I remembered I had some sketches for Lucifer, Mammons and Levi’s new demon forms and decided to finish them starting with Lucifer’s.
I do really like his new demon forms, like how the team has more and more tried to make him wear more blue since that’s the actual color that represents pride I’m pretty sure and I do like the peacock elements… though they aren’t visible In my drawing oof- I just hate how complex and hard for my little brain it is to comprehend the design… but I still like it.
I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should-
it’s because i have to start at either 30 minutes past the hour, or on the hour otherwise i wont be motivated. even a minute past 30 and i gotta wait another 29 minutes before my task can start
moody clearing out her drafts ? it's more likely than you think
i will be working on slowly clearing out my drafts starting today and will try to keep a schedule of doing so. i have works in there that are over 2 years old !!! thats ridiculous on my part tbh (partially bc i get writers block SO easy and SO severely) but im excited to finally have my writing spirit back !!! weirdly enough what got me out of my funk was getting back into fnaf and wanting to try my hand at as gut wrenching a story as possible as well as trying to write some body horror :3 ive also got an asmo fic and a lucifer fic that have both been in drafts for ages that i'd like to get finished and posted since the new obey me app has had my brain in hyperdrive ! i believe i'm going to frame these too during post-RAD like the new game will be ... or if i want to keep them in HOL ... idk yet. anyway, it's been a hot minute since i've rambled on here ! ive really missed writing and interacting with my moots so im gonna try to keep myself motivated and on task !
summary | THE LOGS WERE ROUTINE. THE NOISES WEREN’T. JUNE 1993 — COMPOSITE ASSEMBLY BEGINS.
In the summer of 1993, twenty-year-old Ethan Price took a night job as a technician at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. His maintenance logs were meant to track malfunctions and power drains. A week later, he was gone … All that came home was a box — his uniform, a notebook, and a single human tooth sealed in plastic. Now his mother reads the pages he left behind, trying to understand what happened inside that building. Each entry hums with static, each line pulling her deeper into the dark where machinery learns to breathe.
a/n | cross posted on ao3 | chapter three coming soon
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June 4 1993
First night. Place is smaller than the flyer photo. Half the bulbs are dead and the carpet smells like fryer oil soaked into glue. Supervisor handed me a ring of keys and said, “You’ll get used to the smell.” Didn’t look up once. He left before I finished signing the papers.
Started at back hall maintenance panel. Fuses old but intact. Voltage a little uneven; surge whenever both office doors are powered. Need to note that for the morning tech.
Kitchen: temperature sensors off by five degrees. One of the cooks said the ovens “breathe” when the lights flicker. Probably vent pressure. Still, when I leaned near the vent I swear I heard something like a low whistle. Fan, maybe.
Bonnie: right arm keeps locking when it raises. Cleaned the joint, added more lubricant, but the grind’s still there. Might be the belt. Might need a full servo swap but doubt we have spares.
Chica: head tracks motion a second too late; almost like she’s thinking about it first. Optics fine. Smelled faintly like singed wire when she turned.
Foxy: curtain pinged once even though the air vents are dead quiet. Probably HVAC vibration. Checked HVAC; steady.
Freddy: optics bright, movement smooth. He plays the closing jingle exactly on schedule with no prompt from me. Eyes stay lit for a few seconds after the music stops. Probably residual charge in the circuit. Still felt like he was watching even when the lids closed.
Signed the log sheet by the office door. The name above mine is scratched out. Could’ve said Murray. Supervisor said the last tech “left mid-shift” and smiled when he said it. Didn’t ask why, but it stuck with me.
Stage area: lights dimmed twice off-schedule while I was in west hall. Breaker didn’t trip. Put a hand on the conduit. Warm. Not hot. Warm like a body. Heard faint static through my headset at the same time; thought it was feedback but the power board read clean.
Storage room: found two spare heads, one with cracked jaw servo. The mouth kept opening on its own after I unplugged it. Slow, like breathing. Set it face-down and locked the cabinet.
The flashlight they issued rattles when I shake it. Probably a loose battery or screw. Will open it tomorrow if I remember. The beam stutters once every few minutes—same rhythm as the stage lights, come to think of it.
End of shift checklist finished at 12:31 A.M.
The “Toreador” jingle kept looping after the main switch throw. Low volume, tinny, like it was bleeding through from somewhere else instead of the speakers. I waited for it to stop. It didn’t.
Walking to my car, I could still hear it through the lot fence. Thought it was in my head until the car radio caught the same tune for half a second, just a note, then static.
summary | THE LOGS WERE ROUTINE. THE NOISES WEREN’T. JUNE 1993 — COMPOSITE ASSEMBLY BEGINS.
