#w1. threads

[revvnant]

@slaughterlocked / probing deeper

"Looking at the mechanics of it—" He leans back, and the office chair squeaks in protest. There's fluff coming out of the seat, and one wheel is missing its cap, making the entire thing tilt to the side. Michael had labeled it 'charmingly, accurately bad' on first glance and had yet to feel any need to reevaluate that judgment. Especially when the rest of the place was ghoulish. "How much of this," and he raises his emaciated, rotting hands to the thick window that separates him from Springtrap, "was intentional?"

[funtomb]

@trapton / dinner date

Once you own a restaurant, it's difficult to go anywhere else for food. Eating at one's own establishment becomes a matter of loyalty, even if all you serve is pizza. Damn you if you want a burger, or pasta, or a nice ranch salad, or some salmon. There's hot pizza there, and cold pizza at home.

Diane grew to hate pizza after two years with the stuff. She doesn't even eat it anymore, and certainly doesn't serve it on the rare occasions she cooks for the family, but the smell of it clings to everything in the house. Pizza. Popcorn. Soda. Things she loved, before they stopped being fun and became a fact of life. ( It's hard to genuinely love anything you rely on to pay your taxes. Too much stress and resentment. ) Her children are covered in butter and grease. Thank God she's not the one wrestling them in the tub.

An anniversary is the perfect excuse to get the Hell out of her husband's cheese-coated nightmare for one night. She doesn't listen to classical at home, or in the car. She doesn't dance on her days off. He can stand some time away from his little empire, at the nice French place on the edge of town, and no one could fault them for going fancy for a special occasion. She smiles at him from the passenger seat, a hint of smugness on her face. "You look so nice."

[revvnant]

He wishes he could nod off. He's in that didn't-get-enough-sleep, missed-the-nap-so-now-the-second-wind's-kicked-in phase, which he estimates will buy him another two hours of alertness before he crashes. It will not carry him to the end of the shift. Then again, who gives a fuck. Maybe when he's forty or eighty or a hundred or however old his fossil father is, sleep will come easier. He doubts he'll live that long, though: looking at the bags, the wrinkles, the grey hairs on William, he can perfectly envision himself three decades from now, and it makes him slightly queasy. Ew! No thanks! I'll just stay young forever!

"Ooh, he's got people." He lets his arm rest above his head, planting his cheek on his own shoulder. Now he's fully contorted into a human pretzel. He feels the whack, lets it push his foot up, and then allows gravity to thunk it back down where it was. Perfect. But then William moves, and he's pinned by a look before he can scoot after him. He gives him his biggest, most innocent eyes, raising his brows and blinking owlishly.

"Is it? Shit, I didn't know. Go on, then, captain. I'll follow your lead." He knows William isn't going to be moving. Which means he won't be moving, either. He finally slides down and plops both legs over William's lap.

@revvnant / from here !

FROM HIS POSITION ON THE COUCH,  WILLIAM SHOOTS WHAT HE THINKS MIGHT HAVE PASSED AS A WITHERING SCOWL.  It may have been more effective if he hadn’t been nodding off,  head tilting back at an angle that said if he didn’t move soon,  he’d likely fall asleep and end up with a crick in his neck that would bother him for days.  The joys of ageing.  

“ I’ve got people to scoop popcorn for me. ”  He says,  with as much dignity as he can possibly muster.  With a half - hearted whack at his son’s foot,  he continues:  “ I’m contributing by staying out of the way.  If I have to look at another child within the hour,  I won’t be held responsible for my actions. ”   Sticky hands all over his beautiful animatronics.  It’s enough to make him cringe.  

Shuffling over on the couch,  offering Michael more space,  William wrinkles his nose and pins him with a severe look.

