#still workin on organizing things but this is a start

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[askengiecow]

It had been weeks since they had visited Taurie’s family and Dell was happy to say they had finished the repairs in time for respawn maintenance, but now that they didn’t have all that work keeping them busy, he couldn’t help but dwell on Taurie. The man seemed to be doing good, certainly did a great job reconstructing the kitchen roof, and it was nice how he cuddled up with Dell each night and updated him on how Beau was doing, which he was thankful to hear well, kumquat and his posey taking to her, swimmingly, as Dell would say.

Taurie had still appeared hesitant about Dell helping to milk him after a long day, but Dell was starting to get less of that feeling now. His hands once again being a relaxing reprieve from the pumps, though not as much of a source of intimacy. Most nights so far they had been too tired for such things though they did get a morning tryst or two. However Dell was sad to say he had yet to have Taurie do good on his promise to pay him back for all his missing shirts with wearing his knew chaps, and maybe that was one of the reasons he felt particularly giddy when thinking of his lover and the upcoming week and a half he’d have being alone with Taurie. Hell, maybe he’d even get his ring on the man.

That thought had him grinning like an idiot as he leaned back in his chair, waiting for Taurie to find his way back to the workshop through the crowd of men packing up the bus and trying to get all their arguing out before the trip where murdering each other would be off the table.

After helping Medic carry a few suspiciously marked boxes to the bus(most likely some organs on ice) and resetting the front door after a spat between Soldier and Scout saw the younger man thrown into the wood hard enough to knock it off its frame, Taurie was finally ready for a break. Doing a quick visual check in the vicinity for anything burning, breaking, or blowing up he was satisfied any other issues could wait a spell.

He smiled as he made his way toward the workshop. It had been harder than he thought adjusting to the team again, and he had taken to buckling his helmet back on just in case his watch failed, but with Dell he had never felt closer. They had been busy, true, but hopefully the coming maintenance period would afford them some quality time together.

"Please tell me the AC is workin in here. Hotter than bein snuck up on by a pyros back burner out there." He said, closing the door behind him and coming up behind Dell to rest his arms on the back of the lounging man's chair.

"Think we got everythin in order. Shipment of replacement coolant for respawn came in finally. Once everyone ships out we can get started, whenever ya see fit." He said, swiping an arm across his forehead to clear it of sweat before leaning down to kiss the Texan's cheek.

@dirty-dell

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

𝕂𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 🎃💦 ∘₊✧ 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝟡 ✧₊∘

|| ︶꒦꒷𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥꒷꒦︶ | main masterlist ||

@absurdthirst's Kinktober 2023 Prompts

Day 9: Slutwear, Squirting/Cumshots, Prostitution/Camming/Sex-for-Service

𝐀 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩-𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐥

| PAIRING(s): neighbor!Joel x haunted house organizer!neighbor | RATING: explicit material | 18+| WORD COUNT: 3.2k (jfc this one really got away from me) | CONTENT: no outbreak AU // we're gonna assume Sarah is old enough to be out of the house, two spooky idiots vibing with each other, mock arrangement of sexual favors for Halloween props | SYNOPSIS: In the 5th year of running your free to the neighborhood haunted house, your contractor neighbor Joel Miller expresses interest in participating.

The garage door was open, but Joel still knocked. “Hello?”

When you didn’t answer, he tried again. A few heavier knocks later and he heard footsteps scrambling his direction. You emerged from the doorway with strands of hair stuck to your forehead and a single overall strap securely snapped. He avoided looking at your tight sports bra underneath, for the most part.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. I was sanding something and didn’t hear you at first, I don’t think,” you greet him breathlessly.

“Nah, you’re fine, you’re fine,” he waves away your fretting. “Figured you’d be workin’ on somethin’ for all this.” He eyes the transformation in progress. He reaches out to tap one of the ghoul’s sinister, bony fingers from where it floats on the ceiling.

“Oh, yeah. It’s always sort of crazy this time of year,” you admit with a shy grin. “I, uh, I can move my car from the street if it’s–”

“Nah, I ain’t one of those,” he laughs. “Just always been curious to get a closer look. Seen you workin’ on this over the years. Real impressive stuff.”

You perk up at the positive feedback and note the “Miller Contracting” t-shirt that fits incredibly well across his broad chest. “Oh. Well, thanks. Sorry about the car thing. It’s not like you seem like a party pooper or something, it’s just—”

He waves his hand to interrupt you again. “I know some of the neighbors aren’t crazy about it. Fuck ‘em.”

Your smile goes ear to ear at the easy way he makes you feel confident in your not so typical hobby of having an open haunted house, free of charge to the entire neighborhood every year. It had started out with just your garage and backyard serving as a short walk-through haunted house, but now in your 5th year you’ve incorporated a few of your downstairs rooms into the layout. You slowly added new pieces and props over time, and it had become a huge point of pride for you to see the smiling faces and hear the shrill, excited screams of the patrons.

“Did you, um, want a look around? Have you ever done the haunted house?”

Joel relaxes his shoulders but insists he doesn’t want to impose. You insist right back that he’s more than welcome to see what you’ve got going on. You point to his shirt. “Could probably give me a few tips!”

He follows you as you start to walk into the house again. “Yeah, ‘bout that. Actually sorta why I thought of comin’ by….”

You turn to read his face, but can’t think past the infuriatingly adorable tinge of pink on his cheeks. 

“I, uh, would love to make ya somethin’. A prop or somethin’. I’m pretty decent with woodwork, and I think it’s pretty neat what’cha got goin’ on here.” He shrugs, but it doesn’t counterbalance his obvious nerves at offering up his services.

“Are you serious?” you breathe. “You’d make me something? I mean, you really don’t have to do that, but I can’t say it doesn’t sound fucking amazing.”

You’d seen his house before. You’d driven by it enough times to gawk at the beautiful renovations that had been done over time. It was the most gorgeous house on the street by leaps and bounds, and the owner and crafter of said renovations wasn’t so bad to look at, either. You realize you don’t know his name. You offer him yours and hope he’ll return the gesture.

“Joel,” he says firmly. Even his voice sounded deep and strong. He was even more gorgeous up close.

“Joel Miller, of Miller Contracting fame,” you amend with a playful smile and a nod to his shirt.

“The one and only,” he lobs back with a devastating smirk. Oh, the bastard was getting more comfortable around you, so now he was easing into a laid back confidence that made you want to gnaw your own arm off.

“I mean, I’d offer you some complimentary tickets to the haunted house in return, but it’s already free, so….”

He laughs under his breath and shakes his head. “No, no, none’uh that. This is somethin’ I’ve been kickin’ around for the past coupl’a years. Think it sounds real fun. Never really built a dedicated prop piece, but I’d love to take a crack at it if you’d let me.”

Your heart leaps into your throat when he admits he’s thought about your haunted house for years. That he’s wanted to be a part of it in a way for years. It was something born of pure passion and love for Halloween as well as something to nurture your creative side. The thought of Joel wanting in on it made your chest squeeze and balloon.

The rest of the afternoon flows easy with conversation and ideas about additions to your setup. It’s less than a week later when Joel texts you that the piece is almost done if you wanted to come check it out. You force yourself to wait at least 2 minutes before replying in the affirmative.

Joel’s house is even more stunning on the inside. You aren’t sure what stars aligned to get this man to offer you a prop piece at absolutely no cost. You feel like the luckiest person to ever walk the earth. You casually sip the beer Joel offered you while he details all the insanely detailed and impressive work he put into the prop piece he dreamt up with you.

“S’not too shabby, I think,” he nods in approval as he gauges his work. His eyes flash to yours when you don’t respond right away. You’re staring open mouthed at the piece, the shifting gears, the working levers. You can’t even imagine how much something like this would cost at a home improvement store.

“Show me again,” you urge with barely contained glee.

Joel smiles and snaps the lever down, releasing the guillotine and severing the dummy head into the basket. You legitimately clap this time and bob on the tips of your toes. His grin is wide and boyish as he taps a button on the floor with his foot, reeling everything back into place.

“I–I can’t even—HOLY SHIT, JOEL,” you laugh. You run your hands through your hair like you don’t even know what else to do, how else to react.

“Hope it’s not too tall for the–”

“Shutup, Joel, you know it isn’t too tall. You measured, like, 400 times,” you interject.

“I measured three times, but alright,” he chuckles. He looks back and forth between you and the prop. “So, you, uh.. It’s good? Ya like it?”

“It’s amazing!” you gush. A thought crosses your mind that immediately sets off a whole other level of excitement. “Joel, what would you say to operating this opening night at the very least?”

“What? Like, be part of the haunted house? I dunno ‘bout all that,” he mumbles.

“This thing is a work of art! Are you kidding me?! If anybody should be the first to terrorize people with it, it should be the person who made it!” you argue. You stomp across the room and stop dead center in front of Joel. “Seriously. It would be so much fun! You said you’d done the walk-through last year, so you know what you’re getting yourself in to – at least a little bit.”

“You seriously want an old guy like me tryna yank this lever and scare people? I’m more like’tuh throw my damn back out than scare anybody off,” he huffs in a self-deprecating tone.

“Joel,” you snort. “You’re built like a fucking brick shithouse. You’re broad as hell, and you’ve got muscles and all that shit. You’re, like, perfectly intimidating. Put you in an Executioner’s mask, and it’s a done deal!”

Joel smirks and raises a brow. “You think I’m muscular and strong, huh?” he teases.

You flush and swat his arm. “This is the thanks I get for trying to encourage you.”

“Said somethin’ about bein’ broad, too, didn’t’cha?” he adds as he bites back a smile.

“I’m just trying to flatter you so you’ll make me more free props,” you deadpan.

Joel coughs up his sip of beer in a laugh. “Damn, maybe I should make you pay for this after all,” he muses in false contemplation.

“Hey now, let’s not get hasty,” you giggle. You put your hands out to your sides in mock surrender.

“Typical. Shoulda known I was gettin’ fleeced. Suddenly it’s a ‘you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours’ kinda deal, huh?,” he teases.

“Nobody is conning anybody. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours! You give me a head—” you pat the decapitated prop head for emphasis “—I’ll give you head!”

Joel’s eyes widen with an amused sparkle. His eyebrows shot up at the same time as the corner of his mouth lifted devilishly. “Well now we’re talkin’!” he chortles.

Your face is on fire. You must have gone through every shade of red that Crayola has created. “Ohhh my god. Jesus christ. OH MY GOD, please— I’m so– I can’t–,” you sputter. You slap a hand over your forehead. “That was so fucking embarrassing and inappropriate. Joel, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe—”

“Whoa now, relax. S’alright. Just a bit of teasin’,” he reassures you once he realizes you’re actually mortified at the half slip-up half failed attempt at humor. “S’all in good fun, okay? No need to get bent outta shape.”

You chance a look at him with an absolutely humiliated expression and find his playfully warm eyes waiting for you.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he tuts and knocks a hand against your arm gently. “Was funny as hell. Needed a good laugh, so thanks for that, sweetheart.”

As if your face wasn’t already ablaze, the casual petname makes your heart stammer. You were not going to survive this man.

“Alright, everybody, we got a 20 minute interval, so get yourself some water and a quick snack if you need one,” you announce to the group of volunteers. Frightening clowns and ghostly figures waddle and stroll into the inner rooms of the house not being utilized in the haunted house.

You glance around only to find Joel doing the same. You smile and walk up to him.

“So the girls didn’t talk you into the shirtless get-up, huh?” you giggle.

Joel rolls his eyes through the black mask obscuring his face.

“So, is Mister ‘I’ve scared more kids in one night than any other scene volunteer in the past 4 years combined’ enjoying himself? Or do you need to make a couple more 12 year olds pee their pants before you’re ready to admit it?”

Joel lifts the fabric mask over his head and grins at you. “Like you’d give me all that credit. Already heard you earlier talkin’ ‘bout how I got the ‘good corner’ that’s out of sight until it’s too late.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Probably would’ve only made two 12 year old piss themselves so far if you weren’t given the good corner,” you shrug. “Oh well, that’s what special treatment gets ya.”

He laughs and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. Your stomach lurches with want.

“So am I hired or what?” 

“Hired? Hm, no, that implies pay, and you’re not getting paid,” you reason with a giggle.

