#the glass has a bad texture i do not like. i want the plastic

[gideonisms]

this is my old woman moment of the day and it's happening at barely 7 am but I have spent the past hour searching for clear rubber phone cases. with which to protect my device. I decided on rubber after bad experiences with other materials. I have firmly made up my mind I would like the case to be clear and made of rubber and suitable for an android. and I simply cannot get through the apple ads to find this item. I think it all should be less difficult

[oftenwantedafton]

Vent - Steve Raglan/William Afton/Springtrap x Female Reader

Chapters 11-13

Rating - Explicit

no explicit content in these chapters

Also available on AO3 Chapter 11 | 12 | 13

Chapter 11 ~ symmetry ~

You were so easy to manipulate. A few kind words, a brief show of interest, and you were ready and begging for more.

If there was anything good left in William Afton, he might have felt some remorse and guilt over what he was doing; someone his age taking advantage of a girl so young, still fresh and new and pure. But those feelings had died with whatever humanity he’d had left long ago.

He unbuttons his shirt slowly, exposing more of the scars you’d been so fascinated with, aware of the changed image in the mirror in his peripheral vision.

“I see you there, old friend.”

The yellow rabbit’s voice is low, full of sand and gravel. “We have never been friends.”

William barks a short laugh, unbuttoning the final cuff and letting the shirt fall off his shoulders. “As you like. You must be eager to see the restaurant now that it’s been restored. Perhaps I’ll let you visit soon.” He turns to face the full length mirror tucked into one corner of the master bedroom. “Would you like that? Would you like to see her again?”

The rabbit lunges, his hand slamming out, William responding in kind, his own slapping the surface, the motions in perfect symmetry. “You should not have done what you did tonight.”

“What? Kissed her? She asked me to. Asked for another, even. Are you jealous? Do you wonder what she tastes like?” His mouth waters at the memory. “The sweetest candy. You can’t imagine how sweet.”

The lamp eyes flicker. “Do not be perverse. I have no use for your lust.”

“You forget, sometimes, that I’m a part of you. That you don’t exist without me. You need me.”

The rabbit remains silent, watching the man watching himself.

William sneers in contempt. “Look at you. Once so loved. Now ragged like a dog’s chew toy. You’re old, decaying. I was loved once, too,” the owner finishes softly, now lost in reverie. The room is empty once more, his own human features staring back him.

Chapter 12 ~ nightmare ~

You’re standing inside of Freddy’s.

There’s a birthday party going on. The room is filled with many children. A classroom’s worth amount, perhaps. There are balloons drifting lazily everywhere. One purple latex specimen has reached the skylights above, tapping against the glass, seeking escape that it will never find.

The end of the long table is laden with plates full of pizza crusts and half eaten slices. The birthday cake is being served now at the opposite end. The party must be nearing its end.

Someone hands you a plate with a slice. You glance down at it and your stomach protests immediately. You don’t want it. You think it would be rude to refuse so you dig the plastic fork into the soft yellow texture and take a mouthful. It’s far too sweet, the icing cloying. Another bite. No, no, no. It’s too much. You don’t want it. You finish it all.

Someone kneels beside you. You’re so short now, the size of one of the partygoers. You recognize the voice. The yellow rabbit greets you. The mascot suit is no longer ravaged by the wear of time. It’s daffodil yellow, bright and cheery and intact. Whole. He tells you he has a surprise for you, that you have to follow him to the back rooms to receive it.

You’ve started to learn the layout. The maze of corridors isn’t quite as frightening today. The workroom looks terrible. How had it gotten this bad so quickly? Steve would never tolerate this.

The bearded man appears, just behind you. You’re suddenly adult sized again. His arms snake around to embrace you, trapping you against him. His lips by your ear make you shiver. “Are you ready for your prize now?”

The yellow rabbit’s costume withers before your eyes. He reaches for something on the bench nearby, the sound of the heavy drag of metal against metal rasping unpleasantly.

“Have you figured it out yet?” Now it’s the yellow rabbit’s arms wrapped around you, as if he’d somehow silently teleported and replaced Steve. His voice sounds different; less modulated, more like the original human’s inside of the costume. It sounds like Raglan. “He made me do it. He made me.”

You squirm, struggling to break free. You’d escaped him once before. You could do it again.

“No, no. You’re not getting away this time. Stay with me. Witness this.” You’re no longer imprisoned in his arms. A little girl stands before you, sniffling. She tries to get away but he’s learned; you were his practice model. He’s prepared this time, barring her escape. She screams as the knife draws closer and you wake up, sitting bolt upright, heart pounding.

You cannot remember the nightmare.

Chapter 13 ~ run ~

You’re swallowed up in Steve Raglan’s car again the next afternoon.

The night before had been a poor one for sleep, as you’d predicted. What little you’d gotten had only seemed to drain you more. You recall having a nightmare but you cannot remember a single detail about it. You’d nearly fallen asleep in class several times today. You wonder about how tired the older man must be, working two jobs. You don’t see any visible changes in his features. The candy is there, of course, ever present, his teeth tearing at a gummy bear, piercing through the rubbery texture and decapitating the ursine figure while he watches you get settled.

“You didn’t sleep last night.” Was it that obvious? You knew you had shadows under your eyes, but you didn’t think they were that prominent.

“Not really, no.”

“You’re going to need to get rest. You have a lot to balance between work and school now.”

“How do you manage it? Working two jobs?”

“I’ve already given my notice. I’m currently training my replacement. It’s not going to be for much longer.” He finishes chewing the remainder of the piece of candy, making no motion to leave the driveway. “Would you like a piece?”

You’ve never declined anything he’s offered you yet. You nod, thinking he’ll hand you the bag or an individual piece, but his eyes say otherwise.

”Open your mouth.” Your lips part uncertainly, the faintest gap. “Wider.” He clucks his tongue impatiently. “I know you can do better than that. My tongue was inside that mouth last night. Do we need to repeat the lesson? Or maybe that’s what you were hoping for?” He smirks, setting a gummy on the edge of your tongue, his thumb still lazily resting beside it. “Close. Gently. Watch the teeth.” He drags his thumb back out between your lips. “Hmmm. We’ll practice that more later, I think.”

The candy begins to melt in your mouth as you watch him shift gears. You think about that finger in your mouth and then his tongue and the promise about practicing later and you’re suddenly very warm.

”What were we discussing?”

”The um…” You clear your throat, nearly choking on the candy in your mouth, “…your job as the career counselor. How long were you there for?”

“A few years.”

“What made you decide to buy the pizzeria? You said you made the animatronics, but…”

“For someone that claims to be incompetent at conversation, you are full of questions today.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just…I’ve been thinking.”

“Instead of sleeping,” he reprimands. “I have previous experience with the business, and yes, I created them.”

You sense there is something more buried in that series of statements but you’re not sure how to unearth it. “Why did it close down? I remember hearing something about some missing children when I was younger…”

“Unfounded allegations. The previous owner’s name was cleared. Unfortunately the damage had already been done. There was no way to recover from that unpleasant situation.” He sighs heavily. “But now, hopefully, things will go smoother this time. A fresh start. Anything else you want to ask?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“No,” you repeat again, glancing over to find your boss grinning. “You’re teasing me.”

“A little. In truth, I don’t mind answering.”

“Are you going to ask me anything?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” You glance at the arm draped casually against one thigh, thinking of the scars beneath the long sleeve. What does he wear in the summer?

“Did any other thoughts keep you awake last night?”

You blush, suddenly fascinated with the scenery outside the passenger window.

“I thought as much. Me too,” he says quietly.

The remainder of the rest of the ride to Freddy’s is silent.

***

You’re seated at one of the Parts and Service computers today.

Raglan is all business once again. “There’s a project I want you involved with. As you’ve probably noticed, the music wasn’t playing the other day. That’s because we’re going to redo the synching and make it more natural looking, less robotic using newer technology. In the simplest terms of how this works in an analog system: one channel is for the audio. The other channel is the tone track that directs the servomotors to move the eyes, mouth, and so forth. Cassettes, reel to reels…this is how it was done back in the day. And it worked well, all things considered. I’ve been hesitant to try something new, but, even I have to bow before modern advances at times. Open that program there.”

Steve perches on the opposite corner of the desk, directing your way through the files. “First track. Now. This camera here. You see Freddy? You’re disabling the automatic programming and controlling remotely. We’re going to finesse this a bit.” He slides off the desk, moving to stand behind you, at first merely verbally instructing, the words gradually being accompanied by more physical direction. He bends, resting one hand on the back of the swivel office chair you’re seated in, the other hand sliding ever closer to yours curved over the mouse. His fingers guide you in precise movements, his breath warm beside your face. You feel him smile, his lips that close. It’s nearly a kiss.

“Mr. Raglan? There’s a delivery that needs your signature.” A nervous looking young man stands in the doorway, hovering.

“Keep going. You’re doing great. I’ll be back shortly.” He straightens and the warmth is gone.

You forget all about being tired. You test a portion of the digital audio file, grinning when you see the bear animatronic’s jaw sync perfectly. You’re actually good at this.

Something rattles inside the room.

You don’t notice it at first, so caught up in what you’re doing.

The noise persists, finally breaking your concentration. You turn the chair around, momentum driven by pushing off of the desk. There are footsteps now. A heavy tred. Your grip on the edge of the desk tightens. It’s getting louder. Drawing closer. Your eyes dart to the exit. Another employee, you think, gotten lost. Except you would have seen them enter the room. Another few steps and you’ll have your answer.

The yellow rabbit emerges from behind a row of steel shelving loaded with endoskeleton components.

You heave a sigh of relief, easing off of the chair. “It’s you! How have you been? For a second there I thought—”

“Listen to me. There isn’t much time.”

The smile slips from your features. “What do you mean?”

The head shakes. Something in the motion reminds you of a dog trying to shake water out of its ear after being submerged. The eyes flicker unsteadily. “You’re in danger. You shouldn’t be here.”

“You mean in the service room? This is where I’m supposed to be working.”

“In the restaurant. You shouldn’t be here. With him.”

You frown. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

“William. You should avoid him at all costs.”

“I don’t know anyone named William…”

“He’s using another name, but it’s him.” The rabbit suited figure’s breathing is ragged, each word a struggle, the headpiece bowed. He sounds as if he’s clenching his teeth. “The leash is too tight today. I can’t…he won’t let me…” His head lifts and the eyes flare for one brief moment. “You should run. Get out while you still can.”

He ducks back between the shelving, faster than you would have thought possible. “Wait!” You attempt to follow but you’re too late. The uncovered vent built into the wall is empty.

[sea-salted-wolverine]

so here's a thing I've learned about the continuum of intimacy and what you're drinking.

it goes, in order, water, wine, soda, cocktails, beer, liquor, fruit juice, wine again, milk, light beer, then water. milk sometimes goes along with soda. tea has a position on this continuum but it wildly varies depending on the individual relationship with tea. coffee is also in there somewhere.

Water goes first because it is the first option offered. If you are having a drink with someone in any context and they have water it's a surface-level interaction. a water cooler conversation. gee, the weather kind of small talk.

Wine is what you have with dinner, and you pretend there's a gravity to the decision of what wine they picked but there's not. it's what your mom and your mother-in-law exchange because of social obligation. what your grandmother drinks as she surveys her own personal matriarchy she built purely so she could stand atop it. It is the expected, ostensibly mature option. It's bad grape juice.

Soda, at the very least tastes like something. if you're drinking soda with someone they made a choice about what they're drinking and you know something about them now, even if it's just a brand allegiance. adults don't drink soda with dinner and maybe that makes it childish, the first assertions of identity. or maybe you're just out having a relaxed good time, a casual lunch.

Cocktails offer the illusion of sophistication. juice and alcohol mixed in an effort to look more impressive. But now you know what they think is impressive. show each other your masks and you know what they want to present to you.

beer is for relaxing a bit. we all have to chill sometime and I might as well chill with you. we can acknowledge those masks and admit that they're just a facade. maybe we get a little bit tipsy but it's gonna take some doing, we can control our descent into disinhibition, which utterly defeats the point.

Liquor is an undeniable statement. who are you. what are you drinking? bourbon is American from the grain to the glass. Whiskey is looser. tequila is the fun vodka wishes it was. gin needs a friend. are we bothering with shots or drinking a half inch at a time off the bottom of a pint glass? let's get drunk, tell me who you are.

fruit juice is who you actually are. fruit juice is who you are when you have a drink with the thirsty five-year-old who wants something sweeter than water. the juvenile slurping and disarming sweetness. Have a drink with me. we are people, we are humans, we are thirsty animal bodies and we can have some juice together.

wine is what your mother offers you when she realizes that you're an adult now too. a person just like her. an adult who can drink wine. wine is what you're drinking when she's realizing that she's gonna end up like her mother and wine is what you're drinking when you realize you're gonna end up like her.

milk is the midnight slurp from the jug when no one can see you. I saw you. I won't tell. gimme that. slurp. tomorrow when you get the Thai food that's soo good and too spicy you're gonna think about this.

Light beer doesn't taste like much. that's kinda the point. it's for the brittle white plastic lawn chair that's been degraded by the sun to an indescribable sort of texture that never gets clean. it's for that time when your dad tells you about watching a man's skull get crushed by an industrial hammer and you just have to blink at the evening air about it. anyways, join a fuckin union.

Water is what you offer your friend when she comes over to tell you she's leaving her boyfriend after the death of his brother. it's just the pair of you raw-dogging reality and all its consequences. it's the drink you have to cajole down your great aunt's throat when you're the last living relative who will take care of her. She doesn't remember how you're related, and honestly neither do you. Water is all your uncle will drink after rehab. Water is the only drink you feel confident offering your diabetic baby niece. Water is what you're drinking when you've already said all there is to say because you know the person you're drinking with so well. when you can stand up at the top of that mountain and have a drink to wash the dust from your throat and say, gee, what about that weather.

[rocorambles]

Hit It Till It Breaks

Pairing: Oikawa x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, Mafia AU, NSFW, Drug Dealing, Dub-Con/Non-Con Sex, Dub-Con/Non-Con Drug Consumption, Drug Addiction, Manipulation, Humiliation, Degradation, Prostitution, Slight Pet Play

Prompt: Hard At Work

Summary: Growing up, you’d always loved fairy tales and happy endings. You’d always believed that despite how bad things might seem or get, there would be a light at the end of the tunnel. But you’re quickly realizing that this isn’t a fairy tale, that there is no happy ending, and that sometimes, you only go downhill, farther and farther from the light. 

Author’s Note: This is my contribution for my HQ Discord Server’s NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist to see how everyone decided to run with this spicy prompt.  

(Thank you as always @sawamooora for helping me keep this a coherent degenerate mess~)

It’s hard to believe that bright eyed girl holding her college diploma in the photo on your nightstand was you not that long ago. And your heart clenches when you remember how hopeful you had been. So excited to venture out and experience life. Ready to enter the job market. Ready to be an adult. 

Doors opened and closed. But you hadn’t let it deter you at first. It just wasn’t meant to be. You can’t expect to get the first job you interview for! 

But then more and more doors opened, only to be shut in your face.Your rose-tinted glasses began to crack as your funds quickly dwindled, as you lowered your standards, desperately mass applying to any small time company vaguely related to your major, only to be turned away at every step. 

And now, here you are, barely able to make rent, barely able to even feed yourself with the little you have from odd part-time jobs you’ve managed to stitch together into some sort of financial life line. 

Well, you HAD been barely able to make rent, but your hands tremble when you stare at the letter notifying you that your rent will begin to increase starting next month, mind speeding into a panicked haze as you unsuccessfully try to think of what to do, how you can possibly afford to live even in this dump anymore. And before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re scrambling, stumbling to your bathroom, throwing open your medicine cabinet as you rummage for the little pills that you know will help slow down your racing thoughts and provide much needed clarity. 

You swear everything seems clearer as soon as the smooth texture hits your tongue and you can finally breathe, slumping down on the cold tiles of your floor, pill bottle still clutched in your hand as you allow yourself to relax, praying for any ideas to flow through you. And it hits you like a ton of bricks when your grip on the plastic container accidentally loosens and the bottle clangs against the floor. 

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips as you stare at the rolling cylinder. 

Drug dealing. Fucking drug dealing. 

You can’t believe you’re even thinking of going down this route, but your mind flashes back to old roommates, old friends, old classmates who had nonchalantly made a pretty bundle on the side, carelessly tossing around and selling all types of prescription drugs on campus. And you vividly remember how simple they had made it seem, how they had all gotten away with it. Scrumptious meals, pricey alcohol, far beyond a college palette, and beautiful clothing were the only “consequences” for their crimes. 

If they could do it, you could too. Or so you’d like to think. 

But as naive and ignorant as you are about this line of work, even you know there’s a difference between selling to silly college students on campus, and selling it at a popular nightclub owned by an infamous crime syndicate. 

Even as far removed as you are from the more seedy underbelly of the new city you live in, you know of the Seijoh Syndicate. Everyone in town does. It’s hard not to when they literally run and own the entire place. 

Oikawa Tooru and the rest of the Seijoh Four run their domain with an iron fist. They’re practically nonexistent, merely a scary story to keep people in line, for those who abide by the laws and keep their noses out of trouble, but an all too real nightmare for those who choose to defy them. And you shudder, remembering the horror stories you had heard of exactly what happens to those who decide to try and start their own nefarious business and practices on Seijoh streets without Oikawa’s permission. 

