thequack

You can call me Cat :) 18+, she/her, i love fnaf i LOOOVE JEREMIKE

[thequackest]

hey guys you mightve noticed i redid my primary blog - if you were here for COD requests, follow modernquackfare and i'll be opening them up again soon :))

for anyone new -- welcome to my main blog! I'm super into fnaf, michael afton and jeremy fitzgerald <3 which you'll be seeing a lot of sometime soon :D

[pyr0nie]

the colonel 👑

[faziiku]

do you think they could redeem multiple steak and cheese melts with several fake IDs

[pearlescentparade]

Hey Weiner. woudl you write me hans/henry smut for monies .😁😁cheese

-thequack akaME

..... how much are we talking ALSO YOU DOFN NEED TO FKING SIGN URSELF OFF IZY UR NOT ANON FUCKIN STUUUUPIIIIDDDDDDDD

[thequackest]

IDK HOW MUCH DO U CHARGE . HOW DO I INVEST

-the quack (aka ME!)

[mostsurrealusername]

"my mother said she cant see us here!"

"what has hector ever done to me?"

[camiene]

the best part of believe is the lie - winged m. staff / tkp. fineliner

bittersweet, established relationship, lots of narrative winged m. staff belongs to @pearlescentparade!

wing has a dream of his own. and as with most dreams, it's a manifestation of his own desires. so why is fineliner here? wk: 5.3k a/n: at the end!

it's a later shift than usual. or well, wing's shifts always ran late. but this one in particular has him dragging through endless meetings and detours. he knows they're all important and vital to what he's working towards, but it becomes overwhelming when it's thrown all at once. the chatter, the countless hours of running all around crossroads for interviews and such—it's tiring. 

he supposes he should be grateful that days like these aren't difficult, just tedious. he isn't getting mauled to death and talking to demons is second nature. it's easy, he knows that. he could do it while unconscious. he can’t wait to go home and run a bath. maybe try the new shampoo he bought yesterday too. 

he tries to remember what scent he bought, but a coworker taps his shoulder. 

"hey, wing! how's about i take over patrolling? i think i could use the experience." 

"hm..." he blinks slowly. his fatigue is getting worse. "i'm not sure about that. i could get in trouble. the warden specified that i should patrol this area." 

"aww...c'mon wing. i'll take the blame if you do. i just... haven't had a chance to put myself out there yet. i wanna help out too, you know?"

"is that so?" wing chuckles. he can respect rookies wanting to put in the work instead of slacking off. "well, i suppose it's alright. call me immediately if anything's off."

"really! okay, wow, i didn't think you'd actually... okay! i got it. you sit here and relax, i'll be back in an hour! see ya!"

"be safe..." wing sighs, and leans his back against the wall. 

maybe he’s been the one slacking off, he thinks to himself. he feels his body grow restless, and his brain can’t seem to comprehend what goes on during meetings. and despite the warden’s efforts, he feels more and more on edge about his office life. 

wing heard one time that sleep has to do with it. that he’s just not getting enough of it. he can agree with that. demons have been saying that he looks sicker, and maybe a bit thinner. he really should take care of himself. 

but it’s so hard when he’s just so busy. being an investigator really isn’t the flashy and easy job to have like it is in movies or shows. sometimes wing wishes it was. it’s really more of slow and tedious labor that has… occasional flashy parts. perhaps that part was obvious. 

although, if the rookie is taking over his part of the shift, he has nothing to do. wing really shouldn’t have even agreed to it. he knows he’ll get scolded for it in the long run, maybe even restricted because of it. he could get stuck in doing paperwork forever and ever, or only host meetings that nobody really listens to. a fate worse than death. it’d mean boredom for life.

being that bored on the job, he yawns, would just irritate him. the winged magical staff is a strong gear that challenges those who oppose justice. he shouldn't be behind a cubicle with documents and stationery. the warden would hear of his complaints on the daily. 

or something like that. he’s getting antsy about a hypothetical that wouldn’t happen. it’s probably just his tiredness that’s weighing him down. if that coworker was going to be back in an hour… a quick nap wouldn't hurt.

wing blinks his eyes open. what a ridiculous thought. he can’t sleep on the job. he has to find something to do in the mean time. walk around, splash his face with some water. what if someone snuck up on him and took him out? that’s a disaster waiting to happen.

he thinks all of that, but his body refuses to follow. it feels so comfortable against the cold bricks, and his clothes are all too warm. it’s akin to his bed at home, where he’d be cozy under a thick blanket and soft pillows. 

