exposed circle of your palm, closing your fist within his fingers. “Maybe, I don’t know…we can talk?”

“I can do talking,” you conceded, already hating the fact you knew you wouldn’t be utilizing the number.

It was better this way; he was better off this way.

You both parted with a kiss in the doorway. With his arms looped low around your waist in a way that felt too familiar. A way that suffocated, heart twisting at the soft smile that graced his pretty mouth when he wished you a good shift and you wished him a safe flight.

The walk home was all inward grins that flowed on your face until it hurt. Waves to random strangers passing on the street, curious gazes from onlookers at the billowing sleeves you kept shoving up into your tee shirt as you passed. Memories of the night before flashed in your mind. Of his fingers tugging the zipper on the dress, tossing your underwear alongside his on the floor, mouth on yours, hands learning the contours of your body, the way he fitted perfectly inside you.

Another time, another place, another day maybe.

And that day was not today.

Micah was sprawled across the kitchen island when you entered. You shut the door as quietly as possible behind you, only to find she’d already been awake anyway. A cup of likely long gone cold coffee rested beside her along with a bottle of painkillers, her forehead pressed against the cool tile, nursing what you imagined had to be the headache from hell.

“You’re home late,” she grumbled, pushing her head up into her hands. Blonde hair spilled around her forearms, face covered behind her palms. “I’m assuming you had a good time. Which will at least make one of us. Jere passed out as soon as we got home and snored all night.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” you apologized, stepping further into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator immediately for some water. “I…we had fun.”

“I’m going to need you to spill, because he was cute even with the mask. Don’t think I didn’t notice,” she mused, suddenly healed of her headache, what with the way she looked at you like she’d received the best news of her life.

“I accomplished exactly what I wanted to. I got my toes wet.” You shrugged, lathering some butter onto a freshly toasted bagel.

“You like him,” she screeched, making her own self wince at the sheer volume of it.

You did. You do. But those feelings would fade. Your resolve had already hardened because he wanted romance and flowers and you needed no strings. He deserved that much — he deserved so much.

“We had sex, that’s all. And he’s leaving for California in a few days. I’m never going to see him again. So it doesn’t really matter, now does it?”

——

It hadn’t felt real. For days, you’d doubted every symptom. Every inkling that might have alluded to your present condition.

First, it had been the realization that your period was late. Not even the one or two days you would have pushed aside as a result of stress, the extra hours you’d taken up at work to try and save a little money here and there for a new apartment, or your severe lack of sleep. Then, the nauseousness started. In waves, most days, and definitely not only in the mornings like you’d been led to believe your whole life. Your chest ached next; a fullness that felt unlike your normal, monthly symptoms. Chalked it up to your oncoming period. The same period by that point was nearly two weeks delayed. There was also the fact that no matter how much you slept, you’d still felt like it wasn’t enough. Found yourself dozing off at work, yawning standing in the line for groceries, losing focus while out with friends.

There was also the fact statistics were on your side. You’d done all the right things and were on birth control at the time. So it couldn’t be…that, right? Statistically improbable, unlikely, unwarranted. At least, that was what you had chosen to reassure yourself with, quieting the shouting in your skull that suggested otherwise.

It wasn’t until you were sprawled out against that obnoxiously crinkly white paper in the doctor’s office a little over a month after Halloween that you’d even allowed the thought to enter your mind. It also happened to be the first moment you wondered if you were about to have the entirety of your life changed by a night with a boy in too tight pants you’d definitely not thought about even once since you’d spent the night with him. And you most definitely didn’t picture his dark pupils expanding in the night as you rolled over him, his palms gripping your hips, your hands on his chest, heads thrown back in shared ecstasy.

No.

Not at all.

Six weeks, they told you, with sympathetic looks and uncertain smiles as you exhaled shakily and stared up at the ceiling to stop the room from spinning out of control around you. Six weeks pregnant and undoubtedly so, based on the rapid thrum of the baby’s heartbeat on the screen before you. Strong, they’d said. Perfectly healthy for someone at this point in your pregnancy. They printed pictures up for you of the tiny gummy bear with arms and you held it in trembling hands as they began to speak. Words strung together to form sentences you’d barely understood. Options for next steps, vitamins to take, habits to stop, foods to eat and foods to avoid, how much caffeine to drink, how much weight you could lift and what activities you should start to limit—your head spun with it and continued the whole quiet walk home back to Micah’s place she shared with her boyfriend, Jeremiah.

She welcomed you with open arms as you entered their apartment with a pamphlet on pregnancy in one hand and your pocketbook in the other, whimpered cries of not knowing what to do soaking through her knitted sweater. She’d accepted it without hesitation, just as she always did and would. Held you close to her chest — and hissed at Jeremiah to leave when he’d eventually poked his head in — as you processed the emotions swirling like an endless kaleidoscope in your mind.

And later, when your tears had dried and she’d plopped a freshly opened box of ice cream in your lap and demanded you eat, she asked, “Please just…tell me it’s absolutely Westley’s and not Paul’s.”

“Six weeks,” you sighed, watching her shoulders relax. There was no mistaking who the baby’s father was, and at least that brought you some comfort, “Definitely Westley’s.”

Though you weren’t sure if that made it any better.

“I just want you to know it’s going to be okay,” Micah reassured you, reaching over to rub at your forearm. But did she really know that? How could she? Because to you, it felt like the earth had fallen out of orbit, spinning dizzily now with no signs of stopping any time soon. “I know we don’t have the most space right now, but the couch turns into a futon. It’s yours until you find something otherwise, you know that.”

Telling Eddie his world was (potentially) about to change happened two weeks later. You needed some time to process, is what you’d told yourself was the reason why you’d delayed. After hours of debating, you decided to keep it, and knew that there was always the chance Eddie didn’t want kids — always the chance he’d want to pretend it never happened and that he didn’t want to be a part of its life. Regardless of what he chose, you’d set your mind on being a mother, and you’d do it alone if you had to. But he at least deserved to know; deserved the option of choosing them, even if all you’d had was a night fueled by lust, because you weren’t interested in anything more than that.

Fear had clamped your mouth shut, preventing you from forming those two words for fourteen days. Just two simple words that would have opened the dam to let in the floodgates for the conversation that needed to happen.

Eddie, I’m pregnant.

Eddie, I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant.

You’d rehearsed it all afternoon, pacing a certifiable hole in the ground from how rapidly you’d moved. Had even stood in front of your friends and had them listen to it until you felt confident enough to do it for real. Gripped Micah’s hand tight as you swiped the man’s number from your pocketbook and dialed. It rang once, then twice, and you worried he wouldn’t answer or you’d caught him at a bad time when the line exploded with sound. Voices. Dozens of voices spilled through the other line, and music along with it.

You winced. “Uhm, Eddie? Is this the right number?”

A long pause extended, drowned out by guitar strings and drum beats. “Uh — uh, yeah. This is him.”

He sounded gruffer than you remembered — voice tinged with a smokier quality that seemed almost unfamiliar to you now. Not that you’d spoken much that night. Maybe he’d caught something, maybe he was sick. Maybe it was merely the weeks that had grown on since you’d seen him, and he'd become another person in the crowd already — someone you knew if only for a night. Heart pounding, you gripped Micah’s hand tighter and wound the phone wire around a pointed fingertip.

“Hi…I’m sorry I’m only calling now. Busy, you know?” A lie, because you’d never intended to call. It had been one night; that was all it was ever meant to be. “It’s the…girl from the party. The Buttercup to your Westley costume on Halloween.”

He chuckled in reply, and you wondered if maybe he was shy. He’d been looser the night you met — louder. Boisterous and passionate. Carefree and fun. But you wondered briefly if that was the glass of whiskey he’d drunk before you slipped away to his hotel room hearing him now. But you remembered that next morning, too; his splendid affection, the kissing, the exuberance of his persona, the way he’d made you fall apart around him again.

It seemed…strange now. Cut off, cold even.

“I’m…pregnant. I just —” You swallowed the knot of fear forming in the back of your throat and continued, “I just thought you should know…because it’s yours.”

There was another prolonged pause.

Nervousness welled up in your throat the longer it continued. Joined that roiling nausea that had become your friend and foe these weeks. Swallowing thickly, your fingers pressed over the span of your abdomen, over the knitted sweater and skin protecting your tiny secret — still not visible to others yet, but wholly your own all the same. You’d already decided you would love them fiercely enough for the both of you if he didn’t want anything to do with it, just so they’d never feel like they were missing out.

Then, after what felt like decades, he asked, “Who is this again?”

You repeated your name, nervousness rattling your bones, fingers trembling in Micah’s. Micah mouthed out ‘Breathe,’ even though you were doing anything but.

The line went dead, and your heart along with it.

——

let me know what you think! 🩷

[shiningstarr15]

The way I see it is this.

The reason that Vanessa is so obscured off to the corner in the Thanksgiving picture is bc.. she wasn’t going to join them at first, and she’s hesitant to even be there.

Like she saw all of them sitting there, a happy little family, and thought to herself “I don’t deserve that. I hurt every single one of them. They freed me, that’s enough.”

But before she can walk away someone stops her (I’m gonna say Freddy) and asks her, “Vanessa? aren’t you gonna join us?”

And she just goes “why.. why me?” And with the kindest eyes she’s seen ever, he just goes..

“Because you are part of this family too.”

[powerfultenderness]

Clone Wars

This [post]: "saying I would fuck your identical clone but not you and refusing to explain"

You know who it would be fun to fuck with like that? Adrian Chase, Vigilante, the love of my life. And it would be soo easy to steer the conversation towards it too!

Just imagine:

Chilling with the gang, the TV's on but no one's really paying attention to it until you sigh at some random commercial. "Oof, that guy is so hot." You say as the narrator says "Freddie Stroma as-"

And everyone pauses, looks at the TV, looks at you, looks back at the TV, then looks at Adrian.

