#jesse.writes

“I don’t give tours to just anybody,” Michael commented when you stopped to take a closer look at the animatronics on stage after he introduced each one by name to you.

Smiling to yourself, you responded in a light-hearted manner while staring at Bonnie’s bright green eyes, “Aw, I must be really special, then!”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, “You are.”

It was the earnestness with which Michael delivered those words that caught you off-guard.

Your relationship was still pretty fresh. You were happy with him. But that made you all the more afraid of losing him, so you constantly tried to downplay his importance to you; and even more so how you might be just as important to him. Moments like these, in which either of you acknowledged the ever strengthening bond between you and him, felt especially grave because of it.

Turning around to face him, you saw the corners of his mouth twitch ever so slightly. He wore a tight smile. Apparently, the gravity of those words wasn’t lost on him, either.

With one step, you closed the distance between you two. You raised your hand to cup his cheek in it, feeling him flinch momentarily upon your touch, but he soon leaned into your palm. The slight stubble on his cheek pricked your skin. It was a sensation you came to love in the time you’ve been with Michael.

You pressed your lips against Michael’s. It was just a peck, but you could feel him relax under your hand all the same.

“You’re just as special to me,” you told him softly.

In response to your words, Michael’s cheeks heated up. You could feel it under your palm, smiling slightly.

He cleared his throat and took a step back, while you let your arm fall back against your side, the warmth of his cheek and the feeling of his stubble pricking your skin still lingering.

“I’m not done showing you around yet,” Michael smiled, turning his back to you when he walked off the stage. He looked back at you, “Shall we?”

Giving the animatronics one last look, you followed after Michael.

He led you down the hall to Kids Cove, explaining the “take-apart, put-back-together” attraction that eventually turned Foxy into an unrecognisable mess of wrongly put together animatronic parts. When Michael talked about it, mentioning how heartless kids could be, he seemed especially emotional about it. The way he’s been talking about the pizzeria let you think that he probably spent a lot of his childhood there. Maybe he liked the activity with Foxy and hated that other children ruined it for him.

You didn’t ask about it, though. In the short time you’ve been with Michael, you learned that he quickly shut down if you asked him personal questions. It was better to just let him talk if he felt like it. He would tell you whatever he was ready to share with you, then.

At the end of the tour, you found yourself behind Michael’s desk in his office. Although, office might have been the wrong word, you thought. There weren’t even any doors. It was just a desk at the end of a long hallway that led directly into the main area of the pizzeria.

“What kind of weirdo designed this office space?” you asked jokingly, letting your eyes wander across the expanse of the hallway, vents, desk, computer, and telephone.

Michael let out a short, awkward laugh, shrugging slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you noticed that he wanted to, and that he seemed strangely nervous. If the latter was due to what he might have wanted to say or not, you couldn’t tell. It could have also been the proximity of your bodies, you mused.

He was leaning against his desk, half-sitting on top of it. You were standing between his legs, wanting to be close to him. Sometimes, when you stood as closely to him as you did then, he would soon change positions again and put some distance between you and him. It seemed to often make him uncomfortable to let you into his personal space, but that was why you cherished those other times when he wouldn’t move an inch away from you.

“Do you want me to step back?” you asked gently, just wanting to make sure that you weren’t causing him any discomfort when his moods were already so unpredictable most of the time.

Michael shook his head quickly. His hands settled on your waist, then, as though to emphasise his response.

Feeling encouraged by this, you loosely wrapped your arms around Michael’s shoulders and neck. Then, you leaned into him to peck his lips a few more times, simply enjoying the proximity and being with him. His hands tightened around your waist, keeping you close to him. Your bodies were touching; chests, bellies, and lower. You smiled against his lips, kissing him again. Michael reciprocated, keeping one hand on your waist, holding on tightly, while his other palm stroked your back. Up and down, travelling further down, until it settled on your ass.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you deepened the kiss, pushing your tongue into his mouth and eliciting a groan from him as well. Driven by the heated arousal of making out with Michael, you rubbed your crotch against his, feeling his growing erection through both of your clothes. Bucking his hips, Michael whined, grabbing onto your buttock and pushing you further against him almost desperately.

Your hands roamed over his back, up and down, to his shoulders, his neck, into his hair, where you lightly tugged on it, nipping his lower lip when he moaned before resuming the kiss. Keeping one hand in his hair, your other palm settled on his hip, stroking and squeezing, all while you continued rubbing your crotch against his. The movement of his hips became more erratic, more desperate.

Until, just a few moments later, he stilled completely.

His moans came out staccato. He was panting. You could feel his chest rise and fall in quick succession. And you could feel him twitch against you ever so slightly, holding tightly onto you, like you were his lifeline.

Breaking the kiss, you leaned back just enough to get a good look at Michael. His eyes were squeezed shut and his cheeks have taken on a deep red tint.

Soothingly, you combed your fingers through his hair. You took a step back from him, staying between his legs, but your bodies weren’t touching anywhere except for where your hands were still holding onto each other. Arousal continued to course through your body like a wildfire; Michael’s quick orgasm was like an accelerant to it. Nonetheless, you decided that you would wait.