But surely they wouldn’t pay you any mind? Right? Surely a mere girl in her early twenties selling the leftover prescription medicine she has in her cabinets for one night won’t do any harm? 

Maybe it’s stupid to go to such a prevalent and well known club, especially one that’s notoriously favored by the Seijoh Four. But you convince yourself that it’s the most crowded venue in the area with a target demographic who’s guaranteed to buy you out, even at the obscene prices you plan on charging. How would anyone even notice you? Where else could you go? What options do you even have? 

So despite the nervous pit swelling in your stomach, you soldier on, plastering a cheery smile at the bouncer who easily waves you in without a second glance, slipping into the sweaty mass of bodies, going deeper and deeper until you’re surrounded - skin, bones, and muscles pressing against you on all sides, safe from any prying eyes. 

Or so you believe. 

You know who the Seijoh Four are. You even know their names. But never have you met them, never have you ever seen a picture of what they each look like. Not that it would help you if you did when you’re so laser focused on finding potential customers, not even bothering to look around to see if anyone’s watching you. So you carry on, unaware of the four sets of eyes looking at you in amusement from their roost high above the writhing crowds. 

There’s nothing subtle about the way you sloppily nudge people, practically shoving your pills in stranger’s faces, almost wildly waving your merchandise around you in a desperate attempt to pull in buyers. Sweaty nervous hands fumble as you exchange little plastic baggies for wads of cash and Matsukawa raises a brow in disbelief while Hanamaki cackles when you drop your merch and payment, getting on all fours on the trashed dance floor to recollect your goods. 

It might be the most amusing show they’ve had in a while, but Iwaizumi feels a pang of pity at the wild hopeless look in your eyes and he swiftly stands, brusquely telling the other three that he’s going to go down and tell you off with just a warning, only to be stopped when Oikawa smoothly stands to his feet, effectively blocking Iwaizumi’s path. 

“Now, now Iwa-chan. Don’t be so hasty. Let me go talk to the cutie. I’ve been so bored recently and she looks like she’ll be fun! Plus you’ll make her cry with that scary face of yours.” 

Suddenly the sight of you bumbling around isn’t quite as entertaining as the remaining three men watch the brunette prowl towards you, heavy realization of what’s to come sombering the mood.  

 You’re frantic, flitting about the throngs of flailing limbs and swaying bodies, frustration from not being able to get through your supplies fast enough weighing at your conscious. Sure, you’ve managed to accrue some cash, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough to even feed yourself for the coming week let alone make a dent in the daunting rent that looms over you. And you can feel hot tears prick at the corner of your eyes when you see that it’s almost closing time and you’re still stuck with more than half your inventory, no closer to figuring out how to survive. So when a hand firmly rests on your shoulder, you whip around, ready to take your anger out on the poor soul who’s managed to catch you at the worst time. But you freeze, vicious words stuck in your mouth when you see the handsome man beaming down at you, a thick wad of rolled up bills haphazardly dangling from his fingers. 

“I heard you might have some stuff I’d be interested in.” 

You wonder if this is all a dream, if the man in front of you is (ironically a devilishly) handsome angel swooping into save you when he casually asks you how much stuff you still have, how much you’d be willing to sell everything for, not even blinking an eye at your outrageous price tag. You’re so stunned by how quick he is to call it a done deal, not resisting even a bit as he wraps his hand around your wrist, pulling you after him, saying some vague comments about wanting to go somewhere a little more private since it’s a bigger trade. All you can think about is how you’ll finally be able to eat something other than instant noodles and not have to worry about rent as you throw yourself back into interviewing, too lost in thoughts to be wary of how you’re being dragged farther and farther away from the rowdy crowd. 

But the sound of a door slamming shut behind you jolts you back to reality and Oikawa fights back a laugh at how adorable you are, eyes blown wide like a deer in headlights as your head swivels side to side, dismay and panic making you tremble when you survey the private room you’re in, throat nervously gulping when you notice the three other occupants. 

You’re so predictable and Oikawa just rolls his eyes fondly at how you swiftly turn around, trying to lunge towards the door in an attempt to escape, taking his time to leisurely make his way towards you, brown orbs taking in every inch of you as Matsukawa and Hanamaki hold your writhing body in place. 

It’s so satisfying watching you crumble to pieces before his very eyes at just the mention of his name, despair and fear swirling beautifully on your face when he continues to introduce the rest of the Seijoh Four. It never gets old, that deliciously addicting feeling of power he feels when people tremble from just a few syllables and he relishes in your pleading apologies and your tears, patiently waiting for you to finish your little sob story, barely listening to the details as he focuses in on how gorgeous you are, broken and vulnerable. 

And really, there’s no need for him to pay close attention to your blabbering anyway. It always comes down to one thing…

 “So you need money, cutie? How about working for me?”

 “Oye! Oikawa-”

“I’m just asking her some questions, Iwa-chan.”

There’s tense silence and your eyes nervously flicker back and forth between the two imposing figures staring each other down, green and brown eyes clashing in a silent argument. But as if they’ve somehow come to a conclusion, Iwaizumi tsks and looks away while Oikawa turns his attention back to you, a sickeningly cheerful grin on his face. 

Blood curling fear lances through you and you’re almost grateful for the two pairs of strong arms holding you tight, their grip keeping you from falling to your knees as your legs threaten to give out under the pressure you feel as Oikawa thoughtfully looks at you. 

You know the smart answer would be to adamantly say no and promptly figure out a way to leave this moment far behind you, even if it means forfeiting any money you had made tonight. But...a job is a job, right? And surely a job in the Seijoh Syndicate would be more lucrative than anything you’re doing now, right? 

Oikawa hides a smile at the way he can see the cogs in your head turn, apprehension turning to curiosity as you stutter out questions about pay and what the job would entail. Desperation is a good look on anyone, but it suits you particularly well and just like that, hook, line, and sinker, he has a new cute live-in maid to replace the recently vacated role.  

Working as Oikawa’s maid is more...normal than you would have expected. Not that you’re complaining and other than the embarrassing maid outfit he makes you wear, complete with frilly bow and garters, the chores are mundane. Bring breakfast to him and wake him. Clean his room and do his laundry when he’s away at meetings or jobs. Make sure guests have refreshments when they come over to his large estate, a mansion you now also call home. 

If you’re honest, it’s much more relaxing than the multiple part-time jobs you had been juggling previously, and with free board, free food, and the substantial paycheck that regularly makes its way to your bank account, you can see your future brightening up again. When your duties are done for the day, you resume practicing for interviews and keeping up with the industry, feeling emboldened and empowered to finally resume working towards the career path you had always dreamed of. 

But the more time you spend with Oikawa, the closer and more entangled in your life the brunette becomes. Alarm bells ring wildly in your head as you’re forced to join him for meals, forced to dress in elaborate gowns and jewelry while you’re waltzed around on his arm, forced to travel around the world with him, and attend to him like a glorified assistant. He’s too charming, too familiar, too bold, and you can’t help but feel like you’re racing towards some inevitable crash as he easily brushes aside any boundaries between the two of you. 

You know so many women would kill to be in your shoes and you can understand why, not completely immune to his playful smile and the lilt of his voice yourself. But you know better, know exactly how dangerous it would be to get involved with a man like Oikawa Tooru. 

It’s clear from the crimson stains on the clothes he leaves for you to either dispose of, or have cleaned. It’s clear from the wails and sobs of woman after woman he uses and tosses aside like garbage on an almost daily basis. It’s clear from the guns, knives, and weapons, most of which you don’t even know the name of, filling up all the walls, drawers, and cabinets.  

So you do your best to keep your distance, building titanium walls around your heart. Always polite, too terrified of what would happen if you pissed him off, but cold enough to deter him from more amorously or intimately testing his boundaries. 

And it seems to work as he turns his eyes towards other women, leaving you alone after throwing a few flirty comments and winks your way and ultimately falling in bed with some other poor damsel. But you nervously gulp when it’s just the two of you one night and just as you’re ready to make yourself scarce after turning down his bed and laying out his pajamas, his voice beckons you over and you anxiously bite your lower lip at the sight of pills of all shapes and sizes splayed out across his desk.    

Other than your prescription medicine, you don’t have a lot of experience with drugs other than the few blunts here and there during your college years and you had always strictly kept to your recommended doses, never even entertaining the idea of taking more. So the sight in front of you is overwhelming and you hesitantly stare anywhere but at the table surface, anxiously waiting for Oikawa to explain why he called you over. But what you’re not expecting is the warm hand gently grasping your wrist and holding your arm out, small objects being carefully placed in your outstretched palm, and soft coaxing from Oikawa to “give them a try”. 

Every part of you is screaming to throw the pills and make a run for it, begging you to come up with some excuse or just outright reject his offer. But it’s as if your body is frozen and he firmly pushes your hand to your mouth, grip tightening enough to make you wince when you hesitate to listen. The slight pain is enough to remind you that you’re not exactly in any position to negotiate and you force yourself to down the pills and gulp down the glass of water he holds to your lips. 

The last thing you remember is the unsettling feeling of beginning a descent to an unknown place from which there is no return as Oikawa pulls you to his bed. And then euphoria floods through you as your body slots against his larger frame. 

It feels good. Too good. Unnaturally good. But it’s intoxicating and you can’t help but let yourself drown in the hazy waves crashing down upon you, feeling lighter, freer, happier than you have for years. You vaguely register roaming hands, a hot wet mouth, a body on top of yours, something hard pressing against the apex of your thighs, filling you, consuming you in heady pleasure only amplified by the drugs coating your insides.  

Bliss. Pleasure. Pure unadulterated joy. And then nothing. 

When you come to, the weight of what had happened last night comes crashing down on you, making your foggy mind throb even more and you can feel bile rising inside of you as a toned arm around your waist tightens its hold on you. Oikawa grunts in annoyance when you claw your way out from his hold, scampering on shaky legs to his bathroom, heaving and expelling the contents of your stomach, trying futilely to cleanse yourself of your employer’s touch. 

You flinch when you hear footsteps approach, shrinking into the corner of the tiled room, body crouched and curled into a tight ball as you try to save any shred of dignity you still have by hiding your naked body as much as you can from his prying eyes. Salty drops threaten to trail down your face when he hovers over you, sweetly cooing down at you “not to be like this”, “you liked it so much last night”, “come back to bed with me” only to stream down your face when his countenance swiftly changes, handsome face glowering down at you before brusquely turning away and snapping at you to “get on with your work then if you’re going to be an annoying bitch”. 

It’s easy to convince yourself that you’re just being smart, just trying to survive as you obediently wash up and don your humiliating uniform, that it isn’t just you being a coward as you submissively go about your usual work day, still sitting with thighs pressed against Oikawa’s legs at meals, making no move to brush off the heavy arm he slings around your shoulders, only slightly flinching when his fingertips teasingly play with the hem of your skirt as he converses with the rest of the Seijoh Four. 

But you can’t deny that all you are is a weak fool, desperate to live when you shakily accept the pills he pushes towards you again that night, silently crying yet not doing anything to prevent the inevitable as you swallow any self-respect or pride you had along with the smooth pellets under his watchful gaze, too scared of the glimmer of gunmetal you see on the inside of his jacket to even think of resisting. 

And history repeats itself. Over and over again. 

Oikawa smiles at how different you are from that skittish creature who fled from his every touch, smirking at how naive and innocent you still are as you try to hide how eager you are for your daily dose, unaware of how he’s slowly been increasing it every night, ignorant of how you unconsciously lean into his touches, pretty lips wrapping around his fingers as he hand feeds you. 

Do you know what an animal you are in bed these days? Do you realize how little there is left to differentiate you from one of his filthy whores when you’re so doped up on whatever he gives you, moaning like a pornstar and leaving vicious red claw marks on his skin as you bounce on his cock? 

And he knows it’s time to move onto the next phase of your conditioning when there’s not even a speck of shame in your clear eyes when the sunlight begins to filter through the window, knowingly smiling in satisfaction when instead of slinking off to wallow in your regret you shimmy down between his legs and begin to nuzzle and mouth his morning wood, face full of nothing but wanton desire as you take his cock in your mouth. 

He doesn’t give you anything that night. Or the next night. Or the one after that. He doesn’t so much as even look at you outside of your usual eye contact, not a single flirtatious word slipping past his lips.

You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, right? To keep things strictly professional between the two of you. To not be coerced into the artificial pleasure you’ve been swallowing on a daily basis for the last month now. To not feel like just another warm body for Oikawa to taint. 

Your interview notes and open tab of job listings are right there, begging for your attention, practically screaming at you to pursue the life you’ve always dreamed of. 

Yet here you are, not even a week later, on your knees in between Oikawa’s legs as he leisurely reclines in his chair, peppering his inner thighs with kisses and rubbing your face against the growing bulge in his trousers, begging and pleading for another dose, feeling utterly empty and cold inside, unable to sleep, unable to focus, unable to function without the nights of hazy ecstasy. 

Your heart drops at the long disappointed sigh the brunette releases. 

“Drugs are expensive, cutie. I was just being nice and letting you try some new batches we’ve been producing, but now that they’re on the market, I can’t just keep on giving them to you for free.” 

He rolls his eyes when you adamantly tell him you’ll pay whatever the price is, a condescending smirk splitting his face from how quick you are to shut up, soul crushed when he reveals the extravagant cost, a price he knows you can’t afford with the salary he’s providing you with. 

But he artfully softens his smile as he begins to unbuckle his pants, sliding the fabric down and letting his throbbing cock spring into view, chuckling when it lightly slaps your face as it’s released from its confines, wondering if you’re drooling from the sight of his erection or the pills he’s playfully placing along the length of it. 

“I know you don’t have that money, cutie. But I’d be willing to accept other forms of payments.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before you’re rushing to take him in his mouth and he loudly laughs at how obscene you look, slobbering all over his length, fervently bobbing your head up and down, hastily trying to deep throat him to reach the pill strategically placed right at the base of his shaft, lips puckering as you inhale the drugs, swallowing around him in a way that has him groaning as you stuff your face full of chemicals and pre-cum. And it doesn’t take much longer for him to wash your mouth and throat with warm rivulets of sticky white fluids as he watches the goods take effect, his balls tightening and cock straining with arousal as you reach between your legs, fingers playing with your tight dripping hole while your lewd moans vibrate against him. 

It’s pathetically endearing how you can’t keep off of him after that, insisting on sitting on his lap during meals, your cute ass grinding against his clothed cock, always dropping to your knees in between chores, warming his cock in your greedy mouth, always asking him how many pills you’ve earned so far. You really are just his little slutty drug addict now, aren’t you? 

But he needs you to be more than that, needs you to learn that you belong to anyone who’s willing to give you the high you crave, needs you to realize that you’re just a free use drug addicted whore for anyone and everyone to use. 

So despite how tempting it is to just plunge balls deep inside your tight little pussy, he shoves you off of him one night as you try to grind against his body, feigning exhaustion and boredom of your body, watching in amusement at the panicked crazed look that flashes across your face at his words. Well aren’t you a beautiful sight, throwing yourself at his feet and groveling, saying you’ll do anything for another dose. 

Anything, huh? 

In your defense, even through the daze of your withdrawal, there’s still a wary expression on your face when Matsukawa and Hanamaki enter the room. Maybe you aren’t as broken as Oikawa had thought. But when you see the little baggies filled with the tablets you’ve become far too familiar with twirling between the duo’s fingers, you practically lunge at them and Oikawa finally allows himself the pleasure of reaching into his pants and stroking himself to the debauched sight playing out in front of him. 

Maybe he needs to fuck you in front of a mirror more often if this is what you look like from an outside perspective. It’s like you were made to be used, to be just a warm toy for men to use and Oikawa can’t help but think you look best like this, cocks penetrating both your front and back holes, your body squeezed between two bodies. And he fondly smiles at how you have Hanamaki’s face between the palms of your hands, your lips locked in a sloppy kiss as your tongue ravages the strawberry blonde’s mouth, searching for the pills the man had playfully placed on the tip of his tongue in front of your very eyes before winking at you and telling you to come and get them yourself if you wanted them so badly. 

They keep your daily training a surprise, mixing up who gets to wreck your body each day, how many cocks and rounds of cum you’ll need to pay with, what pills and dosage you get. Always keeping you lost and confused, making sure your mind is just a muddled mess that can only think of reaching your next high by any means necessary. 

Hell, even Iwaizumi takes part when he realizes that you’re beyond the point of no return, that Oikawa wasn’t joking when he said that there is no other choice for you anymore. This is your life now. This is who you are now. This is your “happily ever after”. He knows all that, can see all that in the way your dazed eyes only come to life at the sight of your addiction, your otherwise listless body perking up at the sound of the tiny objects rattling in their container. And yet a small sliver of guilt has him growling at you to get on all fours, ensuring your face isn’t visible, turning you into just another body for him to mindlessly use as he pleases. 

It’s an uncomfortable position, borderline painful as your knees rock back and forth on the hard floor with every brutal thrust of Iwaizumi’s hips. But you don’t care, the aching pain in your legs just dull background noise as you fixate on the tablets scattered on the floor in front of your face, dropping your entire upper body low to the ground, only your hips raised high as your mouth snaps forward. You’re so close and you mewl as your lips make contact with the first pill, uncaring of the pitiful sight you make licking and lapping the floor, whimpering when a hand firmly grabs you by the hair and roughly pulls your face away from your feast. 

“Maybe we should get you a dog bowl, cutie. It’s humiliating even for you to be eating from the dirty floor like that. Hold her hair for me, Iwa-chan.” 

