@bravevolunteer liked for a starter!

"C'mon, please! If you draw my character for me I'll do your chores for a week!"

security guards leaving freddy's at 6am like

@florietiae asked: ❝ non - verbal / action prompts. patch, sender patches up receiver's wounds. jason & mike! ❞ ( actions speak louder than words )

He wouldn't look at Jason. His gaze was instead focused up and left on a particularly interesting spot where wall met ceiling. Eyebrows were drawn into a hint of a V, all while the nasty cut on his hand was dealt with. "I can deal with it myself," hadn't been a suitable answer, it seemed. His free fingers picked at a hole in his old, worn jeans—cut out himself, now twice the size it had started. He wasn't even sure if he was embarrassed or just not used to this kind of care. Or physical contact. He hadn't been patched up by someone since he was sixteen, an oasis in the middle of desert, one mercy granted from his father during a moment of panic. Before that, nothing since twelve. First, resistant. Then? Undeserving.

"How many times do I have to say it's not that big of a deal?" He flexed his hand under the touch, well accustomed to ignoring the sting of disinfectant. His expression didn't so much as twitch. "Believe me, I've had my tetanus shots."

@mute-call ( plotted starter! )

A bulb in the sign above the diner flickered in the dulling light of early evening. Michael was sitting on the curb across from the restaurant, heels scraping against the pavement and forearms rested over knees. He was was supposed to be inside watching his younger siblings, what with his father's inability to focus on them or maintain a marriage.

Steven's presence was a good excuse to escape. ( Not that he had been particularly present for either sibling prior to Steven showing up. )

"We should get out of here before someone notices I'm missing." Either out of Henry's actual concern for Elizabeth and Evan or because his father had some new, exciting design to show him. "Come on." He pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his jeans. He offered a hand to help Steven up, sullen expression finally lightening into something that held a smile. "Come up with something for us to do, I'm out of ideas." His time with his other friends was often reckless and fast-paced, but he could admit ( if only to himself ) that he enjoyed slowing down and enjoying his time spent with Steven.

"Not the arcade, though. I'm sick of arcade games." His choice of distraction during long days at Fredbear's Family Diner. "Think fast—" and here he flashed Steven a grin, "—or I'll come up with something." Something stupidly risky, most likely.

"The only silver lining to this is that I'll be dead someday."

@slaughterlocked liked for a short starter from Michael.

He was hovering in the doorway, hand on frame as he watched his father work for a moment longer. Then: "Are you ever coming out of here?"

@florietiae asked: ❝ really, if you wanted i’d go punch him for you. / rae @ mike! ❞

A laugh escaped him—genuine, if short and a little taken aback. He glanced over his shoulder at Rachel from where he was leaning the wall. ( Had been sulking a little. ) "Only if you promise you'll hit him square in the nose." Bust up that perfect mask he always wore so tightly in public.

But then a sigh. "No, trust me. It's not worth it." He'd never hear the end of the complaining at home, temper filling the barren house. Not remotely worth it. He paused, then pushed off the wall. "It's got to be more subtle. Come on."

@trapton liked for a short starter from Michael.

He skirted his father's desk, fingertips brushing over the papers he needed but not yet taking them. "I'm just trying to get my work done, then I'll be out of your hair." Expression near unreadable.

@avemaria liked for a starter for Elizabeth!

"I think for once you've just got to accept that I'm right about this."

@runeians ( continued from here )

He was nothing like his father. He was exactly like his father. Two facts intertwined, both true and false. Schrödinger's monster / son / victim. He hated it all—the literal and figurative blood passed down, inheritance in veins and on hands. Hating the very flesh he lived in, ever now more as he begun to face the realities of his father. ( It wasn't time. The burning, the hollowed husk would come later. Now he was just a mediocre security guard in a ghost-filled restaurant. Freeing the souls came then. He was only learning about their existence now. )

Her response shut him up, mouth clamped and jaw tight. The light shining from his flashlight wobbling, then clattering to the tiled floor as glass shattered. Stumbling away several steps, hands instinctively grasping at ears. ( It would be years before he stopped flinching, before the only thing that struck fear into him was his father's shambling corpse. ) Now, he was scared. Petrified, trembling like a child.

He deserved it. The fear and the words directed his way. His own special dose of irony.

What clawed its way out of his mouth wasn't easily identifiable to him—desperation and rage and remorse and grief combining into a voice ragged, tired, and loud all at once. "I don't want redemption!" God, he meant it. And here he made the promise that would haunt him for decades upon decades, eternity hanging over his head without him knowing it: "I'll do anything to stop this." The murders, the hauntings, the trails of blood that led directly back to the Afton family. "He can't keep getting away with this."

He didn't know that he'd be heard out, but the words rang true enough to steady him a bit. Flashlight snatched back up, he took a long, shaky breath. "I don't expect you to believe me." Either of you—because he knew. Knew if there was another, it had to be his brother. But he couldn't ask, couldn't hear it confirmed. Couldn't know that he had inadvertently followed another one of his father's sins, beyond even murder.