In the summer of 1993, twenty-year-old Ethan Price took a night job as a technician at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. His maintenance logs were meant to track malfunctions and power drains. A week later, he was gone … All that came home was a box — his uniform, a notebook, and a single human tooth sealed in plastic. Now his mother reads the pages he left behind, trying to understand what happened inside that building. Each entry hums with static, each line pulling her deeper into the dark where machinery learns to breathe.
a/n | cross posted on ao3 | chapter two here
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The box lands on my kitchen table with a dull, civic kind of thud, like the closing of a filing cabinet. Far too heavy for what it holds. The sound travels through the stacked dishes on the lazy susan and they tremble against one another. The cardboard is soft at the seams, taped twice, the corners rounded by rain or time or mishandling. I read the return label, a neat rectangular certainty, until the letters blur:
FAZBEAR ENTERTAINMENT INC.
Blue letters, corporate font. Far too formal, indifferent.
I use the scissors we keep for wrapping paper, the ones always hiding in the junk drawer. The tape splits apart in a slow shriek. The sound is too loud for my home. For a moment I remember the last time I used these scissors. It was December and Ethan wanted the metallic wrapping paper for everybody’s gifts that year. He said we would tell the youngins of the family it was robot skin. I told him it was creepy. He laughed anyway.
Inside: two uniforms, heaps of cloth, no attempt to even fold them and make them presentable. Whoever packed them couldn’t give my son that bit of respect. There’s grease stiff in the fabric like old scabs, even his sweat stains. A cracked plastic badge — E. PRICE — his smile caught forever between two pieces of laminate, shifted slightly off-center. A flashlight that rattles when I shake it, a small wrench with teeth marks on the rubber grip, and the pair of work gloves I bought him for his new job.
The smell comes up in a soft wave. Oil, hot dust, something metallic but fairly sweet that resonates in the senses. It’s the smell of a hidden heartbeat. My kitchen should smell of coffee and dish soap, the way any kitchen should.
Beneath the shirts, pressed flat, lies a spiral notebook. The cover is a worn and tired blue, buckled from moisture, edges darkened. Almost as if someone tried to dry it under a heater. There are faint arc-shaped dents on the cover. I know these marks. I’ve seen them on his school notebooks, on the knee pads he used when he fixed the lawn mower, on the grocery list he over-engineered into three columns.
I lift it, gently, like any sudden movements will cause the remnants of him to leave me too. But something slides out and clicks against wood in a small tap.
A tiny plastic bag. Clear.
Inside it: a human tooth. Small. White-yellow and indecent in its nakedness.
I don’t touch it. I don’t breathe for a beat too long. It lies there, fogging slightly at one corner as if something warm were trapped inside and craved an escape. Human teeth look wrong when they’re not in a mouth. Too small. Too private. They look like secrets the body is meant to keep.
For a long moment I wait for some kind of paperwork to appear before me, or be hidden, tucked beneath something. An evidence tag or a number sticker, a red line that says Do Not Return To Family.
There isn’t. But it is here. In my kitchen. Amongst my son’s shirts and dirty gloves, as natural as frost in summer.
At first my mind tries to minimize. A button from a shirt. A bead from a bracelet. The light peering in between the drapes makes it shine and then dulls it as the clouds cross. My body knows before I can even form the words. Tooth. A human tooth. The words have weight. They sit heavy behind my eyes.
On the porch, the wind nudges the wind chimes into a single, off-key note. The fridge rumbles into a new cycle and the floor vibrates barely. The house is full of old, familiar noises and now each one sounds like it’s pretending to be something else.
I set the bag gently back into the box. On top of the shirts like it’s the most fragile thing I own. I pull some fabric over top of it, arrange it so it cradles the plastic. The gesture feels ridiculous and necessary. The badge stares up at me. I drag my attention away gently and fold the flaps shut, soft and respectful, as if the cardboard were like a blanket pulled to a sleeping chin. The sound it makes is a kind of sigh. I tell myself I’ll call them in the morning, tell them there’s been a mistake. Someone else’s belongings are amongst my sons. Maybe someone will phone me and say I should bring it back. Maybe I’ll call the police. I tell myself this. I tell myself a lot of things I would like to believe and each one slides off the surface of me like oil on water.
The notebook stays in my hands.
I carry it the way you do a baby when it’s finally fallen asleep; spine cupped, cover supported, my thumb anchoring the corner so the weight doesn’t tip over and spill. The metal spiral is cool to the temperature of the room, the cover warm where my palms are. The paper has a slight give that tells you it’s been well used. I press the edge of the pages to my ear, because it is a thing mothers do to impossible objects: we try to hear life inside them, our children’s lives. I swear I can hear the faintest hiss. It is the refrigerator, it is the air vent, it is the highway down the block. It is memory. It is a hum that climbs the ladders of my ribs.
It smells like him. Ink. Cheap cologne from the drugstore that I was barely able to afford. Shampoo that he always bought on sale. Underneath it all, the metallic sweetness of a place that cooks and cools and presses and releases even when no one is there to see it.