it wouldn’t hurt. he bites his lip. he’ll wake up in five minutes. all he needs is five minutes.

five minutes.

five… minutes.

five…

wing forces his eyes open and he’s met with the door to his bedroom. it’s made out of wood, and has no hints of the brick wall he was just leaning against. there’s no sign of concrete either, and the flooring fits the description of a house rather than the streets of crossroads. his house, to be exact.

he rubs the inner corners of his eyes just to make sure. maybe he somehow got dropped off at home because he was doing such a lousy job. or maybe the warden was finally fed up with him and fired him on the spot. wing hopes that either reality isn’t true. 

his hand inches towards the door knob and presses his fingers against the brass. or at least, that's what's supposed to happen. despite the clear initiation of contact, wing does not feel his fingers touch the door at all, and instead feels as if they slip right through. 

that can't be right, he thinks to himself. sure, he's a blind demon and terrain can be hard to make out, but he's not stupid. this is his own house. he knows the layout of everything quite well.

wing tries again and again to clasp his hand around the metal more firmly within each attempt. gripping it, twisting it, fighting against it, only for the result to be the same. his fingertips go through it like smoke and his efforts die the same way. 

strange. frustrating. like a case he couldn't figure out, but was so easy on paper to understand. he knows he's clearly touching the door. what else would he be doing for the past few minutes if not touching the stubborn door?

he tests it again by slowly lifting up his finger, and pokes at the knob. it's hard to make out, but there's a motion blur that drags in the air, like the world is lagging behind him. he does it a few more times to confirm, and the delay becomes obvious. 

the same delay is there when he taps his foot on the flooring of his house, and the way his stands becomes rocky. it's there when he feels how oddly fluid his wallpaper is. it's there when he pats down his own sweater vest and the usually soft fabric feels like nothing but air. 

it's not a matter of lacking vision or his body playing tricks on him. it's the door. it's this house. 

before he can think of how that can realistically make sense, the door suddenly shifts from being barely concrete to... almost reaching out to him. reaching out to tell him something. to turn his heel and give up on the door entirely. do not try to provoke it, do not open it. do not look back. 

it's only then that an actual noise comes out of wing. he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

this is a dream.

doors don’t “tell” anybody anything, nor do doors become magically invisible on impact. it’s nonsense, and he should’ve came to that conclusion a lot sooner. he hates to agree, but a lack of sleep really does affect the brain. only now does he wish he was a biograft of some sort. it’d be easier that way. running on engine and software instead of hours upon hours of sleep. 

it’s out of annoyance, but wing grips tightly onto whatever embodiment of a doorknob there is and forces it to twist. no dream of his is going to restrict him more than he already does to himself, and if so, it’s definitely not going to be because of some door.

he shoves his shoulder against the door and twists it open with a click or two. after the third, the door surprisingly comes undone and he stumbles into his bedroom. with how long he was struggling with the door, he almost forgot what was behind it.

see, it wasn't that hard. all he had to do was take a bit of control within his own dream and things will go his way. in comparison to all of his real assignments and missions, this minor inconvenience was nothing. 

his bedroom, similar to the living space prior, was identical to how he last left it before work that morning. wing assumes it's only natural, as it is his own house and layout, but it's still unremarkable on how accurate it is. 

this part of his dream is more stable than the one outside. though still blurry, the shape of his furniture seems more defined. controlled. whereas before, the colors appeared to bloom and spread forever beyond the silhouette. even the books that he's never read sit idly at his desk, alongside the assumed paperwork that belonged to him.

that's funny. even in his unconscious, the memory of his career is still prevalent. he just can't get a break, he supposes. 

his eyes then naturally drift to the edge of his bed. the sheets are the same shade, same length of what he remembers. the blankets and pillow are all neatly made, and have the smell of fresh laundry. 

his bed also happened to have a figure that lazily sat in the middle of his blankets and duvets. they had their back faced towards him, and didn't seem to realize that he was there quite yet.

straight long hair, a darker complexion, and a sweater with colors that didn't fit in with his bedroom. an intruder. this was someone who did not belong in his safe space. 