“ Your breaks seem longer than I remember making them.  Don’t you know the Fazbear custom is never to take a break if there’s a customer in need of helping ?  And believe me,  there are always customers. ”

[revvnant]

@aspenthicket / rock me like a + jeremy

It is a Herculean task, greeting the next person who approaches the counter. He's so checked-out he's breaking down the minutia of it in his mind: right hand flat, left hand over the register; straighten the spine one vertebrae at a time and hear them pop back into place; chin up, then eyes, which includes forcibly unshuttering his eyelids, which would prefer to stay down, preferably for an hour or two. It takes a moment to focus on whoever's in front of him, and when he speaks, it feels like it's coming from a speaker lodged somewhere in his chest, and not his throat. "Hi, welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, where fun and... whatever. What do you want."

[revvnant]

@rabbitraw / something unpleasant + vanessa

"Walk me through what I'm seeing, here." Oil drips down the far wall. He's stopped the sanitation bots, shooing them back to their regular rotation with a swipe of his wristwatch. He doesn't want them muddying the scene. Not until he understands what's happened. Murder at a Freddy's establishment is old hat enough to be almost gauche (in generous terms; as if Michael doesn't spend every waking hour and some sleeping worrying about it). 'Murder' of an animatronic is... new.

[norimatsuaki]

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[revvnant]

It pings something in his mind — a radar he hardly ever uses, because it hardly has anyone to go off for. There are others, more robust, constantly scanning; this one, he doesn't trust, because it's out of practice; because it's inherently untrustworthy. It's adjacent to the one ( two, three, four, five ) false-alarm fuckups that are constantly beeping. The invisible nuke from behind the Iron Curtain. Mr President, it's too late to retaliate, shall we wipe the Eastern seaboard? You'd push that button, his father had said once, when he was deep in his cups. It had stuck with him, despite his best efforts to wash it out.

He gets, intuitively, that in this case a bottle is not just a bottle. He gets, as he snatches the broom and sweeps the glass aside before someone can step in it and sue the store, that this is not something in the stranger's control. And he gets that the best thing that he can do is pretend it didn't happen. He shoves the glass pile in the pan, the pan in the bin, and slaps the lid closed. He does not make eye contact; he attempts to disappear. To give her a second. He's glad Adam isn't in, because he'd hover. He, for one, hates when they hover. The most he'll do ( does ) is slide her a napkin. That's all.

@revvnant asked: " you're really shaking. "

Why does this have to happen now? Veronica tries to snap themself out of it before it gets worse. Deep breathes. Hand on the counter behind them. Keep their eyes on something solid and think. It'd just been the sound of glass breaking. It wasn't even that loud; she's heard it a million times before and she wasn't even the one who broke the stupid bottle, so why on earth is she feeling like the walls of the convenience store are caving in on her?

The voice snaps her out of her own head slightly. Just slightly. Veronica's vision swims. They'd be embarrassed about this if they weren't so focused on trying to keep it together. She still feels like she's suddenly trapped and needs to get out. To run. "I-- uh..." They hate the way their voice doesn't want to work, but they force it to. She has to be fine. She needs to be fine. "Sorry. I-- I think I just need a minute."

[jlunnposh]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: 4/$20 Wild Fable Gold & Silver Tone Earrings Stars, Cross, Snakes, Crescent Moon.

[revvnant]

@slaughterlocked / cont.

He loves you and he cares about you, Michael thinks, as his throat floods with bile. He loves you and he cares about you. Look what he got you. He wants to pick it up and hurl it at William's thick fucking head. It's so cool; were it not for the here and now, he'd already be sinking his teeth into it, wanting to see what made it tick. Instead, he's sitting, legs to his chest, a look frozen on his face that's gotten lodged somewhere between a smile and a snarl. That is to say, all teeth. I'm going to rip your throat out. I'm going to funnel gasoline into your stupid mouth and make you sit in the fireplace. He can picture it vividly, the explosion of gore. That comforts him a little bit. But only a little bit.