You took a steadying breath, feeling overwhelmed. “You should probably clean yourself up,” you suggested gently to Michael, “or you’ll feel uncomfortable for the rest of your shift,” you added light-heartedly.

Michael opened his eyes to look at you when you started talking. Shame and embarrassment was written all over his face.

In response, you gave him a warm smile, “Don’t worry about it, okay? I thought it was really hot, actually.”

For a long moment, Michael just stared at you, seemingly trying to gauge if you were being honest. He visibly relaxed once he seemed to find what he was looking for in you. His shoulders slumped and he let out a soft sigh, which turned into another short, awkward laugh.

Letting go of you, Michael adjusted his jeans, grimacing as he did. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured and hurried down the hallway to the bathroom.

Throughout the years, Michael has gotten into the habit of treating himself to a nice, full meal at Sparky’s Diner every Friday night before his shift at Freddy’s. He noticed every little change there through those weekly visits; ingredients, prices, decorations, and especially staff members.

A few months ago, he took note of a new server at the diner.

You caught Michael’s attention immediately the first time he’d seen you. He couldn’t look away. Even long after you had taken and brought his order, and tended to other guests, his eyes stayed on you.

While his Friday night plans at Sparky’s Diner were always something he’s looked forward to, he has never felt more excited about going anywhere than when you had started working there. He was even inclined to disrupt his routine and go to the diner more often, then; but he couldn’t really afford that, so he hasn’t risked it just yet. Although, he thought that a simple black coffee during a quiet afternoon couldn’t hurt, he hasn’t found the courage to actually follow through, thus far. Michael felt like something horrible would happen if he didn’t do the exact same things every day the way he’s always done them.

It has already upset him greatly several times when he went to the diner on those Friday nights and you weren’t there. He knew that shifts changed, or you could get sick, or you needed to switch with somebody else on short notice; but he had gotten so used to your presence and how it anchored him, so that he couldn’t help but feel terribly tense and angry for the rest of the night, distracting him during his own work shift.

He even went so far as to not leave a tip to the waiter that served him those few Fridays you weren’t present. He only ever left a tip for you. Five dollars, every Friday you served him. He couldn’t afford more than that, but your appreciation for those five dollars made it seem like it was a hundred. Your whole face lit up with it every time and he could swear his heart doubled in size in response. He couldn’t get enough of the sparkle in your eyes and the bright smile you gave him in thanks. He couldn’t get enough of the fact that he was the reason for it and how it made him feel. He chased that high every week.

Over time, Michael became more and more attached to you, or rather the image of who you were that he created in his mind. He took note of every little thing about you, like the way you moved, what made you smile or frown, what elicited a laugh from you – which was a sound he tried to burn into his memory to find comfort in on his darkest days – and how you behaved around different people, always adjusting yourself to others’ needs or expectations.

It was the fact that you always treated him with kindness and a warm smile on your lips that turned his initial curiosity and interest in you into this intense attachment, something akin to love – to Michael, at least.

And he so hoped that it meant something to you, as well, that you weren’t just pretending with him, that you were so kind to him because you liked him, too.

A few more Friday nights passed until he finally gathered all his courage to ask you what’s been burning on his tongue for weeks, no, months, at that point.

When Michael paid you for his meal – tipping you fifty dollars this time, after having put some money from working over-time aside – he grabbed your wrist before you could fully turn around to leave.

“Would you go on a date with me, Y/N?” Michael asked quickly and bluntly, smiling nervously at you.

For a few long moments you simply stared at him, blinking slowly. Had you not understood his question?

He opened his mouth to repeat himself, refusing to just let it slide when he finally managed to ask you out at all, but you answered before he could ask again.

“We don’t even know each other,” you responded with a confused look in your eyes. He hated to see that directed at him. You knew each other well enough by then, he thought. Wasn’t his liking toward you obvious to you?

“Isn’t that what dates are usually for? Getting to know each other?” Michael retorted with a tight smile. He has actually never been on a date before, but from what he’s picked up from books, movies, TV, and what other people always talked about, the purpose of dates was to get to know somebody.

“I mean… yeah, sure. You’re not wrong about that,” you mused quietly, pulling your arm out of his loose grip around your wrist. He already missed feeling your skin against his.

There was a charged silence between you two while you were staring at the floor in thought, fidgeting with the dollar bills in your hands. The diner was quiet. It was near closing time, like every Friday when he would show up, and every other guest has already left while he was still eating.

Michael felt like a little boy again, waiting for your eventual rejection; the same way he’d always waited for his father’s approval that would never come, until he was only bracing for more rejection, more harm, more abuse directed at him.

“Okay,” you told him, “let’s go on a date.” A small, but warm smile decorated your face.

As soon as your answer registered to Michael, a wide, toothy grin spread his lips. It hurt a little because he wasn’t used to smiling like that; especially not genuinely, but it felt good. His cheeks and chest felt warm. He wasn’t used to that, either. But he already couldn’t get enough of feeling like this. It was much more pleasant than the hot-and-cold kind of prickling pressure he usually felt throughout his body ever since he’d been a small child.