“Damn. Free props and free labor. I’m gettin’ the short end of the stick, I think,” he mock gripes.

You feel a twinge of guilt even though you know he’s joking. He had already supplied you with an amazing element for the haunted house, and you’d sort of strong-armed him into acting in one of the sets tonight. “You know if you really did end up feeling like you should get some sort of compensation, I’m sure I could come up with, like, a payment plan or something,” you offer.

“Dunno, I’m still pretty interested in that offer of head,” he quips.

Your head inches back in a jerk as you snort in surprise. “Oh?”

Joel instantly shifts into apology mode and expresses his regret at the tasteless joke.

You put up a hand to stop his frenzied blabbering. His mouth hangs open with panic, but he stops talking. You force a swallow past the ball of nerves in your throat and inch closer to him. You graze the tips of your fingers against the shiny polyester costume stretching across his chest.

“What if… what if I was interested in getting to know you better? In the kinda way that that joke about … ‘scratching each other’s backs’  isn’t really a joke?” You fan your fingers across his pec and work up the nerve to look up at him.

His dark eyes study your face for a moment before a hand snakes across your lower back and pulls you closer. “Then I’d say you got yourself a pro bono prop master and scene volunteer, sweetheart.”

You break into a nervous fit of giggles and glance at the clock. Only 15 minutes until everyone is due back to their places. “Come with me,” you whisper. You grab Joel’s hand and lead him upstairs via the rear staircase. You guide him through the dark and into your bedroom.

The moment the backs of your knees hit the mattress, you tug Joel down on top of you. He settles onto the bed with an oomph and quickly gains his bearings. His hands are all over you, and you thank the high heavens that neither of you are wearing any face makeup for a costume. One less thing to worry about as you hungrily lick into one another’s mouths.

You turn Joel onto his back against the mattress and tug at his garments until you shimmy his belt and jeans loose. He shoves them down enough to free his cock. It stands at attention with a weighty bob.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “I would’ve done this sooner if I knew you had such a big dick!”

Joel erupts into laughter at your lewd candor, and you giggle while shushing him. “Shutup before somebody hears us and comes upstairs to check on the noise. I’ve only got about 10 minutes to suck you off.”

“Fuck, you really doin’ it? You don’t hafta–”

You cut him off by taking him as far into your mouth as you can. He makes a strangled hissing sound, his arms flailing as they search for something to grab hold of. One hand settles on the back of your head, and the other grips the sheets. You shove a hand down your pants and insert two fingers into yourself. Joel made the most obscenely divine noises you’d ever heard.

You don’t let up as you work his length in your mouth, not quite able to take him all the way without your gag reflex going into overdrive. He gives you a few polite seconds of warning that he’s about to come, and you ready your mouth at his tip while stroking him up to his climax. His hips jerk as he unloads into your mouth, grunting obscenities and praises.

You swallow and pull off him with a smug grin. You watch him catch his breath in the rays of light from the streetlamps. You shimmy back up to his face and capture his mouth in a deep kiss. He groans at the taste of himself on your lips, groping and grabbing at you. He rolls you off to the side and yanks your pants down without warning. His fingers slide through your soaked folds before pausing at your entrance.

“Fuck, yes please,” you beg. He stretches you with two fingers and only pumps a few times before you’re clenching around his digits. You come down from your high enough to realize it’s not long before you need to be back downstairs. “Should at least earn me a couple of smaller props, no?” you pant.

He snorts and rests his forehead against your chest. “Guess we can work out a bartering system,” he jokes back.

You both take a moment to get yourself together before heading back downstairs. The rest of the night is an absolute blast, and you revel in the excited compliments over your newest addition of the Cursed Souls of the French Revolution room, many comments centering on a certain terrifying Executioner who was very good at his role.

The last walk-through group empties out onto the street, and you close up for the night. Another successful event with a few more nights this week to show off your best haunted house yet. When the last volunteer other than Joel heads out, you turn to shower your breakout star with all the feedback and fanfare he’d garnered.

He’s slow to accept the praise, but after a while you beat him down enough to accept a few of the milder compliments. You sit side by side on the couch, watching a classic horror film as you count up the donations you’d earned throughout the evening. You count the last bill and tally it up on your sheet before tucking it away in the metal cash box.

Joel grips an arm around you and tugs you into his chest. “Got enough for your next big idea, or are we gonna have to figure out another form of payment?” he asks with a suggestive wink.

“Think I came up short on the cash. Damn,” you mutter in feigned disappointment.

Joel grins at your tongue-in-cheek humor but pauses after a moment. “Thank you, by the way. For lettin’ me join up with all this. It was really fun. Not used’tuh doin’ stuff like this, but I’m real glad I worked up the nerve to walk up to your garage that day,” he admits in earnest.

“Yeah,” you agree with a breathy laugh. “Me, too, Joel.”

His thumb caresses the top of your cheekbone as he considers you. “Meant when I said I’d like’tuh get to get more involved with it. With… with you,” he stammers.

Your chest feels warm and cozy. You can’t help yourself with what comes out of your mouth next. “Is this your way of asking me to be your ghoul-friend?”

Joel shuts his eyes and throws his head against the top of the couch. “Now I know I’ve got it bad for ya when that ain’t enough to send me hightailin’ it outta here,” he groans.

“Okay, you do one to me and see if I’ve got it bad for you, too,” you suggest.

Joel thinks for a moment then grins to himself. He turns his head your direction and delivers a classic. “If you’re my ghoul-friend, does that mean I get to see your boo-bies?”

You both lose it over the awful jokes and barely manage to get yourselves back under control long enough to speak full sentences again.

“Okay, it’s official. We’ve both got it very, very bad for each other,” you declare as you wipe a tear from your eye.

“Guess I’ll just have to live with that,” he says softly.

“Yeah, guess we’ll both just have to learn to deal with it,” you chuckle under your breath.

The rest of the movie plays to a distracted audience as you and Joel mess around on the couch well past the credits rolling across the screen.

This was way too much fun to write. I hope y'all don't mind me playing fast and loose with some of these kinks lmao.

This idea originally came from some Joel characterization ideas that I guess made quite the impression on me. This particular fic drew inspiration from my last idea on the list:

🛠 🪵 🎃 prop maker Joel who admires your open to the public haunted house you construct every year. he offers to make you a prop piece, free of charge. you both love Halloween.

The temptation to write more of those silly ideas into my kinktober shit is super strong ngl. Whatever you do, don't encourage it. Don't you dare suggest I make a poll for which character should get which trope. DON'T YOU DARE.

catch ya later, ♥Puddles♥

[call-me-copycat]

Heyoo, I hope your having a great day/night!

Congratulations on 400 followers!! That's a great achievement right there 😁

I was wondering if I could join your writting event? If so, can I please ask for a "Pick a Prompt" for number 8, the characters being present mic and a f!reader? (as in "xreader")

It can be romantic, but can you please avoid any drinking/sexual themes?

If not, it can just be platonic!!

Wish you the best!

Hello! Thank you so much @bingewatchintilldawn for requesting for my writing event! I'm so glad you're here ଘ(੭ˊ꒳​ˋ)੭✧

I'm so sorry for the delay, I do hope you enjoy! Sorry for any grammatical errors as well, it's a little late where I am right now, so I'm a little tired ‪(´•ᴗ• ก )‬՞ ՞

Request for my writing event!

Slot Chosen: Pick-A-Prompt 1

#8: "Why are you hiding behind me? What did you do?"

➜ CHARACTERS: Mic & Fem! Reader (Platonic - I'm sorry, I didn't know how to write this off as romantic)

➜ Word Count: 2230 [I got a little side-tracked with this one, I hope you don't mind (ㅎ.ㅎ ) ]

➜ WARNINGS: Mentions of food, I believe that's it

Students chattered amongst themselves as the day passed by, with conversations ranging from light-hearted compliments, to angered rants, to teasing taunts and the scoffs that would come from the receiving end. It was a relaxing day, one that you were grateful for since that usually meant that there wasn't much work for you to do.

Glancing at the small stack of papers that needed to be organized and stapled so the class can receive them the next day, you sighed before cracking your knuckles and getting right to work.

One might begin to think you were a teacher at UA, what with all that you do, but that wasn't exactly what you were. While you weren't a teacher, you were a teacher aid, tasked with helping and following the orders of whichever teacher called upon you for the day.

It seemed you were doing something new each day, whether that be helping out Snipe with rearranging his books for history class, or answering the students' questions when Eraserhead was sleeping, or even dashing throughout the halls to get a folder to Nezu. It's one of the many reasons why you enjoyed your job so much. Not only was it interesting, but the people were also quite amusing as well. Some more than others.

That was probably the reason behind why you were always offering to help assist Present Mic with his class, often enjoying the thrill of his funky attitude and excitable demeanor. Kind to everyone and ever so intriguing, you felt it was just a little easier to talk to him at times. He wasn't very judgemental (then again, neither were any of the teachers really), and could hold and start any conversation with anyone with ease if he so wished.

Oftentimes a couple of his students would stay behind in his class during lunch and eat there, enjoying the jokes and conversation their teacher brought. It was only a plus to it all that he never really required you to do much work for him. While it seemed he wouldn't be one to do much work or preparing, you couldn't help but notice how each morning a newly stacked pile of papers were always printed and stapled before everyone else had even started. Or how you never had to help grade any papers since they'd all be finished the same day they were turned in. It was one of the many things he never really spoke about but still quietly did in the background.

Thinking back to that fact, you smiled as you found yourself once again not needing to do much work, the stack of papers thin and simply needing to be stapled in groups.

"Sorry it's a bit much today! The printer wasn't workin' on me, so I'm a little behind today. Oh well! Ya live ya learn!"

Turning to the voice coming from the door to the classroom, you smiled as you saw Mic walking through, work bag and a folder in one hand and a water bottle in the other as he fumbled with the door. After getting up and helping hold the door open, you smiled at the "a-thank-you" that you were given as he walked by.

"It's not much really, did you need anything else done today? Or is that it?"

He placed his work items down as he waved his hand at you, "No, no! That's all for today! No need to overwork yourself, I'm no Eraser!", he laughed, enjoying his jab to his good friend while you shuddered. Aizawa was much more strict, and wasn't always keen on having a new face around. While he did have his moments of leniency, they were often overshadowed by the stacks of paper given to grade, or the number of times you had to run down the halls to fulfill the errands he had asked. No, he was indeed no Eraser.

The day ran smoothly, with schoolwork being handed out and students being taught. It was something you hoped you'd reach one day. Until then, being an assistant wasn't too bad.

Debates were common occurrences in his class, seeing as he taught English after all, and not only did they commonly happen, they were sometimes encouraged. 'It's good teaching material', he had told you as the students discussed the pros and cons of having heroes advertise products. There were times when they had to be shut down though, sometimes provoking the wrong kind of passion in the students. And when screaming matches occurred, there wasn't a single soul that challenged the Voice Hero.

UA was certainly a one-of-a-kind school. All the teachers there treated you as an equal despite your lower profession, and each had a unique spark to them. Midnight always loved having you around for her art classes, though there were times where you couldn't handle the risque attitude that she radiated. Vlad was much more professional in a sense, but that never meant be didn't enjoy a good conversation every now and then.

You learned that during breaks Snipe loved to play cards, and that Midnight loved to challenge anyone in anything. Lunch Rush appreciated having company whenever he was cleaning, and Recovery Girl loved to have someone to listen to her stories about her past work. It was a tight-knit community, and although everyone ran under the same set of rules, it couldn't feel more familiar.

-

The bell rang for lunch, signaling the day to be half-over. Resorting to mindlessly doodling on a piece of paper at the teacher's desk could only ever get you so far before it became redundant. You normally sat at Mic's desk since he rarely ever sat still, always up and walking around the class, or up and down the length of the chalkboard when the students were taking a test. Even then he wasn't completely silent, settling on whistling some jaunty tune he either made up or heard somewhere.

With the class being dismissed, all the students left for the cafeteria for the day, leaving you and Mic to eat your lunch in the teacher's lounge for the day. It was only when you entered that you remembered you had left your lunch at home.

Turning to Mic, who was whistling that same tune to himself once again as he flipped through his planner, you spoke up.

"Hey, I forgot my lunch today at home, do you mind if I run down to the cafeteria to pick something up real quick?"

This caused him to look up, but before he could say anything, a woman's voice cut him off.