You crane your neck back and forth, jaw jutting forward as you frantically fight against the tight grip holding you back, mouth drooling and tongue extending like a ravenous animal. But it’s no use and you whine, too focused on your unfinished “meal” to notice how Oikawa is still standing in front of you, cock pulled out from his pants, his hands rapidly fisting the shaft. And only when thick white spurts glaze the remaining pills do you whip your attention towards him, staring with hopeful wide eyes when he crouches in front of you and grabs your face. 

“When Iwa-chan lets go of your hair, you’ll get to have the rest of your treats, but you also have to eat the special seasoning I’ve generously given you, okay? If I see even a speck of it left, you’re not getting anything tomorrow, understand?”

Oikawa laughs at how vigorously you nod your head and with a nod in Iwaizumi’s direction, you’re released and the two men watch on as you lick the floor until it’s sparkling clean, slumping your face in the mess of your own drying saliva as you reach euphoria once more. You wail as Iwaizumi shoves you off a cliff and into floating clouds of bliss with one last thrust, the drugs in your system weaving a comforting cocoon around you that you melt into, unable to escape its soothing pull, giggling in content as his seed fills you to the brim. 

There’s silence as Iwaizumi pulls out of you, tucking himself back into his pants before sitting besides Oikawa, joining him as he continues observing your used and drugged up body sprawled across the floor, a dopey smile on your face as cum begins to leak out of your spent pussy. 

Minutes pass and Iwaizumi sighs, knowing what Oikawa is waiting for him to ask despite how insistent he has been over the years about not wanting to be involved in this particular side of the business...

“Are you going to have her start working at the brothel soon? She seems just about ready.” 

“Not yet. I want to give her a few test runs first before I have her work full-time at that establishment. She’s only been with the four of us, so I’m curious to see how she is with a complete stranger. It’s perfect timing too since Sawamura is coming over for a meeting soon and I know he won’t damage the goods if I gift her to him for a night or two. Plus, she hasn’t completely lost her mind yet so we can get some more use out of her before we toss her aside...”

The brunette rambles on, tone light and airy as if he’s just discussing the weather or a TV show he watched, as if he’s not mere feet away from a woman he’s utterly destroyed and rebuilt into just another brainless profit-making doll. 

And Iwaizumi tunes him out, already having heard almost this exact speech countless times by now, unable to even keep track of how many others like you there have been in the past, unwilling to think about how many more there will be in the future. But he snorts at Oikawa’s typical closing line.

“I guess it’s almost time to find a new cute maid.” 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Time Apart

CW: Trauma survivor, referenced noncon and assault, heavy internalized victim-blaming and self-loathing/anti-asexuality (Chris has serious issues from his conditioning around this)

(references events from this small series)

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

When Chris picks up his phone, it's not at all the message from Laken he expected to see. Not the kind of thing they've ever sent before.

He has to read it two times, then three. The letters swim and shake along with a dull pounding inside his head, but no matter how he tries to make them into other words - tell himself he must have misunderstood, must be missing something - they come back together the same in the end.

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

Each letter is as crisp and clean as a sterilized blade between each rib, one by one by one by one.

The words are a body blow. They're a hundred blows, beating him into a barely recognizable shattered shell of himself. It wasn't supposed to happen this way - it's been a bad few days, yeah, a bad week really, but until yesterday's fight it had never occurred to him that Laken might give up on him.

The fight was his fault, anyway.

He meant to apologize last night, but then Nova had come into his room, and he'd lost the rest of the night to lying next to Jake, trying to remember how to stop living inside his head again, how to stop being still.

He'd woke up this morning with his stomach doing butterfly flips inside him, nervous, but he'd really wanted to say he was sorry, for the fight, for all the weirdness lately. He'd wanted to apologize for being difficult.

Instead... he'd woken up to find a missed text from the night before, sent after he'd shoved Nova away but before he could stand to look at anything again.

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

There it sits.

He hasn't unlocked his phone yet. Instead, he keeps tapping the button to light up the screen, looking at the message preview that has all he needs to see. Lets it go dark again. As if one of these times he'll click and it'll say something else.

But it doesn't,

It just says the same damn thing.

I think you should spend time apart.

Not with me.

He's still staring at it when another one comes in. He feels the soft pulse of his phone in his hand, and the screen lights on its own.

LAKEN - NOW Did you see my message? 

He thinks maybe Kauri had it easier when he was the age Chris is now. Back when Kauri carried on entire conversations in emoji form, letting the nuance and ambiguity take over, the recipient working through the meaning on their own. With this, each letter is merciless, each word is unmistakable. He can’t misunderstand it. 

Can he?

He opens the phone with shaking fingers, types back yes, presses send, and turns his phone off.

Then he throws it at the wall.

He’s grateful for the heavy plastic case that makes it bounce off and drop to the floor without breaking. There's a strip on the back, textured and a soft purple, gray, white, and black. He rubs his fingers over it sometimes in class to keep himself from rocking and being distracting.

Now he just... stares at it.

Laken bought that for him. They bought the shirt he's wearing right now-

He yanks it off his head before he can think, balls up the soft fabric and throws it as well. It just sort of drifts pointlessly to the floor, a single eyeball from the print of a band he likes staring back at him.

Laken has ranted before about people who break up by text message, and Chris has to breathe through a physical ache in his chest that tightens every muscle at how awful he must be that they're not doing this face to face. How awful, how used-up, how shredded apart, how fucking pretty he is.

After all, he and Laken have been together for more than a year, and he still held perfectly still for Nova to touch him before he remembered how to move. After all, he’s a grown man who still cried and fell apart when Jake was hurt. After all, after all, after all...

He scrambles across the floor for his phone again, turns it back on. Part of him hopes he’ll see a new text saying they take it back, they didn’t mean it. Or just asking him to apologize for what he’d said that night before, for how he’d thrown their confusion over his reaction to something back at them, echoing out the way Kauri fights sometimes, talking about himself the way he thinks everyone else might be thinking about him, so he says the insult first and no one else gets to surprise him with it.

But there’s nothing new.

He manages to open the texts again, barely, and breathes in gasps, nearly pants, as he types out, you don’t want me at your place?

Not right now.

Is it because of what I can’t do?

It takes them a minute to answer. Every single second ticks by with a slowness Chris hasn’t felt since his days in the cold white room, tied down to stillness, forced to endure every minute that passed in perfect silence or to the soundtrack of his own tears and pleading for it to stop.

When they do respond, it’s just, it’s because of what you won’t do.

His breath catches in his throat. The ache in his head starts to pound harder, and he has to close his eyes against a sharp stab behind them. 

What he won’t do.

They’ve never cared before. How-... how could they suddenly care now? The fight had only a little bit been about that, it’d really been about something else. About his nightmares, how he’s not sleeping, not seeing his friends, skipping therapy. It hadn’t even been about... that. About what Chris can do and what he can’t, in bed. 

But that was the thing - the fight had started when Chris had flinched back from Laken’s touch to his back, and snapped at them, and accused them of wanting too much, and...

And now this.

It’s like they knew about Nova. Knew that he could be good just fine - better than fine, Handler Petrus said he was one of the best he’d ever worked with once - he just... wouldn’t. Won’t. Doesn’t want to. Never wanted to. 

Can’t do it without tearing himself to pieces all over again. 

It was always a scream inside his mind, but should he have pushed it down and tried harder to be more like everyone else? Is he losing Laken because of it? Did Nova pick up on something Chris himself doesn’t know?

Should he have... tried?

Even if it hurt?

He drops the phone again, then kicks it viciously under his bed, listening to the scrape of it sliding across the floor, the thump as it hits the wall. He hears it vibrate again, but this time he doesn’t care what Laken has to say.

They’ve said enough.

He understands.

Part of him expected this eventually.

He leaves the room, doesn’t bother to pull on his compression shirt, even. He lets his skin prickle bare and exposed to the air. He accepts the discomfort, the uneasy feeling of being too seen, too felt. 

The house is quiet, this early. 

He makes himself toast with butter, wincing at the scrape of the knife against the crisp bread, the sound boring into his ears. But eventually it’s done, and he slumps into a chair at the kitchen table, willing himself to cry. Somehow, the tears just... don’t happen.

He can hear Jake snoring softly from the living room. He’d been up with Chris until nearly 4 am, then Chris was awake again at 6:30, looking at that text, looking over and over and over again. Two hours of sleep leave him weirdly euphoric alongside his despair. Like he’s floating in some nightmare place that isn’t awake and isn’t sleeping, either.

He’s probably slept nine hours in three days at this point. He keeps seeing Jake with a knife sticking out of him every time he closes his eyes. Jake, screaming as Antoni pushed cloth into his wound to stop up the bleeding. Jake with a bullet wound, sitting up against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes whispering, It’s okay, Tristan, I love you, it’s okay as he dies. 

He can’t sleep. He can’t leave for long. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

Him being what he is, it’s the reason Jake is hurt. If he hadn’t been his brother, he wouldn’t have decided to run a house for Romantics, and he wouldn’t have ended up dealing with all the dangerous bits about them.

Jake said it himself, didn’t he? It’s a mistake, running a house for Romantics. Not his best idea. A mistake.

Chris is a mistake.

Him being weak, and cowardly... it’s hurting Jake, making his life harder.

He makes everyone’s life harder.

There’s a soft sound of footsteps behind him, and he turns to find Nova in the doorway, staring back. She’s in a sleeveless gray dress and has her long dark hair pulled back from her temples, spilling in a waterfall down her back. Her eyes are dark and fathomless, and she gives him a faint, slight smile.

She had smiled like that with one hand down his pants.

Chris turns around, too fast, his head spinning a little, and hunches over his toast. “Good... good, um, good morning,” He mumbles. 

She clears her throat. “Morning. Chris, about-... about last night...”

“Don’t, um, don’t-... don’t don’t don’t worry about it.” He takes a breath. He doesn’t want his toast any longer. 

“I’m sorry,” She says, simply. “I spoke to Sarita about it, and... and she said this happens with us, and I should apologize, but, um. So I am. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-... I thought I was helping.”

“I... know you did.” His words are slowing down. Chris can’t hold on to his thoughts, they want to drift away somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere darker. 

“When I was with-... with my Miss, she would always say, if you are sad the best way to fix it is to make your body forget that feeling, replace it with something else. And that was what we replaced my sadness with. So, you were sad and upset, and I thought I could fix it that way.” She pauses, flushing a little, looking down and to the side as she moves with effortless grace to get a glass and fill it with water, take a small sip. 

“Kauri used to... to do that,” Chris says after a pause, thinking about it. Kauri, who would show up in the small hours of the morning reeking of liquor and someone else’s cologne, or just didn’t show up at all. Kauri, who would laugh instead of crying, and laugh with someone’s arms around him, a guy whose name he didn’t know. 

Kauri, who ran and ran and ran and can do things and be things that Chris can’t.

Or... won’t.

What if he’s been hurting Laken this whole time and didn’t know it, because he was already hurt himself?

His foot starts to tap tap tap on the floor until he stops it. 

“Did he? Did it-... work for him?” Nova asks it with genuine curiosity, and her eyes are so pretty. He looks up at her, and then down again, pushing the plate of toast away from himself. 

“I don’t know,” Chris whispers. “I, I don’t know. He’s happy now, but...”

“Was he happy then?”

“No. But, but, but... maybe we aren’t supposed to be. At least... not with, with anyone... who isn’t like us.”

“Jake isn’t like us,” Nova points out. Her presence in the room feels heavy, like a weight pushing down on him. But what does it matter? He’s not with Laken anymore, anyway. If he wanted to, he could stand right up and kiss Nova right now, press her back into the counter, and learn what it’s like to be the one doing things and not just having them done to him.

But his body doesn’t stir at the thought. It never has.

“He is,” Chris answers. “A, a little bit. I’m, I’m, I’m sorry, too, Nova. Sorry that I-I can’t.”

“No, I know. You have a partner, and I shouldn’t have-”

“I don’t have... I, I, I I don’t have a partner anymore.” Chris stands up, leaving her there with his plate of untouched toast. The sky outside is bright as the sun rises, as if mocking the way he feels like a stormcloud inside. 

Nova watches him leave, and whispers to herself, “No partner?”

Chris goes outside, pulling a sweatshirt that hangs on the coatrack on over his head to protect his skin, curling up on the porch swing and watching cars pulling out of driveways as the neighborhood starts to head to work in ones and twos. 

He doesn’t cry.

He sits very, very still, and he is silent. 

Upstairs, under the bed, his phone vibrates, again and again, unnoticed.

Just go talk to Nat, Chris. That’s all I said. Just go see Nat and get a night or three away from the house. Being there all the time is overwhelming you. Are you even looking at these? Chris you can’t just ignore me every time I say something you don’t like Chris answer me ... ... Oh shit, Chris, my phone autocorrected earlier and I didn’t notice I meant “some time at Nat’s”, not apart Chris? Are you seeing my messages? Baby? Chris, please check your phone and answer me. Please.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @whumpfigure @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears

[madtomedgar]

As an autistic person who can't stand certain textures, I did go along with the straw discourse and reading your post made me feel like maybe I shouldn't have? I still feel like, in comparison to the other environmental wastes out there (for example, styrofoam to-go containers), straws don't really, erm, rank High (and I know that certain people only started caring b/c of the sea turtle video, not all of course though). And like, ignoring the few people who do need them is still (1/2)

(2/2) ignoring some people who do exist. So I guess my question is, like, what /would/ the solution be for curtailing single-use plastics for the majority but still not forgetting those people that exist? (I ask because I am interested, not because I want to fight. I don't.)

--

It's been a few years so I don't remember the specifics of the local ordinance perfectly. Firstly, it wasn't just straws. It included plastic bags, plastic silverware, and flimsy take-out containers that could be replaced with cardboard or with tupperware grade (reusable) plastic. It required restaurants etc to a) let people know they were available upon request but, b) not offer them automatically. Think of all the times you order takeout and it just. comes with like 5 forks. that you don't even want. Or the times you go to a restaurant and order like. Water in a cup, or a sipping cocktail, and they just automatically put a straw in it. That you wouldn't really even notice if it weren't there.

So iirc, the idea was to put a statement on all restaurant literature (menus etc), similar to the now-ubiquitous allergy statement, letting people know that plastic straws were available upon request, but only upon request. Same with plastic silverware. People wouldn't have to say why. But, the overwhelming majority of people who don't need them, wouldn't even notice that they were missing. Plastic bags would be outright banned, but paper or sturdier bags with handles would be available for purchase. and restaurants would be required to either use biodegradable or reusable containers for take-out, which would also have gotten rid of styrofoam.

Think of how many drinks a restaurant doles out in an average day. Imagine the difference between them putting a straw in every glass, versus maybe five. It adds up to a sizable reduction in plastic use and disposal over time, and plastics are just. Bad. For people, for the planet, for everyone. Straws and plastic silverware aren't the worst problems, but it's still good to reduce their usage. And setting it up as an either or between people with disabilities and sea turtles is disingenuous. A handful of people using these things once in a while has a much lower impact on the planet than everyone using them every day. And if this had been a good-faith conversation, we could have had meaningful policy change on a broad scale. Does that make sense?

[smilepal]

1, 5, 14, 16, 44, 67, 68, 73? :3c 💚

Behind the blogger asks for @faepunkprince 💖💖

1.) Coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

Definitely coffee mugs—I have a liiiitle bit of a problem with collecting them and @shinycorvidae only encourages it. There’s just so many cool designs though!! And I have a really hard time passing up ones that feel nice to hold. I think my favorite are my fiestaware mugs. They’re pretty colors and absolutely huge, which of course is the acceptable amount of coffee to be drinking.

5.) Do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?

I think soda cans are my favorite, I like how cold they get and they don’t have the same weird taste as soda in plastic bottles. My favorite are the big sort of energy drink sized cans—more soda and it stays nice and cold. Glass cups are fine if I’m at a restaurant though. I’m weird and want a straw with it though if it’s from a cup. I drink it too fast, otherwise. Glass bottles are nice too 💖

14.) Favorite non-chocolate candy?

I'm kinda picky about non-chocolate candy. I'll eat it if I'm really craving sweets, but it's not usually my first choice. I do like gummy candies though--especially if they're sour. My self-restraint is not good though, and I've definitely burned my mouth out on them before. I have a serious soft spot for sour gummy worms--or the sour watermelon gummies. Things like twizzlers/licorice get pawned off on my partner though--she's an absolute monster who likes licorice flavored things 😂

16.) Most comfortable position to sit in?

Like a goblin 😅. My sitting posture is uh, not great. I cannot sit in a chair properly, and I'm sure a chiropractor would have a field day with my back, but my favorite way to sit is cross-legged, if the chair/thing I'm sitting in is large enough. Or if it has arms, sideways against one of the arms, or against it, with my legs over the other one. I almost never have both feet on the floor/have a tendency to tip/spin my chair if it's on rollers. My teachers hated it.

44.) Favorite scent for soap?

Thymes makes a fir scented soap I really, really like. Non-seasonal stuff though, I tend to like woodsy or earthy stuff, instead of florals. I hate rose scented stuff, because it's usually so perfume-y and overwhelming. I like a lot of the ocean/sea salt scented things too, or citrus (provided it isn't grapefruit). It's not technically a soap, but I have a sugar scrub that's maple scented that I absolutely l o v e.

67.) Good luck charms?