“Great! You won’t regret it,” Michael responded with excitement as he got up from his seat in the booth. You took a small step back when he did, but your smile didn’t falter, which he thought was a good sign, “I’m free tomorrow.”

“Me, too,” you nodded shortly, “I know a good place we could have dinner at. 6 pm?”

Michael’s heart skipped a beat or two when you made suggestions for the date yourself, assuring him that you actually wanted this, too, and that you weren’t just being polite.

He quickly agreed to your plans and you gave him an address for the restaurant you had in mind, after which you had to ask him to leave the diner because it was closing for the night. He didn’t even realise how much time had passed.

Michael’s mind was still reeling throughout his work shift. He couldn’t believe it just yet. It was almost too easy.

When he returned home from work, he couldn’t sleep. He barely slept at all anyway; usually because of constant nightmares. But this time, it was his excitement for the date that kept him awake. He felt nauseous with anticipation and fear.

He was convinced that you had people lining up to date you, that you had been on many dates before, that you were experienced and knew exactly what you wanted. And he couldn’t possibly compare to that, not even a little bit.

Would you laugh at him for his inexperience? Would you realise that he wasn’t at all who you would normally date? Would you realise that he wasn’t normal, that he was insecure, that he constantly felt like the lonely boy he grew up as, that he was hiding in his father’s shadows, that he was deeply jealous of his sister, but loved and admired her all the same?

Eventually, he couldn’t take it any longer and focused on finding a good outfit for the date, something from his closet that he had saved for special occasions. In the end, he chose just a simple eggplant-coloured button-down shirt and some black slacks. He usually didn’t wear anything beside his many polo shirts and jeans. It was a nice change for him.

On his way to the restaurant, his heart beat rapidly in his chest, feeling like it would escape his ribcage before he even had a real chance to meet you. His palms were clammy. He kept rubbing them against his pants to get rid of the cold sweat, but it didn’t seem to work.

Deep down, Michael was terrified that you wouldn’t show up for your date.

He was half an hour early, standing in front of the restaurant, constantly looking around and desperately hoping that you would come. And while he was waiting for you, he kept running his hands over his button-down shirt, making sure there weren’t any wrinkles in it, doing the same with his slacks, and his hair, which was neatly combed and tucked behind his ears, just like he always did. He wasn’t so sure that it was a good idea. But he had never dared to stray from what he was used to.

Fifteen minutes later, he finally caught a glimpse of you.

Smiling nervously and rubbing his hands over his pants one last time to dry them, Michael closed the distance between you two, “You actually came!”

You let out a small, surprised laugh. His heart skipped a beat again. He loved that sound.

“What? You thought I wouldn’t?” you asked with a crooked smile, seemingly not offended by it.

“I thought you were just trying to be nice when you said yes to the date,” Michael responded earnestly, unsure if it was the right thing to say, but it was too late to take it back.

“My friend warned me not to go, but… I won’t know if I don’t try, right?” you shrugged, giving him one of those small, warm smiles he’s gotten so attached to seeing from you. It distracted him from the sting to his heart the part about your friend caused. He wondered if your friends would become a problem in the future if he should be lucky enough to go on more dates with you after this.

“Shall we?” Michael asked instead, gesturing to the restaurant’s door, which he held open for you to go through after you agreed to going inside. “You look great,” he told you quietly when you passed by him, feeling his cheeks grow hot with it.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you responded with another small smile, and he could swear that his heart was about to burst out of his chest right then and there.

He just had to have you to himself, no matter what the date would bring. He would have to convince you that you were meant to be together if you didn’t see it right away.

Michael was kneeling on the hardwood floor of his bedroom. His pants were open, and his underwear was pulled down just enough to take his growing erection into his hand.

A photo he had taken of you was lying on the floor between his knees.

It was a photo Michael had taken when you were ordering a drink at Sparky’s. He had taken it from outside the diner, crouching behind a nearby bush in the dark, so he wouldn’t be caught.

Michael developed this and other photos he had taken of you as quickly as possible afterwards. Some of them didn’t come out well, but the one he had on the floor was the best one he had taken recently. He would find a chance to take more, and even better ones.

Most of your backside could be seen on the photo, but your head was turned to the side, and your upper body was halfway turned to that same side, all facing in the direction of his camera. It was the most perfect angle to capture so many details of you in one shot. Although, he would have preferred if your face was looking straight-ahead, but he didn’t get a chance to try again. Not yet, at least.

Nonetheless, Michael could make out the curve of your lips, and he knew what they looked like from the front. His mind could do the rest. And it did.

Spitting into his hand, Michael spread it over his cock’s head and down to the base, lessening some of the friction from his palm as he rubbed himself to full hardness. He imagined those lips of yours wrapped around his cock, suckling on the tip, while in reality his hand was squeezing around it periodically, mimicking what he imagined it to feel like if it was your mouth instead. It elicited a small whining sound from him. He was so sensitive.