"You can have my lunch, honey. I actually just came from the cafeteria so I don't need it."

Midnight walked the rest of the way in and held up a little tray that she had gotten for herself from Lunch Rush. "I couldn't resist, he made my favorite today so I had to go down. Take whatever's in the fridge, I should've left my bento in there from yesterday"

Nodding, you smiled and thanked her as you rummaged through the fridge, finding it empty except for a single bento box in a plastic bag. It didn't look homemade, but rather store bought as the box still had the price sticker on it.

"I'm gonna head off to the office, I need to work out some typos on an assignment before I print it out. You okay with staying here?" Mic questioned as he packed his things and headed to the door.

"I'll be fine, you can go if you need to" Was your answer as you ate your lunch, the bento being an oddly simple one that just consisted of three compartments; one for rice, one for beef, and one for pickled vegetables.

This was the best photo I could find, I hope it helps (=ﾟДﾟ=)

It wasn't something you were used to seeing Midnight eat, as she normally picked bentos that mainly consisted of vegetables, and her go to protein being fish. It was new, but you didn't question it.

Once lunch was finished, you checked the time to see you still had about 20 minutes left to yourself. Taking advantage of what time you had left, you decided to go give Mic a visit, tired of sitting alone in the lounge as Midnight had only come by earlier to grab a cup of coffee.

However, you nearly bumped into a figure that was entering the lounge at the same time you were exiting, the deep "Watch where you're heading" giving you a clue as to who it was before you even saw him.

Looking up and meeting eyes with Aizawa, you hastily apologized and went to leave, only for a single sentence to freeze you in place.

"Who ate my lunch?"

Aizawa was crouched in front of the communal fridge, frowning at the empty shelves before slowly turning to look at where you were frozen in the doorway with one foot out.

Hesitantly, you slid your eyes over to him. As soon as your eyes met you panicked and quickly scuttled out of the lounge, giving him the answer to his question and causing a chase to form.

Dashing throughout the empty halls, you immediately spotted Mic walking down in the opposite direction of where you were headed, casually chatting alongside Cementoss.

"Hey, [Name]! So nice of you to stop by- Whoa, whoa, whoa, why the rush?!" He questioned as you quickly made your way over to him, only to position yourself right behind him and attempt to use him as a human shield of sorts.

Just the same, his question was answered as an annoyed Eraserhead stomped his way to where the three of you were standing.

"I just want to talk to her-"

"It wasn't me!" You retaliated, trying to weasel yourself out of this mess.

"Okay, okay, why are you hiding behind me? What did you do?" Mic was beyond confused, having been forcefully tugged into the situation.

"She ate my lunch, that's what she did" Aizawa answered, an agitated tone to his voice. "The one day I actually bring some food to eat, and it's gone"

"N-no, I... "

Aizawa raised an eyebrow and silently waited for your answer, never one to raise his voice or cut someone off to argue. His belief was to just let the person try and fail to explain themselves, causing them to dig themselves into their own hole without him having to retaliate.

Mic then thought back to what Midnight had told you earlier, suddenly understanding what had occurred.

"Ah, man, it looks like ya caught me Shouta"

You, Cementoss, and Aizawa all turned to look at Mic with a confused expression, the situation growing even more complex at the sudden confession.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he continued, "I'll pay you back, promise, just don't go blaming her. Y'know, maybe you should've labeled your lunch in the first place, then we wouldn't be here, now would we?"

Aizawa scowled at his friend's cheeky tone, throwing his hands in the air. "You know what? I'm not going to stand here and argue about the food." Turning and beginning to walk away, he muttered just loud enough for you all to hear, "I'm going to take a nap, don't disturb me"

You watched Aizawa's retreating figure disappear down the hallway, possibly to his class, and turned to Mic. He spoke before you could get a word out, "Now that that's taken care of, let's get back to work, shall we?", right before bidding Cementoss a temporary goodbye.

Walking down the halls, you still had to ask him why he had taken the blame, especially knowing he'd be getting an earful as soon as school got out.

"Oh, none of that! No need to get so worried about me, I've been annoying everyone here since I first started working." He slipped one hand into his pocket as the other held a folder and a clipboard for his teacher-ly duties. "Did I ever tell you about the time I put plastic wrap across the door frame, only for Nemuri to walk right into it?" He laughed out loud as he spoke, clearly enjoying the memory that was brought back to him.

"Man, she was pissed! I had to hightail it out of there if I wanted to see the next morning sunrise! Y'know, I ought to ask her if she remembers that, cause I sure do! "

You chuckled alongside him, happy to have such a kind, yet intuitive coworker... No, friend. Yeah, it was nice to be surrounded by such charismatic people you could call your friends.

There was just one thing you needed to do.

-

Aizawa scowled as he walked through the halls towards the teacher lounge, hoping that at least no one stole his rice koji packets. Those were strictly his, at the very least.

Honestly, this was my best guess as to what it is that he eats ┐⁠(⁠‘⁠～⁠`⁠;⁠)⁠┌

Opening the fridge though, he was met with a surprise.

Inside was a plastic bag with his name on it, in handwriting that was clearly not his. Opening it revealed the same bento he had bought from the store, only this was a new one. Alongside it, was a note:

"Sorry for eating your lunch. I didn't know it was yours. Hope this repays for the mistake.

Till next time, [Name]"

Aizawa smiled.

He knew it was you the whole time.

Thank you again for requesting! I really appreciate you taking the time to do so! Please have a lovely day ( ⑉¯ ꇴ ¯⑉ )ﾂﾝﾂﾝ

*A little side note: I think writing for Present Mic is actually very fun. I love his character a lot! ʕ ◦`꒳´◦ʔ

[rollercoasterwords]

ugh!!! different anon but i just read your thoughts about everything r is thinking and feeling and i canttttt, and it also hurts bc from s perspective, the feelings and developments he thought they had for so long were a ruse!! so on both sides we have them fighting their feelings and denying the reality of their connection :(((

one follow up question i have is, how does r (and really the whole gang) reconcile this initial distrust and subsequent shock (that s is Becoming Good) with the existence of reg? bc like on the one hand yes s represents so much evil shit to them, has done so much evil shit, but his redeemed brother is right there as well. so i’m curious about how these characters marry those feelings

yeah <3 i mean 2 clarify it's not so much that r thought s was like. actively tricking him like he believes what s was feeling was real too it's just that s knew before they kissed etc. that he was going 2 be obliviating himself so the idea that those feelings could become something was, at that point, a lie, and that's where r feels betrayed.

and that's an interesting question!! re: reg (and re: s) all 3 of them have v different perspectives. like for james reg chose on his own 2 betray voldemort, and even tho reg kinda dismisses the idea that he was rebelling 4 some noble reason etc james still like...kinda gives him that credit & sees him as someone who organically came 2 this position that was at least somewhat aligned w the values & goals of the order, whereas s did not do that; hence, james cuts him way less slack. s was also a lot more active in the d.e. & actively harming order members + allies in ways that reg was not, which also makes james like him less to begin with. but james has also grown up pretty separated from broader society, so even tho the d.e. have always been his enemies, he hasn't been like...quite as subjected 2 their reign in his daily life the same way r has, and bc james has been raised as like a soldier in a war he views voldemort as his ultimate enemy & the d.e. as like enemy soldiers, so there's overall less of like...this personal hatred 4 them as individuals. which makes it easier 4 him 2 accept that people like reg & s can grow & change if they demonstrate they're willing 2 side w the order + work towards order goals.

for lily a lot of this is similar 2 james--she views reg as having made his own decision 2 leave the d.e. + s as being forced, so trusts him less 2 begin with, etc. but lily, unlike james, has spent even less time actually like...directly interacting w d.e. like she's spent most of her time in order bases + hq working behind the scenes on potions etc, so she's even further removed from the personal aspect of all this & has an easier time accepting that both s + reg can become good people (tho at first she dislikes reg bc james is tutoring him + flirting w him lmao). lily also sees a lot more gray area than james, who tends 2 view the world in black & white terms (if you're fighting for the d.e. ur bad, if you're fighting for the order ur good, etc). for lily, everyone has the capacity 4 both good & evil, and a person's life is largely shaped by conditions outside their control, so her worldview + relative distance from the whole conflict makes it easier for her 2 accept that reg + s can change.

but remus has grown up as a werewolf under voldemort's government for most of his life, not in order bases, and so he has a very acute sense of the ways in which individuals make up + perpetuate these systems of violence, and is not particularly forgiving towards them even if he recognizes that yes, people can change and yes, that's probably a good thing--it doesn't undo the hurt they've done and it doesn't mean he's going to forgive them. this is why r + reg aren't friends, even tho lily + james are friends w both of them; r didn't really like reg from the start & basically just avoided him as much as he could, which wasn't hard bc he was out doing work 4 the order + reg was working in potions labs w lily. so even tho r could recognize that like, ok i guess it's good we got a reformed d.e. working 4 us, he never had 2 go through like a personal struggle of actually feeling friendly towards the guy & basically just kept disliking him lol. so not only does he already hold these grudges (understandably!), he also doesn't think of evil in the same way as the others--whereas james views voldemort, the figurehead of this entire system, as the Ultimate Evil, and lily can understand how people born into these violent systems would perpetuate them but thinks that's usually more from being misguided than ill intent, remus views this as a structural issue in which people like s, who (from r's pov when they first meet) think of themselves as generally 'good' people, still justify their role in these systems of violence because it benefits them, which is much more insidious and infuriating than someone like voldemort, who is just pretty straightforwardly a Bad Guy. and that's what i mean when i say r views s of representative of like, everything wrong w society--bc the vast majority of people in society are like s, who view themselves as good people and blame all (or at least most of) the bad on figureheads like voldemort without recognizing their own role in structural violence. and his whole relationship w s & feelings for him just make it way more difficult 4 him to watch s change + grow & to accept that that's possible, even though, theoretically, he should want it 2 be possible, bc there's this more personal level of pain...someone who views themself as a good person hurts u & u want 2 go "hey!! ur not a good fucking person!!" but then they actually become a good person (or at least a better one) so then what do u do w that hurt, y'know?

anyway. this got v long but yeah have actually spent quite a bit of time thinking about these 3 characters & how their different worldviews + experiences shape their attitudes towards the black brothers!

[goo-dripley-art]

whered you get your ideas for your ocs? all of them are so silly and abstract (/pos)

inspo is always a mixed bag most of the time, mostly just whatever im interested in at the time!

this is prob gonna be a long one, so i'll put it utc

OKAY SO!

I'll start with the deltarune ones since those are the Easiest to explain, then ill talk about my actual Original guys lol

Cabelle is based around conspiracies and more out-there gaster theories obv, but her main inspo also comes from a tweet i saw like eons back that was essentially just: "mark my words the chapter 3 boss is gonna be like the history channel or smth". that always stuck with me, wanted to do smth with it!

Hero was based around a hyperfixation at the time, that being Murder Miners, this old xbox craft shooter my friend got me into. always loved those offbrand minecraft things, little me would be playing Survivalcraft and Eden all the time on my old busted ipad.

other ones aren't as clever or deep, like blanca being based off that berdly dialog, or peann and dexter just. being objects without much else lol

Outside of those, a lot of my characters are mishmashes of games and character's that've stuck with me through the years! for example, heres some sonas/dudes from a story/website thing im still workin on: mlmty

I didnt start with these character inspo templates, but they help organize how i wanna write em and whatnot fghjk

Sometimes the inspo will come from art as well, like my weird interdimensional private eye dude Ampersand here! He's directly inspired by a specific painting, which is next to him here

(Kazimir Malevich's Suprematism, 1916–17, Krasnodar Museum of Art)

A lotta the times though, I'll just end up doing a quick doodle and. by some cosmic force of the universe. will just end up sticking around??? like Jungo and Gren for example, they BOTH started off as dumb lil joke doodles

+old bonus progression thing

and now they're just actual dudes

basically, fuckton of varied inspo throughout the years

That, and also getting a lot of inspiration from my friends and what they do... that's the biggest inspo of all!

thats basically it??? dunno, was never too good at explaining this kinda stuff dfghjkl

[dorihey]

Today is the birthday of the late Ed Asner. Many are familiar with him as the voices of Carl Fredricksen from Up, Santa from Elf, and Hudson from Gargoyles, as well as Lou Grant from the Mary Tyler Moore Show and the aptly named, Lou Grant (series).