Adrian's confused forced laugh fades when he realizes everyone looking at him. "What?"

"Really?" Chris' voice and face incredulous as he looks at you, though Adrian is still confused and thinks he's talking to him, so repeats his question.

"That guy?!" Chris jerks his thumb towards the TV, even though the game is back on. "You think that guy is hot?"

"Yea." You nod, suppressing a smirk as Chris and Adebayo fall into your trap.

Adrian blinks, still confused, "I mean, I guess he is? He's not the big buff handsome type like you, P."

Chris rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "No, I'm not asking you. That would be weird."

"What? Why? You think because I'm a man I can't tell when another man is attractive? 'Cause let me tell you-"

"Dude! Shut up! You know I don't give a fuck about that! It'd be weird because you look just like him!"

Everyone else nods and a round of "yeas" echoes around the room.

"No, I don't!" Adrian denies quickly, mostly out of what he feels is social obligation.

"Yes, you do! Look!" Adebayo, sweet Adebayo, holds her phone out and zooms in on a picture of the actor. "He even has the same dimples as you!"

"Yea, just throw some glasses on the guy and dye his hair and he could be your twin!" Economos almost hits your mark.

"Yea, you would know, dye-beard."

"Hey look, here's a picture of him with glasses!" The actor is even wearing a baseball cap in the photo, obscuring his blonde hair and looking even more like Adrian.

"Psh! Twin? That guy could be your evil clone!" Chris scoffs as he looks between Leota's phone and Adrian.

"Why's the clone gotta be evil?"

"The clone's always evil." Economs sides with Chris, who tilts his head in thought.

"Actually, maybe Vij is this guy's evil clone."

"Hey! I'm not evil!"

'Come on! So close! Christopher Smith, you perverted motherfucker, don't fail me now.' Horses and water...

"Whatever!" Chris finally yells over the discussion of whether or not ones clone would be evil. (Really, it was going on a little longer than it should have!). "Look, the point is: I would fuck my clone, evil or not."

Yes! Finally! It takes everything in your power not to grin like a maniac.

Leota and John voice their disgust over the thought of fucking their clone while you wait for Adrian's response. You know he's going to agree with Peacemaker, just say it!

"Yea, I'd totally fuck my clone, it'd be awesome!"

More groans and exclamations that you ignore as you theatrically thoughtfully tilt your head and tap your chin. "Hmm, yea. I'd fuck your clone too."

"You mean you'd fuck your clone?" Adrian tries to correct you, a cute helpful smile on his pretty face.

"No." You smile sweetly at him, "I mean, I would fuck your identical clone, Adrian."

He smiles even more, leaning in towards you, eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"Yea," you hold a mollifying hand up, like you were telling him not to worry. "But not you."

"What?"

"Ha! Fucking thimble!" Chris and the others fade in the background as you and Adrian lock eyes.

"But why not?"

You lick your lips, his eyes flicker towards the movement, and just when you open your mouth to answer your phone lights up in your hand.

"Oh." You look down and quickly turn the screen off just as quickly as it lit up. "That's the boss. I gotta go. See you guys later!"

Chris is still laughing at Adrian's rejection even as everyone else bids you a goodbye. Well, everyone but Adrian.

Instead he follows you out the door, "wait! That doesn't make any sense! Why would you fuck my clone but not me?"

He's followed you all the way to your car at this point. You open your car door and look at him, "your identical clone."

He's so cute when he's confused. "What?"

"Yea, no offense to that actor guy, but I really like you with dark hair."

"Really?" Then his smiles falls as he gets confused again. "But then, why wouldn't you fuck me?"

All you do is smirk at him as you slip into the car.

Of course he's not letting it go though! He rushes around to the passenger side and climbs right in. "Ok, why would you fuck my clone, but not me?" He asks again, this time a little slower and moving his hands as if that'd get you to answer him.

~Fade to black~

Adrian rolls onto his back, his breathing a little hard as he grins up at the ceiling. "So, you would fuck me and not my clone!"

"After that?" You too are a little short winded. "I'm definitely fucking your clone."

"Seriously?"

You turn your head and wink at him, "threesome."

His face lights up even more than when you kissed him. "Oh! Ooh!"

[chandlelures]

[ID/ A digital drawing of Sundrop from Five Nights At Freddy's: Security Breach. Sun is floating in dark waters, his eyes and fins glowing, with part of his tail obscured. His body is turned slightly away from the viewer, staring at the viewer with a look of surprise and apprehension. /ID End]

You wake up in your underwater lifepod and see this outside wdyd

Edit: added ID and alt text :) ♡

[pokidot]

HALLOWEEN PARTY 😣 with anyone idk Mandela scara and yn dress up silly, yn outfit so low budget no one can tell who or what they’re dressed as 🤓

OMG!!!!!! 😄 THANK YOU SAUR MUCH NI

“Just stomp your feet, and clap your hands,” Venti slurred on his words, swaying back and forth to the music as he clapped his hands together on cue in his own drunken rhythm, “C’mon everybody, it’s the hamster dance! Dibidi di dibi do do…”

“Maybe I’ve gone insane and this is the last semblance of sanity.” Aether muttered, half to himself.

The ghost club's Halloween party was held in the dimly lit basement of the old building on campus, ironically enough. But the eerie charm of it was perfect considering everybody wanted a cheap thrill. Faded brick walls lining up with the ill-assorted, weathered posters from previous meetings in here of some obscure club loomed over. The lights they painted with highlighters flickering in the glow of cheap looking orange and purple fairy lights.

Every now and then, there would be a shadow that would tango across, thanks to this ancient disco ball that would creak as it spun, broken pieces of light across the space. Decorations were even funnier, because nobody had the money to get them except Kuni (and they had too much pride to ask him).

Plastic skeletons, some with missing limbs, this old Freddy Krueger mannequin from 1997, and worn rickety tables filled with party food and a punch bowl that was probably laced.

In one corner, the mini fog machine Heizou brought with him sputtered every now and then. It sent sporadic clouds that mixed with the scent of incense wafting from the air, insisted by him to "enhance spiritual ambience". But because of how dusty the area already was, it didn't really do anything to cleanse and everyone opted to coughing anyway.

The costumes were equally as awful; Venti was a very biblically accurate King Julian, complete with a makeshift crown and painted-on stripes, Xiao cut holes into a sheet and went as a ghost, Kazuha went as Little Red Riding Hood, alternatively Heizou went as the Big Bad Wolf...? Aether came as a vampire, and Hu Tao came as herself! She was scary enough.

There was low-budget charm when Kuni, who was dressed at Ghostface, came in with you...a misfit among misfits. "You guys need to do your part and drive them next time, I'm tired of them fucking with my radio."

"I wanted to play spooky music! Is that a crime?!" You put a hand on your chest in an offended manner, your costume so haphazardly thrown together that you pieced together whatever odds and end you found.

He sighed, tone laced with a weary patience that somehow managed to carry a warmth. "There's a difference between spooky music, and playing Crazy Frog on blast while I'm trying to drive through an uncontrolled intersection."

"Crazy Frog is spooky if you have a 101 degree fever and chug Nyquil," You shot back, crossing your arms in faux conviction. "You have no idea what I've been through to survive that niche."

"I'm sure." Kuni gave a resigned snort, muttering something smart under his breath as he turned his gaze to the others. "This party looks like shit, but this is exactly what I expect from you lot."

"Excuse you!" Aether gasped, he mock-scandalized as he adjusted his vampire cape, trying to salvage some dignity. "We were actually on a budget, so unless you're willing to get down on your knees and start begging for forgiveness, I'd keep your wits to yourself!"

Kuni's eyes gleamed with hints of snark. "And you thought that something that looks like a kid's birthday party where all the parents are divorced and on bad terms was the vibe you wanted to give off?"

"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like you want to be the only single dad." Heizou grinned, but his eyes held a more teasing leer. "Too bad, that's my role here."

Kazuha's eyebrows raised. "And who are the kids? The rest of us?"

You narrowed your eyes, your lips curling into a smirk. "He won't be a single dad for long with how bad I'm seducing him with my costume right now. Look at him. Can't even stay off of me."

"Can't stay off you..?" Kuni echoed dryly, his eyes moving to your shoddy costume as he pursed his lips, trying to make out something in his head. A single brow arching behind the mask. "Who are you even supposed to be?"

"Tinker Bell, obviously!"

The entire room went quiet, the basement inhaling the collective silence at every head turned, eyes blinking in a blend of restrained words. Hu Tao's mouth dropped at your response. "...But avant-garde, right?"

"That was my last guess." Xiao said.

Your big smile dropped, and you threw your hands up, adopting a comically dramatic attitude. "Guys, I have a WAND. Who else has a wand with green clothes on?!"

"Smells a lot like Slytherin." Heizou whispered, squinting.

The green top that didn't match the skirt, the DIY wings held together by duct tape, vaguely sparkly sneakers you decided were close enough to fairy shoes. You looked accomplished standing there in your glory, "I'm pushing boundaries. Redefining what Tinker Bell is, anybody can be the Big Bell, even me!"

Venti started crying immediately, tears welling in his eyes. "Amazing!" He shouted. "A true artist in the rough! A groundbreaking interpretation! We need to ship you off to art school, you don't even need this shoddy college!" He raised an invisible bottle in his hand that was confiscated by Kazuha about 13 minutes ago.

"Finally, someone who APPRECIATES a good costume. I don't see any of you actually trying to look original, so I'm not intimidated."

"You look like Tinker Bell stranded at a yard sale." Kuni deadpanned, voice oozing with playful skepticism.