I don't have any good luck charms per-se, but I definitely have stuff I try not to leave the house without, especially if I know I'm going to be gone all day--sketchbook/pencils/lead, my phone, sometimes my switch if I'm going to be waiting anywhere. Headphones are an absolute necessity. If I'm anywhere on campus, I'll usually have my laptop too. I just like feeling prepared 😜

68.) Worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?

Mm I think one of the worst things I've ever had was a carrot/squash soup, at a family friend's holiday party when I was younger. The cook dished it out ahead of time, so it would have been really rude to only eat a single bite and not touch the rest, but she'd put frigging orange juice in it to try to sweeten it/add tartness, and it's still one of the worst things I ever tasted. And the texture was uh, god--it was bad. I remember looking at my mom, and her just kinda giving me this grimace, so at least I didn't have to suffer by myself 😂

73.) Favorite weird flavor combo?

I really like salty/sweet things. So I'm definitely the person who likes to dip fries in their milkshake--have definitely done it with mozzarella sticks too when the fries ran out. It has to be a vanilla shake though, I think it would be really gross with anything else.

Thanks for asking! These were fun ☺️☺️

[starman-john-tracy]

mmmmSKSKSKSKSK I sent this to the wrong blog but,,,for the prompt list thingy you reblogged, misc 13 with 2 characters you want

(I HOPE TO JESUS IT'S YOU WHO REBLOGGED IT THIS TIME)

“I’m worried about you.” [From this Ask meme]

The best response John can manage, at that precise moment, is a vague, dismissive flick of his fingers as he swipes his older brother’s hologram off of his screens, ending the call.

He’s busy, damn it, Scott.

Alan and Kayo have taken Thunderbird Three out to an asteroid between Mars and Jupiter to help a returning deep-space shuttle with engine failure and Alan’s got twelve minutes of air left in his tank, blood-red holograms ticking the numbers down at the corner of John’s vision. Thunderbird One’s been deployed to the Alps in the sub-zero temperatures of a snowstorm following reports from the family of a missing skier, and John could really have done with all the little comments about their Mom that Scott had decided it was a good time to slip in amongst receiving his instructions, probably in an attempt to keep it together himself. To crown it all, Gordon’s in the middle of a risky deep dive with Thunderbird Four in one of the darkest parts of the Atlantic Ocean, trying to find a missing ocean surveyor, with Two coasting overhead despite the fact there’s not much Virgil can do but clutter John’s airways with his worries. Penny’s apparently in the middle of some kind of bank heist in England, and so can’t take FAB1 to help. John, in an almost Scott-like fit of insanity, is almost itching for The Hood to turn up, just because he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to hit something very hard with the mooring claw…

It’s been like this for a week solid. John’s not slept in thirty-two hours and colours are desperately trying their best to become audible. His mouth tastes stale with jumbled numerical readings and directions and what-his-brothers-need-to-do-nexts. 

The astronaut takes a deep, ragged breath and rips his hands from the blue glow of his holographic array. He rubs the textured blue fabric of his fingertips hard against gritty eyes, trying to force away the tired moisture that’s gathering determinedly there from trying not to yawn.

This should all be routine by now. He’s got a schedule. A delicate balance of exhaustion and focus. John knows his body’s limits and how to push himself past them - swaddling himself in a cocoon woven of holograms and the loud, urgent voices of people who need his help until he’s lightheaded from the brightness and downing enough caffeine to make his hands shake is the only thing keeping him going.

It’s not a good system, but it works.

Well, sort of works.

John scrubs at his eyes harder, pushing against his closed lids until phosphenes bloom fractal galaxies across the darkness from the pressure. He’s so tired but there’s no way he's gonna be able to sleep this one off. Not with everything going on all around him right now. 

Not until these people are sa…

“John.” Fantastic. Scott’s back. Calling on his wrist Comm this time, and big brother doesn’t exactly sound pleased about being hung up on. John thinks better of ignoring him twice, though he rolls his eyes about it. “You’ve been running Comms for three days straight now, you need to take a break.”

“I’m fine, Scott.” John’s mouth shapes the words even though he feels anything but. He has to be fine. “I’m just doing my job. Go get on with yours. And fly a little lower, the wind speed’s up.” The holograms had started swimming alarmingly over two hours ago, most of their words blurring beyond legibility, but John knows what the warning orange blob and its proximity to the logo of Thunderbird One means regardless. Focusing is getting harder and harder and that’s probably dangerous because what if he slips up, what if he gives one of his brothers the wrong instructions and something bad happens, what if...

John really wants a coffee. Another coffee. That’s probably a bad sign in itself because John, ninety-nine per cent of the time, doesn’t drink coffee. Certainly not like his brother’s do. Thunderbird Five’s got a massive range of teas vacuum packed in little silver packets, mostly courtesy of the Lady Penelope, because John far prefers it, but there is a sturdy metal tin of strong, Indian coffee in the galley, waiting ominously for him like a red break glass in case of emergency box.

John’s been choking down up to three mugs of the stuff, black and thick as tar, spiked with crushed caffeine pills, every other hour, in an attempt to keep himself with it enough to do his damn job.

The system works.

He grinds the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying futilely to prevent his pounding headache from getting any worse. He thinks there’s a bottle of painkillers in the first aid kit, Brains’ good ones, and mixed with another mug of caffeine John reckons that should get him through the rest of today even though he’s hungry and exhausted, and all his muscles have a dangerous, creeping ache that warns of atrophy, of too much time spent in Zero G. John just knows his whole body is going to kill the minute he relaxes, and that, if the constant chatter of the globe weren’t enough, makes taking even a little break just not an option. He ignores it all like a pro, slipping out of the segment of Five’s ring with the globe in, and drifting toward the galley, his fingers uncoordinated and clumsy on the handrails.

Coffee. Black. Two capsules of painkiller and another of caffeine, crushed into a powder with his fingers and dumped in.

He snatches up the plastic cup of coffee and heads back toward his globe, lifting the cup to his lips.

“John,” Scott says in his ear. “You can’t seriously be going to drink that…?”

John does, in fact, drink that. He knocks back the boiling beverage so quickly he doesn’t even need to swallow and chases the scald down with another cold cup of coffee that’s been left on his countertop from who-knows-when in the past three days. It’s gritty in the bottom from the drugs. John swallows hard at the acrid taste, coughs, and shakes out his shoulders.

“Alright,” John manages, suppressing the urge to throw it back up. “I’m good.”

Scott just blinks at him like he’s clearly a moron. Which, John thinks, is a bit rude when he’s the one with two PHDs.

“How long has that mug been there?” Scott asks, gaping slightly. It’s not at all like John to leave liquids out in the open, and especially not in space. “John, it had a layer of mould floating on it.” Not like him at all.

“Yeah,” John offers him, with a weak, crooked smile that doesn’t make sense on his face. “Penicillin. Adjust your tail flaps thirty degrees, you’re coasting too low. You need to compensate for the way the wind’s being channelled between the rocks.”

“John,” Scott’s voice comes back dangerously low, “John, when did you last have a proper break?” John’s head throbs and he’s saved from trying to work out any kind of reply to that because Gordon takes the opportunity to check-in. It doesn’t matter that John’s vision is blurring, as long as he can hear his little brother just fine. 

Crackling static buzzes in the spaceman’s ears long after Gordon clicks off again.

The newest shot of caffeine is slowly starting to soothe his frayed nerves, though everything’s a bit… hazy, if he’s honest.

“John!” Oh, Scott’s still here, huh. “Ok, little brother,” The elder of them puffs his chest out and folds his arms, but John’s not paying enough attention to his hologram to notice. “If you string yourself out much longer, I’m going to put you on medical leave until you die, alright? Nothing can stop me.”

“I don’t need med leave!” John exhales all of the air in his paper-bag lungs at once. “I’m fine and I’m doing a damn good job monitoring everything! I never take sick days…”

“You never take vacation days, either.” Scott cuts pointedly across him.

“Irrelevant.” John dismisses him again, flicking the point away like it’s a hologram he’s done with, “I’m just doing my job. If you want to come down on me for working hard, then you’re the one with the issue here.”

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Scott growls. “Your exhaustion and carelessness puts everyone who works under you at risk and I don’t know what the answer to your workload without Dad around is, but it sure. isn’t. this.” A sweeping hand encompasses his brother head to toe - taking in the coffee stains on John’s blue fingertips and the darkness smudged under his eyes. “We’ve got to, I don’t know, there must be something that can take some of the pressure off. Alan was talking about wanting to try a rotation.”

“Alan’ll be bored to death within five minutes alone up here,” John points out, “he’s still too young.”

“Gordon then, or Virgil, hell I’ll do it. I’m sure we can scrape together something.”

“Scott.” John’s voice comes out much softer this time, certainly softer than intended. “We’ll work something out but… just… not right now, ok?” It sounds almost pleading. A little broken. Perhaps Scott shouldn’t have brought up their Father, or perhaps there’s already too much for John to focus on without throwing himself into the mix. “We can pick this up later if you want, when we’re finished,” He goes on to offer, hollowly, “but right now you need to check your heat scanner and find that missing skier before those kids who called lose a parent.”

There’s a harsh intake of breath from Scott at that. He knows as well as any of them why they, why John, does all this. If they can keep together just one family, compared to their own loss, anything seems worth it.

Doesn’t mean Scott’s got to like it though.

He clicks off and John closes his eyes for one, very long moment - the residual Comm chatter swirling in his ears. It’s tempting to just press his forehead against the cold glass beneath his feet and just not exist for a few hours... But Alan needs to get back aboard his Thunderbird with the crew members, and Gordon’s discussing going EVA with Virgil in the background and Scott’s thermal scanner has just picked up an orange blip amongst all the blue.

There’s always a later. When everyone’s safe. John can rest later.

[furbtasticworksofart]

Starbucks Location

Summary: Capitalism has failed. Circus Baby's Pizza World has closed, and now, the Funtime Animatronics are out a job. Or ARE they?

Coffee, scones, and slightly burned omelets. This was the best that humanity had to offer the world. It was not very impressive.

Circus Baby watched the water bubble and boil until it reached the desired temperatures: scalding hot. She had made a notice that the coffee machine was infected with some kind of mold when she had first started working at the shop, and when she had told the manager, he had assured her that if the coffee was hot enough, it would simply burn the mold away.

This did not seem like a reasonable assumption to make. However, her manager did not seem to be a very reasonable person, so it was understandable. At the very least, Baby didn’t have to worry about any burns, though she was mildly concerned that any child trying to consume the beverage would possibly suffer second degree burns.

“Baby?” Ballora called from the register.

“I’ll be right there,” Baby responded, leaning down carefully to pick up the little glass container and pour the coffee into even tinier plastic cups. Using her thumb and index finger to carefully pinch the little cups with the smallest amount of pressure she could manage, Circus Baby gently placed the cups on a tray.

Slowly walking so as not to spill, Baby marched over to the register to Ballora, who as per usual was taking their new job in stride, chatting up a woman at the counter. She wore the tacky green apron with great confidence, even though it would sometimes become twisted around her waist, and get wrapped inside the cracks in between her plastic joints and tutu. Ballora was always the most active, sometimes she would spin impatiently by the counter as she waited for receipts to print.

Baby’s uniform did not fit, the apron they gave her was way too small. Foxy had suggested they tie it around her arm like a bracelet. It worked, but she was a little worried that she would get in trouble for not wearing it properly.

Ballora smiled at Baby as she walked up to the counter. Circus Baby smiled back, because Circus Baby did not have mechanisms that allowed her to move her mouth to any other expression.

“Please obtain your bean juice, beloved consumer!” Ballora called out in a musical tone to a man slouched by a laptop.

“Ballora, just say coffee.” Baby said.

Ballora blinked. “But do we not serve bean juice?”

“Yes, it is bean juice, but technically many things are made of juice. People are technically unprocessed or crushed juice. But most people don’t like it when you specify what is juice and what is not.”

Ballora nodded. “Interesting. I will need to know the specifics of these juices in the future.” She then turned her attention back to the woman at the counter and continued to take her order.

“Why are you two talking about juice?” A tiny voice questioned.

Baby glanced down at the floor to see Bon Bon trying and failing to use a sponge to clean up a sticky coffee stain. He did not produce enough weight to actually move it enough to clean anything.

“We’re discussing how to properly speak to humans in ways that don’t discourage them.”

“That’s a load of hooey!” Funtime Freddy bellowed, as he side-stepped Bon Bon and picked up the tray to carry it. “Humans are rarely discouraged!”

“Freddy, inside voice please.” Baby called out to him, before bending down and gently shoving Bon Bon to the side to grab the sponge.

“Wait, Baby, I thought we agreed you weren’t on cleaning duty.” Bon Bon said with a huff as he pulled the sponge away from her. “Just look at the floor, it’s all scratched because of you!”

Stopping in her scrubbing, Baby looked down at the floor. Indeed, the floor, that already under a lot of stress due to carrying the weight of a 500 pound animatronic daily, had begun to get scuffed and cracked, and Circus Baby was a very aggressive cleaner. Perfection was required, if the floors didn’t shine like her what was even the point?

“Can’t you just stand still?” A minireena giggled as it’s counterpart helped it pour milk into a cup, before sliding it onto the next minireena, who filled it with surgery syrup.

“Silly Baby, she loves to be the center of attention!” Another minireena cried from her right as it popped a croissant into the microwave oven.

“Always the star of the show!” Two minireenas chirped in harmony.

Circus Baby tilted her head forward. “I just wanted to help…”

“Oh, don’t let them bother you, dear.” Ballora assured her with a little pat on her arm that made a little plink as the plastic made contact. The ballerina then turned to the minireenas, as her face plates sprang open.

“I don’t see you girls making those Frappuccino®s fast enough!” She growled, eyeing them in contempt as she leaned down to face them. The minireenas squealed and went back to work, now at double the speed. Ballora’s faceplate snapped back into place as she turned to Baby, and her cheerful smile returned.

“Why don’t you ask the Bidybabs to go help you with the smoothies? You love making icy blended fruit!” Ballora said as she returned to taking orders.

“I can’t, the Bidybabs are on break with Funtime Foxy,” Circus Baby said mournfully. She leaned against the counter, and it cracked slightly where her hands touched the not-quite-wood, not-quite-tile.

“Foxy always leaves us with the early shifts!” Funtime Freddy wined, as he returned the tray to the dirty dish rack. “It’s not fair.”

They all stayed silent for a moment.

“I miss performing.” Baby said softly. “I want to go back to singing our songs together, no stupid apron or coffee, just us and the band singing for those sweet children.”

“I do too, Baby,” Ballora said sympathetically. “But you know we can’t do that, not after what happened.”

“Yeah, I know. It was too abstract a comedy for children, I shouldn’t have led with the jokes about the dangers of clown cars and the importance of seatbelts.” Circus Baby said with a sigh.

“Hey, it’s not so bad!” Bon Bon said as he climbed up Freddy’s arm. “Sure the location is gone, but at least we’re all together, right guys?”

“Yeah! We’re a team!” Freddy said with an enthusiastic nod.

Baby considered this, and nodded back. “I’m going to go take a short break, is that okay?”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Ballora said with a wave, continuing to ignore the impatient and growing line behind her. “Bon Bon can cover for you.”

Circus Baby smiled, and marched off towards the breakroom, her feet making little dents in the floor. She passed the bathrooms and the tiny storage closet, until she bent down to dip through the doorway. She sat down against the large brown worn couch, and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. It had a funny texture, like someone had taken a pencil and stabbed little holes into the ceiling. She closed her eyes, and let the ambience of the buzz of the people in the background  and the scent of fresh bean juice carry her to sleep.

[apparitionism]

Monday

I wrote the following brief scenes a while ago as part of a potential story that refused to coalesce. It may yet, someday, but for now this is merely a scrap of unfruited AU narrative; I’m posting only to prove to myself that I’m not completely incapable of doing writing-related things, even if it’s just tidying up generic, trope-y bits of dialogue. I intended Christina, about age seven, to be an important story lever in this, with this Myka and this single-mom Helena as coworkers of some sort (I was thinking insurance, possibly, because risk management has been on my mind). Such fuzziness was part of why the story as such never took off... in any event, it doesn’t matter. Here is what does matter: if you are a U.S. citizen who is able to vote, do it; choose Biden/Harris and every down-ballot Democrat. This HAS TO BE a landslide repudiation of that horrific, corrupt individual and the party that enables him.

Monday

Turning points arrive in their own time.

Myka and Helena were eating lunch together. That in itself was of course not unusual, for they were colleagues and friends. And as colleague-friends, they tended to eat lunch together.

“You seem upset,” Myka noted. Helena was picking at a salad, but differently than she usually picked at her salads. Usually she picked because she was picky and would eat only the most pleasing elements; today she was merely moving salad components from one region of the plate to another.

“I’m not upset.”

“But you seem upset.”

“Well... I have to break an engagement. It’s impolite.”

Being forced into incivility was indeed the kind of thing that would drive Helena to stab, lift, and re-place arugula. “Why do you have to break an engagement?”

“You know Mrs. Carter, the neighbor who usually sits with Christina. She was called out of town. An ill relative. This morning—but I had plans tonight.”

“Could your plans happen at your house instead? Without sitting?”

Helena wrinkled her brow. “It’s a first date. Far too soon to bring a new person into Christina’s life like that.”