Back in the mid 2000's, my family and I were staying at a very large expensive house that belonged to friends of my parents as guests. They had a larger cable package than we did back at home, and they had ToonDisney. I remember seeing Gargoyles while staying there, on the "Hangin' with the Heroes" block in the evening. I remember seeing this show very vaguely as a younger kid, but I must not have been older than 6 or 7 or so given the original air dates.

I was totally enamored with these characters almost instantly. I hopped on their upscale internet, and immediately perused various Disney media sites at the time and started going down the rabbit hole with what little material the internet had back in like 2004 about the show. I learned about the cast, Greg Weisman's blog Station 8, and somehow convinced my parents to upgrade our cable so I could watch it. I even made a Neopets Fanpage about the show, and I have no idea if it's still around.

I don't have a lot of specific memories about Hudson being my favorite, or even having a particularly verbose knowledge of the show back them, but I DO remember becoming familiar and fond of Ed Asner, seeing a teaser for Up, learning he was in it, and that detail making it NECESSARY for me to watch it on release day.

I remember the evening before watching Up, and enjoying it, but I rewatched it with my mom a few days later. I am not sure what was different here, but I became OBSESSED. I joined a Pixar fan site, became a highly active member, and began absolutely marathoning this film. I also spent 5 hours one evening with a mechanical pencil, very little drawing skill, and drew this. (apologies, the picture is 14 years old and washed out)

To be clear, this was EXTREMELY out of nowhere. I had never drawn anything remotely this detailed before. So I (quite ignorantly, but still strongly) decided to change college majors and pursue art. Still workin' on that one...

Down the line, I ultimately watched Up in theaters 50 times, held movie nights for the fansite over Skype, made multiple forum signatures for myself and other members, and even got invited to Pixar, and met a lot of Pixar leadership (albeit briefly for most).

At the center of this though, Ed Asner was responsible for me gravitating to these characters. I've been pretty consistently enamored with his brand of wholesome curmudgeonry.

(I just made up that word, and I like it, so it's real now)

In any case, I've always felt a bit odd for having an attachment to an actor that hit his acting stride while being middle-aged in the 70s, 20 years before I was even alive - like I'm the only person my age that even knows this guy existed.

I had never gotten to meet Ed, but I did make an attempt shortly before he passed. It didn't work out, but his son Matt runs a charity organization called The Ed Asner Family Center that focuses on supporting individuals and families with autism and neurodivergence. I was fortunate enough to join an early screening of Dug Days before it released on Disney + thanks to a fundraiser by the center, including a Zoom Q&A with Ed. The thing I noticed during the call is that Ed was so immensely quick-witted, absolutely hilarious, and would not leave his piece unsaid. He had an astoundingly magnetic personality. It wasn't open mic, but I managed to get a question through - "What was it that got you into acting?"

Jonas Rivera, the Producer of Up was moderating the call and Ed about verbally trampled the guy by the time he was getting the last few words out, and he knew exactly what he wanted to say.

I don't have the exact words, but it boiled down to "escapism" - which was a bit shocking to me. You've got a former president of SAG, who'd been acting for longer than I have been a living person, and he was immediately compelled to tell everyone that the reason he got into showbusiness is to run from the world and its problems. It was remarkably humble.

Ed passed away exactly a week later. I couldn't eat for 2 days, I was so distraught.

I highly recommend that folks check out a lot of the acting Ed has done. He's absolutely brilliant, and one of the most fun people to watch. He was intimidatingly witty, and yet seemed like the guy who would talk to just about anyone. And then make them laugh their sides off.

I haven't shared my deep admiration for Ed too often other than with folks closest to me, but Ed Asner was a precious gem of a human being, and embodies a lot of things I think the world - particularly folks of the male persuasion - should have a bit more of.

Here's to you, Ed. Have a happy birthday up there for us, big guy. We love ya. <3

(side note, the portrait at the top, I drew to commemorate his first birthday after he passed in 2021. The picture at the bottom was drawn, but not adequately finished imo, about 2 weeks before he left us. I need to give it a proper redo someday)

[spotsupstuff]

No wonder he is always angry...

At least he has his family.

Does Sparrow knows? Do the others iterators know? Is there another city that does the same!??!

Also "venom of the lower circles"? What is happening there?

how very angry Boreas is is a testament of how much he has had to suffer, in both the lighter funnier ways as putting up with constant knowledge of everyone's life such as roadrage to darker ways such as actual torture, and how much self respect he has to recognize that he didn't deserve this. "just because we can heal does not mean it is alright for us to get hurt."

everybody knows about it! but it feels like it's always been like this, so it's okay. this is just how it is. it is just another fact of life. (yet both Zephyr and Orion still remember the first time Boreas has dragged himself online in their chats and how closed off he was- too hurt to interact with them normally)

there isn't anyone else with this kinda thing! the bigger the city the easier the empathy gets lost. and as we all know at this point, Boreas was blessed with being the biggest of them all

with the venom- i've laughed in the tags of that one big Boreas raging pic how it's funny that someone would rather put warning sign program into him rather than find a way to help him with his anger and as i've been working on him a bit more, i decided to take this idea a little further

he gets angry, the warnings pop up. he gets more angry, past what the Houses consider alright to allow him to feel, they "cool" him down by automatic injection of the paralyzing venom directly into the puppet. it hurts like a bitch and causes a very small Hivemind unsync, damages his puppet's internal organic systems (but "that is okay. he can heal." they say.) + sort of works like a sedative. nothing too severe that would affect the parts of his consciousness that controls the city, of course, can't be inconvenient to the citizens, but it pulls on his metaphoric reins like That

this was originally implemented because back when he still used to have Mechanics looking after him (those were from the Wellspring, too), he started being a little too... daring and disrespectful for their tastes. so it's his little "controlled shock FNaF: sister location" moment

it is no fun

after his facilities were deemed stable, he no longer had any Mechanics workin on him (an Admin and a Mechanic are two different roles, even though they r very similar). then he had only one Admin that sometimes checks in on his systems without directly interacting with him. the paralyzing doses were instead used when the Houses had to arrange things with him n he didn't want to comply for whatever reason and when the school became a thing, it was a way to ensure he doesn't actually hurt any of the students

because there is an exception in his taboos when it comes to laying harm upon certain kinds of Ancients instead of covering all of them. he is allowed to kill anyone who is considered an intruder And he is allowed to harm Iterator Mechanic students (not severely though) in order to rough up the to-be Mechanics. they have to be ready to deal with the absolute worse an Iterator can offer, Just In Case. this taboo gets a little bit more broken for the Mechanics' last test, which is looking after Boreas' systems for a few days

during this last test period, all of the students are guaranteed to be in the respawn cycle now. which means Boreas can wound them fatally if they provoke him enough (since that is a big No on what to do with ur Iterator charge as a Mechanic, the severe punishment would be warranted). the first meeting between the student n Boreas is monitored by the teachers- the student comes into his chamber to introduce themselves and lay out their plan of system check ups. if a student manages to severely anger/provoke Boreas Here already, the teachers will administer the venom n just send the kid home to retake the year or leave. if they can't handle the first meeting right, they are pretty much helpless. and for this helplessness Boreas has to suffer

the venom is advertised to come from willing lower circles (or levels), but it hardly is. while it is rarely extracted by force, it is usually gotten by financial manipulation of people who are well or as an abuse of unfortunate poor citizens/lower circles. if you give us this resource, we will compensate you, give you money, take it as part of your taxes. it's dehumanizing, but out of desperation the unfortunate souls give in

they do not know what their venom is then used for. they don't ask out of fear. and while Boreas is aware of this manipulation, he blames the unfortunate ones either way. the end result it that they've allowed him to hurt with those generous donations of theirs. he's too bitter, angry and hurt to give much of a shit. all of the Ancients are the same. all of them are a part of the problem

which is why the fuckin -ruffles hair- his and Sparrows' relationship gets me so hard

in his eyes, she's just as guilty as his Houses at the beginning. but she's strange, she gets bullied a lot, she's thrown away by everyone of these high city levels. she breaks one of his overseers- such expandable unimportant things to him- and she cries over the broken eye. and the most puzzling thing... during her last test, once she enters his chambers, she bows to him as she gives him a shortened version of her name- "just Three Sparrows, i know you don't want to waste your words on me"- she still flinches when he approaches to judge her, but she suppresses any other sign of distress that would warrant a venom administration. she offers to make him a deal. she offers to listen to what he's comfortable with her working on him. she says she won't force anything on him. it just makes no sense. cautiously, he accepts. he watches her like a hawk during her work, but she never breaks the promises she's made to him

this doesn't change his opinion on the Ancients. when later Sparrows changes Zephyr's, he's salty and still angry about it. they all should pay. this is just one individual. she is an anomaly. she is dangerous. with how sick his puppet feels from those doses at the end of each semester, there is no other way for her to be

and he holds on to that opinion until he witnesses that reconciliation between her and Euros after the 1st Rot situation. she could've been mean, she could've screamed, she could've hurt him. first two of those that he has done to Euros before the euthanization, even though he's already been made aware of his fault and the situation was considered in control (he's done it out of concern, his own fear and worry for the young thing, but still-). but no. Sparrows was better than him, then (she screamed at him at first becuase she had no idea how bad it could've been- maybe he was damned already n there was nothing she could've done to save him). she was kind and warm even after being lied to- betrayed- she gently whispered explanations, she leaned against him softly and allowed it when he leaned against her back.

an Ancient was a better person than him- the same venom held at bay in her fangs coursing through his bloodstream, remnants of yesterday's dose still ringing off- and he has no other choice but to see and recognize her for it

[usmsgutterson]

Achilles Heel - Givenson

one, two, three, four

ooooookay!! This is the third chapter of the achilles heel miniseries which also coincidentally is the last chapter I had fully prewritten before posting. This is also the last chapter with a whole shitload of angst--the epilogue/final chapter will have fluffier undertones in most of, if not all of the scenes because I love angst but closely followed by that is my love for fluff and domestic softness.

Warnings - the heart attack is b i g in this one in a lot of ways--a heart attack is triggered with a defibrillator on purpose and as such a heart attack is depicted and a few of the symptoms are described, there are mentions of guns and scenes with them as such (specifically, a scene where the harlan-ified version of russian roulette is played), dementia and things to that effect are mentioned once (maybe twice--it's mentioned in the context of tims mother) slow, methodical torture designed to break a person is mentioned but not depicted, stockholm syndrome is described but not mentioned by name, there's at least a few mentions of tims time in the military! I've edited this three times so I don't think there are any mistakes but I'm only human so if there are, please tell me and I'll fix that

The first thing that Tim notices when he wakes is the pounding headache that sets in. The second is the fact that his wrists and ankles are bound to a goddamned radiator. Much to Tims luck and chagrin simultaneously, it’s not a working radiator.  

He does his best to take inventory, despite the fact that the room he’s in is small and so dark that it’s incredibly difficult to see much of anything. He can’t see more than maybe a foot or two ahead of himself, and that prompts the anxiety.  

It starts in his stomach, just like it always does. He doesn’t try to fight it, doesn’t really have the strength.  

“Tim Gutterson,” that voice is another one that Tim could recognize anywhere, but for an entirely different set of reasons. That voice is so distinctive it hurts, so plainly and obviously belonging to Boyd Crowder that it almost kind of stings. “Been a while, has it not?”  

“Eleven years,” Tim shrugs, tugs gently at his bindings in some small effort to see if he can tell which type of rope Boyd had used to restrain him. “Four thousand days and a bit of change, maybe. Feels like it's been longer to me but I suspect that ain't shit compared to how long it's felt for you, given that most of those four thousand days were spent rottin' away in maximum security."

The stuff that Boyd restrained him with feels too much like some thicker version of para cord for it to be a coincidence. Tim lets his fingers feel for the knot that keeps his wrists tied at the centre and finds that it’s sort of loose, too—Boyd, as good as he might be with his words, is absolute dogshit with knots. It’s not much consolation considering Tim doesn’t have experience with them, either, but he’ll find a way to make it work in his advantage when Boyd isn’t looking.  

"You're right," Boyd says. "You have got no clue how long eleven years can feel for a man until you spend those eleven years locked up in a goddamn six by nine foot cell."