With his other hand, Michael stroked over his stomach, up to his chest, his shirt riding up with it. He was brushing his fingers over his nipples and letting out a shuddering breath that turned into a moan. He twisted his left nipple while tightening his right hand around the head of his cock, imagining that it was your hands and mouth on him, desperately wanting it to be true.

All the while, he was staring at this photo of you, as though he could will your presence in his room and on his body into existence if he just looked hard and long enough. You probably didn’t even know he existed; and even if you did, you wouldn’t be interested in him, he was sure of it.

That was why he continued to admire you from afar instead of asking you out. That was why he fantasised with photos he had secretly taken of you instead of trying to make it a reality. He’s been around long enough to know that he never had a chance with you or anyone else. He’s been called a freak and a creep often enough to know that he would always be that to others, no matter how hard he tried to better himself. It just wasn’t for him.

Pumping his cock faster, Michael’s breathing picked up in pace and heaviness with it. He was close already. He could feel the tightness in his thighs and abdomen, the heat coursing throughout his body, the sweat beading on his brow, his clothes clinging to him and feeling too tight and too warm.

He wished that he could have you, that he could be the person you would want to be with, that he could stop hiding in the shadows to be close to you, that he could just be normal.

In his mind, he pictured your smile that was never directed at him in reality. But in his fantasies, he was the reason for your smile, your laugh, your excitement, your every emotion. In his mind, he was everything to you, just like you were everything to him in reality.

Continuing to stare at the photo of you, scanning his eyes over your entire body—studying it—before focusing on your lips again, Michael’s hand on his cock became quicker, twisting around the head tightly each time he reached it, doing the same to his nipples, stroking over them and twisting them. He was panting, the sweat on his brow started dripping, his body felt hotter with every second that passed.

Pathetic-sounding moans escaped his lips. He bit his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, as though that would stop the sounds from coming; but they continued. He whined. He opened his mouth, moaned, panted, while continuing to imagine your lips, tongue, and hands on him in place of his own hands, bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

Picking up the pace once more, despite his muscles screaming at him to slow down, Michael came.

He bent over with the force of his orgasm, squeezing his eyes shut. His body convulsed, trembling and twitching as his muscles contracted and released. He could barely breathe, whining and moaning brokenly. Milky ropes of his hot, sticky cum shot out of his cock and landed on the photograph of you, painting it with his release.

When he started to calm down, he slowly blinked his eyes open to look at the photo again. A wave of embarrassment washed over him at the sight of the mess he’s made; but alongside it bubbled up a strange satisfaction. It was like he’s marked you as his with this. You would never know it, of course, but the thought alone thrilled him.

Michael considered letting his cum dry on the photograph and hiding it in his bedside drawer for future masturbation sessions. Perhaps he would even add more photos to the collection, all for this purpose. His cock twitched at the mere notion of it. He could get rid of them at any time, after all.

Whenever Vanessa has had a rough day, you’d only know by the way her shoulders never relaxed and the crease between her eyebrows stayed there, whether or not she was smiling at you. She didn’t like talking about it, let alone be openly in a bad mood.

You didn’t know too much about her past, but you knew that she grew up with an abusive father. That was all she had told you, though. And abuse could take many forms, you didn’t want to assume. Maybe one day she’d feel ready to tell you more, but that was entirely up to her. You would never pressure her into sharing more than she felt comfortable with.

For the time being, you got used to silently supporting her when she needed it. Navigating that without upsetting her further was difficult at first, but you got the hang of it eventually. It was all about noticing the smallest shift in her body language and facial expressions, the tiniest ways her muscles would relax when you said or did just the right thing for her that helped her feel safe. You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t fill you with pride to be able to help her relax and feel better after a particularly rough day, whether it was work-related or not.

Vanessa let herself fall into her usual seat on the couch with a heavy sigh, throwing her head back against the backrest, her shoulders tense, a deep crease between her eyebrows, her eyes closed, and her mouth set in a thin line. She took a few deep breaths before opening her eyes and attempting to smile at you, only for it to look forced.

“Not a good day?” you asked softly, putting your hand in her silky hair and stroking it ever so gently. You fixed her with an equally gentle gaze, a small, compassionate smile on your lips.

She shook her head ever so slightly, her strained display of being okay wavering and failing, as she relaxed into your hand at the side of her head. Over time, you learned that she loved to have her hair played with in every way. It wasn’t something she would just let anybody do, though. And it was a privilege you didn’t take lightly.

“I don’t know if I can go back to Spin Class,” she murmured after a few more beats of comfortable silence.

“Why not?” You frowned, but kept stroking her hair while you talked to keep her feeling safe. “I thought you loved it there. Even made some friends.”

Another heavy sigh pushed past her lips. Vanessa sat up a little straighter, moving her head away from your gentle hand, which you let fall onto the backrest. It was better to not force any physical contact with her, then.

“I did. But…,” she paused, hesitating as she opened and closed her mouth a few times before shaking her head, looking frustrated with herself, “never mind.”