"It's nice," he croaks. "Thank you. I love it." He doesn't touch it. If he did, he'd melt, he just knows it. Like the Wicked Witch. What a world, what a world! He is being ungrateful, isn't he? This is an amazing gift. But he chokes on any further thanks, because William is still looking at him like that. How is he supposed to enjoy anything he receives, when this is how the gift-giving goes down? He's starting to think that these are elaborate, expensive setups for an excuse to rip into him. Which is hilarious, because William will let him know exactly what he thinks of him without the gifts, but he supposes the money allows him to feel worse for himself. Poor father. Poor, unloved father. He nearly screams and just manages to abort it, and hopes it comes across as a squeak of excitement. "It's ace. Really. I'm so excited."

And then, because he's a fool and a stove-toucher to the bitter end, he adds, "I'm crushed under the fucking weight of your generosity."

[revvnant]

He feels the same molotov of emotions he does every time this happens: regret, shame, and rage. Why does he ever believe it will work? When has his father ever answered a cry for mercy? Please was obliterated from his vocabulary, in the end, not because of any desire to look hard, but because it was worthless. Garbage. Well, I'm a bit of a dumpster, myself, he thinks hazily as the hallway tilts and he's hauled through the air. Maybe that's why it keeps crawling back in—

"Aouw!" he groans, hitting every vowel clearly. The impact makes him shed glass in a shower of twinkling light. It sounds like Christmas. He remembers fervently wishing for his father to electrocute himself putting up the lights, then having nightmares about it for days. Representative of a lack of necessary willpower, in his retrospective opinion. A weakness William apparently didn't share, because the man is verbally rinsing him. Which is better than stomping his head into floor jelly, if only because Michael is certain he brings the sharper sword in this arena, every time.

"You d-didn't let me f... finish," he says, forced to open with a lame save and doing it as gracefully as he can. "Please... get your f-fucking face out of m-my face. You s— smell like a w-war... crime. Hh— if what you 's-set out to accomplish' wa—s a l-load of hot shit... yeah, full mm— marks. We're hitting, uh, eyes, noses, ears... I'll p-pass on a... t-taste of you, k-keep cannibalism off m-my rap sh—eet, if that's al-alright. B-but, y'know, I can i...imagine."

𝚂𝙻𝙰𝙼𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙻 𝙿𝙰𝚆 '𝙿𝙾𝙽 𝙱𝙴𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝙶𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚂 disintegrates more fine shards, while dragging the ones more jagged. those which create a sharp and elongated screech along the tile, as he half climbs over the torn mound of flesh that he's come to recognize as a haunting -- that of his former existence. rotting from the inside out. a form who was created and fated to evolve and change into his mirror image, even now. even of not entirely literal. the flesh fed by experimentation, and the slow crawl of infected endo coils. his fault, always. another child ruined, but alive. both destined to feel beyond any scientific capacity -- as nerves circulated, wound about metal and bone fused together into an unholy amalgamation. a lesson unlearned.

for his brain, punctured with springlocks and moulded to steel skeleton, should by all means, have long since ceased to function. ceased to chemically produce even the faintest of memories, or recognition. let alone feelings. let alone the searing self hatred, the survival instinct clinging like dead flesh to stitch -- like dripping meat and tissue to steel rods. reminding him what he really is.

base, primal instinct sends knee lowering, unfeeling, into the glass below. pinning paw into torn shoulder that gives minimal resistance beneath newfound size and strength . . . wound fist above twitching ears, curling harshly against the pad remaining in withered palm. icy shards sticking out of every inch of purple, rotted flesh, like a mockery -- ugly twinkling sounds scattering to the floor, in the utterance of a single plea.

purple, broken, lying in the midst of black and white tile. flash of recognition so many times repeated, what coils fist a little tighter before the broken word causes fingers to unwind in hesitation, loosening in the widening of his rotten jaw. two decomposing forms which cannot fully let go, a mingling of putrid smells in the releasing of air from within hollow insides. unable to tell where one ends, and the other begins. ' please ' . . . his windup weakens, arm visibly less taught. however he pictures the entirety of the skull giving way like a melon beneath his fist, driven into the ground and exploding in a mass of fluid and matter. brightened eyes flickering with whirs and clicks. though unfortunately, threads of sympathy have dulled as much as the nerves connecting tissue, sparking a response in the form of a growl. "mercy? - " ear twitches. "why beg for what you would not offer, in return?"