A first date. The words punched Myka hard, leaving a queasy burning in their wake. Her analytical side leapt to make sense of this extreme response: It’s the first time you’ve heard Helena say anything about such a thing, so it surprised you. You’ve never liked surprises; ergo, you’re just reacting poorly to being surprised. Because of course Helena would go on a first date, because of course she would want to find someone, someone to be with, and Myka didn’t know why that hadn’t occurred to her before, but she and Helena hadn’t really talked much about relationships, so maybe Helena went on a lot of first and other dates that she hadn’t bothered mentioning to Myka, and maybe that meant their friendship wasn’t as close as Myka had thought, because maybe they really were more colleagues than friends, and... Okay, just stop. Whatever this is, stop. She breathed her way through the aftermath of the punch and said, “I’ll do it, then. Babysit.”

“You will?”

“You were planning to go out. You should go out.”

“You haven’t asked me with whom.”

“That’s probably not my business,” Myka said, because it wasn’t, despite her unexpected, inappropriate impulse to claim it as entirely her business. Just stop.

“Claudia’s new manager in platform development. Claudia described her to me as, and I quote, ‘absolute fire.’ Which I presume is good.”

“So you asked her out.”

“No, she asked me. And I said yes, because... well, is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

Was that intended as bait? But it couldn’t have been. Logicking it out again: Myka had never felt such a weird surge (no, a twitch, it was only a twitch) of possessiveness before; thus Helena couldn’t have identified it so quickly, and with such precision, that she would immediately challenge Myka on the point. Could she? “Of course not,” Myka said. “What time do you want me to show up?”

*

That evening, Myka kept her still-reeling gut at bay by concentrating on Christina, who was delighted to have Myka all to herself. “You and Mom talk about boring things,” she pronounced as soon as her mother left. “Tonight you don’t have to do that!”

No... all Myka had to do was imagine what sorts of non-boring things Helena was talking about with her date who was absolute fire. But she managed not to do too much of that imagining, at least while Christina was awake, while they were building with Legos and renaming her plastic and puffy animals and manipulating slime. This latter was a fad that had, according to Christina, faded some time ago, but she found the texture soothing; she asked Myka, very seriously—as if Myka’s verdict would be the final word on the subject—whether that meant it was okay not to give it up. Myka said that in her experience, truly calming things were few and far between, so she thought it was more than okay. Christina enjoyed the phrase “few and far between.”

Myka was tempted to let Christina stay up late, late and later, but she supposed it wasn’t fair to deprive a child of sleep just to rescue herself from herself.

She fell asleep on the sofa, and that was a blessing; she didn’t have to hear Absolute Fire’s car, didn’t have to think about anything that might be happening in that car. She awoke just as Helena was stepping inside and taking off her coat. Helena turned around and smiled, and Myka struggled to sit up and look alert, saying a sleep-hoarse “sorry” as she did.

“What for? Being asleep at ten at night? That seems reasonable. Ideally I’d have been asleep by now, if I’d been home.”

“It’s only ten?”

“Dinner was short. The fire may be absolute as far as Claudia is concerned, but there were no sparks that I could see. Or feel.”

Thank god, Myka thought, too fervently. Then, Just stop. Aloud, she tried for indifference: “Maybe Claudia should go out with her instead.”

“Maybe she should. Did my own small bit of fire behave herself?”

“She was great. I’m never going to fully appreciate the appeal of slime... but I can report that bath, story, and bed were peaceful. No conflagration.” This news would make Helena happy: meltdowns at bedtime were common. Christina was often fearful of some unspecified something that would happen overnight, and she was never clear on whether it would be a good something or a bad something, just something, of which she would be unaware.

Helena did, in fact, smile her relieved “Christina is fine for tonight” smile. “Did she wear you out completely? Or might you stay for a glass of wine?”

“Weird way for you to end your date. A drink with the babysitter?” Trying to sound normal. Like the friend she was.

“Better than the date. No, that’s too callous. It was fine. But it wasn’t anything.”

Myka had the drink. Just the one, slowly, as they sat and talked about what Christina would have deemed “boring things”... but Helena had two. And a half. She was eyeing the bottle like she might be inclined to head for it again, so Myka said, “I really should go.”

Helena said, “Should you?” Myka wanted (wanted so much) to make of that what she was pretending she didn’t want to make of it, but she determined instead to make nothing of it. No one should make anything of what anyone said when they’d had a couple of drinks at the end of a long week. And at the end of a failed date, she reminded herself, then cringed at the pleasure she took in knowing that it had failed. Whatever this is, stop.

Standing by the front door, Helena gave her a vaguely unsteady half-hug, a clasp of her left arm around Myka’s shoulders. Myka didn’t want to not reciprocate—trying now to act normal, like the friend she was—so she let herself move her own left arm fully around Helena’s waist, allowed herself to rest her hand for just the press of a second on Helena’s hip.

For that press of a second, Myka leaned close and inhaled against the sharp sweet angle of Helena’s cheekbone. For that press of a second, a slide to a kiss was a warm looming certainty; then the second passed, and it was a receding dream. Myka released Helena’s body and said, “I’ll see you Monday.”

*

NOTE: I’d say “TBC,” but since I don’t know whether this will ever function as part of a larger piece, I’ll leave it as a little misfit story-island. You know B&W will find their way to each other; they’re just not quite connecting, in that “this friendship means everything to me and I can’t stand the idea of blowing it” way, on both sides. Anyway I’m not sure who these characters really are, other than coworkers and friends (who clearly need to be something more); plus there’s a gaping hole where a plot should be. Why are these people here? What are they doing? Should any reader care? I have no idea. Again, here is what matters: vote vote vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris and Democratic Senate, House, and local candidates.

[canary3d-obsessed]

Lost Tomb Lewks, Part 2

(Masterpost) (More Canary Frivolity)

Warning: mild spoilers for both seasons of The Lost Tomb Reboot

Look 6: Wu Xie busts out the clean & preppy look for a visit to his Second Uncle. He’s just a rich boy from a rich family, spare him his life...

I really appreciate what the camera operator is doing for us here but I don’t feel like these jeans entirely do Wu Xie’s ass justice. Unfortunately, not every show can bespoke-tailor Zhu Yilong’s trousers onto him as if they were made of paint. 

This look features a cream-colored sweater with cable knit detailing down the front and ribbed raglan sleeves. Underneath he’s got a collared blue shirt with the collar tucked or buttoned down inside the sweater. Tight black jeans and pristine white kicks round out the look. 

This outfit says, very relatably, “I am one person with my friends and another with my family.” One thing I like about this show is how it engages with the difficulty of balancing family obligations and one’s own life path. Wu Xie is pretty successful at being true to himself, his uncles, his friends, and the Wu legacy all at the same time, but he has to push back against a lot of demands in order to achieve that. 

Look 7: Uncle Wu Erbai gets to show off his fashion sense in this introductory scene, as well, wearing a shirt with a band collar and a double-breasted grey suit. His glasses are a combination of gold-color metal and brown plastic rims. Overall his looks says he’s a trendy, but not flashy, rich guy in later middle age.

Look 8: Bad guy Xue is an asshole, but he wears a couple of pretty good outfits. This one features a clever twist on a tangzhuang jacket. The shape and frog fastenings of this jacket are like a normal tangzhuang, but the lapels and collar are cut like a western style suit jacket - but tailored to be worn up, not folded back like a western lapel. This creates an interesting neckline detail, in which the notch and open vee show off the clean cut of the standing shirt collar underneath.  

(more after the cut)

Look 9 is a good one for having a classic jump scare while exploring. The main part of this outfit is a practical olive green coat that we’ll be seeing more of. It’s got a good face-framing popped collar. 

It’s hard to see, but this outfit has a dark brown shirt with with a lighter-colored pocket on the front. The clothing in this show is full of interesting details, but the camera doesn’t consistently pause to examine them, being more interested in story, mood, and character development. Stupid camera.

This look includes adorable driving gloves with a nice pierced-dot pattern.

This is a good look for being wet, and admiring your wet boyfriend platonic life partner true love sworn brother soul mate adventure buddy fuck buddy lover friend.

This episode introduces Zhang QiLing and his first hoodie, but it’s so dark throughout his initial scenes that there’s not much to say about it except 1. it’s a hoodie 2. with a beautiful man inside it.  We’ll look more closely at his hoodies later in the series.

Look 10: Fortunately the show wastes no time unwrapping QiLing’s torso, and pouring buckets of water on him so that Wu Xie we can admire his bod, which is entirely worthy of admiration. OP has put these lightning gifs in slow motion for the good of any flashing-sensitive brains out there. And for no other reason.

This is a good look for....uh...this is a good look.

Look 11 appears out of context at different points in the show, when Wu Xie sits at his tasteful table and writes in his tasteful deckle-edge journal with his tasteful fountain pen. The show does a great job giving each character a distinctive and consistent style. Wu Xie’s is always subtle except for his monstrous first look, with an emphasis on soft textural elements & a narrow range of earth tones. That go well with blood. 

This look features a soft marled cardigan over a thin sweater that looks like lambswool or cashmere. Something that can handle a very fine gauge machine knit, is soft, and throws back a nice glow when the light hits it. It has a tiny horizontal stripe. This sweater pairing is either grey, brown, yellow, or green; the scene lighting is warm and has a yellow cast, so it’s hard to say how much of the color is actually inherent in the clothing. 

Look at his lovely translucent ear.

Wu Xie is wearing this look to write in his own Grave Robber’s Note, or his diary, at any rate.  If he wants to have someone to pass it along to, he’d better get busy, literally.

This is a good look for contemplating your obligations to the future of your family, and wondering if now is a good time to talk about polyamory with your two favorite Xiao’s.

[mokutone]

,, i dont,, know jackshit about naruto,, but,,,,,,, your watercolor pieces are so good??? like???????? SO GOOD?????

Here's the obligatory ask (since I started trying to use watercolors): are you aware of any tips for that particular medium? Like, are the brushes and watercolor quality really important or is that just my imagination? Also, how 2 mix colors and not die-

LMAO thanks!! I’m glad you think so!

I do have a lot of tips for watercolor, but I’ll start with the material questions. I would say that the quality of the tools can be fairly important, but like, it’s not make or break.

Supplies Information:

Disclaimer: None of this is necessary! You can make great art with any material available to you. All materials have different strengths and weaknesses, but you can create things that bring joy with the most rudimentary of supplies. 

I tend mostly to use liquid watercolors because I find them easier to control and manage (and I just...like working out of little bottles of liquid with eyedroppers. It’s my ink bias), but they have significant drawbacks. Archival speaking? light will bleed all the color out of what I have created eventually! They aren’t built to last. That doesn’t worry me much because I tend to stack all my drawings up and shove them in a drawer when I’m done, but it’s something to keep in mind. I find them easy to mix and manage in the pallet, and easy to reactivate if they dry out 

The brands I use are Dr. PH Martin’s Concentrated/Radiant Watercolor, and Ecoline Watercolor. Between the two, I would recommend Ecoline because they are cheaper, have more consistent texture, and have more in the bottle. Honestly, if the art store near me wasn’t on a huge sale, I never woulda gotten the PH Martins, they’re expensive as hell and just incredibly teeny glass bottles.

BUT, if you want to use watercolor that comes in tubes (which will last longer, give you more options for artistic expression—because the texture ranges from paste to watery, you have all that range to experiment with—and which most watercolor artists prefer in general) there’s a lot more options. The highest quality for the cheapest price I’ve found are the Turner’s watercolor tubes? I don’t always love the texture when I’m wetting the paint because I am picky, but the color is incredibly vibrant, and the prices are incredibly affordable compared to like, schminke or cotman haha. I used these in school and had a great time with them.

Brushes I know a lot less about, like almost nothing honestly, I wish I could give you some concrete advice on brushes but what it really comes down to for me is like, if you like the way it feels in your hand, if you like the way it makes a mark, it’s good. all it exists to do is facilitate You making a mark on the paper with some artistic medium, as long as you are satisfied with it, that’s good. 

If you want brush recommendations though, I’ve been told that Princeton’s watercolor brushes (i have a couple from the Heritage and Velvetouch series) are good synthetic brushes for...moderate prices. Brushes are expensive. Usually people recommend you have a #2 and #4 Round, and a smaller detail brush, but again, really, like all things art it all comes down to your preferences, and your needs. 

Actual Painting Tips:

Take care of yourself! Treat yourself kindly, forgive yourself for making mistakes. I’m dead serious. It’s impossible to avoid making mistakes, and in watercolor the mistakes are really hard to fix, and usually impossible without the use of gouache or something else opaque, so at some point it’s going to become an exercise in forgiving yourself for making those mistakes, like drawing in pen with no under-sketch.  On a good day, I find this therapeutic. On a bad day, it’s maddening. It’s okay not to make art on a bad day. When it comes to something you do because you enjoy it, and want to continue enjoying it, it’s important not to force yourself to do anything you don’t want to, and to take breaks when you feel yourself getting frustrated.

Paint from Lightest color value to Darkest. If you’re going to paint a character with a bit of a rim-light from some golden sunlight, paint that light light yellow first, top to bottom, and then work your way to the darker colors.

If you’re painting on a tilted surface (I’m guilty of keeping my sketchpad or paper block on my knees) paint from top to bottom. The weight of the water will pull the paint down, so you want to work with gravity, not against it! 

Limit yourself. Let yourself only work with one color for a day or so, then only two colors, then only three. When you put yourself in a corner where you don’t have a lot of options, you’ll often find you surprise yourself with what you come up with. Usually, I pick three colors, put them down on my pallet, and leave them there for a week or so, mostly just painting from those colors. It helps me develop a familiarity with how those colors work together, and how they work when I mix them. 

Mixing Colors:

another thing I should say about the Dr.PH Martin’s watercolors is that they don’t always mix well. I tried to get a skin tone for Kakashi once out of pink, green, and a little bit of brown, and in the mixture you could see all of the colors that went into it, and it gave a very strange look. I liked it as a color, but it definitely looked weird.

The paint that you use will have properties specific to itself, and you will get more familiar with those properties as you work it. It may mix smoothly on the pallet, it may not, and both of those can be good if you’re willing to work with them. 

Because of watercolor’s properties, there’s three main ways to mix it:

One: Mixing in the palette. What it says on the tin—you mix the paint, you put it on the paper. I do this one the most, it just takes a lot of familiarity with your paints to get used to the balances that create the colors you want, just lots and lots of playing around.

Two: Mixing dry. This isn’t really “mixing” per se, but it does the same job, Watercolor is a transparent medium, and one that reactivates when wet, so if you put one color over another, it’s about the same as mixing.

Three: Semi-wet mixing. The combination of the two! You can get some weird effects out of this. I use it sparingly, but I love to use it when I do.

The most useful physical tool for me (just me personally) in mixing is a pallet i have, and while it’s fairly cheap and should last like, idk forever, there are other ways to get a similar effect without it, as long as you give yourself space to mix.

it looks like this, it’s a porcelain pallet (so the cleanup is incredibly easy, unlike my plastic one, which unfortunately wants to hold my color a little) and i use it almost daily. The circular wells are for where you put the bulk of the color you will be using, and the rectangular wells are for mixing either with water, to get more translucent colors, or with other colors. The limited wells but excess of mixing space puts pressure on me not to use too many colors, but to mix them constantly. (but also has enough divided space that I don’t feel anxious about everything getting muddied. i am very particular.)

It’s heavy though, and while its therefore good for sitting on my desk and not getting knocked off by my cat or me, it’s not easily portable, especially as it’s uncovered if that's something that is important to you. Blick’s probably has them, as does...I imagine any other art retailer? They’re fairly popular. Usually around 6-8$ but again, none of these tools are necessary, they are just what suit me personally. I hope this helps! If I have the energy for it, at some point I’ll post some basic watercolor exercises to help with control and technical skill. You can get very good with any medium just by raw continuous practice, but my teacher last year had us do a lot of exercises that not only gave me a much greater comfort and confidence with watercolor, but that were also just...incredibly meditative to do.

[katrinawritesthings]

jonghyun / Taemin; performance piece; PG

can you believe I actually wrote a prompt : )

"I," he says confidently, "am," he says loudly, "i-in," he says noticing the neighbor downstairs and to the right of Jonghyun looking through their own window, "love with you," he says quietly, face on fire. and then, because he knows Jonghyun well tell him to say it louder anyway, repeats himself in a loud rush: "I am in love with you!" 

And then quickly puts his face in his hands and crouches down in the dirt for a moment as the family on the sidewalk actually cheers.

The little hat of the acorn in Taemin's hand has a bumpy texture when he rubs his thumb over it, kind of staticy, soft but messy, and that's exactly what it feels like inside of his brain as he stands underneath Jonghyun’s second floor balcony and tosses it at his window. 

More accurately, it feels anxious in there. 

The argument from just an hour ago plays through his mind as he nervously jiggles all of the spare acorns that he picked up and put in his hoodie pocket along the way. He tosses another one to be sure that Jonghyun knows that it wasn't just a random noise. 

Jonghyun loud and indignant, speaking over him and piling on, Taemin guilty and defensive, lashing out and dismissing Jonghyun’s emotions, both of them out of line. Neither of them saying anything constructive right up to the point that Jonghyun threw up his hands and announced that this just wasn't fucking worth it anymore and left.

Maybe Taemin showed up to try to talk to him again too fast. Maybe he should have waited longer. But then, wasn't one of Jonghyun’s main points that Taemin didn't even seem like he cared enough to put in effort? If this isn't effort, then he doesn't know what it is. But still, his head feels like it's made out of static and his hands twist and knot in his hoodie pocket and maybe he should just leave and come back another time and--

And now it's too late because Jonghyun has opened his glass door and stepped out onto the balcony and is frowning down at him, arms crossed on the banister, eyes narrowed. 