Every time she stopped herself from actually telling you what was wrong, your heart broke a little. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust you, you knew that. And it didn’t hurt because you desperately wanted to know; although that was part of it. It hurt because you could tell that she wanted to talk about it, but couldn’t get it past whatever blockage was inside her mind, which told her that she would be in immediate danger if she did.

“Do you want to be left alone right now?” you asked after giving her some time to say more if she decided to, but she didn’t. You accompanied the question with another gentle smile to let her know that you only meant well.

“No,” Vanessa responded while her gaze was softening just looking at you, “I just want to feel normal.”

That was all she had to say for you both to know what she needed and wanted most at that time – to get out of her head.

Thus, you soon found yourself lying on your back on the couch with Vanessa on top of you, straddling your head as she rubbed her wet cunt against your chin, lips, and tongue. Her right hand was holding onto the couch’s backrest for support while her left hand grabbed the top of your head, holding you in place for her to use as she pleased. Your own hands were stroking all over her body, her thighs, her ass, her waist, her breasts.

Her pleasure-filled moans were like music to your ears. Her eyes were closed and the crease between her eyebrows remained, but now it was mostly due to focusing on her pleasure, rather than whatever had upset her that day.

You loved looking at Vanessa while she was on top of you like this, grinding down on the lower half of your face. The way her blonde hair swung freely with the movement of her entire body, how concentrated she was with chasing her orgasm through you, how her deep red lips were spit-slick and slightly swollen from making out heavily before she got on top of you, how her mouth hung slightly open and all those sweet noises got past those pretty lips, how her cheeks reddened and her brow was decorated with a thin sheen of sweat, how her breasts moved along with the rest of her body, bouncing in rhythm with her hips, how her nipples took on the same colour as her lips after you twisted them between your thumbs and index-fingers, while you’ve been kissing her breathless earlier, and how the scar on her abdomen, that she never told you the truth about before, was constantly in your line of sight, making you aware of a story of survival you didn’t really know about yet, but admired her for all the same.

All of those things you loved about her simply displayed for your eyes to feast on, while she was able to escape her own mind with your help. You wouldn’t change it for the world. You’d lay there and let her use you like that forever if you could.

“Y/N! Ah, I’m close,” she moaned, doubling her efforts as her thighs around your face and the hand on your head tightened with them.

Groaning affirmatively in answer, you grabbed one of her breasts with one hand and held onto her waist more tightly with the other, keeping her steady on top of you. Your thumb found her scar, though, just like it always did, lightly stroking over it. And you, too, doubled your own efforts as you flicked your tongue against her clit more insistently then.

Your nose was buried in her pubic hair, breathing in her scent constantly and feeling dizzy with how much you loved it, feeling it on your cheeks and lips. By then, you couldn’t taste and smell anything that wasn’t her anymore and it drove you wild with need.

Eventually, Vanessa’s moans became shorter and higher, coming out in bursts in the rhythm of her hips, until she ground down on your tongue, lips, and chin in tiny circling motions, while her orgasm finally ripped through her body, tearing long, pleasure-filled moans from her. She kept at it for a few more moments, riding it all out until the stimulation on her clit became too much and she lifted her body off of you, hovering over your head with trembling thighs and a heaving chest.

Breathing heavily, she opened her eyes to look at you and a genuine smile stretched her lips wide immediately.

Vanessa shuffled down a little until she was lying on top of you and her lower body rested on yours, so she could hold herself up more easily. Her hands found your chest, stroking gently over it, as she continued to smile at you. Her breathing calmed down slowly and so did your own.

Grinning at Vanessa, you put your hand back into her hair once again that night and played with it. Chuckling softly, she leaned into your hand for a moment before moving her head forward to catch your lips in a much less heated kiss then. You were sure that she could only taste herself on your lips, but she clearly didn’t mind it when she simply kept pecking your lips over and over again, still smiling slightly.

The lower half of your face was slick with her juices, you could feel them drying and cooling down. You were still feeling hot all over, needing her, wanting pleasure, wanting her, loving her. You would never tire of it, couldn’t possibly.

For the moment, though, you were already satisfied by the fact that the tension in her shoulders was gone, such as the crease between her eyebrows. Her face was smooth and relaxed, her whole body was. And that was all that truly mattered to you. Wrapping your arm around her waist, you pulled her closer to you, almost like you were trying to fuse your bodies together. She breathed out a soft laugh, stopping the sweet kisses to burrow her head into your neck, inhaling your scent, and sighing lightly, sounding relieved.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, pressing a gentle kiss against the side of your neck. “I’ll return the favour in a minute, I promise.”

He was watching silently as those kids continued to tear off Foxy’s limbs and put them back somewhere else, if at all. Poor Foxy, who looked worse for wear every day since the pizzeria has opened its doors. Poor Foxy, who looked more and more how Michael has been feeling inside all this time; alienated, sickly, out of place, wrongly put together. Broken.

Somewhere among all the chaos, he could sometimes hear his sister's voice. And every single time that sound reached his ears, Michael could feel his jealousy of Vanessa tightening its grip around his heart. He wished he could be more like her, that he could at least talk to others more easily and make friends, that he could fit in even a little, that their father would look at him with a fraction of the pride he directed at Vanessa all the time. But no matter how hard he tried, it never worked.