instead of ending this conversation where it lies, fist instead flies into fabric of uniform shirt -- hauling the two of them up off the floor in a cacophonous mixture of mechanical creaks, and scrapes of glass. pinning soft body against the wall, high in the air. eye-level to peering plastic. "look at you . . ." grinding, callous voice projects . . . crackled, but in-tact. remaining almost soft, in study. "pathetic. falling apart." he continues drawling, his voice only now raising. "while i am now the greatest example of all that i have set out to accomplish."

@revvnant. asked for a thing but i couldn't stop thinking about this.

[funtomb]

tag dump 1/?

[revvnant]

@aftonsinferno / game

He lets his bag slide to the ground with a soft thump. In the otherwise silent house, it's like a bomb going off. He could have crept in, cushioned his footfalls by walking heel-to-toe, but putting this off would only make it worse. So he makes his way down the hall to the basement door stares fixedly at the handle. He can do this. He can be brave. His fingers brush the knob and a thrill of fear shoots through his spine. Okay, not that brave. Spinning around, he decides to wait in the kitchen, mechanically shoving bread in the toaster. It's fine, it's fine, it's only a conversation he's had a million times. I got fired today! Easy as pie. He bites his knuckle hard when he hears the basement door creak. Four little words, that's all he has to manage. Then he can turn his brain off and ride out the storm.

[midzie]

i know i’ve said it before already but i’m really upset wanna one disbanded like why? what did you gain from doing that pd 101/stone ent/swing ent???? do you know how many you’ve let down even in 2019?

[hereandtherelove]

林央子／here and there がRuby Hoette, Caroline Stevenson キュレーションによるMODUS Hosts展に参加しました。

MODUS Hosts @ Fashion Space Gallery

October 31 2022 - January 20 2023

London College of Fashion

20 John Princes Street

London W1 0BJ

MODUS Hosts:

Colectivo Malvestidas (CL)

Ellen Sampson (UK)

Kasia Gorniak / talking through our bodies (AU/FI)

Laura Gardner (AU) and Femke de Vries (NL)

Muslin Brothers (IL/BE)

Nakako Hayashi / here and there (JP)

Sue Tompkins (UK)

Tenant of Culture (UK/NL)

The Community (FR)

And an intervention by

Floriane Misslin (FR/UK)

MODUS was Initiated in 2018 by Ruby Hoette and Caroline Stevenson in collaboration with Roland Brauchli. MODUS takes various forms, from publications to events, exhibitions and workshops as well as the MODUS Archive; a collection of printed matter documenting this growing field - all with the aim of building an international network that represents and supports this community of practitioners. The central thread is a glossary - a collection of habits, methods, techniques, repetitions and actions - that together, begin to map out a shared language for expanded fashion practice. 

www.modus-project.com

MODUSは2018年にRuby HoetteとCaroline Stevenson、Roland Brauchliによって立ち上げられました。MODUSは出版物、イベント、展覧会、ワークショップ、そしてMODUSアーカイブ（この成長分野を記録した印刷物のコレクション）までさまざまな形態をとります。すべては、実践者たちのコミュニティを代表し支援する国際ネットワークを構築することを目的としています。中心となるのは、習慣、方法、技術、反復、行動などを集めたグロッサリー（用語集）であり、ファッションの実践を拡大するための共有言語を描き出すことを目的とします。

[revvnant]

@slaughterlocked / homecoming

His capture was not inevitable; he will go to the headsman swearing as much. Had he been a bit faster, had he not been so concerned with his friends, had he watched where he was putting his feet, had it not rained the night before— a thousand tiny mistakes, some of them his, yes, but none of it inevitable. And the rest of the party had escaped, vanishing when the soldiers came. Foxy had hesitated, wanting to scale the rigging to retrieve him, but Chica had dragged him away. Thank goodness. They would be fine with her, with each other, until Michael could escape and get back to them.