"I know you organized crime types never expect to get caught, but we always catch you," Tim shrugs, rolls his neck and doesn't grimace when he hears it crack.

“You wanna know why I brought you here, Tim?”  

“Not particularly,” Tim shrugs again, tugs at his restraints once more because he has never really liked the feeling of rope against his wrists or ankles, let alone fuckin’ para cord. “I’d rather you just kill me and get this whole ordeal over with, I think.”  

“You’re still workin’ with the marshals,” says Boyd, phrasing it more like a statement than a question. Tim fights the growing frustration he feels at the fact that Boyd has yet to come out and face him but quells it, briefly, with the thought of Raylan Givens aiming a gun at Boyds forehead.  

“Yep,” Tim says, gritting his teeth as he tugs harsher at the restraints in an effort to get himself off of the radiator, at a minimum. “You hear about Raylans bein’ back in town yet? I thought you woulda, considerin’.”  

“I’ve heard a lot about that,” Boyd says.  “Didn’t really believe it for a long while, but you’ll forgive me for that. More’n a decade spent in captivity has, to say the least of it, made a whole lotta shit harder to believe than not these days. Harlan ain’t like it used to be in my heyday—some old veterans bought Johnnys bar, gave it a new name and a new status.” 

“You abducted me from there,” Tim nods. “I know damn well what Kingstons is.”  

“I hear right?” Boyd asks. Tim tries to use the shit he hasn’t used since he was a ranger—tries to focus his eyes on something, anything in the room to start sharpening his senses to no avail because the room is so dark that there’s nothing to focus on within his line of sight. “What’s this business about you havin’ a heart attack? One of my boys who was stakin’ the place out said Raylan was on the phone after I’d gotten you away, said he was talkin’ up a big scare about me doin’ something to trigger another?”  

Tim grunts as he tries to pull on his restraints again and nothing comes of it.  

“Answer the question, Tim.”  

“My health is of absolutely none of your concern if your aim is to torture and then eventually kill me,” Tim says, tugging his restraints harsher than the previous times. It still yields nothing, much to his chagrin. “Actually, you know what? I’ll bite. My condition before I do is that you need to turn on a goddamned light in here. I can’t see for shit, and I ain’t supposed to need glasses for another five years, at least.”  

“Oh yeah? Did your daddy not need glasses til he was fifty? Is that how you know?”  

“My daddy has been dead damn near thirty years,” Tim snaps. “Twenty-seven and some change, if you’re wantin’ to be pedantic about it.” 

“Your mommas still kickin’, though,” Boyd says. Tim, knowing that his mother is an unnecessarily painful kind of sore spot, says nothing. Boyd turns the light on and his surroundings come to life.  

He’s restrained and tucked against the radiator in the corner of the barn, and there’s not much else to boot—it's a barn, albeit a fairly small one. There's a back door somewhere off to his left, the floor is primarily dirt and hay, and there’s one, singular window near the ceiling that displays a sky that shows off nightfall.

“Your momma ain’t shuffled off this mortal coil quite yet,” Boyd sits down across from him. “To my own understandin’, shes at—uh, what is it? Springhill, I think—Springhill Long Term Care in Corydon, about ninety miles out from the town you grew up in.”  

“Don’t you dare,” the idea of his mothers life being threatened while she’s in the state she’s in? It scares him almost as much as he’d been scared upon waking up from the heart attack. “She has no part in this, Boyd. Shit—she's an eighty year old woman. I know you well enough to know not to expect much but ain’t no way in Christs name you’d kill someone who’s otherwise the very definition of defenceless.”  

“You don’t know me,” Boyd says it so simplistically that it almost hurts him. “You make one wrong move and I’ll call the order in, do I make myself clear, Timothy?”  

“First off, it’s Tim,” Tim snaps. “Not Timothy unless you’re my mother or one of the few coworkers I work with that doesn’t look at me like I’m broken. Secondly, yes. As crystal, now tell me what the fuck you want with me so we can move this along.”  

Boyd has seen better days, to say the least of it. His hair is calmer than Tim remembers, still the same shade of borderline jet black with a bit of gray finally starting to poke through at the sides of his head. His skin is weathered not by the sun but by age, and the way that he smiles is far, far more wicked than Tim can remember it last being. 

The prison system has clearly changed him, and not for the better.  

“Tell me about your heart attack.”  

“This ain’t a therapy session,” Tim rebuts. “No. Anything you want info on, I’ll give it to you, but not that.”  

“Why?” Boyd asks. “Is it because you were weak, Tim? Havin’ a heart attack make you weaker than you were beforehand?”  

Not because he was weak, but because he was stupid. Being stupid like that--drinking to fall asleep and then making the decision to keep going til he could despite knowing he had a stakeout with Rachel the following morning was a level of stupidity that Tim could ill afford. It would've costed him his job had Rachel been anyone else and realistically, he knows that it should've.

For some reason, though, it didn't, and Tim has the mind to be grateful for that even if he doesn't have the mind to be grateful for much else.

“That is absolutely none of your goddamn concern,” Tim grits his teeth. “Ask me anything else. Anything at all, and I’ll be as truthful as I can get, but just—not this. Stop asking me questions about this in particular.”  

“Why do I get the sneaking suspicion you didn’t call Raylan the second you woke up? And why do I more so get the feelin’ that you wanted to?”  

Tim swallows thickly, and Boyds smile widens.  

“Ah,” Boyd sucks a breath in through his teeth. “I’ve been told I’m still good at that, y’know--touchin’ nerves nobody wants anybody else near. You didn’t call him. Why not?” 

“He wouldn’t’ve come,” Tim shrugs. “That simple. I didn’t want to waste my breath or ask Rachel to waste hers. Are you done yet?”  

“Once Raylan comes’a runnin’, I’ll let you to your own devices, Timothy, I promise,” Boyd says. Tim presses his back against the radiator, wills a fuse to blow that somehow sets his back on fire and kills him before help can come around. “Until then, though, for a minimum of twelve hours outta the day, you and I are gonna get real close, and you’re goin’ to get real familiar with the feelin' of a gun against your forehead."

Tim swallows thickly, tugs at the para cord binding him to the radiator once again in another stupid, feeble little effort at some small little piece of freedom.  

“Untie me,” Tim says.  

“Once you learn how to behave, I’ll let you free,” Boyd says, his tone so final that it almost makes Tim shiver. The tone he uses feels a little too reminiscent of the ways in which his father used to talk, and that makes the resentment he’s got towards Boyd bubble up until it almost can’t be shoved down anymore. “I don’t want promises, Timothy. I want actionable evidence that you ain’t gonna try to run away. Loyal as a damn german shepherd you might be, but you’re goin’ to have to learn by whom your loyalty is most valued, me or your friends with the marshals service.”  

The abduction is already grounds for the Marshals service to go nuclear, and Tim knows Rachel and Raylan are likely already well past that point. A marshals death, though? If Boyd gets Tim killed, he’s liable to be either put to death by a judge or by a gunshot to the head from a marshal who has been appointed judge, jury, and executioner.  

“You’re not gonna be gettin’ outta this alive, you realize?” Tim smiles gently, at first, but when Boyds wicked grin grows more wicked still, he lets his smile turn into a snarl. “This is just about the stupidest damn thing you could’ve done. I just hope for your own sake it ain’t Raylan Rachel sends down here. You know he’d chase you mile after mile just to be the one to put a bullet in your head regardless of the circumstance, but if you kill me, he’s liable to make it slow.”  

“What makes you think as much?”  

“I might be loyal as a dog,” Tim shrugs. “I’ve always been loyal to a fault, but I’m loyal to the right people. Raylan Givens is among those people, and despite the fact that I didn’t waste my breath in calling him when he was in motherfuckin’ Miami and I was in Kentucky recoverin’ from a heart attack, does not mean he wouldn’t go to bat for me in half a damn second.”  

He almost doesn’t like the way the words taste in his mouth, but if there is to be only one thing in his life about which he was ever confident, it has to be his and Raylans weird but timeless and unfaltering loyalty to each other. It comes from six years of working together on a pretty consistent basis, going out to grab a drink on days where they were swamped with enough paperwork to make even the most efficent person in their office want to shoot themself in the foot, and it’s a sense of camaraderie that Tim hasn’t had since his military days but cherishes for that exact reason, romance aspect of his and Raylans relationship completely aside.  

Boyd doesn’t do or say anything for a long while. He just sits and stares at Tim, his grin eventually dropping to a mournful kind of expression, and after a while, he gets himself back to standing.  

“It’s a damn shame. I really thought I’d grow to like you,” Boyd says. He turns off the light, once again plunging Tim into an infuriating kind of darkness. “Goodnight, Timothy.”  

Tim doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have anything to say. He only listens to Boyds steps between him and the door, counts twenty-eight in total.  

- 

The next morning, Tim wakes up as his body clock wills—6:30, just like he has for more than two decades. He feels for the knots in between his wrists, tries to tug them apart but only tugs them in tighter. He hates it for himself, and trying to use his feet to push against the radiator does nothing but dent it just slightly.  

An hour of nothingness passes, and Tim has a moment where he thinks thats Boyds method—leave Tim to rot away in his head for an hour or two every morning til he finally breaks and will do anything for some kind of stimulation.

At eight thirty, Boyd walks in. Twenty-eight steps between the entrance and Tims body, and the light is turned on. A digital clock is balanced, rather precariously, on a shelf just about two feet above Tims eyeline and he has to angle his head to look at it, but it’s there and it’s a way to keep him from going insane, so for all of two seconds he cherishes it.  

“Figured I’d do somethin’ nice,” Boyd says. “You wanna hear about your momma? You ain’t been around to visit her in a few years even though she gave you the damn house. Maybe you wanna hear about your sister instead, Lisa. Or your brother—Keith, is it?”  

Tim runs his tongue over his lips, straightens his shoulders as he watches Boyd pull a revolver out from behind his back in true hillbilly style.  

“You touch them, and I don’t give a damn who gave the order,” Tim says. “Or who it was given to. I will hunt you down my-fuckin'-self, and I will kill you with my bare hands.”  

“You’d be better at it with a gun,” Boyd says. Tim knows that all of this is payback for the fact that he’d touched a nerve the night before by bringing up Raylan and the loyalty and all of that shit, but Tim doesn’t care. He wants to hurt Boyd just as much as Boyd wants to hurt him and he doesn’t give a shit if that’s what Boyd wants outta their exchanges.  

“Marshals are out lookin’ for you,” Boyd says, his voice chipper. “Quicker than I thought they’d be, honestly. Which person in the office are you sleepin’ with? I know it ain’t Raylan because there’s no way you’d do that again.”  

“What makes you think I did that at all?”  

“I have sources,” Boyd says. Tim groans. That means that the marshals have a mole, be it on purpose or accidental. “You did it twice. Ain’t no way you’d do it a third time, even though I can bet you wanna. I don’t blame you for that, neither—Raylans a looker even in his old age.”  

“You’re a year older than he is,” Tim responds. “If that, and—he’s not exactly in his prime anymore but you were gone from yours even back when you ran around Harlan County like you owned the joint.”  

It’s a middle-grade level insult, but Tim doesn’t care because it bruises Boyds ego and anything that’ll do that is good enough for him.  

He watches Boyd fuck around with the revolver for a minute, putting a singular bullet into the chamber before he slams the chamber back into the gun. He realizes what the game is right away and doesn’t even so much as flinch.  

“How long did you serve?” Tim asks. “Raylan told me once that you were in the military for a bit but he didn’t specify.”  

“I did two years, one tour,” Boyd says. “Why’re you askin’?”  

“I was in the shit for a fuckin’ decade. Russian Roulette don’t scare me for shit 'n neither do you.”  

“This ain’t Russian roulette, son,” Boyd says. “This is Harlan roulette, and we’re goin’ to play til either I get bored or you lose.”  

He cocks the gun, points it directly at Tim. Tim, for a long few seconds, does nothing. He waits for something to rise within him—some primal sense of fear or anxiety or whatever feelings are meant to come up from seeing ones life flash before their eyes, but nothing rises to meet that expectation.  

Instead of staying like that—completely still and motionless and waiting, Tim locks his eyes with Boyds and presses his forehead against the gun, completely unafraid of whatever comes next.   