"...excuse me," he starts out, and the figure finally recognizes that he's there in the room, and turns to face him. 

and similarly, wing also recognizes the figure in front of him. the way this figure, no, this inphernal smiles at him is enough to confirm who it is. 

it’s fineliner. he can’t believe it. he’s dreamt of coworkers or past memories before, but never someone so unremarkable. wing insists that she isn’t anything extraordinary, and is just someone he allows to tag along on his “visits” to blackrock and crossroads. so, why is she here? "there you are." 

she sits there like she's been waiting for him all this time. waiting for him to notice, to say something. 

it doesn’t help that her voice is actually audible. it’s distinct. so natural, so fitting—as if wing’s talking to the real thing. if he didn’t know better, he’d be absolutely fooled. still. even with the assumption that this alleged fineliner wasn't real, and wasn't the one talking to him, his body instinctively leans in closer just to make sure. he can't help that his feet move on his own despite all signs warning him to stop. it's obvious when the walls twitch, the lights flicker, and the color palette of his room becomes slightly spotty the closer he gets to her. but atlas he doesn't listen. he never does.

he makes out the details of this alleged fineliner and picks out the more important bits. her lipstick, although a minute detail, stands out the most to wing. then the prominent shade of blue, then the blur of her body. he doesn’t know why it’s in that specific order. did he usually analyze her like this? he can’t seem to come up with a definite answer. 

"you were taking your sweet time. i was thinking that warden of yours got you arrested or something."

she laughs like they're close, making references to the warden she knows nothing about. his memory of fineliner and daily life is mixed into one, and creates a fantasy beyond him. a fiction specifically catered just for him.  

but who's to say that?

dreams are made up of nonsense. the scene in front of him is a combination of his interactions with someone he sees semi-daily, and the stress of being an investigator. it has to be. 

even so, he figures that the sensible thing to do is to play along. maybe it’s because of his career, but he always seems to scan for solutions through analysis, unconscious or not. 

why his dream was manipulating the imagery and sound of fineliner made no sense to wing, and there was no hurt in curiosity within a dream. dreams don’t hurt after all. it came with the nature of his career. it’s not his fault that he wanted to figure out why this scenario in particular was happening. 

he speaks slowly. "...no. sorry. i was stuck in traffic." 

fineliner rises from his bed, and makes her way towards him. her stride is captured with some sort of motion blur, similar to the door from earlier, and only further proves the fact that this is not real. just pure imagination.

"ohh, that's right. they said the road would be closed for construction earlier. i forgot to call you about it."  

"that's fine. i should've...planned my route better." 

again. inferences to phone calls that fineliner would never make, and the implication that they have a deeper bond that they actually do. he should accept that in dreams, anything can happen. he’s done it before. is it because fineliner’s here that he can’t accept it as nothing more than nonsensical?

no. it couldn’t be. 

fineliner chuckles, and her hands find their way to his face. the touch doesn't feel like anything but shame.

"my selfless hero." wing's attention flicks back to her. "well, as a way to say sorry, i bought you some sweets from downtown. a new venue popped up, and they had some of the things you like."

the use of 'my' is strange. fineliner would never say that, nor would she ever touch him like this. swords, he can't remember a time that fineliner did touch him other than by accident. 

it doesn't make sense. her in wing’s bedroom, now she’s touching him like they’ve always been intimate. he’s had his fair share of weird dreams, but this one stands out by far. he doesn’t like to admit that.

"you shouldn't have." he says it so plainly, but the rush coming from his chest is apparent. getting worked up in a dream seemed to only happen to his coworkers talking about night terrors—or…something more than that.

fineliner's hands leave him, and instead urge him to come even closer. he thinks that they’ve been close enough. "you're so shy…come with me. it's my treat for a job well done." 

“no, i think i should–” 

as much as wing tries to twist his own narrative, fineliner drags him by the hand. pulling him along as if he weighed nothing to her, and all he can do is stare at her hair swaying behind her. the exact shade of blue that coats her sweater, the way her touch “felt”. useless details he can’t afford to dwell on.

if he were to sink in all the details of fineliner, he doesn’t know if he’d get himself to stop. unlike wing—who left nothing to the imagination—fineliner was a suggestion. she unknowingly encourages the thought of seeing more of her, hearing more from her. maybe that’s the reason why he keeps her around. pulling her back just to pull away. why this imagery of her like this alone is enough to get him so worked up. the reason why this dream even includes her in the first place. 