And that is inevitable: his escape. He’s been chipping away at where his chains meet the stones since they brought him down here, wiggling the peg back and forth. It didn’t move at first, but with forced patience ( and lack of distractions, save for a brief spat with a rat that ended in the rat’s favour ), he’s gotten himself a good hawfinch on either side of room. That means it must be close to giving. He hopes. He’s had a few close calls, moving to cover it when the guards approach. He’s quickly learnt to drop what he’s doing whenever a shadow passes the bars of his cell. That’s what he does now, releasing the chains and spinning around, leaning his shoulder over the loosened peg. He expects a soldier with food, or perhaps one of the castle’s many, many masters of torture. He does not expect the king. His eyebrows shoot up; his face flushes. He turns his face away.

[revvnant]

"You got it," he says, nodding along. He is deeper into Freddy's finances than he probably ought to be, given that he's neither the owner nor a legal adult, but he has a mind for mathematics, and William does love to take advantage. Michael can't blame him. He is, perhaps, the one asset that William is making the most of. Making too much use of, even. Burnout has been creeping in at the border, and every day the supply chain dwindles. Someday he's going to blow that horn and reinforcements won't come. He doesn't know what he'll do then. Throw everything including himself on the floor and let loose the mother of all tantrums, probably. That would be nice. A little catharsis.

"Mister Afton could write the vulgar dictionary, if you let him." He grabs another pastry and shoves half of it in his mouth before biting down. With a cheek like a chipmunk, he continues, muted by croissant, "But don't tell anyone from church that. Do you go to church? I dunno if you do. I should've asked first." He can feel the knots in his back unwinding. This is what he needs. No-stakes human contact. Conversation with a normal person. Michael yearns for normalcy. One day, he'll crave it like an addict craves the clean days, desperate for an hour's clarity. For now, it's a gentler longing. The mermaid who wishes for legs. He'd heard that in a fairytale, once. He thinks he remembers it ending badly.

"Don't say that. We always need bathroom cleaners. And if you do it, I don't have to." He suppresses a shudder at the thought of the bathrooms. The less said, the better. "Listen, if we stick to cleaning, and keep our heads down, then no one will notice if we have a little fun on the side. He's doing the whole growing the business thing. Let him. We hold down the fort, we get no complaints, and maybe one of us can actually get a hobby. We can get into knitting. Or I'll just work a score so high on all the machines that no one will ever dethrone me."

"Yeah?" Steve's properly impressed by the explanation; the actual details of commanding the machines have always gone far over his head, but it's obvious that in this case "longer" equals "more" equals "better."

"It seems like a good investment. You know what they say, 'you have to spend money to make money,' or... yeah, I think that's how that goes."

He matches Michael's smile, unable to stifle a laugh at the kid's enthusiasm. It's always nice to see Mike like this--relaxed (slightly), grinning, acting like any other boy his age. Steven doesn't want to baby him, but... he wants to do his part to make sure Michael knows it's okay not to be all grown up yet.

"Does Mr. Afton let you use words like that?" he's mostly teasing, his glasses slipping down his nose as he leans over to pick out a treat for himself. It's easy to relax into a more casual demeanor when Michael seems so unbothered, even if the uncertain timeline with which Steve's being presented isn't exactly what he wants to hear.

"Well, hopefully not forever. There's only so many times I can clean out those bathrooms before someone notices I don't need to be here." Bell doesn't like the thought of having to pick up part-time work to supplement during the closure. Although he's fully aware that the "family" aspect of this family business doesn't include him, he feels more invested in Freddy's than in his own life, sometimes; it's hard not to when there's so little waiting for him at home.

"What do you do when he gets all--focused?" There's only so much Michael can help with, surely. "Maybe we can convince him to add more arcade games, or something. I'd hate to think of you being cooped up here for a month just cleaning up pizza grease."