#y'know i didn't think i'd actually have to go out and catch tim...

[theyeontheskullship]

Good news: You're off toilet duty. Bad news: You're on arachnomorph retrieval duty. Think it's a downgrade if you ask me.

Bring him to me when you catch him. I'm the only one who's survived bathing him.

Literally ANYTHING beats scrubbing the toilets around here, but thanks for taking me off of toilet duty

[spittingbloodandscreaming]

Hear me out about a Masc!Reader breaking down in front of Masky and Masky just doesn't comfort them and is more like "This is your own fault"

I love silly angst ideas, have a great day/night!!

I LOVE this!! Sorry it took me so long to get to this, I kinda took an unannounced break, but I'm catching up!! I hope I captured your image.

You can never tell the truth, But you can tell something that sounds like it. (Tim Wright x Reader angst)

“Didn’t know you smoked.” You roll your eyes. You know Tim when you hear him—gruff and tired. You understand why he’s out here—same reason you are. Neither of you actually want to be at this party, you both just want to feel like you’re doing something. You take another long drag off of your cigarette.

The sounds of the party are muffled from the porch, but still, it’s somehow impossible to tune out. You almost feel ill. Staring off into the tree line and leaning against the banister, you flick the ashes of your burning cigarette. Your half-empty cup of whatever you were given when you walked in sits next to you on the railing—you almost feel bad for walking out, but for some reason, you can't bring yourself to go home, either. The heavy footsteps behind you throw you off your sulking.

“You’re one of the last people I want to see right now, you know that, right?” You cover the quiver in your voice well, but not enough for Tim to miss it. He walks up next to you, standing a little less than a foot away, leaning with his forearms against the banister. You glance at him, and you’re almost sad he wasn’t looking at you too. He’s so close you can feel the warmth coming off of him, and you realize how cold it is. You wish he was closer, but you want everyone close to you now, don't you?

“I know.” Tim takes his cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one himself and struggling briefly against the wind. He’s the closest to crying he’s been in weeks—or is he? He doesn't remember the last month. It smells like rain, the air is heavy and damp, and you wonder if the covered porch is enough to keep you dry. Then again, you could just sit in your car, but you realize you don't have that option. You only stop thinking when you feel a drop hit the back of your hand. Your cigarette is reduced to just the filter and it's raining. You look over to Tim, and this time, he's looking back.

“Drive here?” Tim asks, stifling a cough. You shake your head, looking back out to the trees.

“Live right down the road, I just walked down.” You take a sip of your drink and grimace—whatever it is, it's trying to be a mimosa and failing terribly. Tim says nothing. No one says anything for a long time.

Eventually, the wind picks up, blowing the rain into your face leaving a cold sting against your cheeks, and you start to cry. You cry hard, almost a violent sob. It takes you several minutes to notice that Tim is looking at you—has been looking at you—and quickly you wipe your face with your hands like a kid. You start to say the same things as you did when you were young, too.

“God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't mean to start crying I just feel so bad.” Tim keeps his blank expression as you sharply inhale after you're done speaking. You realize then that you've been holding your breath. The man across you says nothing, and so you keep talking, trying to explain away an unexplainable guilt you have for crying. “I didn't think I'd be here, y'know?” Your voice has raised a few octaves now—high pitch and uncomfortable. “I thought I'd be in college, I thought I'd be with someone… engaged, even. I don't know what happened things just went so downhill after high school—I couldn't do it anymore. I can't do it anymore. I hate my job. I hate all of it. I'm nothing I thought I'd be. I just—”

“Why are you telling me any of this?” Tim says, the wind moving his hair around just a bit. The rain blowing under the cover sticks to him in cold drops. You try to speak, but you can't come up with why. Why are you saying any of this? Why do you feel the need to tell Tim?

“You don't need to tell me any of this. I don't care, you know that.” Tim speaks so blankly and you wish he didn't. You wish he was angry. You wish he cared enough to feel something other than annoyance as he speaks to you. “All of this is your fault. You had every choice to change where you are now, and you didn't make any of the right ones. That's not my fault, it's yours.”

All you can do is stare at Tim with tears pouring down your cheeks. You're not sure the last time you've had someone talk to you like this. When you were a kid, maybe as late as high school. You're grown now, you should be able to handle it, but you can't even bring yourself to breathe. You feel so sick and cold and scared.

“Some people are in situations they didn't put themselves in, that they had no choice in, and can never get out of.” There's aggression in his voice now, and it's so clear he's talking about himself. It makes you cough through another pathetic, guilty sob. “But that's not how it is for you. So shut up, okay?” The hand he's holding his cigarette in is clenched—crushing the filter between his fingers. How could you think any of this matters? Why would you think anyone actually cared to hear what you have to say—you do have it better than everyone else, don't you? All of this is your fault. You could've fixed it at any point, and you didn't.

“You did this to yourself.”