You flashed a mildly displeased scowl at the witticism, but even though you knew they were being half-hearted and didn't really care that much, YOU WERE STILL granted the name 'Budget Bell' the entire night. They refused to call you by your actual name. And since that Halloween party, it became a running joke and a strange point of ego...the legend that you were.

Safe to say, you knew the exact people you were going to sacrifice to the Lochness Monster once you find him.

[trash-heron]

Red Dragons; Or, the problems of adaptation and the early serial killer procedural

Red Dragon (1981) has the distinction of being the most frequently adapted Thomas Harris novel in the Hannibal Lecter "quartet." Despite the universal recognition of Jonathan Demme's Silence of the Lambs (1991), with iconic performances from Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins, and the more recent cult status of the series Hannibal (2013), which draws from all four books, it's Red Dragon, in some ways the most "obscure" Thomas Harris novel, that has lived three, arguably four, different lives onscreen over three decades.

Manhunter, visually, is an 80s noir feast set to atmospheric synths, but works within the newly established slasher genre as it attempts to make its own mark. The 1980s were truly the decade of the slasher flick, or the first wave thereof, and Red Dragon had to contend with expectations set up by the likes of Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers. Although this isn't a write-up about the history of slasher films, the basic premise I am going with is that the early slasher serial killer was portrayed as monstrous and, compared to our favorite killers today, one-dimensional antagonists. When I think about the origins of the slasher genre, I always think about the way the ineffectual psychologist in Halloween (1978) describes his former patient's "devil's eyes," behind which lived something "purely, simply evil." Dr. Loomis is dogged in his determination to impress upon the local authorities that Michael Myers is a force of nature who is unreachable by psychology, the study of the human mind. Furthermore, the slasher flick was unconcerned with the elements of the procedural: like in other horror subgenres, law enforcement are disposable foils that demonstrate the danger of the "monster" and the vulnerability of his targets and/or come in at the end to mark the conclusion of the spectacle (until the sequel, that is).In many ways this just seems like a quirk of history. I've been operating under the assumption that when Red Dragon came out in 1981, Thomas Harris introduced a type of story to a media landscape that had scant precedent for the serial killer mystery or procedural, distinct from the related nascent slasher horror subgenre, unlike today when a plethora of "murder shows" benefit from the success of this formula. Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lecter, the ur-murderer of the Thomas Harris fictional universe, became a cultural archetype that looms over modern crime television and film as he does over the investigations of beleaguered law enforcement officials in both Red Dragon (1981) and Silence of the Lambs (1988). When Michael Mann brought this first "Hannibal" novel to the screen in 1986, he too was breaking ground, to mixed reactions. Manhunter (1986), which lamentably lost its "Red Dragon" title due to studio publicity decisions, is both ahead of and a product of its time.

Manhunter, visually, is an 80s noir feast set to atmospheric synths, but works within the newly established slasher genre as it attempts to make its own mark. The 1980s were truly the decade of the slasher flick, or the first wave thereof, and Red Dragon had to contend with expectations set up by the likes of Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers. Although this isn't a write-up about the history of slasher films, the basic premise I am going with is that the early slasher serial killer was portrayed as monstrous and, compared to our favorite killers today, one-dimensional antagonists. When I think about the origins of the slasher genre, I always think about the way the ineffectual psychologist in Halloween (1978) describes his former patient's "devil's eyes," behind which lived something "purely, simply evil." Dr. Loomis is dogged in his determination to impress upon the local authorities that Michael Myers is a force of nature who is unreachable by psychology, the study of the human mind. Furthermore, the slasher flick was unconcerned with the elements of the procedural: like in other horror subgenres, law enforcement are disposable foils that demonstrate the danger of the "monster" and the vulnerability of his targets and/or come in at the end to mark the conclusion of the spectacle (until the sequel, that is).

Manhunter, and Red Dragon generally, is not a slasher flick. In fact, beyond the deliberately provocative reporter Freddy Lounds and a few men with barely any screen time who are killed off in brief fight scenes, the Great Red Dragon doesn't kill anyone at all. At the very least, no one is murdered in his signature serial killer style. The ritualistic murders occur before the film (and novel) begins, and the narrative revolves around understanding the mind of the serial killer and preventing him from killing again. At the same time, the conventions of the slasher film seem to limit the directions the film can go. Both Francis Dolarhyde and Hannibal Lecter (or "Lecktor") in the film have fairly opaque inner lives and limited screen time, while Thomas Harris notably does delve into the mindset and motivations of the "psychopath," positioning the killer as a subject of psychology, rather than an exception to it.

Furthermore, Manhunter's revised ending reframes one of two major female characters as a recognizable "final girl," and relegates the other to only existing in Will Graham's "happy ending," out of reach for the killer. This is the opposite outcome of the actual ending in the novel, and always seemed a bit tacked on to me, and not for artistic reasons. Will Graham can't actually end up broken and haunted because there has to be a clear demarcation between the serial killer "monster" and the "real" people who survive him. Blurring that distinction is, arguably, the "point" of Red Dragon. Michael Mann, perhaps, couldn't adapt the novel's conclusion "faithfully" because the conventions of this kind of psychological thriller weren't established, and did the best he could, introducing new building blocks for the "serial killer" archetype but not successfully pitching them to the wider public. Manhunter was not a financial or critical success upon its release, and refining the Thomas Harris "blueprint" was left to Jonathan Demme's Silence of the Lambs (1991), which made the strategic and hugely significant choice of allowing Hannibal Lecter to become a breakout character.

The next adaptation of the novel Red Dragon has seemed to me, frankly, like a bit of a cash grab. The 2002 Brett Ratner film, starring Edward Norton and Anthony Hopkins, capitalized off of the success of Silence of the Lambs and the release of a new Thomas Harris Hannibal Lecter novel. This film was for those who missed Manhunter in the 1980s, which many did, and those who considered a prominent Hannibal Lecter played by Anthony Hopkins essential to an adaptation, which many also did. The most recent adaptation of Red Dragon is the cult hit drama Hannibal (2013), which focuses on the main characters of the novel, Hannibal Lecter and FBI profiler special agent Will Graham, and can arguably be seen as two different adaptations of the novel. Both of these more recent adaptations are more coherent and recognizable as exemplars and/or subversions of the serial killer procedural, playing off of the tropes introduced to the genre by the source material itself, like a particularly grizzly and morbid ouroboros.

So, we have many points of data to consider if we wanted to determine what makes a good adaptation of the novel Red Dragon.

Ironically, for a story that laid important groundwork for a whole subgenre of film and TV, Red Dragon is hard to adapt and definitely hard to update. (So is Silence of the Lambs for that matter, but that is a whole other kettle of fish.) To my mind, the main two difficulties stem from both a strength and a "weakness" of the original novel.

A strength: Harris takes advantage of contemporary technology to create a clever mystery at the center of the novel. The problem: this particular bit of technology was only truly at home in its first 1986 adaptation, Manhunter. Both Red Dragon (2002) and Hannibal (2013) had to make compromises to adapt the central plot device. Red Dragon (2002) avoids the issue by simply setting the film in the 1980s, relying on the audience's knowledge of VHS technology of that time, which, since it was 2002, was more or less assured for an R-rated movie. Hannibal (2013) sidesteps the issue more or less entirely by making the "mystery-solving" pieces functionally irrelevant. (At one point, Hannibal Lecter makes a dismissive reference to the killer using "social media" the way the original story used VHS and the matter never comes up again.) To date, this central plot twist has never been successfully adapted for contemporary audiences in the 2010s - or 2020s for that matter. The 2010s show itself, in its choices, implicitly makes the argument that the technical "mystery" elements of novel weren't really all that important to its overall message. Depending on your point of view, this argument is successful. However, this argument also depends on the irony that the creators of the show can dispense with the set pieces of the serial killer procedural and take artistic license because the source material introduced those expectations into the genre to begin with. Tradeoffs all around.

Another challenge to adaptation is sometimes considered a "weakness" of the book: after the real "plot" of the novel vis a vis Will Graham's hunt for the "Tooth Fairy" begins, Harris makes the bold choice of adding the point of view of the serial killer du jour himself, diving into the eponymous Red Dragon's motivations and experience, which almost takes place in a parallel universe apart from that of Will Graham, Lecter, and the BSU/BAU until both narrative threads collide in the climax. The problem: this choice "derails" the suspense of the whodunit and adds character development for a relative stranger to the reader. Every adaptation of Red Dragon changes the structure of the plot so that the parallel storyline of Francis Dolarhyde, the Red Dragon, is pared down and interspersed with the main narrative (usually) earlier on. Every adaptation has decided that Thomas Harris's precise plot structure isn't actually essential. This judgment call is also ironic: Thomas Harris apparently "flubs" the standard conventions of the serial killer procedural that did not yet exist because he was in the middle of inventing them.

But, we may ask, isn't this the nature of adaptation? The answer: of course it is. Adjusting plot mechanics based on the period of the adaptation and restructuring the pacing for film/television are some of the most basic changes one can make when adapting a book for the screen. However, that does open up interesting questions of theme and intent. What is essential to the Red Dragon story? What is it, in the end, all about?

Leaving aside all caveats about the subjective nature of interpretation or the possibility of a work being "definitively" about anything, I believe there are two broad interpretations of the novel and all existing adaptations favor one or the other.