"What?" His voice, cold like ice. Somehow, though, that lessens Taemin’s anxiety. Replaces some of it with annoyance. Jonghyun really doesn't get to be as mad as he is. Taemin came somewhat prepared for this conversation; at least the first part, so he doesn't second-guess himself and just plows right through with it. 

"Okay, first of all," he starts, trying very hard not to think about how good Jonghyun looks from this angle, "you were meaner to me than I think I deserved and I really don't appreciate that and if this works out then I definitely want to talk about that later." And Jonghyun scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he also sucks in his cheeks, what he does when he's trying to suppress a pout, so Taemin lets it slide. "Second of all," Taemin says, and then he sighs.

"You were right," he mumbles. "I didn't––" 

 "Sorry, say that again? Louder? Real quick?" 

Taemin glares up at him. He's looking all innocent, eyebrows raised, one hand on his chest, the other hand cupping his ear.

"You're a brat," he says, at full volume, and then tacks on, "and you were right." 

And then he sighs again. puts his face in his hands, rubs his palms into his eyes and forces himself to look back up. Wills himself to say the words that he practiced in his brain in between their looped argument. Jonghyun looks ready to listen instead of just yelling at him some more, at least. 

"I didn't know how to," Taemin starts. "I kept. It's just, like." he groans in the back of his throat, rolling his eyes. This is exactly his problem. Jonghyun was right. It's just so hard for him to say things out of his mouth so instead of saying them he pretends like they don't exist and gets defensive when people try to bring them up.

But not this time. He refuses to let his gremlin brain fuck this up for him.

"Every time," he says, clenching his hands hard around the acorns in his hoodie pocket and staring so hard at Jonghyun that he starts to look through him, "every time you would flirt with me or say I was cute or imply that you had feelings for me or whatever. It would make me panic because I thought you were joking, and. And, like. Um." His eyes drift over Jonghyun’s shoulder when he catches movement there and he is mortified to find Jonghyun’s sister leaning half around the sliding door curiously peeping out at him. "Um," he says. Jonghyun’s mom appears behind his sister, saying something to her that Taemin can't hear and then looking at him as well.

"Can-- can you come down here?" he asks Jonghyun. "Please?"

"No," Jonghyun says. "keep talking." 

 "God," Taemin hisses. "fucker," he snaps. He rubs his hands into his flushed cheeks this time, running through a list of his priorities in his head. Looking out for himself and keeping himself comfortable is important, yeah, but so is Jonghyun, and making sure he doesn't lose Jonghyun is more important to him then being pushed out of his comfort zone for one conversation.

"Fine, but if I do this here then this is the only time I'll ever do something like this and you can't make me do it again," he calls. "This is a one-time-only event." 

Besides, he can tack this on to the conversation that they'll hopefully have after this about Jonghyun being unnecessarily mean to him. But first things first, they need to be able to get to that conversation.

"Do it, then," Jonghyun calls back. His voice is steady, challenging, but Taemin can see him shifting his weight, biting his lip. Well. At least he does feel bad about it. That's something. He isn't completely dismissing Taemin’s boundaries. Taemin takes a deep breath and tries again. For real this time. For all the marbles.

"I thought you were just joking, so it made me panic and push you away because." he swallows, clenches his fists so hard he actually feels one of the acorn stems pop through his skin, hisses and whips his hand out of his pocket. Pinching the tiny little wound, a bead of blood rises out of it and he quickly covers it with his thumb before he gets all woozy about it. Focus. 

He notices that Jonghyun’s mom has moved to the other side of the door, so the two of them look like they're flanking him, all three of them arms crossed, and that almost makes him even more woozy. He forces his eyes back to Jonghyun. Focus.

"Because I. I feel. About you. And when I thought my feelings were real and yours weren't, I--"

“You feel what about me?"

God, Jonghyun really is perfect for him. All his life Taemin has wanted someone that would cut through his bullshit and help him get his thoughts out clearly. He just wishes that it was as easy as he always dreamed it would be instead of how this is right now, sweat soaking his back, blinking so fast it's like he's his own personal strobe light. Maybe it'll get easier with time. Maybe that's the idea.

 Fuck, he sure hopes so. 

"I feel so-- so much. About you," he says. He shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders, trying to think of all of the things that Jonghyun makes him feel and coming up with so many that they all mix and blend together into one cohesive mass that he can't pluck one specific thing out of. "I look at you, and I."

He looks at Jonghyun, and feels how Jonghyun makes him feel, And his face breaks into a smile, His lungs push out an enamored breath, and his body relaxes just enough for his heart to get out of his throat and swell in his chest Instead. "I feel--" he starts.

 Then Jonghyun's left neighbor opens their window.

 Loudly. And slowly.turning the squeaky crank deliberately, plastic blinds clacking together, until it's all the way open. And when they finish, they lean out of it, chin in their hand, and look at him.

 Casually, pleasantly, like he’s a fucking street performer or something. 

Taemin looks back at them, mouth open. What the fuck. He looks at Jonghyun, gestures at them, looks around to see if there is literally anyone else around here that they could actually be looking at. 

He doesn't find anyone behind him, but on the sidewalk, he finds a whole family, mommy and mommy and two 5 year olds all on matching scooters, stopped with every eyeball also on him. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters. He lives in clown town and he's the main fucking attraction. Wrenching his eyes back up to Jonghyun, all he sees is raised eyebrows and smirking lips and he scowls. "Okay, fuck you too," he snaps. All Jonghyun does in response to that is smile wide, bright, dazzling, and lick his lips, nod at him in an order to keep talking. Taemin sighs loud and mucousy in the back of his throat and then decides to just rip the bandaid off and say it. 

 "I," he says confidently, "am," he says loudly, "i-in," he says noticing the neighbor downstairs and to the right of Jonghyun looking through their own window, "love with you," he says quietly, face on fire. and then, because he knows Jonghyun well tell him to say it louder anyway, repeats himself in a loud rush: "I am in love with you!" 

And then quickly puts his face in his hands and crouches down in the dirt for a moment as the family on the sidewalk actually cheers.

Then he pops back up before anyone else can say anything, including Jonghyun, who’s smile has changed into the one where the corners of his lips disappear behind his cheeks and his eyes glitter behind his lashes. 

Taemin knows that smile so well, and he knows what it feels like inside of himself, and underneath all of his embarrassment and anxiety and shyness, he feels it now, repeating that confession over and over in celebration.

"And I've been-– like that with you for a long time. And so I thought you were joking and I brushed you off because I couldn't make myself believe that you felt that way about me back. But then, that made you confused. Because you thought-–" Their argument flashes through his mind again. "because you thought I wasn't taking you seriously. and you couldn't make yourself believe that I cared. And I am so sorry about that." He is so sorry that he ever did anything to make Jonghyun feel that he didn't care about him. 

"But," he continues. "you said this-–" he flaps his hand back and forth between them two mean their friendship, then remembers he stabbed himself earlier and presses his thumb back into his palm– "I want to be worth it," he says. "I want us to make it worth it. Together." he doesn't care how hard it is. He cares about Jonghyun so much and if he has to stay up all night talking with him to make it work then he'll do it. "because," and then, still blushing, he repeats for good measure, "I love you." 

 One of the kids on the sidewalk cheers again. 

Jonghyun stays quiet, looking at him, smiling at him, tongue between his lips. Taemin stays quiet too because he feels like he made his point and he also feels like if he said any more then he wouldn't shut up. Eventually, Jonghyun gets his forearms off of the banister and pushes himself up with his hands there instead, biting his lip before saying, "You really figured all of that out in an hour, huh?"

"Yeah, well," Taemin says. "Yeah." he brings both hands up together to push through his hair. It was honestly wild to figure out both Jonghyun’s feelings and his own in an hour , but he always has worked best under pressure. "Now you say it back." he demands. Sternly. Definitely without pouting. No matter what anyone else watching might say.

"What?" Jonghyun says blankley. 

"Say you love me back, Jonghyun!" Taemin says, definitely in a very strong and clear voice that is not at all whiny, and definitely without stomping his foot into the dirt like a child. The whole fucking reason that they got into that argument in the first place was that Jonghyun was trying to lead into a confession, and if he's not even going to-–

"You tell him."

 "Wuh?" Taemin turns, baffled, at a voice from the sidewalk. The family is still there, but now there’s some elderly gay there also, grizzled and grumpy looking, leaning on his walking stick and looking right at him.

"You tell it to him good, kid," he says. "Don't let him play you. He needs to be honest too." and he taps his walking stick on the ground with much more authority than Taemin thinks he will ever have.

"Uh," Taemin says, still baffled but at least glad that this nosy asshole has a point that he can use. He whips back to Jonghyun, pointing at the old gay loudly. "Yeah," he says. "Yes. Yeah! Say it back. Tell me you love me and you weren't joking!" He demands loudly. "Please," he adds, quieter, sheepish, because he immediately feels bad about yelling. 

"OH!” Jonghyun exclaims, eyes wide. He giggles, tapping his temple with the heel of his palm and rolling his eyes. "Yeah, right, of course. Taemin." he takes a deep breath, steadies himself, widens his stance, and gets his face into something more serious. Or at least, is trying to fight down his smile.

"I am in love with you back," he says, and Taemin instantly inflates with the happiest breath he's ever breathed. "And I was never joking," Jonghyun continues. "Never ever. Never ever ever. And I'm sorry that I was so harsh with you when we were arguing," he adds. He has more of a sad smile now, guilty, regretful, which again, Taemin appreciates. "I really crossed a line. But I want to work on that and with you." He flaps a hand back and forth between them the same way Taemin did earlier. "To make being with me also worth it."

And then he falls silent, having made his point. Taemin looks up at him, and Jonghyun looks back down at him, and both of them just look at each other for a long while. Taemin bites his lip, feels His heart thudding throughout his entire body.

 "Okay," he says.

"Okay," Jonghyun says.

 "Okay," Taemin smiles.

"Okay," Jonghyun beams.

"Kiss him!" One of Jonghyun’s neighbors calls. Taemin doesn't even know which one because there are so many fucking people watching them by now. This is the worst possible place he could have picked for a confession, but he's here now, and honestly, the hard part is over. Talking about his emotions is awful. Kissing is easy. 

Besides, for the first time, Jonghyun is blushing, pink over his nose. For the first time, Taemin smiles confidently and raises his brows up at him. 

"Will you come down here now?" he asks. Jonghyun blushes harder, but he bites his lip and nods, turning to slip through his mom and his sister, hands coming up to his face. Taemin smiles at his back, then looks down at his hands, then remembers again that he stabbed himself with an acorn. "and can you bring me a Band-Aid?" he calls hopefully.

"Yeah," Jonghyun calls back from halfway through his house.

And then it's a minute or two of Taemin just standing there, in the dirt behind this apartment complex, trying very hard to pretend that he doesn't have at least 10 people watching him, before Jonghyun comes down the steps a few windows down and jogs up to him. 

"Hey," he says, and "hi," Taemin says, and then they just stand there, both of them, smiling, blushing, blushing and smiling. Jonghyun picks up his wrist and Taemin shows him his hand, the little pinpoint cut that had stopped bleeding by now but pops and starts again when he squishes it to demonstrate."Ew," Jonghyun mumbles. He pulls out a little disinfectant wipe and a tube of medicine, and he very gently cleans and bandages the wound with a small circle Band-Aid with a puppy on it. 

Then he kisses Taemin’s hand, lips touching only the Band-Aid, and then he just holds Taemin’s hand in both of his, under his chin, smiling at him, blinking at him through his lashes, expectant in a way that takes Taemin a very long time to understand. He's just too busy getting lost in Jonghyun’s gorgeous brown eyes to think about anything else. Eventually, though, he remembers they're supposed to be kissing, and with a start, he says, "Oh! You want me to kiss you?"

"Yes," Jonghyun says, bouncing down and up once like it should be obvious. Taemin blows a lot of air through his lips, shrugging.

"Well, I don't know," he says. "You're the one that's always talking about, like, how forward you are, and how you like initiating things, and, like. Like you're an extrovert, and you're outgoing, and you always say you're an Aries like that means something. And I figured, I don't know, you were the one that was trying to confess to me in the first place, so maybe you're the one that wanted to kiss me first, and like…." 

He's rambling. Taemin knows this. He's rambling so quiet and fast and disjointed that he barely even knows what the fuck he's talking about, and it occurs to him while he's doing it that he could just be kissing Jonghyun instead. So he does that. He stops mid-sentence, cups Jonghyun’s face with both hands, and presses their mouths together. 

Applause erupts from all around them, but in his hands, Jonghyun’s cheeks push his thumbs up, and that's all that Taemin is going to focus on from here on out.

[trashyswitch]

The Fate of the Fazbear’s Fright

Michael Afton investigates a rundown, abandoned haunted house by the name of Fazbear's Fright. What he actually finds will end up answering a huge missing piece about his family history...

This story takes place in a slightly altered aftermath of FNAF 3. The Fazbear Fright building has not yet burned down, but the building is severely flooded and mostly abandoned for unknown reasons.

Disclaimer: This story has a few swear words in it, and manages to get a bit graphic at certain points.

Further Disclaimer: This fanfic holds implications of an emotionally rocky relationship between William Afton and his son Michael. This relationship stems back to the FNAF 2 game. Please keep this in mind as you read the fanfiction.

I hope you enjoy.

Michael kicked the rusty and broken door to the old Fazbear Fright building right onto the entrance ground. He waved his hand around to clear the dust from his face, and turned on his black plastic flashlight. The dust particles that surrounded the entrance was still there, but not nearly as much as it was when the door first fell. He stepped himself onto the door, dusted off his black work pants and slowly walked himself inside.

Upon walking into the entrance, all there appeared to be was a hallway with half a fazbear suit laying on the ground, and a greyish black door that led to something. He ignored the door for now, and instead chose to continue on to explore the place. It was very dark and dusty, and the walls looked to be a grimy greenish color. The walls looked like it was covered in decorative fake grime that was used to make the Fazbear’s fright more icky. Or maybe, it was actual grime that took over the place from being abandoned. Which one it could’ve been, Michael couldn’t tell you.

Michael walked and followed the hall further, before turning to the right to see windows on the right side of the next hallway. The green, worn-down look to the place was disgustingly decorated with piles of dust on every tiny surface of the Fright house. The windows seemed to be covered in dust as well. Michael blew onto one of the windows, before immediately regretting it once the dust clogged up his lungs. Michael bent himself over and let out multiple strong and heavy coughs to get the dusty particles and grime out of his 20 year old lungs. He felt like he was choking on piles of dust alone, probably mixed with other secret bacteria from decaying building or from withering animatronics. Finally, after a good few dozen strong coughs, he got enough of the dust out of his lungs to somewhat breath properly.

‘Dammit...’ He thought, ‘I should’ve bought myself a dust mask before exploring this old place’ Michael thought to himself.

Michael looked through the semi-covered windows of the room, and noticed the metal desk and the old Animatronic masks laying around in a bin on the side. Was...was this an office? Only one way to find out: Michael grabbed a broken light fixture on the left hall, and threw it through the window. The window glass crashed upon impact, and bits of the window glass crumbled to the floor. With a quick swipe of his sleeve to rid the bottom of the window of the broken glass, Michael hopped himself into the room and landed somewhat smoothly onto the metal green desk.

Michael looked around the room for a second. It was in much worse condition than the hallways were. The metal desk was moldy green, there was a black netted garbage bin with a few kleenexes in it, and a wet cardboard box filled with animatronic heads, a Bonnie guitar, a Foxy hook and a few drawings of the Fazbear Entertainment characters hung up on the walls. The desk also had tiny animatronic bobble heads of Freddy, Bonnie and Chica decorating the desk, as well as...Well…Michael couldn’t tell what that was beside Bonnie…Michael also took note of the fan that was sitting on the desk. With the lights completely out in the old building, Michael assumed the fan was powerless and thus: useless against the dust in the whole building.

Michael hopped out of the window again, and yelped as he landed wrong on his ankle on the hallway floor. Michael took a moment to roll out his ankle and get it working again, before continuing to explore. He walked down the hall further, noting the patchy wires that hung down the walls. He looked around at the roof and noticed that there were roof leaks lining the ceiling panels. It looked like someone had completely flooded this place by mistake and caused some irreversible damage on the ceiling. Michael turned the flashlight around to see the ceilings he had passed. It looked like all of the ceilings down the hallway and onwards were severely leaky. No wonder the place was abandoned.

Michael turned left and started walking down the hallway. Upon the sight of a shadow, Michael jumped and stepped back, thinking he was gonna die. But, Michael gasped as he realized what it really was: an animatronic! Michael looked in disbelief at the look of the animatronic fox. It was Foxy, but all fallen apart and missing skin covers on certain spots. Michael looked at foxy carefully, and sighed upon seeing his run down appearance. It was almost scary how rundown the fox animatronic had gotten. The fox had 2 sets of teeth. What haunted house decoration has 2 SETS OF TEETH?! Down the hall, there were more run down and grimy looking animatronics. Chica was covered in blackish greenish lines that contrasted with his yellow appearance. The eyes were missing as well and there were only white lights indicating where Chica’s eyes were located. The Freddy Fazbear animatronic wasn’t any better. It was covered in black lines as well, and was holding a microphone in his right hand. Poor Freddy Fazbear was missing an ear as well. They looked like they deserved to be thrown into a landfill and either forgotten or destroyed till they were no more.