A particular rough sounding crunch, when a kid ripped out Foxy's already wrongly put in leg, made Michael cringe and cover his ears, averting his gaze from the mess. Sometimes, his need to stay in Kids Cove and watch Foxy felt like a self-punishment. Every time he thought those kids couldn't make it any worse, they proved him wrong. And every time, his entire body seized with it, as though he was the one whose limbs were ripped out and put back.

Michael wondered if he was the only one who thought it was cruel, if only he could see and feel how much pain Foxy was in, if only he found those kids to be heartless monsters for it. He wished he could make them feel what he felt. Even for a moment. Just to see if they would care. Deep down, he knew they wouldn't.

Parents called for their kids to come eat, and suddenly Michael was alone in Kids Cove. It wouldn't be for long, he knew. But he took the little time he had to get off the floor and walk over to Foxy.

As gently as possible, Michael pulled out the wrongly put limbs from Foxy's mangled body and clicked them back into their respective places, mumbling words of comfort all the while. When he was done, he let his hand glide over the cold, hard casing of the animatronic's head, petting it.

The car’s passenger door was slammed shut on you, making you jump with the force behind it. A shaky breath left your trembling lips as you waited for Cooper to settle in the driver’s seat of his wife’s car. Soon to be ex-wife, you figured. If not a widow. 

Your mind was still reeling with the night’s events. One moment, you’d been giving your best for the concert, like you always did, and the next moment, you were stuck with a wanted serial killer because you decided to play hero. Desperately, you hoped it would all be worth it, in the end. Or else this might have been the stupidest decision you’ve ever made. You should have just alerted the FBI when you got the hunch that something was up with the man, you berated yourself internally. 

“Put these around your wrists,” the Butcher told you gruffly, holding up a pair of zip ties to you. 

Stunned, you just looked at him for a long moment, your mind trying to catch up with what he was asking of you. Everything has been happening too fast. Too much, all at once. And worst of all, you were terrified. Yet at the same time, you felt for him. He was a desperate man. Trapped. Cornered. In a way, you were his last resort now. How ironic.

Cooper gave you a stern look, his dishevelled hair covering parts of the upper half of his face, but the fierce glint of desperation and murder in his eyes shone through the brunette strands. 

“Put. These. Around. Your. Wrists,” he commanded again through clenched teeth, shoving the zip ties into your chest, as your hands automatically flew up to catch them.

Shakily, you nodded and put your hands through the loop. Once the zip ties were around your wrists, the Butcher pulled them tight, the thin hard plastic cutting into your skin, rubbing it raw with every small movement. 

As soon as he was certain that your hands were tied, Cooper started the car’s engine and quickly exited the garage and driveway. In the distance, you could hear police sirens on their way to the house you had just left behind. Too late. 

“If only you hadn’t decided to play hero,” Cooper mused with a strained, almost manic, smile on his lips, “None of this had to have happened, you know? I would have let you go.”

“And let you kill more innocent people? I couldn’t bear the guilt, knowing I could have prevented it,” you responded quietly.

“As if you actually care about random people’s lives more than your own. You’re just as fake as they all are. Pretending that you’ve got it all figured out, that you’re fulfilled.” He sounded bitter, angry, spitting those last words in your direction, like your existence has personally offended him. His grip around the steering wheel tightened, turning his knuckles white. 

Not wanting to anger him any further, you decided to stay quiet; even though you had a million things on your mind that you would have liked to retort. 

The FBI had briefed you on what kind of man they figured him to be. A psychological profile, they called it. You had heard about those on TV before, but it always seemed silly to you. How could they possibly know what was going on inside a person’s mind without having ever met them before? With all conclusions based on evidence from crime scenes instead? It didn’t make sense to you.

Until now, that was. Cooper seemed like the exact man the FBI had described to you. Perfect on the outside, an overachieving family man, unassuming, kind, always happy and ready to lend a hand. And beneath all of that, on the inside, there was a hurt child, craving their parents’ love and approval, but never getting it. Now, he let that anger that had manifested out on people he deemed to have had it all, to have what he was missing all his life. 

Deep down, you felt bad for him. If his parents had been different, perhaps there would be one less killer on the loose. Or perhaps, he would have ended up this way, no matter the circumstances of his upbringing. Who was to say that killers like him were only a product of abuse? 

After what felt like an eternity, he pulled into another driveway, getting out of the car. His footsteps were quick and heavy, and your heart was sinking in response to those sounds. 

Ripping the passenger door open, he leaned down to look at you, grabbed your bound wrists and jerked your body in his direction, forcing you out of your seat. Stumbling out of the car, you almost bumped into him, your head barely reaching his shoulder. He really was massive. You stood no chance against him, you thought, feeling defeated. This was it, then. 

Cooper bent over and quickly picked up the bag he had taken with him from the garage, before slamming the door shut once more. And just like he had done before, the Butcher put his fingers on your shoulder, verbally giving you directions for where he wanted you to go, while keeping a dominating presence behind you, not allowing you a real chance to escape.