Red Dragon is a novel about how much monster there is in a, well, man and vice versa: the fate of the soul is at stake. This is a clear theme of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter relationships in every iteration: to catch a particularly "monstrous" killer requires understanding said killer, but if you understand them too well, what does that say about you? And, more importantly, where does that leave you? (In the original Will Graham's case, nowhere good, with a broken marriage and an existential crisis, or, when we catch up with him in the sequel, in the Florida Keys, now a miserable drunk. For the modern Will Graham of the 2010s series, TBD.) Empathy itself instills horror, which is a fairly complex idea to explore in the late 1970s when Thomas Harris was writing the novel. (In fact, I will always find it remarkable that Thomas Harris had the foresight to research the methods of criminal profilers at the FBI at the beginning of the discipline and the BSU itself, getting in on "the ground floor" for better or worse for horror fiction and actual forensic psychology.) It's also very cross-media, as identification with violence on screen (and the "male gaze" itself) were emerging as key features and problems of film available to critique. The focus on "video" and boundaries between self and other in the novel seem very prescient.

Alternatively: Red Dragon is a novel about the limits of personal transformation. Thomas Harris seems preoccupied with the idea of ritual murder as an alchemical process motivated by the desire to become something "transcendent." (While one can see the mystical whimsy in a man thinking he's becoming a dragon, a figment of William Blake's imagination, "Buffalo Bill's" or Jame Gumb's desire to transform "into a woman" in a somehow "not-trans" way in Silence of the Lambs falls egregiously short and reflects more on a failure of imagination on the part of Thomas Harris and his readership than anything else.) I find the metaphysical aims of these serial killers interesting for two reasons. First, sexual sadism is de-emphasized as a motive, which is not typical of the serial killer archetype of the time: the most prominent serial killers in fiction (such as in early slasher films) kill because of some perverse urge, as an extension of the "evil" men they are or were made to be. Their murders aren't about anything. Both Francis Dolarhyde and Jame Gumb , in contrast, think they are setting out to accomplish something and that the brutality of their actions is beside the point. This is what constitutes their insanity, as this is clearly not true.

The actual nature of their murders and the ugly psychoanalytical implications of their compulsions are the ultimate limitation on their aspirations to "becoming." No matter what they think is going on their heads, they direct their violence toward women, and it is women who ultimately put an end to their reigns of terror. (Molly Graham and Reba McClane in Red Dragon and Clarice Starling, among others, in Silence of the Lambs.) The female characters serve as a "reality check" for the dreamy, bloody men of the books, which is earnestly ham-fisted on the part of Thomas Harris but also significant for the genre. Arguably none of the women in the first two Hannibal novels play the role of "final girl," that is, an "innocent" woman who acts as audience surrogate and restores socially acceptable norms at the end of the film. (The focus on such a "good girl's" experience means you can take a comfortable distance from the murderer and put yourself in the position of "victim." You are also anticipating that she will be spared in some way, which restores a sort of moral balance to the universe: the other victims in some way "had it coming.") In Red Dragon, the active female characters are not sorted into the "virgin/whore" dichotomy: in fact, even the actual sex worker character (Freddy's girlfriend) remains unscathed, and her feelings are more relevant to the other characters than her occupation, humanizing Freddy postmortem. The victims and potential victims, almost all of them mothers, clearly did nothing "wrong" and their sexual objectification is placed squarely on the shoulders of the men watching them. The women left standing at the end of the novels don't just "escape" the killers: they're the ones who put the killers down despite the male characters' inadequacies, and they, unlike a Jason or a Michael Myers, stay down.

Of course, I think both broad themes are very present and active in Red Dragon, and, probably unsurprisingly, Hannibal Lecter is something of a cipher for both threads. If our main concern is coming to terms with our empathy and capacity for violence (or "men's," I suppose), Hannibal Lecter nimbly eludes being a subject of empathy, instead setting himself up as the observer and interpreter of other killers. His insight into other people is certifiably superior: he's literally a renowned psychiatrist. The possibility of a Hannibal Lecter raises the stakes enormously for our own navel-gazing, as we are not just wondering, along with Will Graham, whether the wicked deeds of others might appeal to us, but are actually facing up to the reality that the killer has been beside us as a peer all along, not the subject of scrutiny. If our main concern is the limitations of personal transformation, Hannibal Lecter is a very sharp foil for our doomed killers because while he can easily identify the signs of a transmutation complex, it isn't especially relevant to him personally. Hannibal Lecter doesn't kill and eat people because he's turning into anything. As he famously tells Clarice Starling as she attempts to interview him, "Nothing happened to me. I happened." He already is what he is, rooted in sensual reality - like the women in the books - and he is merely indulging his appetites and aesthetics. This, I think, is why he prevails and why he can make himself at home on the side of our woebegone detective protagonists when he feels like it. Hannibal Lecter is never doomed: he can always happen to you.

Manhunter favors the first tendency, and is not particularly interested in Francis Dolarhyde's "Becoming" as the Great Red Dragon. This allows for a very intense and nuanced meditation on identification and the role of empathy that artistic representations of violence invoke. The focus on "seeing" gains a whole other dimension in the context of film, as there are many interesting things going on with perspective and scene composition. 2002's Red Dragon favors the second tendency, if I had to make the judgment call. Although the film is probably the most "faithful" adaptation of the events of the novel, I do think you can come away from the film not remembering that Will Graham has any particular problem/gift of heightened empathy or that losing himself by identifying with Hannibal Lecter or Francis Dolarhyde was ever a serious possibility. (Even at the climax, when Graham to a "violent" place he ends up taking on the persona of Dolarhyde's abuser, not Dolarhyde himself, which is entirely an invention of the film.) What the film does emphasize is the quixotic journey of Francis Dolarhyde, giving quite a lot of room to his backstory as well as his inner conflict between his deadly, "spiritual" inclinations and his romance with Reba. Also, and most importantly, this is the one adaptation of Red Dragon that actually allows Molly Graham to kill Francis Dolarhyde when he tries to make the Graham family another ritual sacrifice. There's an intentional symmetry in the novel between the murders and Dolarhyde's ultimate demise at the hand of the desirable "mother," which really underlines the juxtaposition between the story Dolarhyde is telling himself and what he's actually been doing.

Perhaps this is me tying a bow on it all by claiming that Bryan Fuller's Hannibal (2013) manages to incorporate both major themes, but I do think it's very interesting to at least think of the series as two different adaptations of Red Dragon. The first adaptation is obvious: the second half of season 3 "does" Red Dragon, and honestly gives fantastic depth to Francis Dolarhyde's inner world and his quest for transformation through death. However, I also think you can view the entire series as a whole as an adaptation of Red Dragon. I say this because the main bulk of the existing seasons of Hannibal cover the period of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter's relationship prior to Lecter's capture, which is only depicted (in exposition) in the novel. Aside from the incorporation of various plot points and characters from the novels Hannibal (1999) and Hannibal Rising (2006) in season 2 and season 3, one could place the (first) three seasons of Hannibal entirely in the world of Red Dragon. I think this is especially suggested in the first episode, which opens with Will Graham doing a visionary walk-through of a family annihilation that pretty much exactly hearkens back to his first major scene in the novels and the films: later in the episode, Graham's inner monologue about imagination and taste - the first substantive insight we get into the character - is rewritten as dialogue between Graham, Jack Crawford, and Hannibal Lecter. So, even while the plot of the series begins at a different point in time, stylistically, we're back at the beginning of Red Dragon anyway. This interpretation allows for a lot more flexibility if we're looking for major themes coming from the source material. Identification and empathic intimacy are the animating features of the central Will-Hannibal dyad: at the same time, the psychic landscapes Will Graham (and to a lesser extent characters like Alana Bloom or Bedelia du Maurier) explore alongside Hannibal Lecter are tied up in questions of transformation and limitation.

In the series, Lecter not only pinpoints the urges to "become" in other killers but also becomes deeply invested in Will Graham's capacity for metamorphosis as an expression of identification and intimacy. If, as I've suggested previously, Hannibal Lecter exists as a grounded corrective to the soulful longings of murderers who wish to change through the deaths of others, this seems like a contradiction on its face. However, if we take this interpretation of Hannibal Lecter in the novels into our viewing of the series, the tension between Hannibal and Will sharpens into a very intimate exchange of knowing and refusing to know one another. Hannibal Lecter seems to have no interest in Will Graham becoming something or someone else via the alembic of murder. When he tempts Will, he is not (ultimately) encouraging the profiler to look away from the world to some impossible dream that would mark him for death like the other murderers they hunt together. Hannibal Lecter is very interested in Will Graham becoming a killer, that is, embracing all of who he already is with clarity and insight, which is a transformation rooted in psychology and is also entirely possible. Will then resists self-knowledge, or bringing his self-knowledge into the material world. Hannibal resists his own identification with another human being, and realizes (a bit too late) that there may be a way to bring Will down to Earth (and closer to him) without destroying him, as he inevitably does - gleefully - to his other proteges and projects.

No adaptations of Red Dragon have embraced the novel's ending. In the end of the original novel, Will Graham is left in the hospital, resigned to the fact that he's lost his wife and stepson, and drifts into a drug-induced dream state, where he doesn't dream of "Molly leaving" or Dolarhyde, but rather visits a memory from the time shortly after he'd killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. He remembers visiting Shiloh, the site of a particularly bloody battle in the American Civil War, and has an epiphany. At the time, he'd considered the battlefield "haunted," but now realizes that it is, in fact, "indifferent." In the natural world, there is no mercy, "we make mercy": "There is no murder. We make murder, and it matters only to us." Graham accepts that he has the capacity to "make murder; perhaps mercy too." Murder, however, is what he understands. He wonders if "vicious urges" in humanity and the "dark instinctive knowledge" of those urges could act as a vaccine against the "virus" of violence, allowing for the possibility of civilization that has "overgrown the basic reptile brain." He doesn't settle on an answer, but does believe he was wrong about Shiloh. "Shiloh isn't haunted - men are haunted. Shiloh doesn't care."