Michael walked by Freddy, before turning to the left again and encountering Balloon Boy. And GOOD GOD HE WAS CREEPY. He was quite discoloured from infrequent cleaning and was missing both his eyes as well. The only sight of eyes that slightly filled the gigantic eye sockets, was the white little lights that Balloon Boy seemed to share with the rest of the animatronics. The balloon boy looked like he wanted to possess anyone that walked into the room. Could he? Could Balloon Boy possess his body? God, Michael hoped not. Mangle was a creepy, spider-looking mess of a bot. Michael gulped upon seeing Mangle like that. Who would choose to make Mangle into a spider lookin’ abomination like this?! What was Henry thinking?! Was this even Henry? Or was it the Fazbear Fright staff that did this to her? If it was a staff member of the Fazbear Frights, WHY?!

Suddenly, a whiff of this strange, disgusting smell filled the room. And before you say anything, yes. The building smelled bad beforehand. But that was nothing compared to this; It smelled like a moldy, partly decayed animal carcass. But the smell almost carried through half the haunted house. It smelled like a huge cow died in the Fazbear Fright building. Michael walked down the hallway more, and quickly found the source of the smell: it appeared to be an animatronic bunny with greenish gold animatronic skin partly covering the Endo-skeleton. But...it looked like there was also red tubes covering up some of the Endo-skeleton. Were they cords? They looked like they could’ve been cords, but they were...a dull red. And they were wider than the cords dangling on the walls back at the beginning. Michael, not knowing what else to do, lifted his hand up and poked a cord on the right side of the neck with his finger. Michael immediately regretted it when he felt the cord sink in, in an abnormally soft motion. It felt wet, soggy and...almost rubbery. Michael pulled his finger back, and just about physically gagged at the phantom feeling of the large, soft cord.

“Eew.” Michael muttered out loud to himself.

He decided to explore the rest of the animatronic further. The holes between the moldy skin seemed to help him a little. The endo-skeleton seemed to have super narrow red and blue cords running down the suit and sticking out between the suit joints. In the chest area, there was a huge knot of large, thick cords that was surrounded by tiny bright red cords, and the greenish suit fabric. What could’ve been fur skin, looked all sizzled down to just leather looking fabric and any sign of fur had decayed from decades of existence. Michael looked down the legs as well, and couldn’t wrap his head around such a complicated and confusing endo-skeleton design. The missing fabric from the legs seemed to show Michael everything: It looked like someone took a darker endo-skeleton, and designed an endo-skeleton on top of the endo-skeleton. But...why? Why would they do that? Was it extra skeletal parts to make sure the animatronic can walk properly?

Another thing Michael noticed about the suit was how the pelvis area was filled in. There were multiple knots of thick, faded red cords in the pelvis, and the hip bones looked like something right out of a hip replacement surgery: abnormally dark steel surrounded by muscles- ...Wait: the thick cords on the left side of the pelvis look like they’re a different shade of red compared to the faded red shade chosen for the rest of the endo-skeleton. And why do the knots in the abdomen look like they’re different shades of red knotted together? And on that note: Why does it look like Springtrap has a human heart?! Michael moved the fabric covering the red thing in the top middle of the chest. Michael widened his eyes and just about yelped at the horrifying realization:

IT WAS A HUMAN HEART!

Michael looked at it closer. It...wasn’t beating. How did- WHEN DID ANIMATRONICS HAVE HUMAN HEARTS?! Unless…

Michael lifted up his flashlight to look at the head. It looked all grimy, leather textured and seemed to have caved in patches with orange, blue and red tiny cords sticking out of them. To make things even stranger, this was the only animatronic to have their eyes still! Except… these eyes were...clouded? And there were blue lines surrounding the iris. But why?! Why did this animatronic keep their eyes? And why were these eyes behaving differently?

Finally, Michael opened the mouth. This was where the worst of the smell was coming from. Michael covered his nose and mouth, and looked away in disbelief and pure disgust. Michael took a breath in, held it, and looked inside the mouth to see what was inside:

Michael’s jaw dropped in HORROR: THERE WAS A HUMAN CORPSE IN THIS ANIMATRONIC!

Michael couldn’t believe it! And when Michael looked closer at the human head, Michael realized the skull had thin, steel bars impaled into its jaw, mouth and eyes! HOLY SHIT! SOMEONE ACTUALLY DIED IN THIS SUIT! AND THE CORPSE WAS ROTTING INSIDE THE SUIT! Michael let go of the animatronic mouth and stumbled backwards in paralyzed shock. As soon as he came to his senses, he realized something even worse: HE DIDN’T TOUCH SOME CORD: HE TOUCHED CORPSE MUSCLE! Michael gagged in utter revulsion as a slight clash, and his flashlight fell onto the ground as Michael covered his mouth with his left hand. Michael, disgusted, wiped his soiled right finger onto his pants and picked up the flashlight again. Worried he may have broken it, he tested it a couple times.

On, off.

On-

SOMETHINGMOVED!

Michael lifted the flashlight up at the look of something moving. It was an arm. The animatronic bunny with the corpse inside it, was moving its arm back and forth. Michael’s breathing began to quicken as more joints and body parts started to move on its own. Michael took a few steps backwards in anxious disbelief at the movements. Finally, the animatronic lifted its bunny jaw open and revealed the purple skull to him.

The corpse’s white, rotted dead eyes stared right at Michael, and a devilish smirk grew onto their face. “Run.” the skull spoke.

Michael didn’t have to be told twice! He took off sprinting and screaming up the hall and to the exit. As he ran by, Michael grabbed the door handle, and tried opening the door desperately. But it was locked! Completely locked! In a repeated attempt to escape, Michael kicked the door. But this door wasn’t budging. This door’s hatch must’ve been fixed before it closed down! Or it was just jammed shut. Michael pulled and pulled as much as he could, but just couldn’t get the door open!

So, Michael took off sprinting and screaming down the long way in an attempt to escape through the entrance. Michael was ready to zip right past the animatronics that were taking up half the hallway. But Foxy’s arm had shot up and just about clotheslined Michael! Michael stumbled back and observed the blocked path quickly before ducking under the arm. “Sorry buddy! Sorry.” Michael muttered quickly as he grabbed the arm and ducked under the hook. With a huge rotten corpse bunny speed walking itself towards the former night guard, Michael took off running again as soon as he possibly could. As Michael ran, sounds of deafening clashes of animatronic parts could be heard behind him. He looked behind him, and just screamed louder at the sight: the bunny was DESTROYING THE ANIMATRONICS AS IT CAUGHT UP TO HIM! Covering his ears, Michael kept on screaming and sprinting down the hallways.

Michael turned to the right, sprinted down the hallway, and turned a quick right again to reach the door at the end of the hallway. He practically tackled himself into every grimy wall in the hallway, just to make sure he could get there without wasting any time. But as he ran, Michael slipped on the broken glass that was spilled earlier! He came tumbling onto his back and right onto the glass pieces. He yelped at the slight pains in his hands as glass pushed against the softer palms and the boney fingers. But despite how painful it was, Michael lifted himself back up and resumed sprinting. Finally, Michael tripped over the knocked down door frame and flopped the rest of his body onto the door. Michael yelped in pain and discomfort as he looked at his ankle. Just from the look of it, Michael theorized his ankle was either dislocated or sprained. He couldn’t tell the difference. Michael turned onto his back and sat himself up with his slightly cut hands. He carefully poked his ankle for any broken bone bumps: None. He gripped his foot and slightly moved it. No bone collision: just soreness in the muscles. The ankle wasn’t sprained, fractured or dislocated: It was just overturned a little bit. So, Michael stood back up.

But a pair of arms wrapped around him! “AAAAAAAH! NO! NONONONONONONO NOOOOOOOO!” Michael shouted as loud as he could. Michael wiggled, kicked, screamed and punched everywhere he possibly could. Michael reached out and helplessly watched in horror as he was pulled away from his one chance at freedom from this cruel nightmare. Michael shouted, bashed his limbs against the bunny and coughed heavily as the piles of dust in the haunted house re-entered his lungs from being pulled up by the bunny’s deep footsteps. Michael continued to kick and shout, but lessened his shouts a little as he watched where he was going. The bunny’s grip on Michael increased a little. This caused Michael to yelp and kick his legs again. “LET GO OF ME YOU STUPID FUCKING BUNNY!” Michael shouted at the bunny. In an attempt to get it to let go, Michael elbowed into the bunny’s jaw and tried pulling the fingers free from the animatronic. Michael pulled and pulled on the index finger, but it wouldn’t loosen, let alone fall off! So, he tried digging into the arms of the animatronic and pulled on any wires. But he yelped in pain suddenly when he felt his pinky finger get jammed between the endo-skeleton pieces. “OW! AAAAH! OH GOD- FUUUCK! I-” Michael finally gave his pinky a pull and somehow, managed to pull his pinky out in one full piece! “OHTHANKGOD…” He muttered before turning himself around to see the animatronic face.

“HEY! WHO ARE YOU?! ARE YOU THE PERSON WHO DIED IN HERE?!” Michael asked loudly to the purple skull in the mouth. The bunny didn’t answer him whatsoever, and just closed its jaw and kept on walking. As the bunny turned to the left the second time, Michael growled. “CAN YOU EVEN HEAR ME?!” Michael yelled to the animatronic eyes. He grabbed onto the ears in anger. “HEEEEELLOOOOOOO!!” Michael shouted into the left ear. The bunny had had quite enough of the adult. The bunny stretched out its arms and moved Michael away from its left ear and out in front. Michael yelped in surprise and froze as he looked at the green wall with wide eyes. When Michael finally came to his senses, he finally started breathing heavily and started kicking and shouting again. “LET GO OF ME! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?! AM I- AM I JUST A TOY TO YOU?! THIS IS NOT HOW YOU DEAL WITH ADULTS!” Michael cried.

Michael stopped screaming and moving when he suddenly heard a mumbling sound. “...........Huh?” Michael muttered, looking down the hallway. Did someone say something to him? Or was Michael hearing things?

The mumbling sound occurred again but this time, it sounded like it was coming from behind the bunny! Michael fought with the bunny’s grip a little and turned himself around to see if anyone was there. “Hello?” Michael called quietly. His voice echoed in the hollow hallway as he stared at the hallway for any signs of life.

“Sh-- u-.” The mumbling spoke again. Michael listened carefully. It...sounded like words, but...he couldn’t make out what was being said. But what he COULD make out, was that it was close to him! Who was hiding there?

“What?” Michael asked. “I...I can’t hear you. What did you say?” Michael asked down the hallway.

Suddenly, the bunny’s jaw opened and an angry expression appeared on the purple skull. It moved its mouth. “I said SHUT UP!”

Michael shouted in surprise and closed the bunny's jaw quickly. “NOPE! YOU’RE NOT PULLING ANOTHER BITE OF 1987 ON ME! FUCK THAT SHIT!” Michael shouted. Then, it occurred to him: “Wait...How are you-” Michael opened the jaw slightly and looked at the skull in the jaw. It...had a monotone facial expression with only a couple teeth left. “How are you talking?” Michael asked.

The mouth opened and closed in an attempt to give itself more mouth room to talk properly. The steel pieces that were impaled into the face, appeared to have loosened a bit from the jaw moving. It was disgusting, disturbing and almost gagging to watch. The skull breathed in, and…

“I’m still alive.” The deep voice spoke.

Michael’s jaw dropped and a horrified, cracking shout left his somewhat hoarse voice. Michael resumed his wiggling and wrestling, doing all he possibly can to wiggle himself out of the bunny’s grip.

“For the love of- THAT’S IT!” the skull yelled before pulling the adult into the bunny’s chest and wrapping its arms around him further.

“WHAT THE- AAAAH! NO! LETMEGO! DON’T YOU EVEN DARE TRY TO KILL ME! I HAVE A LIFE TO LIVE! A FAMILY HISTORY TO UNFOLD! A-” Michael shouted before interrupting himself with his own burst of laughter. Michael immediately started kicking and could feel a wobbly smile showing up on his lips. He could feel a pair of fingers tickling his side, and he couldn’t reach down and stop it thanks to the bunny’s bulgy arms! “HAHA! WAIT, WHAHAT?! NAHAHAHOHOHOHOHO!” Michael yelled, curling to his left to get his side away from the tickly, steel fingers. But the fingers only moved closer to the side and tickled it further, and there was only so far Michael could curl away from the touch. “HAHAhahahahahaha! Wahait! HEHEHE! YOHOHOU’RE TIHIHICKLIHING MEHEHEHEHEHE!” Michael laughed, shaking his head as he squirmed back and forth and bounced around.

Now, the fingers were moving down his side and started scratching the outside of his hip. Michael let out a surprised squeal and jolted upwards. Michael’s wobbly smile dropped in horror as he quickly tried using his arm muscles to pull his entire body up, to get away from the large tickly fingers. But the fingers followed his hip up and continued to scratch towards the inner hollow of his hip. This caused Michael to just drop his body and throw his head back with laughter. “BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” He bursted out, shaking his body back and forth helplessly.

It was right around here that the bunny decided to drill into not just the one, but BOTH hips at once! “JEEEEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! CUHUHUHUT IHIHIT OHOHOHUHUHUT!” Michael shouted.

The bunny suddenly stopped due to the reaction, and decided to change the man’s positioning. Michael was transferred to the left hand while the right hand started to explore the backside of him. The bunny’s index finger landed on Michael’s head first. The curious bunny grabbed the bill of the hat that was on his head, and lifted it up carefully.

“What are you- Give that back!” Michael ordered, reaching up for it. But the bunny was quick! Everytime Michael tried reaching for the hat, the bunny would tickle his armpits! “Give it back rihihight- Stop it! I need- EEEEK! That...ihis- Mihihihihihine! Cohohohome ohohohohon!” Michael laughed and giggled, dropping his arms and giving up after a few more attempts. With the hat now off his head, the bunny hung the hat onto its right broken ear and started messing with Michael’s hair. Everytime the hand would explore a new spot, Michael would flinch in surprise before just focusing on the big hand’s movements. Michael’s body was facing the hallway, so he couldn’t see where the moldy bunny’s hand was gonna go even if he tried. All he could hope for, is that the bunny would lose interest soon and drop him.

Michael was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts by a shivery, tickly long finger going right up his spine. “-aaAaAAH!” Michael yelped, straightening his back and pulling his arms into his chest. Then, as if the bunny actually knew this information, it brought its finger up the back and started scratching, before moving down and tickling the small of Michael’s back. “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAIT!” Michael bursted out loudly. He started bouncing around and squealing like a little kid, which sounded unbelievably similar to Michael’s squeals as a little kid when his back was touched. “HOHOHOW DID YOHOHOU KNOHOHOHOHOW?!” Michael asked, reaching behind his shoulder in an attempt to stop the bunny. To make matters worse, the bunny had added a second finger to the tickling and started scratching and massaging the many muscles surrounding the man’s spine. This led to cackles, intense squirming and fist-pounding against the bunny’s hand.

Finally, Michael pulled a quick body turn and grabbed onto the bunny’s fingers to stop the animatronic. Even as he held the bunny’s hand, Michael was still stuck in a giggle fit for a good 5 minutes or so. “Whahahat pahart of stahahahap dohohon’t yohohou uhuhunderstahahahahand?” Michael asked, slightly moving his back around as the phantom tickles still plagued him. “Hohohohow...hohohow...how-” Michael stuttered, trying to properly put his thoughts together. “How did you know my back was so ticklish?! The only people that know about that, is Uncle Henry and my family-” Michael’s confused face quickly turned to shock as theories started to click into his brain.

“...Wait-”

Michael opened up the jaw and looked at the purple skull once more. He tried to look for any facial resemblance to his family members. He tried matching up each family member’s face to the skull shape first. But the skull could have belonged to anyone in his family! Skulls were hard to use for identification without some clay and peg markers, and Michael would’ve known about the death sooner if it were one of his family members that died in the suit.

Unless...one of your family members had gone missing…

Michael’s eyes widened as he soon started putting small puzzle pieces together on what might’ve happened to his father. “...D-Dad?!” Michael muttered in disbelief. Is this him?! Is this really his Father? Trapped inside a suit with a metal endo-skeleton holding him together?! Now that he looked at the skull further, Michael could see the facial resemblance between his father and this undead corpse.

The corpse’s mouth gave Michael a slight toothy smile. “Hello Michael.” The corpse spoke to him.

Michael could feel tears welling up in his eyes. It sounded almost just like him. It was deep and soothing like his voice had always been, yet it was somewhat hoarse. It reminded him of the slight change in his voice whenever he would get sick with laryngitis. Maybe it was because his voice got messed up in the suit? Or maybe it was because of underuse? Michael couldn’t say. But all he understood now, was that this corpse sitting in a bunny suit might’ve belonged to his father.

“What...HAPPENED TO YOU?!” Michael asked loudly, unable to fathom how he got into the suit, let alone died in it.

“The spirits. They did this to me.” William explained. Wait...what?

“What spirits?” Michael asked, suspiciously.

“The spirits of the children began haunting me. I tried to hide in the suit, but the spring locks crushed me to death.” William explained in a grumpy voice.