Eventually, you found yourself in a basement, not unlike the one Spencer, who was hopefully safe now, had been stuck in before. 

The Butcher pushed you down to sit on the cold hard chair in the middle of the room, a support beam right behind it. He made quick work of putting the ice-cold steel chains and cuffs around your wrists and ankles, snapping off the zip ties at last. 

Looking up at him from where you were seated, the sinking feeling of hopelessness creeped in. There was no way you were getting out of this alive. 

Cooper retrieved a cleaver from his bag and pulled out another chair, placing it across from you and sitting down on it, playing with the knife in his hands. He looked at you for a long moment, not saying anything, just breathing calmly, idly stroking the knife’s handle with his thumb of the hand that was holding it. With his other hand, he brushed the loose strands of hair away from his face.

Once again, he was smiling at you. A smile that never reached his eyes, which glinted with murderous intent and something else that you couldn’t quite place. His smile was too big, too sharp, to be genuine. It seemed manic and desperate. Strained. And at the same time, he looked to be in complete control over the situation. 

Cooper Abbott was a man of many facades, you came to realise. 

“I was gonna stop, you know?” he finally spoke up, the tense silence broken by his voice that was laced with too many emotions at once, giving away that he didn’t feel as in control as he seemed to be. 

You waited for him to continue, not daring to ask questions.

“It’s been a while since I last felt the urge. Until you, tonight. I don’t know if it was because of everything that happened, or because I could see right through you… but it was an almost pleasant surprise to feel the urge again.

“Spencer was gonna be my last. That was the plan. Go to the concert with Riley, kill Spencer from the comfort of my home, sneak out hours later, making up some kind of lie of having to work an extra shift because of an emergency, chop him up, dispose of his body and any evidence, return home, and pretend like nothing had happened,” Cooper explained his initial plan for tonight like he was talking about something completely normal, like a family vacation he was planning instead. It was eerie, but somewhat intriguing to you. 

“And then, with time, I would have cleaned out all the houses I had bought to keep my two lives safely apart. I could have been a regular husband, father, and firefighter in just a couple of weeks, maybe months. And no one would have been any wiser on what I had done for all those years that the Butcher was active. It was the perfect plan,” he finished with a frustrated sigh, brushing his hair away from his face again with more force than was necessary. You could hear the steady, but sharp, tapping of his fingers against the cleaver’s wooden handle.

There was a long, tense moment of silence.

You almost felt the urge to apologise for ruining his plans.

“Why did you decide to stop?” you asked, unable to contain your genuine curiosity any longer.

Strangely enough, Cooper’s smile softened, his face relaxed and his eyes lost some of the fierceness in them. “Because I thought that I had finally done enough. The urge had lessened over the years, like I said, I didn’t feel it for a while until tonight. I was just doing it out of routine at this point, I think. Believe it or not, it was fun. And I wasn’t ready to give that up for a while.”

“What changed?” 

“I did… My children changed me. Riley and Logan are everything to me. And I was trying my hardest to be the dad they deserved to have. The one that they needed. A loving, fun, and especially involved, dad. I didn’t want them to feel like I did growing up,” Cooper explained in a wistful tone, “It all started out as just another way to keep suspicions away from me. Starting a family with Rachel seemed like the perfect cover. Nobody would ever suspect that a true family man could be a messed up serial killer, right?”

Despite your current situation, you felt your heart flutter. You understood where he was coming from, and you wished things had gone differently for him. But most of all, you wished that he wasn’t what he was.

“I didn’t expect to actually enjoy fatherhood, or to love my kids the way I do,” he continued after a short pause, still in that oddly wistful tone, a harsh contrast to the entire situation and his true being, “It’s so strange… With everything that happened tonight, I’m just enraged. But I’m less angry about having been found out at all. I’m mostly angry because I’m never going to see my children again.”

This time, you couldn’t resist the urge, and so you whispered, “I’m sorry,” like it was somehow your fault, when in reality, it was his decision to murder people in the first place.

Letting out a long sigh that ended in a small, insincere chuckle, Cooper got up from his chair, meat cleaver in his hand, towering over you like this inescapable force that he was to you. 

With practised ease, he took his shirt off and threw it over the chair behind himself. You had no idea why he would do that. Easier clean-up, maybe? With regret, you realised that you didn’t hate the sight. He was an attractive man, there was no question about that. But to feel such attraction, despite your current predicament, was nothing short of confusing and embarrassing to you. 

“You don’t have to do this, Cooper,” you whispered, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

“I wish that was true, but… there’s no escape. Not anymore. I might as well have fun one last time,” he told you quietly with that eerie smile that did nothing to hide his intentions. It only emphasised them now. 

Feeling your heart rate accelerate, your stomach sank with the realisation that this would be it for you. 

It only took two steps for him to stand right in front of and above your seated, captured, cowering form. Before you could utter another plea, Cooper’s free hand wrapped around your throat, almost covering the entire thing with his large palm as his fingers gripped onto your jaw, moving your head further back as he bent down, leaning into you.