Granted, this would be hard portray on screen. A filmmaker would have to resort to voice over, perhaps, or merely suggest where Thomas Harris declares. Another option would have Will's epiphany take the form a letter to Hannibal Lecter, an answer to a message Graham never receives. In this letter, which Jack Crawford destroyed, Lecter says we live in a "primitive time," "neither savage nor wise. Half measures are the curse of it. Any rational society would either kill me or give me my books." He wishes Graham a "speedy convalescence," and hopes "he will not be too ugly" after recovering from the wounds the Great Red Dragon gave him. "I think of you often," he writes, and then writes his name. Lecter believes "half measures" are the true poison: Graham, if he knew his dream was a reply to his counterpart, would perhaps take the position that "half measures" are the antidote, a strategic ambivalence that, perhaps, makes mercy as possible as murder. Such a reply, however, would lack conviction. It would, however, betray that in the end this is a conversation vulnerable to distance and time and that there is no appeal to a higher power or state of enlightenment, just to one another. Perhaps the last scene of "The Wrath of the Lamb," the final episode of season 3 of Hannibal, is the closest we'll come to seeing a cinematic portrayal of this conclusion. The profiler taking the serial killer into his arms, where they hold each other like lovers, and then throwing both of them off a cliff and into the sea. Not a half measure at all.

In the meantime, all of these versions of Red Dragon are worth a look.

[joshfutturman]

'oh, memories, where'd you go?'

mini oneshot - mike schmidt receives a package in the mail. it's his younger brothers orange toy airplane. touching the plastic, he feels strangely connected to certain emotions, leaving michael confused and scared. (1k words) pairing - mike schmidt (five night's at freddy's) + gn reader (brief mention of reader) tags: (for a writing project im a part of, but thought you guys might like it too!) angst, all the angst, poor mike, pre-established relationship with reader (brief) tw: vomiting, emetophobia warning

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

things had been going pretty well for mike. well, about as well as they could be going in a dead-end job that meant he only just made rent every month. he actually felt. . . happy for the first time in a long time. he’d find himself smiling, abby would catch him and tease him. she was happy to have her big brother back, even if it was just in little glimpses. he had even started playing with her again.

so when mike heard a gentle rattle at the door, he perked up from the dining room and a small smile played at the corner of his lips - had you come to surprise him? he felt silly for assuming it was you, but who else could it possibly be?

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

things had been going pretty well for mike. well, about as well as they could be going in a dead-end job that meant he only just made rent every month. he actually felt. . . happy for the first time in a long time. he’d find himself smiling, abby would catch him and tease him. she was happy to have her big brother back, even if it was just in little glimpses. he had even started playing with her again.

so when mike heard a gentle rattle at the door, he perked up from the dining room and a small smile played at the corner of his lips - had you come to surprise him? he felt silly for assuming it was you, but who else could it possibly be?

opening the door, he was greeted by not a person, but a smallish cardboard box at his feet. with all his recent uncharacteristic optimism of late, mike thought it a gift. picking it up, he brings it inside, setting it down on the dining room table with that same smile splayed on his lips.

carefully, he peeled back the tabs of the box and peered inwards. mountains of tissue paper obscured the object inside. tossing them over his shoulder, mikes smile quickly faded, his expression turning to one of pure horror.

inside the little inconspicuous box lay a little orange toy plane.

mike felt bile rising in his throat, an overwhelming urge to throw up overcame him. that was garretts plane. his little brother. it was his. or a replica, or something. with his heart jackhammering in his chest, michael felt his vision leave him and he falls back into one of the chairs next to the table.

every night for the last thirteen years he’d dreamed of the day garrett was taken from him, the day he failed as a brother, the last day he saw his little brother alive. he’d been playing with the orange plane when he was taken. mike had it tattooed on his wrist too, a simple linework piece. it had been a set of three, mike had a blue one and a red one was kept in their family cupboard for the next child. abby never got hers. mike couldn’t bring himself to give it to her.

so how was this here, in a box on his doorstep?

peering into the brown box, mike is confronted once more with the toy and waves of nausea lap inside his belly. what was this? a message? a threat? a joke? his hand reaches in hesitantly, gently lifting the plane.

for a split second when he makes contact with the plastic, mike almost wants his mom, to hide behind her - but the opportunity for that had long passed, dead and buried in the ground. a longing for his parents, either one, sparked in his chest causing tears to prick at the corners of his eyes. but his parents weren’t coming. they couldn’t come.

it felt as though he were a little boy again, desperately tugging at his mom's sleeve to be lifted, wanting to be as close as possible. or scrambling into his father's study to tell him he had a nightmare. but his breath hitches, his parents weren't here to comfort him about silly nightmares anymore.

fear wells up like a crashing roar of thunder in his limbs telling him to run, run anywhere, run so he can’t catch you. something was coming, looming. and no one was coming to save him.

big heaving breaths are pushed from his lungs, gripping the toy with so much force that the material begins to strain under the pressure making the plastic whine. that same sickly feeling returns. there’s something itching at the back of his throat, he wants to scream but he can’t. instead the fear grows, slowly at first like poison weaving it’s way through liquid before completely marring everything within its path.

mike wants to plead for this feeling to stop, to begin praying to a god he doesn’t believe in. he grips the plane tighter, shaking sobs rattling his body.

the anxiety builds. up. up. up. higher and higher. a ringing in his ears obscuring all sounds like it longs to be heard. it’s getting too much. it was already too much from the moment he laid eyes on that fucking thing.

it was like he needed to escape, but to where? where the fuck could mike go to escape? it always came back to this, didn’t it? he’d never be able to resolve any of it. garrett was gone. he wasn’t a step closer, not even an inch. was he just torturing himself every night? reliving his worst memory over and over in the hopes of catching a glimpse of something new, something long forgotten.

and the fear was too much. mike was scared. he was fucking terrified.

the dread bubbled to anger and without thinking, he threw the toy at the wall. a wing snaps as it hits the ground with a pitiful thud.

that same fear begins to dissipate, leaving only simmering rage and waves of upset. his eyes trail down to the broken pieces of his little brother's beloved plane. the nausea returns, fiercer than ever and mike runs to the bathroom.

throwing himself over the toilet, he vomits, body trembling and shaking. a thumping began at his temples, mouth dry, body impossibly hot, mind a scrambled mess.

as he hangs his head over the bowl pathetically, mike’s mind begins to clear slightly, though still clouded by his emotions. what did this mean? who would send this? who would even know to send this?

clenching his fists, he rises to his feet and stumbles against the wall. feeling like he’d just ran a marathon, he gives in to the sobs inching closer up his throat. michael hides his face, gripping at it like he was trying to rip away a mask. but when his eyes open to himself reflected in the mirror to his horror, he was still michael. there was no escaping his past. there was no escaping this or his slipping sanity.

mike turns off the bathroom light, not able to confront his own face in the mirror, and slips out of the bathroom towards his bedroom where he firmly closes the door.

alone.

[lovely-lauren-arts]

Dolly, Kev and Freddie final design updates.

[shortnotsweet]

growing pains

It’s only been nine years. They’re not in their thirties yet—and won’t be for a while—but it’s worth noting that things are different. Maybe it’s them, maybe it’s the boardwalk, or maybe—well. Logan is a different person than when he was a high schooler. He’s less assured than he was. That could be it. Louise is almost certainly different than she was then, but even now she still hates his guts. Maybe some things don’t change after all.

Notes Transcription

Main Episode Outfit Variations

Louise would be into layering, I think. She’s multifaceted, practical, and resourceful. Harsh structure in conjunction with more layered pieces; tendency towards color blocking, but she keeps it sharp. She’d be into casual, pragmatic clothes. If not very structured, she has loose-fitting, draped fabrics like sweatshirts or heavy pants (cargo material, corduroy, denim?)—draped and bulked, but not baggy. Something easy to run and move in; sneakers or combat boots.

Not opposed to dresses. Keeps it compact, simple lines. No frills but does lean into triangle shapes or rectangular blocks. Color blocking => neutrals will take up negative space, highlight colors are accented.

Sticks to main colors (green and pink) for consistency, but relies on neutrals like beige, black, and brown. Less cool-toned than Tina, either spring or autumn coloring. Bright colors are muted with exception of a highlight, usually pink (hat or laces). Green varies from lime to olive to sage to forest, etc. whichever tone is appropriate.

Occasional purple or blue in reference to the snowball fight/sled episode with Logan (he was in blue, Louise was in purple). Louise could lean into purple (imposing, mysterious, feminine but still intimidating) for off-episodes. Not frequent, though; too similar to Tina’s color palette.

Hairstyle options include braids, pigtails, or just loose. I’m growing partial to braids; they feel utilitarian, almost boyish, useful. Could emulate the bunny ears under the cap.

Beanie vs. Baseball Cap. I like the beanie, but to me it lends to this aspect of laziness? Not the worst, but i like the structure and sharpness of the baseball cap. Also obscures the eyes occasionally, or could be worn backwards.

Timeline + Basis

Loosely, 9 years post-canon timeline (ambiguous). Louise is 18, Logan is 25. The age gap is too big for them to feasibly be in high school together, so the second storyboard shot by the lockers is him visiting the high school for some errand (maybe Cynthia needs him to deliver something, maybe he’s got a younger sibling by now?), Louise passes by him in the hallway and doesn’t move to accommodate him (almost slams into his shoulder) and he almost looks back at her but continues on. He recognizes her when he visits the diner, which he later frequents because it’s one of the closest places in town that has good food that’s affordable and keeps him out of the house.

That’s one of the reasons, anyway. He isn’t conscious of it, although Gene picks up on it early on an often gloats to either Louise or Logan, both of whom are baffled or irritated at first. Linda is overly supportive of the idea to the point of humiliation, Bob doesn’t want to think about it and refuses to see it, and Tina writes extremely detailed romance novel drafts about it.