…no. that can’t be true. can it? the thoughts leave as soon as they come as fineliner tugs on his hand harder. almost telling him to be quiet, and give up the use of thought. he guesses he can do that. 

fineliner leads him into a hallway, then to a kitchen. the countertops are arranged in a familiar way with recognizable hand-towels on the stove. as well as the minimal decorations with printed-on words he can’t make out, but already knows what they say. 

this was his kitchen, obviously. an scarily accurate representation of his kitchen.

wing watches fineliner walk up to his countertops, and pick up a box that’s tied with a navy ribbon. 

“here it is!” she cheers. 

wing can’t help but dwell on the pitch of her voice. the way it’s slightly higher than her normal tone, so excited. so unfamiliar. 

fineliner lets go of his hand to open the box, undoing the ribbon with ease. the box expands open and it's a variety of pastries. some with jam, he assumes, and others with a clear cream filling. there's even a bit of steam coming off each item for flair. 

"i wasn't sure what to get, so i got a bit of everything." she picks up the plastic fork that came alongside her order and digs it into one of the pastries. a creme puff with blueberry and strawberry. "maybe you could take some to work tomorrow?" 

"that sounds nice—" wing starts, but she draws her fork closer to him, gesturing it towards his lips. "uh...huh?"

"here, try some." 

the fork inches closer and closer. at this moment, he couldn’t tell if it’s a bullet or a utensil going straight for him. 

wing feels embarrassed. or at least more so than before.

if this were real, he could play it off and act all cute. maybe even laugh and make some dumb remark that typical demons like to hear. ‘oh, i’m too shy. you wouldn’t want to see me like that, haha.’ he’d hear himself now. and fineliner would buy it, and tell him off for being so stupid. that’s how this scenario should go. 

and as much as he’d prefer to do that right now, it felt wrong to do so. like his body couldn’t reject the scenario unveiling in front of him. something about being fed with the concept of sweets forces his mouth shut. or, maybe it was something about fineliner that shames him for lying and cheating.  

fineliner isn't a typical demon, even though he tries to convince himself so. contradicting everything he's conditioned himself to believe in to appearing in his unconscious and feeding him—it's torture. ‘get away’, he wants to say. ‘you wouldn't do that,’ he wants to say even more. 

yet none of that comes out at all. 

"you don't need to do that." he shifts back. "i can feed myself."

she pauses, and wing thinks the dream might crack and he'll wake up. it'd be good riddence. he’s had his fill, and he doesn't want to entertain this any further. he wants to open his eyes and be at his job and do...swords know what. just something far, far away from this. 

unfortunately, she speaks again and the scene continues. 

"you do the same for me..." it sounds like she’s whining. wing can only guess that she's pouting her lip too. "i just thought i'd return the favor."

she sounds so pitiful. so displeased that she doesn't get her way. wing can almost hear his own manipulation playing back to him by ear. the laughter, pleading, and use of physical touch is reminiscent of himself. yet at the same time, not at all. 

it feels genuine when she does it. if she were to use the same tactics with him, he wonders if he’d consider playing along. complying with whatever question she had, and have things her way. 

“...okay." 

just like this.

fineliner immediately lights up. the glint in her eyes is evident, and almost, wing can feel the warmth on her cheeks from where he's standing. he didn’t realize they were so close. 

she steadies the fork again and blows the steam off, cooling it down. 

"open." 

she says it gently, but to him, it feels like a command. he wants to argue that it’s not that dramatic, and that there aren’t any consequences for disobeying fineliner; nonetheless a fake version of her. he does it all the time. there’s no need to be scared of a “command” that she cannot punish him for. 

still, wing feels the need to comply. he has to comply. he has to hear her like this just for a while longer.

he opens his mouth and bites into the pastry. it’s warm in his mouth. it has the texture of an actual treat, probably something he’s eaten before, and tastes like nothing but the implication of something sweet and rich.

that's all it takes for him to want more, and lean deeper into fineliner.

"haha," she takes the fork back and places it back into the box. he feels empty without the prongs touching his lips. "is it that good? i picked it out specifically with you in mind. i can't taste it because of my allergies, so..."

"...it's delicious. thank you." oddly enough, he doesn’t feel like he’s playing along with pretend food. he truly feels that it was the tastiest thing he's ever eaten. 

she grins. he can't remember if it's ever faltered in the duration of this dream, but it's refreshing to sense it. to feel that she's happy with him around, and talk to him so considerably. it feels like the first time they’ve met. 

"that's great! i was... haha, i was nervous about it all day. sometimes they make it too sweet—even for your standards." she hums. "and... oh, wait. let me..." 

she walks closer and closer to wing that he involuntarily moves back. she lets out a confused noise, and places her hands onto his shoulders. 