The kitchen still looks like a kitchen, even with the intruding box that feels like a bomb. Fruit bowl with apples and a lemon that’s almost a fossil. The stack of mail under a cat-shaped magnet. Beside it is another magnet, a souvenir from our trip to an amusement park. It’s a photo of us on the tallest ride they had. I didn’t want to go but I couldn’t say no to his excitement. Under it, A note for a dentist appointment that I will now cancel, because how could I not. Sunlight lays bars across the room through the blinds, bar after bar after bar, thin shadows that look like chains on my hands.
I take the notebook to the couch, it remembers me and makes a hollow that fits my back. I tuck my feet under me like I’m smaller. Light pools on the carpet at my ankles. The clock over the stove says 9:14 p.m. and means nothing at all. The fridge next to it kicks on, a bass-note thrum that rises to a steady. For a second I swear the notebook answers. I tip my head, listening. I feel my gut churn once more.
I open the notebook with both hands, slow and delicate as if still a baby. The first page sticks to the cover and lets go with a breathy sigh. His handwriting looks steadier than grief should allow: straight lines, tidy numbers, the little engineer’s neatness that stayed in his hand even when he wrote a grocery list and put washers next to milk and whole screws next to bread.
June 4, 1993. The loop of the 9 is exactly the loop he made when he was ten, doing math on this same coffee table, tongue between his teeth, making me check every answer even though he already knew. The date sits there like a door. I am scared to open it but I must.
I don’t read it yet. I just look at it the way you look at a sleeping face to make sure the chest still lifts. I skim with the hunger of someone starved: the shape of his S, the way his lowercase g dips too low. The ink has a shine at the stronger strokes, the indents where he pressed harder to begin a sentence. There’s a faint indentation from where his hand rested. A smear where his wrist must have passed and dragged a letter into the next one. Each mark is a small survival. I put my thumb on the bottom corner of the page and feel the paper whisper against paper. The sound is soft enough to be a secret.
I think about the last time he wore one of those uniforms. The shirt didn’t fit right and he said it was because the cut was weird, not because he’d lost weight in the weeks of finals. He tugged at the hem like a teenager and then made fun of himself for doing it. He put the badge on and left it slightly crooked and said, “Don’t tell me,” and I hadn’t. I let him out the door with a kiss on the cheek and a reminder to call if he was too tired to drive home. He said, “You worry like it’s your job,” and I said, “It is,” and he said, “I’m making it easier,” and smiled like a lie that didn’t want to hurt anyone.
The notebook is warm against my knees. The couch has begun to hold a little of my heat and the air around me feels colder for it. The chime out front stirs again. One note. The same note. The fridge goes still just long enough for the quiet to remind me what quiet is.
I lay my hand across the open page. My palm covers June and part of 4 and the first upstroke of 1993. The paper is cool on my skin and then warmer. My hand is a measure. My hand is a promise I’m not sure I can keep. I breathe and the page breathes with me because everything in this house will breathe if I ask it to.
“Ethan?” I say, and it is a ridiculous thing to say to paper, and I am a ridiculous person with a notebook in her lap and a plastic bag with a tooth inside in a box on my kitchen table.
I think about the small box of baby teeth somewhere in the hall closet, the tiny lidded container with a cartoon bear on top that says TOOTH FAIRY in cheap gold paint. I put each tooth in it over years like I was adding pebbles to a jar to measure a boy becoming a man. I saved them because you save what falls off your child if you’re a person like me. The idea that a tooth could go missing and find its way into a place that smells like this—into a plastic bag that could be anything at all and is instead itself—makes my body draw inward around the places it is soft.
I think of all the things I would have told him if I had known: don’t stick your hand where you can’t see it; if something looks at you, look away; if music plays after it should have stopped, leave. Take off the uniform and come home and we can throw it in the trash together and I will buy you any shirt you want as long as it doesn’t smell like this. We will make eggs at three in the morning and laugh because we are both tired and too old for this and too young for this, and he will say, “Mom,” in that way he did when he was half scolding and half hugging me with his voice.
I lay my palm across the page, gentle, like checking a fever.
A cat is a small creature in the middle of the food chain that is fully aware that you are a very large thing that could stomp its head in at any moment and yet it chooses to rest its tiny little head on your leg for a nap and spreads out on the floor near you exposing its belly and its most sensitive organs. It brings dead mice and bugs to you to share food.
Don’t you get it? This tiny thing trusts you. It wants to help you too. It licks your leg thinking that it’s helping. It kneads on you to find comfort. It shares its body warmth with you in the cold and gives you your space in the heat. It hisses at other mammals it sees outside including other cats in an effort to protect its family.
Cats love you so so much. But they will keep trying to eat plastic.
It's always "oh, Lucifer is mean" this and "Lucifer is just a dick" that, but my guy, if I had to be in charge of 6 brothers' nonsense and make sure they aren't killing themselves or each other 24-7 on top of my day job AND running a household no one wants to help me with while also shouldering the burden of family secrets and being at the beck and call of a prince to whom I owe a debt for, again, my family, I would be the biggest bitch in the universe.
BTW when you encounter a character and think "What's this guy's fucking problem?" that's your body trying to give you an out before you fall into obsession.