Logan becomes ‘aware’ in the following year, then feels really gross about it and avoids the diner for months until confronted (member of the family is up for debate). Realistically, nothing ‘tangible’ happens between them for three years (kiss? Weird face touch? Jealous outburst? Freudian slip? Something fun, idk [Louise: 22, Logan 29]).

I think Louise regresses at this point, and tries to distance herself like that episode of iCarly when Sam realizes she’s in love with Freddy and literally institutionalizes herself in a mental ward. Very much LALALALALALALALALA I can’t hear you, that didn’t happen. Logan is not feeling great at this point. Heart-to-heart with Bob snaps her out of it.

One more year of slow burn, actual relationship starts (Louise: 23, Logan 30).

Logan gets married, eventually, in his early thirties. Gene is an unintentional omnipresent narrator.

Additional Notes

Keep Logan in primary colors (mostly red or blue), but keep him out of dark neutrals/monotones (no black or charcoal gray), because it’s too heavy of a countermeasure against Louise’s color blocking—too unbalanced.

Decent height difference, although it varies depending on Louise’s shoes (sneakers or platform boots, she’s usually in sneakers in the restaurant). She’s right over his shoulder (?)

Concept comparison of them both around the ages 14-16 are for comparison only. Their ages do not coincide.

Occasional pet names, always mockingly derogatory.

Montage shots of her leaning over the counter while they talk. He used to sit in the booth seats but eventually began sitting at the counter instead. No reason. It means he can talk to her more easily and bother her with less effort.

They’re the kind of couple who publicly argues over the pronunciation of ‘egg’ type beat. Bickering keeps it exciting for them, but they make it a point to apologize in any serious disagreements, usually by the end of the episode. Similar difficulty in admitting when they’re wrong, often attempt to compromise by sharing/taking on blame in some equal capacity. Sometimes this is healthy, sometimes it’s more de-facto.

Mother-in-law beef goes crazy

[hellohello-human]

if the word silly was human

(not my art btw)

@lovely-lauren-arts

[superstar-nan]

Fight Tooth and Nail

Night 5 (At Freddy's)

Summary: This is the end.

Words: 5,826

Fun stuff: Toxic relationships, grief, description of dead bodies, violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, vague mention of child murder, and angst.

Happy 10 Years!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love FNAF!!!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoy this finale!!!!!!!

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───── (\ /) ─────

You woke up to thunder gently rolling you to consciousness. Heavy clouds darkened Michael’s home to sleepy grays and soft shadows. There wasn’t any rain yet, but you bet there would be by the time you left for Fazbear’s Fright.

You looked at your phone and your eyes burned at its brightness, but you squinted and suffered through it anyway. You slept longer than you wanted. You turned off your phone and rested your head back with a heavy sigh. Rest begged for you, but you couldn’t go back to bed.

When you rolled over, your foot hit something soft.

“Hey.”

You peered down the couch. Michael was on the other end of the couch, awkwardly positioned in a way that clearly avoided touching you but was still attempting (and failing) rest. You couldn’t tell if he slept a wink. Why didn’t he just go sleep in his room if he didn’t want to touch you? “Morning.”

He pushed your leg off of him, “It’s evening.”

What a delightful man. You rubbed your eyes and yawned, stretching your arms behind you and arching your back. Void eyes trailed your chest and neck as you relaxed “Did you finish the drawings?” You said, with your eyes closed.

“Yes,”

“Good...” You said, half-heartedly and uncommitted to getting up to look at them.

“...I should rebandage that.”

The soft smile on your face washed away as your eyes opened. Your fingertips grazed the bite and you didn’t even have to look to know Michael was watching you very carefully. You hoped the darkness was enough to obscure your expression. “Show me how to use the cameras first.”

Michael set his corroded jaw. Your deflection couldn’t even fool yourself. Michael stood up and left behind the couch. You leaned your head back and exhaled, this time strained and shaking. Michael returned with pages in his hands.

Michael explained the cameras in his low, shredded british accent. Not only did he tell you how to use the panel, but he taught you exactly how to find Springtrap on the cameras. He circled his usual hiding places and gave you a list of Springtrap’s tells—whether they marked him staying or moving and where. Michael explained to you his strategies for keeping his dad in one place and how likely each strategy was to work. It was a lot to follow. You knew Michael engrossed himself with keeping Springtrap away from the office, but you had no idea exactly how much work it was until now. You followed him as best you could, and Michael made sure to slow down when you tried pretending you knew what he was talking about.

You offered to put together a few of your “toys”, just to make things easier on you and Michael, but he refused. There wasn’t enough time anyway, and you knew that, but you wanted to do something to help him in return. There was nothing you could do, and that thought ate at you.

You expected Michael to bring up bandaging your shoulder again. He didn’t. You didn’t know why, but you suspected he didn’t mention it on purpose. 

In the last hour before midnight, you helped Michael drag large, red gasoline vessels to your car. He must have gone to the store while you were asleep. Slow raindrops fell on your nose and cheek. When you looked up, rain started to drop in a cascade. You didn’t have the energy to avoid getting soaked.

You decided not to bring your axe. You didn’t want the temptation to leave the office unless it was absolutely necessary. It was strange and uncomfortable going to Fazbear’s without your axe or toys. It felt like picking a fight with a bear unarmed.

Michael took your keys and got into the driver's seat without a word, and you sat in the passenger's seat in suit.

It was surreal. This was the end of Fazbear’s Fright: where this madness and mystery all began, and you wouldn’t even be the one to end it like you thought you would. Honestly, it shouldn’t have been you to begin with. You knew that from the moment Michael (albeit vaguely) told you the story of Freddy’s. This wasn’t your story, it was his. You were an intruder, absorbed in your own tragic narrative that just so happened to be aligned with his. You were grateful it aligned with his, because you wouldn’t have been alive if it wasn’t.

You looked over at Michael as he drove through impossible rain and thunder. He was an unlikely friend in all this. Your heart softened seeing dull passing lights graze over his silhouette. You don’t know if you would tell him, but you had needed him. Yes, in the way that you would be dead if it weren’t for him—but more than that. He was there. He was there right when you were alone and breaking and your closest friend was gone, but he was there. He was rude, blunt, emotionally distant, and a corpse, but he was there. He wasn’t especially comforting and he tried his best to get rid of you, but that didn’t matter. He was there.

You leaned your forehead against the window, rain beating on the car’s roof. You weren’t prepared physically, mentally, or emotionally for this night. No matter how much you willed time to stop, Michael still pulled into the parking lot of Fazbear’s Fright. Your car’s headlights and the attraction’s sign barely made a dent in the darkness the rain cast on the attraction. 

Michael turned off the car. “Are you ready?” He asked in the darkness.

The sound of the rain was deafening in the darkness, “No.” 

Before he could say anything else, you got out of the car. You were soaked immediately. You and Michael ran for the attraction’s grimy doors. You thought of the first time you came to Fazbear’s Fright, how bad you thought the smell was. You looked at Michael. You knew he would hate to know he smelled worse than even his rotting father. 

Your heart hammered against your chest when you entered the office. You didn’t know if you would be any good on the cameras. You pulled out your small stack of folded drawings and swallowed, looking at the screen.

“You’ll do fine,” He said, though whether that was to assure you or him, you didn’t know.

Michael was soaked, like you. Water dripped from his dark, artificial hair, layers of dark circles hung heavy under his void eyes, and his body—rotting and gaunt as it was—looked too heavy for his bones to carry. You were suddenly struck with the idea that you might not see him again—whether he died or you—and that feeling settled into your stomach with a sad acceptance. 

You took his hand, “Be safe, Michael. And...” You swallowed, “Thank you. For everything.”

It sounded like a goodbye. Maybe it was a goodbye. If these were your last shared words, you hoped they conveyed how much he helped you.

Michael’s mask slipped, and you saw a myriad of emotions cross his face: his torn lips parted in sorrow, his brow twisted in loneliness, his hollowed eyes bearing into you with longing, his abraded cheeks warm with byzantium affection, and... there something else you couldn’t discern. Another emotion that came from him, one you wracked your mind to understand but couldn’t. 

“I...” He swallowed. Something resolute washed over him and he leaned toward you. You blinked, confused by his sudden closeness. You barely had a chance to think by the time his lips were a breath away from yours. 

And then, he froze, his hollow eyes went wide in their inky blackness. You tilted your head slightly. You could’ve stared into his eyes for hours and you still would’ve been mesmerized by them. As if pulled away from your lips by an unseen force, Michael leaned to the side and kissed your cheek. His lips were scratchy and spongy at the same time, leaving a strange lingering feeling behind.

Michael pulled away from you, his void eyes downcast. He readjusted his grip of the tank of gasoline in his hand and left the room without another word.

Was he... about to kiss you? No, you were imagining things. The bittersweet feeling of the night must’ve gotten to you.

You laid out your pages so you could more readily pick out Springtrap from the cameras. Midnight passed, and you knew he would already be on the move. You swapped through the cameras, your fingers shaking over the buttons. Your eyes quickly scanned over the fuzzy TV static, periodically flicking to the pages Michael drew for help, and then you changed cams. You don’t know how Michael did it with such ease, you would need at least ten nights of practice before you’d be confident enough to do this.

There. A hand barely in frame and obscured by static. Your heart thrummed with the thrill of finding him and the fear of losing him just as quickly. Static consumed the screen and, in a panic, you smacked it. Somehow that worked, and the TV-snow started to clear lightly, but the hand was gone. Your eyes went wide as you slammed down on the audio button. 

You held your breath. Nothing more happened. You pressed the audio again, insistent and your nerves fried. When he didn’t show up again, you cursed under your breath. You swapped through the cameras, but static eclipsed your screen.