“You did one tour,” Tim says. “I did three with infantry, twelve with the rangers prior to joinin’ the snipers and then three more after the fact, and I’ve spent the last seventeen years since I came home workin’ for law enforcement and chasin’ assholes just like you, Boyd. I’ve seen worse than death. Roulette, Russian, Harlan, or otherwise, don’t scare me for shit.”  

Boyd smirks. He pulls the trigger and Tim doesn’t flinch as the sound of a blank going off hits his ears.  

“Why’d you take me?” Tim asks. “Of all people—why me, really?”  

“You’re the one tie I’ve got to Raylan,” Boyd responds.  

“That is bullshit,” Tim says. “I know you’re privy to the existence of Raylans ex and child, both of whom he'd do anything for in a heartbeat."

“You’re the only tie that matters,” Boyd says. “Because his family is as they are, but you, Tim, are the one weakness he has that nobody else knows about. His ex and his child might be his Achilles heel, but the ex I’m referencin’ ain’t Winona. You, Timothy Gutterson, are one of Raylan Givens’ two weaknesses and as willin’ as I may find myself to threaten your elderly mother, I am not so cruel as to threaten a child.”  

“Didn’t know serial killers such as yourself could have morals.” He ignores Boyds statements otherwise—he is not Raylan Givens’ Achilles heel. There is no fucking way that such is the case eleven years gone from when they last saw or spoke to each other. 

“I ain’t a serial killer.”  

“You’ve killed at least three people,” Tim says. “You’re a serial killer.”  

Boyd laughs, pulls the trigger once, twice, three times.  

“Next ones the bullet,” Boyd says. “Pissin’ me off ain’t your best idea right now, Tim, so if I were you, I’d take the time to think and then quit while I was ahead.”  

“You’re not going to kill me.”  

“What makes you say that?”  

“Because the minute you kill me you lose any amount of leverage you’ve got,” Tim says. “It’d be different if you’d taken me and Winona, or maybe even me and Rachel, but—you didn't, and that's your mistake. You can torture me as much as you want. You can leave me severely hurt or even halfway into my own goddamned grave, but if you kill me you lose the only leverage that makes you worth even a damn second of Raylans time. I know you’re still smart, at least, and I know that you know killin’ me is your golden ticket to Raylan Givens not givin’ a damn, no matter how much you like pretendin’ otherwise.”  

“Say I did kill you,” Boyd says, lowering the gun. “You don’t think he’d avenge you?”  

"Nope. I think Rachel would let him go as far as the law would allow but I doubt the law would allow him to go as far as he’d wanna,” Tim says. “And--he’s got a bit less than a year to his retirement, but Raylans smart. Torturin’ you would eventually mean he had to be arrested and he’s not gonna do anythin’ that’d land himself in a prison cell, no matter how much you tortured me before you shot me in the head or did me in some other way.”  

Boyd grins. “I’m gonna have a lot of fun with you,” he says. “Yeah. A lot.”  

“What makes you say that?”  

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, Timothy,” Boyd rebuts. “Fixin’ that will be my pleasure, I think.” 

There’s a few minutes of silence. Tim stares at the ground in front of him and refuses to let his eyes flicker to the clock. For a second he wonders how close the Marshals are to finding him before he squashes that thought and refuses to dwell on it.  

He doesn’t flinch when he feels Boyds fingers on the underside of his chin, doesn’t react when Boyd forces his head up and his eyes naturally follow. He doesn’t flinch when his gaze meets Boyds and doesn’t even let his lips twitch when Boyds mouth pulls back into a smirk.  

“You, Tim Gutterson, are at my whim and will,” Boyd says. “Know your damn place.”  

His thumb brushes against Tims chin, closer to his lips than not. Tim thinks, for a minute, to open his mouth and bite down on Boyds thumb as hard as he can, but the logical part of his brain knows that'll make Boyd harder to deal with in the long run so he abstains.

“Do your worst,” Tim snarls instead.

- 

One week whizzes past, then two. As the days crawl on, the torture escalates into something awful, something designed by Boyd to hurt Tim in a way that’s supposed to work in a slow, methodical fashion. Every time he thinks about it, he feels mildly surprised that an escaped convict has the patience for methodical at all, even if said escaped convict is Boyd fuckin’ Crowder.  

“What’s the date?” He asks Boyd when he waltzes in at half past nine. Boyd is dressed, per usual, to some rendition of the nines—he wears a white button down, a black vest, black jeans and a black blazer. His hair is back to the spiky mess that it once was and he looks so blatantly like himself that it almost kind of stings. Tim hasn’t felt like himself in ages, and that stings worse even still.  

“November 1st,” says Boyd, coming into the barn and sitting across from him. It becomes clear to Tim that he intends to converse instead of torture on this day, and for that, Tim feels an odd kind of grateful that can only really be felt after two weeks spent in captivity with Boyd as his only company as well as the man behind his abduction and torture. “Why’d you ask?”  

Tim shrugs, says nothing. He doesn’t tell Boyd that the days are blending together or that he’s lost hope entire for his rescue because those are things that Boyd wants to hear and Tim, as broken as he’s close to being, is not so broken as to be completely incapable of resistance. He’s not as capable as he used to be but he’s capable still, and he holds onto that crumb like he’ll die if he lets it go because he knows that death for him is Boyds eventual endgame anyway, and Tim is not going to go down without a fight.  

“You know, your marshal friends are way closer to us than I ever thought they’d get,” Boyd says. “I saw Raylan down in these woods just last night, almost killed him on the spot because I thought he’d seen me. Had he, I don’t really think I’d’ve killed him, in retrospect. I think I’d have more fun bringin’ him down here to force him to watch you die instead, then I’d release him back to his marshal friends up in Lexington so that he could tell them about their fallen comrade and by the time they came down here, I’d be gone and the only thing left here would be your corpse.”  

Tim heaves in a sigh, fails to fight off the flicker of hope that settles in his chest as the mention of Raylans name. Boyd has, at least, loosened the restraints enough to let Tim move when his muscles cramp, but Tim refuses to do even that, another feeble little effort at resistance that he cherishes where he can afford to practice it.  

“Yeah? Why not just get it over with now?” Tim asks, pressing his back against the radiator to which he has been bound for two fuckin’ weeks too long. “I know you wanna. You’ve spent the last two weeks fightin’ the urge to kill me, Boyd. Just give in.”  

“My buddy, Hunter, looked into the cause behind your heart attack recently,” Boyd says. “You had a heart attack—and a seizure, mind you—because you had a bit too much booze. Hospital reports say you specified the exact amount, actually. Three bottles of bourbon, a six pack of beer and an entire bottle of peach wine. He also said your blood alcohol was .38.”  

Tim swallows thickly. The heart attack is Boyds nerve of choice, and he’s spent the last two weeks exploiting it to get Tim riled up enough to justify holding him in the tightest binds he could get away with before deciding to let them be loose when Tims muscles cramped up. Tim has, in turn, spent the last two weeks refusing to let that part of his history be exploited.  

“What are you sayin’?”  

“Well, Timothy,” Boyd says. “What I’m sayin’ is that you’re not goin’ to live past today if I have my way with things. I am not so cruel a man as to hold you at gunpoint and force you to drink, but I will do whatever it takes to ensure you don't make it out alive today, even if it means Raylan hunts me to the ends of the goddamned earth. My first line of thought with that was to find and exploit a way to trigger a heart attack."

Tim, for the first time since Boyd took him hostage, feels well and true white hot fear surge through him. It starts in his stomach, builds from there and goes right to his chest.  

“No,” he says, his tone a little urgent. “I’ve been compliant, if a little mouthy these past two weeks, Boyd. Raylan and the others haven’t found us yet, and you know good and well that I am the only bargaining chip you’ve got. You kill me you guarantee your own death, be it by Raylans hand or Rachels, but there is no goddamned way they let you live long enough to see trial.” 

“I don’t give a damn about any of this anymore, Timothy,” Boyd says. “They’ll find you here in a week or two, tops. Your corpse will be rotting away and the stench will probably be waftin’ down the river, and I’ll be in the wind again. I’m smart enough as to get away with it, and I know Raylans gonna say he'll chase me as far as we both think, but there ain't no way he's actually gonna.”  

“You kill me and he will,” Tim says. “If not him, Rachel.”  

“You might be right,” Boyd shrugs. “I don’t care about that—no matter how much they seek, they shall never find, and officially speakin' your COD will be a heart attack. That's the goal--to trigger a second one that you can't make it out of. I were you, I'd be grateful I made it out of the first one with a workin' heart, if a damaged one, and still with my damn job, considerin' it was your boss who found you."

Tim shudders a breath in, tries to fight his anxiety.  

"I've done--I've done everything right," apart, of course, from the cigarettes, but who gives a damn about those in the long run anyway? "Please, Boyd. Don't fuck this up. Don't make Rachel mourn me because I died of a damn heart attack after she managed to save me from the first. She'll carry that guilt with her for ages and I can barely stand the thought of that."

"Try and get some rest," Boyd says calmly. "I promise, I'll do the nice thing and try to make it quick."

Tim swallows thickly, breathes out and tries to fight the shakes as they rear up in his shoulders.  

All he has left to do is wait.  

It kills him long, long before his half-faulty heart ever gets the chance.  

- 

That night, Tim does manage to get a bit of rest, surprisingly, but he's woken up when he feels a defibrillator against his chest. He blanks through the rest of it, goes to a happy memory from when he was a kid as the defibrillator gets going.

When he hears the sirens, the first emotion he registers on his roster is relief. The second is mild anxiety as chest pain rears up and Boyd, in a precise but still scattered sort of panic, drops the defibrillator and stares, wide eyed, at the door.

“Boyd fuckin’ Crowder, you have three goddamned seconds to get your ass out here before I force my way in!” Rachels voice is booming, her anger evident in just her tone, and it’s enough to make Boyd cower slightly.  

Tim grins a little despite himself.  

"I told you so," he says, his tone emanating a sort of cockiness that he's surprised he's able to muster.

“Boyd!” Rachel screams. “Get your ass out here!”  

Tim feels hope flicker in his chest as he suddenly grows cold, and he watches Boyd exit through the back door to his left. He checks the time—5:30 AM. November 2nd.  

Rachel rushes in and when she sees Tim, she falters. “Damn it,” she curses under her breath as she kneels to get to his level, body still tucked against the radiator. “Damn it, Tim!”  

“Boyd Crowder is still a fuckin' asshole after ten years in lock up,” Tim warbles. “Have you called a medic?”  

“No,” Rachel says. “Bet I need to though, don’t I?”  

“My chest is real tight, I’m exhausted and nauseous and I bet money I’m gonna be breakin’ into a cold sweat any second now, so yeah,” Tim nods. “Medic would be wise. Wheres Raylan?”  

“Went around the back with Stevens so that they could chase Boyd on foot if he went out a back door, which the open door to your left indicates he did,” Rachel gets Tim out of his restraints. “You--you—shit, Tim. Not again.”  

“Least I’m fuckin’ awake this time, and not seizing,” Tim laughs a little.  

“Dunlop, get the medics down here right fuckin’ now or I will shoot you on fuckin’ site!” Rachel shouts. She gets Tim to lie down on the floor and Tim sighs.  

“I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”  

“It’s lookin’ more likely than not,” Rachel says, ever one to be honest. Tim didn't like that much at first but in the sixteen years since he joined the Marshals, it's gradually become one of his favourite things about her. “But I ain't losin' you again, Tim. I’ll carry you to that damn ambulance if I need to—Nelson! Medic! Now!”  

The pain radiates down his arms and up through his neck, and Tim laughs. “Thank you for keepin’ it straight,” he says. “Boyd--Boyd said I was—ugh—Raylans Achilles heel. I really don’t want him to be right about that. If he grieves me too long, promise you’ll fly out to Miami to punch him in square in his stupid handsome face?”  

“Yeah,” Rachel nods. “Not before I kill Nelson, though.”  

Tim laughs again. “Yeah,” he says. “Surprised he’s lasted this long in the service—he seems the mall cop type, I think. Nothin’ near actual law enforcement.”  

“My jaw hurts,” Tim add as the pain radiates through it. “This is gonna kill me, Rachel. It’s gonna kill me.”  