A small noise escaped your throat, sounding both distressed and almost aroused. You had no control over that, and it felt utterly humiliating to have made such a sound in response to his actions. 

The Butcher chuckled darkly, a sharp smile playing on his lips, and a glint of intrigue in his eyes. 

“I think I’m gonna enjoy this a lot more than expected…” he whispered into your ear, his hot breath tickling your sensitive skin. 

“Please don’t…” you tried again, weakly, your voice strained from the weight of his hand against your windpipe. 

As you struggled to breathe, and his hand only tightened around your neck, your vision started to blur both due to panic and the lack of oxygen. Darkly, in the back of your fuzzy mind, you thought that at least you’d go out with a handsome face as the last thing you'd see. 

Faintly, in the far distance, you heard police sirens. Or maybe your mind was playing tricks on you.

You were Francoise's roommate, so you never had to officially come out to Isaac. He knew that you had to have been born a girl to be sharing a room with his sister, and he also understood that you didn't identify as female once Francoise told him about you and kept using neutral and even male pronouns for you. He wasn't stupid, after all. Nor was he uneducated on those specific matters. So, he had a good guess about your identity before even formally meeting you.

It wasn't until you started getting a lot closer that he even cared to ask about your exact situation, wanting to hear it from yourself, now that he found you interesting enough to learn more.

While it wasn't the most comfortable topic of conversation for you at the best of times, telling Isaac about how you realised you were trans, and what your plans for the future were in terms of transitioning, was actually rather refreshing. He didn't ask the usual uncomfortable questions, nor did he make you feel like he was questioning your identity. He was just genuinely interested in your specific story and what it all meant for you.

It wasn't surprising to you that the medical aspect of your transition was the most fascinating to him, though. He asked a lot of questions about the way testosterone would affect you and the possible surgeries, some of which you couldn't even really answer at that time.

Isaac didn't completely understand the concept of gender dysphoria and euphoria at first, until he actually witnessed both with you when you started transitioning medically years after you both graduated from Nevermore.

It was the way you gained this light in your eyes and bounce in your step during your first few months on testosterone, so excited for the changes to come as you started to feel more comfortable in your own skin just because you were finally on your way to adjusting your outside to your inner world. Isaac understood, then.

Being with you actually made him reflect on his own identity for a bit to learn what it meant for him to be male and to fully grasp the idea of body and soul working as one, which was something he'd actively tried to tune out after his clockwork heart had been put in, the constant ticking having been a reminder of what he'd been through and what he could achieve by himself.

Thus, he didn't want to dwell on his once betraying body for much longer after that. His mind and his right hand, which allowed his DaVinci abilities, were ever the most important parts of himself that he cared about, up to that point when he learned that maybe a harmonising body and mind could unlock even more potential within himself.

And while Isaac thought to have understood gender dysphoria long before euphoria, he didn't realise just how bad it could be for you until you had been on testosterone for a year and a half, didn't have your period for a whole year at that point, only to suddenly be forced to experience it all over again. The distress you were in caught him off guard, at first. He wasn't used to it from you, not like this. And there was nothing he could do to make you feel better, other than to wait it out with you and hope that it was a one-time thing. It wasn't.

Your doctors failed to help you get answers for what was happening to your body and why; especially when it turned out that your testosterone levels were much too high for you to logically experience any bleeding. Even an ultrasound wouldn't provide any explanation.

Thankfully, your menstruation stopped after a couple of times of having had it again; but the damage was done, and it caused a lot of anxiety within you even months later without another incident. You couldn't fully relax and trust that there wasn't going to be another bleed.

That wasn't the only problem you faced, though. Even after you've been on testosterone for over two years, not much had changed. Your initial euphoria had long died down, making way for waves upon waves of frustration and dysphoria. Your voice wouldn't drop, your body wouldn't masculinise. If it wasn't for your steadily increasing body hair and typically male testosterone levels, you'd be convinced that you were taking a placebo instead.

You knew that bodily changes were different for everyone, that some took longer than others, and that nothing was truly predictable about what would change when. But your doctors were confused, too, and didn't know what was wrong, why your body wasn't adjusting the way it was supposed to after so much time on HRT already. It only made you feel worse, like you were all alone with these issues and that you would never experience the transiton you had always dreamed of and told Isaac about while you were both still in school.

Isaac took pride in always finding a solution to every problem you could imagine with his inventions. But he, too, was stumped by this. That didn't keep him from trying, of course. He designed medicines and machines, all in the hopes that they would help your transition along, but nothing worked. Sometimes already in theory, though more often in practice when he dared to subject you to his newest ideas. You were desperate enough to let him try anything on you; to the point where even Isaac had to take a step back and stop experimenting on you any further out of fear of losing you.

Your desperation and ever worsening state of mind were what truly made him understand that gender dysphoria wasn't only extremely real, but painful and vicious, too. It would often come in waves. He knew that you usually struggled in silence and simply tried to ignore those thoughts and feelings gnawing at you, but as strong as you were, you had your limits like everybody else.