You picked up the control panel and tapped the audio first. Now that you were manning both the cameras and the control panel, you realized Michael wanted to keep you in the office with him not just because it was safer, but because it was so much easier with two people working the panels. Once the audio was done, you tapped the cameras and let it reboot while you rechecked the screen. 

Static cleared slowly, and you swapped through the cameras again. You swore you checked every camera and compared it to every picture, and you could not see him anywhere. Your heart started to ram against your chest when you saw Michael through the camera. He was pouring gasoline, every so often checking behind him. You had to help him, you had to keep Springtrap away from him, but you didn’t know what to do.

You started randomly playing the audio anywhere that Michael wasn’t. He had to be somewhere and he’d follow at least one of those...

RED-FLASHING-BLARING-RED-FLASHING-BLARING

Your hands fumbled with the control panel in your panic, almost dropping it. You tapped reboot all and hissed under your breath. You hadn’t meant to tap the longest option, but now that you did, you repeatedly pressed it as if that would make it reboot any faster. Red faded in and out of your vision and you wiped the sweat from your forehead. Even as the ventilation was done rebooting, it still took time before the alarms stopped. 

You weren’t very good at this. You wondered if Michael heard that. You wondered if Springtrap heard that.

You quickly swapped through the cameras trying to find Springtrap, but it was too easy this time. Purposefully easy. 

He was standing in the hallway with plastic stars dangling from the ceiling. His silhouette was encased in shadow, the lights of the arcades flashing colorfully behind him. You saw bunny ears heavily shift to one side as he mechanically tilted his head. 

Your heart beated faster and your face warmed. You wondered if Springtrap knew you were controlling the cameras. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out your sporadic audio spamming wasn’t Michael. 

Springtrap started to move, and he wasn’t hiding it. It was clear he was walking to the office. You could let him. You didn’t have to lure him away. He would be distracted, and Michael would have more than enough time and space to burn the building down.

You swallowed, and it was heavy in your throat. 

You pressed the audio and Springtrap froze. You bit your lower lip. You could keep him distracted with the audio. That was better. Your hatred and desire burned at you to let him come to you, but your common sense wasn’t completely lost. You only hoped your ability to work the cameras wasn’t lost either...

Silver pinpricks stared into the camera with violent, shaking anger. His fingertips twitched mechanically as he burned his gaze into the camera. An electric thrill traveled up your spine at his rage. He wanted you to let him come, and it delighted you that you didn’t. And then, like putting on a mask, Springtrap’s fingers stilled and his silver eyes cooled to ice. He took one step back, then two, and then he was in shadow. You couldn’t see him.

You hurriedly pressed the audio, but nothing played. It needed to be rebooted again. You didn’t realize how short the window of time was between audio lures. It took way too long to reboot, and by the time you returned to the cameras, you had no idea where Springtrap was.

You stilled to silence. There was movement in the vents. You swallowed. You swapped through the ventilation cameras, but if he was in the vents, he was now gone.

How quickly your motivation shifted from trying to keep Springtrap away from Michael to trying to keep Springtrap away from you.

You rebooted the ventilation even though it didn’t need it. You couldn’t risk drawing him closer with the alarms going off. You started to play the audio anywhere away from you, and you had to stop yourself from playing the audio where Michael was.

You were panicking. This wasn’t good. 

You rebooted everything once the audio needed it just in case. Then, you saw something flash past your peripheral.

You looked up, but he wasn’t there. You knew better. Your breath quickened. 

You repeatedly pressed the audio button on CAM 2 despite it not finishing rebooting. Even when the camera went blank with static, you kept pressing it. It was only once the ventilation error came up in the corner of the screen that you stopped for the control panel. 

You rebooted the ventilation first. You couldn’t let the alarm go off. You didn’t need to reboot the cameras, you just needed to focus on getting him away from you.

You put down your control panel, and a pair of rotten rabbit ears quickly moved from behind the door frame. Your breath hitched. You slammed your hand down on the audio button. A fake child’s laughter played. 

When you looked up, he was in front of you. You almost collapsed in relief when you realized he was behind the glass. His finger circled the heart he scratched into the window nights prior. 

You snatched the cameras and pressed the audio to CAM 2 again, but by the time you looked up, he was gone.

He was playing with you. Maybe it was playing with you. It didn’t matter. You felt like you were going to throw up. Your head buzzed with adrenalin and your heart was beating faster than a hummingbird. You rushed to reset the audio.

You put it down with a shaky exhale. You had to get a hold of your nerves.

Click.

You stumbled out of the office chair. Seven feet tall, looming at the door frame was Springtrap. The ghastly yellow-green light from the office painted his grotesque features in vivid detail. Rotting guts spilled from his metal skeleton, barely held by the soiled fabric of his costume. His jaw was sealed tight in that permanent, unsettling grin, and you could see your own blood from previous nights that stained his teeth. Instead of revolting you like it should’ve, your face warmed. What was wrong with you?

Your fear knew enough to grip hold of you. Your head snapped to the vent. You might be able to escape if you threw the chair at him and lunged the vent, if you were lucky. But...

Your head turned back to Springtrap, his body still at the door.

...Why wasn’t he attacking you? Mauling you to tiny pieces? Did he want to chase you?

Your hands carefully held the back of the office chair, just in case you might need to swing it at Springtrap. Silver eyes watched your hands hungrily, and you were struck with the desire to be holding him instead of the chair; fingers splayed over his chest, dipping lightly into red, swollen and rotting organs. You quickly pushed that thought away.

“You won,” You said, and Springtrap’s silver eyes lidded, his mouth unhinging from its tight grin and pressurized air being released from his metal jaw, as if the very words gave him pleasure. You didn’t like pleasing him. “So why am I not dead?”

In a motion so quick it startled you, Springtrap ripped something from his chest. It made a noise that was wet and squelching. Your body’s visceral reaction was to wretch, but you forced yourself still.

The item in Springtrap’s hand was dripping with spoiled bodily fluid as he held it out for you. You looked at silver eyes that held your gaze robotically. Your body screamed at you to throw the chair and run, your mind begged you to escape this monster, but your heart...

Your heart knew exactly what he was holding without having to take it.

You took slow small steps, tentative toward Springtrap. His patience was mechanical in nature, the type of patience an animatronic would have to show when waiting for a hug from a timid child. Your hands were shaking as you took the soiled object from his large, open palm.

It was your best friend's earpods. You bit your tongue, grasping it tightly in your hand. You couldn’t let yourself realize what this meant. You couldn’t think about this. Not now. Not now.

“Why do you have this,” You said and you were shaking, but you knew why. You knew there was only one reason why. And if you admitted it, you would burst into tears, and you couldn’t do that when he was close enough to kill you.

Springtrap leaned toward you, his body bending slightly forward and his broken rabbit ears leaning to one side. His rotting hand was still outstretched, and his silver eyes matched yours with such a driven intensity, you found yourself unable to turn away. And then, he did something that turned your stomach.

He beckoned you. He beckoned you exactly how Michael showed you; how he beckoned the children he killed. You wanted to throw up, you wanted to scream, you wanted to push him away, but—even more than all of that—you wanted to take his hand. How could you not? Even if he hadn’t given you the clue you were missing to your best friend, Springtrap dripped with an inviting, albeit twisted, charm you couldn’t deny. You could see exactly how easy it was for him to lure children—how he could entice them with promises of surprises and gifts and games and secrets. You could see exactly why they’d fall for his trap, just like you would, and that made you ill. How terrible, how absolutely vile, and the only thing that eased your nausea was that his once deceptive and charming mask was now twisted in a mockery of charisma. It was as repulsive outside as he was inside, and now it was permanently drilled into his face so that he could never lure another innocent victim to their demise again.

Except for you, who would take the hand of a monster willingly if it meant finding your friend.

You glanced at the cameras. It wasn’t on Michael, and yet you still felt the guilt of betraying his desperate request. He wanted you safe, but you were useless on the cameras and you’d be a much better distraction for Springtrap in person. 

When you turned back to Springtrap, a shiver of delight traveled your spine. You saw deep and rabid rage shaking from him. His eyes went cold and robotic just as quickly at your attention. You wondered if he thought we were looking for Michael to save you. Springtrap’s ability to disguise his emotions eerily resembled Michael’s, and that thought was almost enough to distract you from the pleasure his jealousy brought you.

You took Springtrap’s hand, and you swore his grin widened with a sinister triumph. His hand was cold and ragged, like an overused sponge, as it engulfed yours. His grip was unbreakable—just like his grip on your throat in the hall, or his grip on your hand against the vent, or his grip on your waist when you almost kissed him—you wouldn’t be able to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t want to.

He turned from you, your hand still in his, and he began to march. You had seen his trudge many times, especially while watching Spring Bonnie chase the delusion of a child, but it was different walking with him. The way he moved was a strange mixture of organic and mechanical. His ears and fingers twitched with robotic malfunction and his legs were carried by heavy metal programming, but each step felt too purposeful and too fluid for mechanical processes. His gate was unnaturally human and was punctuated with an unusually practiced tenseness, as if every movement he made was painful but he anticipated the pain. 

You hoped every step was pain. You hoped every time he stalked you through the halls, every time he was forced to march toward your toys, every time he raised his claws against you—he felt the metal rods pull against his tendons and tear into his flesh. That thought fed you.

You looked at the claw gripping your hand. Without thinking, you adjusted your grip, interlocking your fingers with his. 

Springtrap stopped. His head turned toward you with an aching metal creak. You wouldn’t return his intense silver gaze; you couldn’t bring yourself to. You didn’t know why you interlocked your fingers with his. Maybe it was the thought of him in pain that gave you enough bliss, maybe it was the uncertainty of where he was taking you that frightened you, maybe you just wanted to hold his hand. Regardless of what it was, you were holding his hand and you weren’t letting go.