“No,” Rachel says. “It’s not. It’s--it’s--no. Not on my fucking watch. You die on me, Timothy, and I’ll bring you back from the dead just to kill you myself.”

“First you said it was lookin’ like I was gonna die and now you’re tellin’ me I’m not allowed?” Tim asks, laughing through the words. “Pick a side, please. I survived one heart attack, the other ones gotta be the one to do me in.”  

“Marino!” Rachel shouts.  

It’s the last thing Tim hears before he passes out, and the last thing he sees is the panicked look on Rachels face as the world goes dark.  

[bronzesushi]

As seen on my introduction, I’m workin HB on a fnaf AU fic that takes place during fnaf 6. I’d just like to give a couple details

-in my au, William used to look a lot like silver eyes William, but when he started getting jealous of Henry and stuff (around 1984) he started browning his hair out and even purposely gave himself vision issues to get glasses. Henry had no idea for some reason. (The William I’ve been mainly drawing is 1984 William)

-After fnaf 3/fazbears fright burning down, CC moved to haunt Michael while Cassidy went on to torment William/keep him alive and in as much pain as possible

-Michael wears the same tie purple tie with yellow rabbits on it William used to. He also drives the same purple car. Cars are expensive as hell and I feel like a little part of him would want to keep at least some part of his father

-Mrs Afton isn’t really a character here, might get mentioned a few times but won’t show up

-CC has a name, people just don’t remember it. William will call him various things other than his correct name, Elizabeth was too young to know and no one told her, Michael repressed what happened and ended up forgetting his name, Henry forgot William even had a second son, Charlie is dead and has memory issues, same with the rest of the Mci. Cassidy has nicknames for him though.

Ages in 1983:

Michael: 15

CC: 10

Elizabeth: 5

Charlie: 8

William: 37

Henry: 35

-there is a Sammy, but his mom took him in the divorce and Henry rarely ever gets to see him so he’s not mentioned much. I like to think he’s phone dude, but I doubt many of the Fazbears fright employees will be mentioned a lot

-Henry hates people/kids now, it’s been years and he’s like technically 70 something now.

-Henry and William use illusion discs, Henry uses them to hide his age/appearance while William uses them to conceal his true self and stuff

-henry has been springlocked before, but just while putting on the suit so it’s only on his left arm. He’s very ashamed of that fact because he feels like it ties him closer to William.

-Henry is technically dead and possesses a robot in the building (I totally know which one and am not just trying to find an excuse for Henry to be 75 and still doing stuff)

-William got springlocked in 1982 while testing some other suits. All he had on was the torso, arms, and hands. He ran into a table when putting on the hands

Fic is called The Man In The Mask on AO3!

[hazbmymhotel]

Uhoh

I wrote

Chapter TWO(2)

Needs some lore.

Chapter 2) Always Putting Out Fires

There was no way Angel had been asleep for more than an hour before he heard it. “Ugh.” His phone was buzzing beneath his pillow. He swatted at it, hearing a snort. The whole bed bowed suddenly with a shift of movement.

“Fat Nuggets, quit fuckin jumpin–” Angel sat up and stared at Husk. His pupils were blown, and his tail swatted back and forth. He looked up, just as surprised as Angel.

Husk opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. His paws were clasped together over Angel’s phone like a prize.

Angel took a moment to process before asking, “Did ya kill it?”

Husk’s ears flattened and he lifted his paws away. “I wasn't…I just…I'm tryna turn the damn thing off.” Blush was apparent through the thin fur on his nose.

“Decline the call, Whiskers,” Angel wheezed. He covered his mouth, trying to contain himself. Oh, Satan, that was so cute. “It's probably…it's probably just Valentino.”

Husk wrinkled his nose. He swiped decline, and settled back into a sitting position. His tail flicked back and forth.

“I bet he just wants to know what happened,” Angel sucked his teeth. He looked at Husk, who looked perturbed. Angel watched him, studying the features on his face.

“I don't get it either, Angel,” Husker admitted. He laid back into a pillow, looking worn. “I don't get how I…” he looked at his own hands.

“Listen, Husk, I've been in hell almost eighty years,” Angel started, but he cut off as his phone rang again. “Fucker.” He shut it off on the third ring. “The fuck’s he gonna do?” He felt emboldened by his actions.

Husk sucked his teeth for a moment. Nothing seemed real about the situation…save for the aching in his eye. He touched his own cheek pensively, almost jumping back when Angel placed his own hand on top of it.

“Listen…it's fine.” Angel Dust assured him. “Bein’ a spider is workin’ in my favor for once.”

“Nothing you're sayin’ is making any sense,” Husk complained.

“How about I stop talkin’ a minute then.” Angel crawled closer, daring to lean over Husk. He looked at the newly mismatched eyes on the cat’s face, fascinated by how different they looked now. 

“Am I gettin’ you all flustered, Babycakes?” Angel whispered, enjoying how all four of Husk’s pupils dilated.

Husk reached up, daring to cup Angel’s cheek. “I thought you were done talking.”

Angel laughed softly, closing the gap between them in a kiss. He pressed against Husk's smaller frame, sighing when strong paws grabbed his waist. Every touch felt electric, like it was somethin’ brand new. Angel’s fingers buried into dark fur, each one finding its own purchase on Husk's body.

“Aren't you still tired?” Husk whispered, his voice low and raspy. It made Angel’s head spin.

“Not enough to care,” Angel said, letting out a pitiful sound as Husk nibbled his neck. “You don't gotta be so soft with me-Oh!” He found himself pushed into the silky pillows, now staring up into Husk's eyes.

Husk looked at him in a way that made his insides burn. The cat assured him, “I'm still going to be.” He brought two of Angel’s hands to his lips, kissing each finger gently. Husk closed his eyes, ears swiveling to listen as Angel whined and gasped.

“No, you're drivin’ me insane, no,” Angel pleaded. “How the fuck could this be this hot? You ain't even usin’ your tongue-EEEH” He devolved into giggles as Husk's rough tongue dipped between his knuckles.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Husker and Angel Dust paused. For a moment, neither of them moved.

“Get the Fuck up, Angel Dust! We've got a problem,” Vaggie said, her tone firm.

It was then that Angel could hear a ruckus downstairs. “Ugh, that prick,” he grumbled. “Coming! Don't let him touch anythin'!”

Husk was standing in moments. He frowned, hands on his hips.

“What? You ain't gotta go down naked. Meet me.” Angel swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood. He went to grab his robe, but realized it was still crusted in Husk’s blood. “Well, guess I'm gonna look Mafioso today, baby,” he said, resigned.

“He can wait,” Husk said. “I'll handle it.”

“You ain't fightin’ my fuckin’ battles for me, Babycakes,” Angel said firmly.

“Then what the fuck was last night?” Husk raised his voice.

“That. Was different. That was Me fightin’ Your battles. Big difference.” Angel opted to ignore Husk's offended huff. “I brought ya into this when I made you make a pact with me.” He tied his robe in a determined fashion.

Husk scrambled through Angel’s dresser, pulling on an oversized shirt. It hung on him like a dress, and Angel had to take another moment to compose himself as he grabbed his gun.

“I’m older than you,” Husk continued in a protest that made Angel weak, “and I'll fuckin' handle it. With you.”

“Sure, Baby, whatever you wanna do for Mommy that makes you feel better,” Angel crooned. He opened the door, not realizing how his words nearly made Husk crumple.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” Husk muttered as he followed after him. He folded his wings firmly into his own back, trying not to die of embarrassment.

“What the fuck do ya want, Val?!” Angel shouted, hearing the moth yelling before he saw him.

Valentino turned on a dime, four fists clenched at his side. “You little Bitch, Angel Dust, what the fuck do you think I want?!”

“Damn, honey, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you seemed mad.” Angel leveled his gun, holding it steady with extra hands.

“No! Nonononono,” Charlie said quickly. “Not after last night!” She pushed her hands in front of the muzzle, only for Vaggie to aggressively yank her back.

Vaggie started to scold her, sputtering in frustration. “Charlie that's a fucking gun!” She grit her teeth. “And that's Valentino. Are you trying to start a goddamn war?!”

“Maybe,” Angel said, looking away from his target. “It'd be easier than having to explain myself.”

“No!” Charlie said again, taking the tone of a parent. She even dared to wag her finger at him.

“Y'know…I'm gettin' tired of havin’ to watch all these kiddos,” Angel said. “Why shouldn't I shoot him, exactly?”

“It's against your contract!” Valentino said with confident bravado.

Angel laughed and readied his stance. “I already handled that.”

“You fucking cannot handle that,” Val stamped his foot. “That is not how a deal works!!!”

The lights flickered. “A deal?” Alastor's voice cracked more than usual as he entered the room. “You should know better,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh, Alastor, your bandages,” Charlie soothed, hurrying to his side. “I should change them.” But Alastor held up his hand.

“What…” Val looked at him, “in the seven hells has happened to you? Is this still the result of your battle with Adam?”

“My dear! Gracious, no. I've had an encounter with a new, up and coming overlord!!” Alastor’s half ear twitched. It matched Valentino’s antenna. How unfortunate.

“I'd be more cautious, if I were you.”

Val narrowed his eyes. He looked among the group, as if trying to determine. “Charlie?” He asked, eliciting a scrumptious and raspy laugh from the Radio Demon.

“No, you ignorant insect.” Alastor said, “the Spider.”

Angel lowered his gun slightly, looking over his shoulder. “I ain't no..” he looked at Husk, standing behind him and ready to fight, and changed his mind.

Readying his gun again, Angel agreed, “you'd better fuckin' believe it. I've been lettin’ you get away with your shit for too long. Finally decided I'm bored of it. I'm ready to spill some blood, Baby.” He readied his finger on the trigger, “so am I gonna send a message to the Vees via your body in a bag, or are you gonna go of your own volition.”

“I…” Val seemed to be chewing on his words.

“That means of your own free will, jackass.” Husk provided.

Val straightened up and puffed his chest. “I know what that means, you little snack.” He huffed and took a drag of his cigarette before turning to leave.

Pausing at the door, Val asked over his shoulder. “Angel Dust.”

“What, you piece of shit?”

Val’s voice changed, curiosity sincere in his tone, “How did you do it?”

Angel fired a shot, pleased when it was close enough to make his antenna sway.

With a sneer, Val walked off, slamming the door behind him.

The air hung heavy. There was one question clinging to everyone's mind. Finally, Alastor asked,

“Husker. What the Fuck are you wearing?”

[serpentsurgency]

💭 Dogwood for DJ :3c

You slowly walk past a group of about five people sitting awkwardly at a beaten up plastic foldout table in the trailer, each pair of eyes following you as you slowly make your way to the similarly dinged up coffee maker.

You take your time to fish out a mug, wiping a little dust from it before pouring yourself some coffee from the pot before starting to make your way over. You grimace as you take a sip, smacking your lips slightly at the grainy texture of the drink and setting it down before grabbing the nearest chair and pulling it up to the table, the group still watching you closely.

It's a power move, not saying a word so far, but it's one you're not ashamed to make. Worked back in the Foundation; why change tactics now?

All of them remain silent for the few long minutes it takes for you to drink your coffee, blearily staring at the edge of the table.

As you get to the end, occasionally picking out some of the larger clumps of coffee grounds with your fingers, you draw your eyes back up and see a few of the members of the group awkwardly shift in their seats at your gaze.

You stare back silently, fixating on the first to meet your eyes directly, watching until they finally dart their eyes elsewhere. You sigh softly, finishing your horrible cup of coffee.

"What's-" You start, mumbling slightly. Christ, you can't keep doing late nights and early mornings. Regardless, the new group needs trained... "What's that one's name?"

As you speak, you drowsily flick a finger in the direction of the person beside the one you're staring at. They blink; them and the person you had been staring at exchanging a brief glance before they start to open their mouth.

"Hold on, askin' them," You interrupt before they have the chance to answer, keeping your eyes locked on the first one.

A long silence falls before the person softly speaks, stating that they do not know. You hum and nod, letting your finger fall from where it had still been pointing.

"Do you know theirs?" You ask in a similarly calm tone, turning your attention back to the other one while fighting off a yawn.

They're a little faster, choosing to shake their head instead of speak. You nod with another soft hum of acknowledgement before pushing your chair up and taking your mug.