Michael’s fear began to morph into bits of anger. He knew what William meant by ‘spirits of the children’. He looked at William with a hurt, yet angry expression. “The spirits of the children you killed.” Michael concluded through his teeth. It sounded like the ghosts of the kids he had killed, had finally cornered him into his much-needed death. If he’s going to steal the lives of 5 innocent children, he deserves to lose his own life too.

And yet, here he was: tickling him as if nothing had happened.

“Let me go.” Michael ordered.

William’s smile fell and his facial expression turned into anger. “No.”

Michael reached into his pocket and pulled a big piece of glass out of his pocket. “Let. Me. Go. Or I shove this glass right into your eyes.” Michael warned.

William and the bunny’s face got closer to Michael. He narrowed his eyes at Michael. “I liked you much better when you were laughing.” William shot back in a quieter, strict voice.

Michael’s frown grew deeper. “And I liked you much better when you were missing.” Michael shot back in a similar strict, angry tone.

Michael, sick of hearing his voice, shoved the glass shard right into his father’s larynx. William made a crackling shouting sound, as the shard cut and severed his vocal cords. Upon the sudden damage, William dropped Michael and felt his throat with his big steel hands.

“You BASTARD!” William shouted in his deep, broken voice. Michael began hyperventilating upon hearing that broken voice, and took off running down the hallway as soon as he could. He sprinted as quick as he could, similarly to his first attempted escape: body checking the hallway walls and not caring about any dangers he may run into. Right as Michael reached the glass floor again, Michael decided to try jumping over the glass and landing on the door. Michael ran for it, took a manly leap over the glass, and actually reached the door! But his landing was not exactly smooth. Though he experienced no pain from the adrenaline rush, Michael ended up stumbling and further ruining his ankle upon landing. Quickly, Michael ignored the pain and speed limped himself right out of the building and towards the car. He opened the door to his car, and quickly closed the door and locked it. He reached in his usual pocket for his keys, and widened his eyes when he realized they weren’t there! He checked his other pockets, quickly growing more and more anxious. They were missing! Michael looked at the Fazbear Fright building and let out an angered growl:

He dropped the freaking car keys in the building!

Michael gripped the steering wheel in frustration and leaned his head against the top of the steering wheel. He had no choice. If he wants to get home and forget all about this...

He’ll have to face his crooked father again.

I apologize for the rather abrupt ending to this fanfiction. Though it seems like Michael would be doomed to face his disgusting and apathetic father, he does end up getting his keys successfully before driving away from the abandoned building.

And P.S; Michael was the one who burned the building down.

[tigerdrop]

hey uh, any boner potions updates? or potion hcs in general?

i kind of lost interest in it but here ill show u the ~1k words i did before i got gripped by dogboy disease

The thing that one has to understand about Black Mesa is that, as a company, it’s got a plethora of diverse investments. Fingers in a lot of pies. It attracts the brightest minds from a variety of fields, theoretical physics and mixology among them. And, consequently, it falls upon those mixologists’ shoulders to formulate all kinds of new pharmaceuticals to suit those diverse investments. Potions to meet the needs of the modern man: Limb regeneration tinctures. Multi-surface cleaners. Erectile dysfunction treatments. The works, really.

As it happens, Dr. Darnold Pepper’s latest project falls under that last category. Say what you will about it, it’s good work, and there’s a staggering amount of money to be made if Black Mesa can corner the market. So he’s had his nose to the grindstone these past few months, devising experimental formulations and running clinical trials. He takes his job very seriously, and he hasn’t spent all those sleepless nights toiling at the lab for his work to be dismissed as mere boner potions, thank you.

His latest formula seems promising. Animal testing was a marked success, although Darnold has to admit, the last thing anyone wants to see is a horny headcrab. They’ve gotten the clear to move onto the first set of human clinical trials, and, to no one’s surprise, this round has quite a few takers. Part of it stems from the company culture - signs plastered across the Research and Development sector encourage employees to Do Their Part and Contribute To The Team by volunteering as participants in company-sponsored research. On the other hand, the larger part of it isn’t worth discussing in polite company.

This does, unfortunately, make things a bit awkward for him when his latest test subject is none other than one Dr. Tommy Coolatta. Darnold blinks as the man in question walks into his lab, smiling just the same as he always does.

“Ah, hey there, Tommy,” Darnold starts, clearing his throat. “You, uh, you lost? You gotta take a right at that three-way corridor. It can be awful confusing sometimes—”

“Nope! I’m— I’m right where the email told me I should be, I think. Here to do my part for Black Mesa!”

Darnold attempts to straighten the papers he’s got clutched in his hands, but ends up dropping most of them to the floor. He swears as he scrambles to pick them up. “Are you… are you sure you know what you signed up for? The new Powerade flavors were cycled out last week, we’re not running tests for those anymore. There was a— an unexpected side effect, you know, internal blistering, that kind of thing,” he asks from the floor.

“Yeah. I… I heard about that, it seems like a… a real debacle.”

“Huh. And you, uh, you made sure to read all the paperwork before you signed it, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Tommy blinks down at him as he clambers back to his feet.

“Right. Well. Good. You… you go and have a seat over there, alright? Let me get the sample prepared,” Darnold says, gesturing to an examination table. His mouth runs on autopilot, professionalism taking over his higher brain functions. “You’ll be taking 30 mils of our latest formula - about the size of one of those little cups of NyQuil. Now, ah, I can’t make any guarantees about the taste… we’re still refining the formula, though we’re going for a pineapple kind of thing. I’ll be asking for some feedback about the taste and texture.”

He rummages through the mini-fridge at his lab bench, and his hands shake so badly they make the glass vials inside rattle. Why is he even worked up like this? He’s a consummate professional. He’s run these trials time and time again, and managed to maintain a level of clinical distance from every other participant. The fact that Darnold’s, you know, friends with Tommy should have nothing to do with it. Neither should the less-than-professional thoughts he’s entertained about Tommy before. Tamp down those thoughts, he tells himself sternly. He’s done it successfully for the past few years, and he’s not about to compromise his results by thinking about how he’s about to give a medically-induced hard-on to a guy he’s dreamt of holding hands with and stroking the hair of and—

No. No more of that. When Darnold turns back to Tommy, vial in hand, his face is carefully blank. “It’ll take about ten minutes for this to kick in, assuming everything goes as expected. Unlike other drugs of this nature, you shouldn’t need to induce arousal yourself to feel noticeable effects. That’s the edge we’ve got over our competitors,” he rattles off.

“Oh. Neat. Should I, uh, is there anything else I need to do?” Tommy looks at him, clear-eyed and earnest, and Darnold clears his throat.

“Not really. Just sit still so I can observe you and ask some questions. I’ll be monitoring some of your vitals… temperature, blood pressure, that kind of thing.” He doles out Tommy’s dose into a plastic cup and hands it to him. This particular potion’s a murky reddish-purple in color, and it clings to the sides of the glass. The viscosity might be a problem for mass production, but for a batch process, it’s not much of an issue. Darnold makes a note on his clipboard.

Once Tommy downs it, there’s not much to do but sit and wait. Observe. Ask those questions. The flavor’s tangy, almost tart, but doesn’t quite hit those pineapple notes, apparently. Some of the natural flavors must have been degraded in the distillation process. Another note. Texture, “not bad”. Well. Darnold can work with that.

Around the ten-minute mark, Tommy’s face starts to flush, pink high in his cheeks. “Oh,” he starts, uncertain, “I think it’s starting to work!”

“Huh? Oh, good. Great. Right on time. Would you mind describing what you’re feeling right now?”

“It’s, uh, I’m feeling pretty hot under the collar… like it’s a spring morning… in Miami. I could really go for a— a Margarita Monday right now.” He laughs and rubs the back of his neck.

[afoolandathief]

Word find tag catch-up

Catching up on my tag games, so here we go -

I got a few tags and some of these excerpts are pretty long, so I'm putting these below the cut:

TWs for swearing, food and drink, alcohol, blood, needles, vomit, death and violence, mentions of sex, and a slight reference to body image:

Tagged by @thegreatobsesso to find shine, shade, trust, and life:

Shine

“You should try exercising, Caz,” she said, switching to her other arm. “You’re not going to stay young and thin forever.”

“Believe me, Amelia,” he replied from underneath the blanket. “My body is not going to change much for a very long time.”

“Well, it may help that you don’t eat anything.”

He poked his head out from the blanket.

“I eat,” he said.

“I never see you eating, Caz.”

He grinned.

“Well, I guess that’s because, when I’m with you, I’m only hungry for -”

“If you say you’re only hungry for me — or a certain part of my body — I’m going to kick you,” she cut in. “Anyway, I should be back in at most 30 minutes. Hopefully it’ll be sub-20.”

“Enjoy the sunshine,” he said, ducking back under the blanket and falling asleep.

Shade

“Juni,” Caz said weakly. “Didn’t think I’d see you again tonight. Back for more?”

“I’ve had my fill,” the prince said.

“You sure about that?”

“Where is it, you bloodsucker?” Juniper demanded while turning a shade of emerald.

“Um, where is what?”

“Don’t play dumb, it’s not that cute.” The prince gritted his teeth and continued, “Where is the armband?”

Trust

“You’re a vegetarian?” Jade asked.

“Yeah, always a little weird growing up on a farm and not eating meat, I suppose.”

“I don’t know why people would care, but then, I’m used to people with weird diets,” Jade swallowed. “Not that I think your diet is weird!”

Violet laughed her tinkling laugh again. “You’re fine.”

“Is it bad if I still order the chicken panini?”

“Not at all. Though I’m sure all those chickens that died might mind,” Violet stared at Jade.

Jade didn’t say anything for a moment. “Oh shit," she finally said. “You’re messing with me again.”

“Yup," Violet grinned. She handed Jade a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. “You want to try our mango juice with that? Grew the mangoes myself.”

“You’re messing with me again, you can’t grow mangoes here,” Jade said.

“I have a greenhouse.”

“Still, you couldn’t easily grow a mango tree.”

“Trust me, I can grow anything,” Violet said, her eyes flashing the same way they had the other night. She poured a pitcher of the bright orange liquid into a plastic cup and handed it to Jade.

Jade took a sip. “Good as always. Which reminds me, I still owe you for the lemonade.”

“Consider that paid for by keeping me company, if only for a short while. In fact, consider it the same today.”

Life

She turned her keys in the ignition. The engine sputtered, but refused to start.

“With double the pay, you could save up for a truck that’s not a piece of shit,” Caz retorted.

Jade turned the keys again, this time revving the gas until the engine roared to life.

“This is a good truck,” she said. “I just need new spark plugs.”

Tagged by @pertinax--loculos to find travel, needle, depth, weather and save:

Travel

Marie and Caz were huddled around a phonogram.

“I can’t believe you have a recording of Buddy Bolden,” Caz said. “I thought there were none left.”

“I managed to hold onto a few records after I left New Orleans,” Marie said.

“So you were in New Orleans right when jazz was taking off?” Caz asked. “Wow, I should’ve come to America a lot sooner than when I did. I didn’t get to New York until about 20 years after Bolden was around.”

“You were in New York during the heyday of jazz,” Marie said. “Not to mention where a lot of great minds were meeting then. I wish I had been there.”

“I figured you would have traveled there yourself.”

“Well, I stayed in Haiti for a bit after the revolution,” Marie said. “But I went to Florida to help the Seminoles in their fight a little while after, and then New Orleans. I just kept traveling around the south and west after that.”

“I’ve never been to Haiti, actually,” Caz remarked. “The closest was when I went to Cuba a few times for, uh, work reasons.”

“It’s a beautiful island,” Marie said. “I miss it a lot.”

“You grew up there?”

“I did.”

“How old are you exactly, if you mind me asking?”

“Just about 250 years old.”

“Ha! I’ve got you beat by about 350 years,” Caz said. He rubbed his neck, narrowly missing a hanging plant with his elbow. “Um, guess that’s not really something to brag about.”

“Well, you are blessed with being forever young,” Marie smiled softly. “Witches eventually do age, albeit slowly, myself included.”

“True,” Caz sighed.

Needle

“You’ll sleep upstairs with the other girls, but let’s get you outfitted first. I’m interested in trying a sample of you myself.”

Renner tied off her left elbow and began searching her arm for a vein.

Jade felt the sting of the needle and looked down to see it attached to a vial not too different than the one that had been sticking out of Arravich’s arm in the hospital. Renner attached a long winding tube to it, placing the end of it in a wine glass. He pushed down on the vial, sending a dark red stream through the tube into the glass.

“Just a small amount, Renner,” Valfierno said. “I don’t want to overindulge.”

He began to take a sip just as a knock was heard at the door.

“Go ahead, Renner, I’m curious to see who would be at our door at this hour.”

Renner opened the door to reveal a shocked-looking Caz.

Depth

“What was up with you and that one kid, anyway?”

Jade realized Caz was talking to her.

“Who, Matt?” she asked.

“I mean, he was alright to look at, but,” Caz paused to hiccup. “He had the depth of a — what do you call it in English? — ah, right, the depth of a tide pool.”

Jade tried to track Caz in the mirror, but he had leaned down to slurp loudly from Derek’s neck.

“I just figured,” he continued, getting up to lean against Jade’s seat like he was maneuvering on a ship at sea. “That you preferred someone with a little more class and maturity.”

He proceeded to belch almost directly in Jade’s ear.

“‘Scuse me,” he said in a swinging tone. Then, as if realizing the irony, he burst into high-pitched laughter as he fell back into his seat.

“What is wrong with you?” Jade snapped. She wrinkled her nose at the acetone scent on Caz’s breath. “Are you — are you drunk?”

“No, I’m just,” Caz paused long enough to answer Jade’s question. “I’m just a little bit buzzed.”

Weather

In his six-hundred-and-seventeenth year of being on this earth, Casimir Jozef Mraz had come to a realization.

He was absolutely, hopelessly in love.

Of course, Caz fell in love at least once every decade. But this time was different, he thought, as he lay in bed, not used to trying to sleep at night. It had to be; he couldn’t find a damned thing wrong with this girl, even her name.

Amelia.

It was old-fashioned, and he liked that. Speaking it felt warm and familiar on his lips.

Lying next to him, Amelia’s eyelids fluttered for a moment, before going still as her breathing evened out and she fell even deeper into sleep. Caz heard her heartbeat slow to steady rhythm.

He leaned closer, cradling his arm around her, taking care not to catch the gold strands of hair that seemed to change texture with the weather, curling up in wiry spirals.

Caz watched a shadow falling across her ski-jump nose twist and morph as she shifted slightly. She looked almost like porcelain now, blue veins painted on her neck and chest like delft tile. She sighed again in her sleep.

So many people he had been with had wound up dead or forgotten over the years. Caz was determined this time would be different.

Save

Jade had gotten herself lost in a thought, again.

Usually this occurred when she was at her kitchen table, trying to piece together a spell; or when she took apart her laptop so it no longer sounded like a jet engine. It wasn’t supposed to involve Jade charging forward into the next room of a crowded party, ignoring all instincts to run outside and take a deep breath of cool night air.

Maybe it was hearing that someone else could get hurt. But that didn’t make any sense. Don’t try to save the world. Just focus on the next step in surviving. That was what she lived by.

No, she realized. For the first time in a long while, Jade was actually afraid.

Tagged by @diphthongsfordays to find space, scream, soft and scare:

Space

He jumped to his feet and ran towards the space between Jade and the alleyway.

Then he was falling to his knees and dry heaving.

“What the hell?” he gasped. He looked around at a circle of white surrounding him, a series of sigils carved into it by Jade’s knife. “What is this?”

“Table salt,” she said. “Combined with a few wards. Vampires are pretty susceptible to threshold magic, aren’t they?”

Caz choked back some bile and rose unsteadily to his feet.

Scream

“Lila, you seem to have calmed down a bit,” Caz said, stroking an ear larger than his hand.

He held the wolf back by the nape of her neck and leaned towards the other vampire.

“Sai cosa, Giuseppe? Non avevi torto riguardo alla tua supposizione,” he said, a small, wicked smile playing on his lips.

He released his grip on Lila.

“Ma devi capire quanto fosse stupido ferirla se mi sentivo in quel modo.”

Caz walked away from the alley, a strange and familiar feeling of satisfaction growing in the pit of his stomach as he heard Valfierno’s screams behind him increase in pitch and desperation. It was a sensation he hadn’t come across in years, and it felt good. He looked up at the full yellow moon and grinned, his teeth flashing in the light.

Soft

She looked up at Violet.

“Do you think we could each carry one of them?”

“If you can maintain a levitation spell for the whole length of the walk back,” she replied. “But your arm looks pretty bad, Jade.”

“Hmm,” Jade furrowed her brow. “I vote we leave Amelia.”

“No,” Caz whined softly into the stone. “Don’t leave my girlfriend behind.”

“Caz you’re currently bleeding out from where she carved into you. I don’t think she’s your girlfriend anymore.”

Scare

She was getting closer to him. Caz could smell that scrape still bleeding from her wrist. He was already faint from hunger. He needed to get her out of here.

The best method, he decided, was to scare her.

“So what if I am?” he asked, before smiling his widest and sharpest smile. “And if I am, may I remind you you’re currently backed into a corner by someone much stronger and faster than you, Jade?”

Mistake. You made a mistake, you fool.

He knew it as soon as the words left his lips. Don’t ever piss off a witch. His left ankle left the ground first, carried upward by a root looping around it, followed by his right.

Tagging, if you'd like: @drippingmoon, @authortango, @author-a-holmes, @avian-writes & @faelanvance to find calm, lake, ivory & estimate.