Even after stillness and silence, you refused to look at Springtrap, so he turned back forward and resumed his trudging. Metal and rotten claws dug sharply into your hand as he squeezed your grip, but you didn’t mind the pain. In fact, you preferred it. It was only once you felt the pain that you realized this was the same hand he interlocked with yours in the vent. 

Finally, Springtrap stopped. You squinted in the darkness. You were in the room you first saw him, away from the main areas and barely monitored by the cameras. There was something in the darkness, angled away and out of view of the camera. You could make out vague shapes: a table and chairs set, party hats on every placemat, a gift box at the end of the table, and-

No. No no no. It can’t be- They can’t be-

You tried to pull away from Springtrap, but his grip on yours tightened. He threw you forward, and your palms slammed into the chair at the end of the table.

Your eyes met your best friend’s corpse at the other end of the table.

“No...” Your voice was barely a whisper.

No! They couldn’t have- They were supposed to live! You were supposed to find them! You-! You-!

You felt sick. You couldn’t look at them. There was so much dried blood. You couldn’t be here. You needed out. You needed to get out. You needed to get out.

You turned to run, but Springtrap grabbed you and turned you back around. You tried to resist him, digging your nails into his arms, but it did nothing. He forced your face forward, making you look at the corpse of your friend. Thick tears fell from your cheeks, coating his palm.

“Stop-” You cried, “Stop!”

How could he? How could you? You failed them. They called you and you failed them. If you had been there, if you had listened-

Everything was blurring. You couldn’t be there. You couldn’t stare at this mockery Springtrap made for you. You had to do anything—anything to get away.

“Please let me go!” You begged, sobbing into the claw forcing your face forward. “Please!”

Springtrap let you go, and you ran. You were dizzy. You were nauseous. You didn’t know where you were going, and it didn’t matter. You collapsed into the arcade machine—the same one you hid behind your first night there—and you sobbed.

They were gone. You knew they were gone, deep down you knew, but it hurt. It hurt so much. You shouldn’t have given yourself false hope. You shouldn’t have returned. You should’ve listened to Michael. It hurt. It felt like your flesh was ripped out of you. You couldn’t get the image of their corpse out of your mind. They were gone. They were gone they were gone they were gone they were gone they were-

You were forcefully turned around, your back slamming against the arcade screen. It should’ve hurt, but you were numb to it. Springtrap lifted your chin with a single claw. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want to play anymore. You didn’t want to hate him or want him or feel him or whatever. Your best friend was dead. Your best friend was dead.

You cried as your head dropped. He would probably kill you now. Just like them. It didn’t matter. You just wanted this to be over. You didn’t want to be here anymore. It didn’t matter.

Michael was still in the building. He needed you to distract Springtrap.

You didn’t care about killing Springtrap anymore. Any fiery hatred you had for him was drowned by your grief. But for Michael... You could distract him, for Michael.

You took Springtrap’s face in your hands and kissed him.

The kiss was cold and lifeless. Without your hatred to intoxicate you, kissing him was exactly what you imagined: kissing an moldy old puppet. You hadn’t noticed in your grief-induced trance, but Springtrap’s hands were around your throat. He was going to choke the life out of you. Maybe that would’ve been a better distraction than this. Your tears painted his muzzle as you pressed your body against his, your lips pushing against his blunt teeth and tattered fabric mouth.

Something starved snapped inside of Springtrap. He grabbed your waist and re-slammed you against the arcade cabinet. Your head hit the screen with enough force to see stars. Springtrap was moving against you, grasping at your sides, pressing against your face—he was shaking, his movements were erratic and clumsy. It was as if he needed to feel you, and when you couldn’t move fast enough, he’d slam you against the arcade cabinet again. 

You couldn’t keep up with him. You were in the haze of your own crushing sorrow. You could barely feel him bite you when you didn’t move fast enough. You didn’t care that when you kissed him your own blood coated your lips. You just wanted this to be over. You wanted everything to be over. But you kept moving, routinely, for Michael.

Claws dug into your hips, dragging through skin and beading thick droplets of blood. You started to feel warm. It had nothing to do with what Springtrap was doing to you. You were numb emotionally, but physically you started to feel warm. 

The temperature in the room was rising.

Springtrap didn’t notice. He was too engulfed in touching you. You would’ve reveled in that if you were still filled with hate, you thought detachedly. But you didn’t revel. You couldn’t. You could only feel your chest caving in, to the point that you couldn’t move against him anymore. You had to passively take everything he did to you, because any energy you had to return it was gone.

This Springtrap did notice. He slammed you against the arcade cabinet again, as if he could force life back into you. He was furious, livid, and thrashing. Silver eyes shook with rage and he dug his claws deeper in an attempt to pull a reaction out of you. You couldn’t react. You wondered if he would grow tired of trying to burn life into you and would just kill you. At least then it would’ve been over.

The room was getting hotter.

Then something surprised you, even in your grief-ridden state. Silver eyes that burned into you with violent anger were subdued with mechanical programming. Claws that dug into you pulled away from your lacerated flesh. Rabbit ears moved up robotically.

You blinked heavy and thick tears from your eyes as you looked up. It wasn’t Springtrap, it was Spring Bonnie looking at you. You don’t know why it was here. There was no noise to lure it away or no game to entice it. But something triggered in Spring Bonnie’s distinctly inhumane eyes: a cause and effect behavior that characterized programming. You knew it, because you had seen it every time Springtrap was forced to march away from you.

There were mechanical clicks in the rabbit animatronic as you looked down. Its voicebox fizzled to broken life, impossible to understand. Instead of stopping, like Springtrap had done when he tried to use his broken voicebox, Spring Bonnie didn’t. 

Once it finished its incomprehensible sentence, it placed a hand over yours. You furrowed your brow. This wasn’t the faux, mocking comfort that you were used to with Springtrap. This wasn’t even genuine emotion. This was the systematic code of a program that went unused for too long. You realized it must’ve been written software for comforting a crying child; a statement of assurance and a gentle physical gesture. How strange, that Spring Bonnie was capable of executing that code after so many decades of disrepair.

If you had been any more present, the whiplash going from Springtrap’s violent kissing to being comforted by Spring Bonnie would’ve been enough to make you vomit.

You had hated Spring Bonnie with William in the past, but was that fair? If anything, Spring Bonnie had tempered William; making him go toward the sounds of children and playing games with you that kept you alive. Spring Bonnie had never been your enemy, just the face of him. It almost felt as though Spring Bonnie, while only a machine and casing, was yet another one of William’s victims. Its cheery features and bright visage were forced to commit terrible acts on the children it was supposed to delight. Though, of all of William’s victims, you supposed Spring Bonnie got the best revenge, even better than yours.

The room was no longer just hot, it was bright. Fire creeped into the room as a whisper at first, but now demanded your attention. Sweat dripped from your face, a strangely real sensation in your dissociated state. 

Spring Bonnie still continued not to move, robotic eyes staring intently through you. You wondered if it asked you a question when trying to use its broken voicebox, and wouldn’t move until you answered it. Its hand was on yours, but it was gentle enough that you could shake it off. You didn’t shake it off.

Fire started to rage around you in a furious surge. The heat licked your skin like a broiling oven. You looked down. This was the end. This was your end. Your tears turned to steam when they hit the floor. There was a small relief that it was over, and some broken part of you was glad you were able to help, but... you were so sad. Your closest friend was gone, and now you would be too. It was fitting, but it hurt.

It hurt so much.

Spring Bonnie’s fingers twitched. He was coming back. A large pipe collapsed next to you both, the embers dancing like red fireflies between you two. The heat choked you, smothered you, and filled your lungs, blood, and bones. And soon, it would consume you. Both of you.

“I thought it would end this way,” You said to Spring Bonnie, and your voice was hoarse. You didn’t know if it could hear you over the raging fire. You didn’t know if it could even comprehend the depth of your words. But it felt nice to have someone there at your end. Someone that wasn’t the monster who killed your best friend.

In the haze of the flame and the pain, you heard your name being called. You slowly turned your head. Your vision was obscured by heat forging ripples in the hot air. Then, something slid across the floor and bumped your foot. It was your axe. You thought you left it at home. You looked up. 

Through the fumes, there was Michael. He looked... so sad. His sullen eyes, deep as the void, were shaking with desperation. He needed you to live, you remembered. He needed you to live.

You hated seeing him sad.

You pulled away from Spring Bonnie—or Springtrap, you weren’t sure with the metal malfunctioning and twitching in the broil—and picked up the axe. It burned the skin of your palms holding it, but the pain was numb to you. You knew it was Springtrap when he grabbed your arm, violent and jerking.

You had been willing to die. You were ready to die. This deep into your despair, you wanted to die. But... for Michael, you’d be willing to live.

You swung the axe down with every last bit of strength you had. 

CRACK!

Springtrap’s arm severed from his twitching body and collapsed to the floor. You didn’t waste a moment. You sprinted through the flames, leaping over the burning pipe and ducking under the embers. 

Relief washed over Michael’s face and it was the only thing you could focus on. If you focused on anything else, you would fall and burn.

You grabbed his hand as you ran, dragging him into a sprint. Fazbear’s Fright crashed around you in brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. The fire burned away the past five nights and you were outrunning it with Michael. Tears dripped down your face, but you hadn’t felt so free.

You two stumbled out of the building and into the parking lot and pouring rain. You collapsed into a coughing fit, not realizing how much the smoke suffocated you. The rain cooled your skin in a way that burned. Michael took a few steps back, and you saw the firelight reflected in his void eyes. You turned around.

Fazbear’s Fright was in flames. With Springtrap still inside. It was done. It was beautiful.

You looked at your wristwatch and you wailed.