"Gon' start with th' basics then. Ain't nothin' more important th'n knowing th' name of th' people you're workin' with." You speak softly as you move back to the coffee maker, pouring yourself another cup slowly. "When y'a get out in th' field, you're goin' t' find that there's some situations that some 'f you might be able t' handle better than others. Cause 'f that, you're goin' to want t' know the names 'f who t' ask for help."

You finish pouring your cup, taking another sip and leaning against the counter as you look back to the group. They look young. The fact is mildly sobering.

"You need t' know each other's names so you can instantly shoot off who's missin', who may need medical attention, an' who may be laggin' behind in need 'f some backup. Can't just go runnin' around rattlin' off facial features. Ain't polite either. That's another thing, if y'a aint polite th'n I'm gon' have t' let you go, my 'pologies."

You take another slow sip after the dry joke, two of the people of the group exchanging an almost amused glance. You find that a little nicer. It's good for them to get some amusement. It helps build closeness; something that is always good for this kind of thing. If it takes laughing at an old man's bad sense of humor to form those connections then so be it.

"Anyways, let's move on. Did y'a all get some coffee? Probably gon' be a long mornin' as we go over some things so help yourselves."

With that, the introduction began, an almost peaceful mirror of the same -- albeit much more organized and larger -- introductions that you had conducted so many times back as an overseer.

[megaderping]

Another school day passed uneventfully. Akechi attended his classes, listened and took notes, and in English class, wowed his peers by correctly noting the difference between homophones and homonyms. He wore his best fake smile as he stepped out that day, nodding when people acknowledged him, but making no effort to approach. They were just faces in a crowd. Their names, their interests, all of it was a blur.

But that was fine. The only people who mattered to Akechi existed outside the classroom. So, naturally, when he caught Kanji waltzing through the entrance gates, he picked up the pace to meet his… friend. It still felt so weird to think of it that way.

An actual friend he could depend on. Someone he could be more open and honest with instead of wearing a palatable mask.

There was an undeniable spring in his step when Akechi finally caught up with Kanji. Beaming, he looked up to him and said, "Kanji-san, I've obtained some fascinating information since our last little chat."

Kanji chuckled. "Oh yeah?"

"Indeed. Narukami-san asked a most peculiar question…" Akechi stepped aside when some other middle schoolers walked by. "Oh! Don't mind us. Kanji-san really isn't as intimidating as he appears."

"Hey! That's…" Kanji stopped himself, sighing. "Think we oughta find a place to sit down?"

 "Perhaps the Junes Food Court? Just in case Narukami and his merry band grace us with their presence."

Kanji started walking, which seemed to suggest he was in. "'Nother stakeout, huh? Damn, you're relentless."

Following along, Akechi said, "But can you blame me, Kanji-san? They keep their escapades so close to the chest. I even offered my assistance, and Narukami-san just assumed I would fail."

"Sure would be easier if you were on the same page. You've been workin' that brain nonstop since this whole thing started."

"Exactly. Our findings could make solving this case infinitely easier, but since he won't trust me, we'll just have to find our own way." Full Chapter | Read from the Beginning

[cowboycheeseslime]

"…… That wasn't a dream, was it?"

An echo? A vision? A memory? Something from some other world? He can't put his finger on it, but Vigi had dozed off and... experienced something.

--/--

"… And just what do you think you're doin' here."

"Juuuust checkin' in on things, Vigert!"

"I thought I told you not to use that name with me. I don't care if you've got rank above my head in this ridiculous organization of yours - you oughtta respect those workin' under you, or they'll scatter like dust on the wind. You know that." Vigilante scowls from under his hat brim - he'd never liked Pizzahead, never trusted the guy. This slice of pizza was too slick, too cheerful. He had a face that would fit the 'crazed' look a little too well.

"Aww, sorry there Mr. Lantte! I'll be sure to keep that in mind for later!" Pizzahead bonks himself in the head with a closed fist, still smiling wide.

Vigilante just stares at him. "What're you checkin' in on. Boss." The word's spoken like a curse.

"Checkin' to see if you took well to it!" "Took well to what." "Huh! You don't remember. That's good!"

What did this freak mean by that. What the hell was he talking about. Vigilante's mouth goes dry for a second as a sinking feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. A slurry of rage and fear shoots through him, and he lifts one hand to point while the other reaches for his revolver.

"You best start talkin', Pizzahead. What'd you do."

But Pizzahead doesn't answer. Not with words, at least. He simply removes one of his gloves to reveal one of his dripping cheese hands, and just before it happens--

An unusually dark look steals across the man's face...

[vrnicky]

I already have hubbys so this is for fun.

Alright, I’m what you call a secret introvert. I act like I’m an extrovert and love ta be around people but the moment I’m by myself I crash and recharge for a week. I’m a perseverance soul, so I’m always findin different ways ta solve my problems and reach my goals. I’m also a perfectionist that likes ta clean as a form of procrastination so that I don’ have ta start an do badly. I’m always observin my surroundins without anyone realizin it and I’m always on guard even when I look like I’m relaxed. But I’m mostly an old soul that wants ta snuggle up in bed with a good book, tea, and old school jazz playin in the background.

I love art, I love animation, makin animations and watchin. I love a good book, I love plants, I love guardanin, I love space an studyin constalations, I love cookin while dancin. On lazy days ya can catch me in long skirts dancin an makin myself somethin new, I love workin out, I love interior decoration, makeup, doin my hair, an comin up with new outfit designs.

I like people who are on my same wavelength, overexcited people freak me out when they say they like me, same with shy people, I’m scared I’ll break em. I just need someone I can flirt with an dote on who will do the same ta me. As long as they don’ mind when I become clingy we’re good.

I hate people who don’ wanna work, bein lazy is one thing, but if you actively go outta ya way ta do stuff ya piss me off. I already struggle findin motivation without you tyin me down. Also sensitive people, I’ll feel like I’m always hurtin ya feelins cause I’m an honest an blunt person. I don’ wanna be walk-in on eggshells all the time.

Deal breakers are long distance, and people that keep secrets. Just cause I don’ show it, doesn’ mean I’m not an anxious person. Those two things will send me spiralin an I could never trust them.

Lol, have fun Nicky~💜

Ooh, well, you may have hubbys but this could be just next buddy! Who knows? Lol

Anyway, I love how you describe yourself, it really helped me out!! Hehe

I suppose neutral on the baby area so.. I think I got the perfect match for you!

I match you with...

Papy! Undertale Papyrus!

Okay so, I really snatch him up with you since your soul trait is what he likes most! People that try hard to achieve their goals really gets his attention.

Honestly, you're someone who Papy would want to befriend but quick to get his attention in the.. romantic area lol.

He totally gets you, he also likes being around his friends and family or well, just people in general buy sometimes he just feels like needing some space so he totally respects you and will be there if you need anything!

Believe me, this man would clean the house 3 times a day if he could but he knows that he may be taking part of what you like to do so he leaves it for you! Or you could also take turns on the cleaning or just the daily chores!! Organization!!

He isn't in guard all the time since he trusts people, of course he knows that there's still meanies out there but he may not be on guard 24/7 but he has the fastest reflexes you've ever seen, he's like spiderman (tell him that and he will rant about his movies) always catching most of the stuff around him. Amazing.

While he wouldn't call himself an old soul, he would love to chat with you about what you would want to do on your dates! He will say what he would want to do and will listen to yours, he wants both of your choices to be done at some point. One day you're cuddling while reading some book, jazz music on the background. And other day you're eating on a picnic!

He doesn't want you to be left out nor him being left out. Both of you get to pick something!

Oh, this man loves his tea, of course. Cinnamon one better but could drink any type of tea, if he has no choice then coffee, blame his brother.

This man also have a lot of hobbies! Not exactly on the art area but on the diy projects! He loves working with wood, clay, knitting, all of it! He doesn't like having free time, pls stop him sometimes to take a break.

You like making new outfits??? Count him in!! On you making him more outfits, of course. He would love to see your new ideas! Skirts, jeans, pants, dresses, heels, boots, anything! He likes to model around and feel so handsome.

Papy knows how to control himself with his energy, yes he has s lot of energy but can control it, that's why most of the time he is doing something! He can get a little nervous with your flirting but once he knows how you do that he will start flirting back and man, he knows how to flirt. 😳

He is very versatile, he can be flirting in some seconds but when he sees you want some love he's all snuggly! Anything for you!!

He's your number one fan. Hands down.

Your deal breakers are keeping secrets? This guy can die and everyone will know his secrets lol. Besides being a little too.. easy to read, once he trust you, he tells you everything!

Of course, he would hesitate if it's someone's else secrets. But literally he will tell how many birds he saw, what did he chat with his brother, his work, that stuff! He loves tiny details like that!

Papy at some point would like to have kids, 2 are fine but it is on his mind being a dad! And if you don't want to carry it's alright, he can do that! ...just tell him to rest.

Hope you like who you got!! <3

If you're curious, the closest one would have been Clyde! Really close up with Bonnie!

[whitherwordswither]

Logs from the Starfields, II

Captain's Log #0.02:

Turns out the planet I wanted to go survey is a bit out of range. And a bit over my current level of expertise. Which is a shame. I wanted to get out there a ways. Away from folks. Guess that will have to wait, eh?

So I decided to head back to one of the first rocks I dropped down on. (Y'know. The one where I accidently blew up the spacers that wanted my ship.) I scanned a few things there and I really hate not having all the data once I start collecting it. Might as well mosey on back and tidy up! But wouldn't you know it. Not two seconds in to orbit and I get a hauler buzzing up my comm line with a warning. Saying shit's gone to shit in the nearby Altair system. Altair II specifically. Sounds like some folks in dire need of help against more brutish spacers.

Now. We're all out here trying to do our best. Why do folks gotta try and ruin everything by murderin' and bein' all fuck-headed like? I don't understand it. You get farther workin' together for a common goal, don'cha? …Well, I ain't got nothing better to do right now. Besides, I could use the loot. And helpin' folks is a thing I enjoy. So I guess I'm headin' in to that mess. It's just like maw always used to say: "Plans change, sometimes often. You just need to know when to roll." -- So I rolled.

Helluva lot of blockheads murdering up this research outpost. I don't take kindly to that. I drop out of orbit and insert myself in to this shitshow. The facility is pretty large. Definitely took a beating. They'll be cleaning this up for a long while. I help myself to whatever the dead spacers are carrying and… well. It's chaos in here, so I also help myself to whatever looks valuable around the facility. Ain't like whoever is left alive here is going to know it's gone.

I find some survivors and make sure they can keep on survivin'. That's always a good feelin'. Once I got the outpost cleared, they mentioned a sister camp had gone dark. And since I'm the only organism with a ship… welp. More helpin' ain't never hurt no one. E-specially if you're good up on meds and sandwiches!

It was a bit of a trek, even after touching down closer to the camp. Cold as the Ice Queen's balls, too. I'll definitely need to get myself some better environmental protection when I'm able. But that's a future-me thing to do. Right-now-me has a good handful of goons to take down. Nothing a few well placed projectiles from a distance couldn't fix. But dang if it ain't an encore they're after! Soon as I made sure the surviving scientists were good to go, the folks back at the main facility are yammering for me to get on back to 'em. More shit for the fans. So, up and down again we go.

The compound is swarming with spacers, eager guns blasting. No wonder they were hollering for me. I help clear out two dropships worth of reinforcements. And they still got more spacer ass that needs roasting! This time, they've got eyes on ships near Altair I and V. Three vessels in orbit near each planet. Well. Can't leave a job unfinished, can we? Gonna need a long drink after this, I can tell… (A nice flavored decaf coffee, or somethin', mind ya. I gave up drinkin' the heavy stuff a while ago for personal reasons. And regular coffee gives me awful nauseous jitters. I ain't got time for that.)

I take my ship up and make the rounds. Nasty fire fight. If I was any less capable at the helm I might've had a real bad time… but I make do. Barely. Guess I got a little luck on my side. Ain't comin' to see ya yet, maw!

Once I'm finished plucking worthwhile components from the wreckage I plop back down on Altair II just to make sure everything is decent like. And it is. We're all grateful to be alive. I wish 'em well and haul my loot-overloaded ass back up in to the stars and make a bee-line for New Atlantis.

Time to get some repairs, some sleep and… see how much cred we can get for this junk.

End log.