"relax. you have something on your face. i guess the cream part is a bit messy," fineliner tilts her head, supposedly analyzing his face. he doesn't recall having a stain on his face from eating. 

wing's finger is about to tap his chin to make sure, only to be met with fineliner's hands interlocking with his. her grip is firm, her palms are soft. the sharpness of her nails digging into his knuckles does not register. 

his eyes are focused on the blurry imagery of their hands together instead of the gap between them closing in. fineliner's hands always had a tender, maintained feel to them despite how little the two of them made contact between one another. it's only now does he notice the two golden smears on her middle and pinky were decorative rings. or he hopes that they're decorative. the thought of her being given sentimental jewelry stung him in more ways than one.

"...fineliner," he begins to speak, but her touch begins to wander off. 

letting go of one of his hands, she rubs wing's chin that has nothing on it. she brushes her fingertips past his lips, to his jaw, then to his cheek and holds it there.

"my darling guide. my incredible mage." fineliner presses her forehead against his, but her movements are still. she doesn't dare touch him further than that. he wishes she would. 

it's only now that he realizes that fineliner hadn't said his name. he's almost forgotten who he was within this dream, and that he isn't a blank slate. he's winged magical staff. an investigator, the mage, and—

 "my wing." 

her voice is low, more recognizable to the actual fineliner he remembers. of course, the words feel foreign coming from her mouth, but it doesn’t make it any less convincing. he wants to believe that she’d say something so ridiculous. so stupid like that and stoop down to this level of absurdity.

"your… wing." he repeats it softly, careful to not disrupt this version of fineliner. it's selfish, he emphasizes. it's wrong. it's not for him to indulge. 

"yes." fineliner nods and glances at the shade of his lips. it’s subtle, but the implication is there. she doesn’t need to ask anything to hint at what she wants. what he wants. “my wing. you're everything to me, and you take such good care of me." 

wing blinks slowly. as if any of those words were actually true. she had a life outside of winged magical staff and the mage, and rarely does he treat her well outside of basic respect. he’s distant without meaning to, and still hurts her so. 

fineliner’s smile begins to dim. her touch drifts away from his face, and only her body rests against his chest and forehead. 

"is that what you want me to say?" fineliner forces a small laugh to come out. it even falls flat at the end too. "i never thought you could be needy—much less need anything."

wing shuts his eyes, but the dream will not end. it’s raw right in front of him and it will not let him go. the dream tugs at his sleeves, digs into his skin, and lingers there like a parasite. 

"i need you." he says, albeit too quickly. the words said aren’t him, yet slips past his teeth all the same, leaking out like iron. the vowels spill out of his lips and run scarlet down his chin. unlike actual blood, he cannot wash the confession away. it stays, imprinting on his tongue, beneath his skin, and mocks him for needing something other than justice. 

fineliner doesn't entertain him like before. she doesn’t smile or welcome him with tender phrases. instead she scoffs, and looks away from him. her attention is misplaced elsewhere, and wing hates it. he hates that it bothers him. ‘look at me. please look at me,’ is all he thinks. 

"are you tricking me again?" she murmurs. "you know i don't like it when you do that."

he does. wing knows more than anyone that she doesn't like it whenever he lies to her. it's practically etched into his skull by now.

"no… no, i mean it. i really do mean it." wing stumbles out with sincerity, yet it always sounds fake when he says it. 

wing can recall all the times where he's said these exact things to fineliner, only to be accused of lying anyway. it's expected, of course, he did it to himself. but once—just once, he wants to prove that he’s honest to her. accommodate her. show that he’s real. that she means something to him. 

“a silly need to have, then.” she hums. “what about food and water? surely you need those things much more than me."

“i could—”

he covers his mouth from speaking. his voice works without thinking, and he starts to wonder if this is his dream or actual possession. if he wants to say these things or if this is just the scenario playing out. 

wing doesn’t want anything, anyone, to pry the dirt off his lies and tricks and see what’s underneath. it’s unnecessary and creates confrontation he’d never want to face. his life now is the investigator working under the warden, and stopping criminals with ease. he doesn’t need genuine companionship. he doesn’t need anybody. he’s no better than machines that work off tasks and prompts. 

still. she makes it sound so easy. so accessible to be so much more than that. to be at her every beck and call, to comply and meet her in the middle about what they both want. if just for a moment to hear her approval, he would do anything. 

“...i could live without it if i had you in return.” wing mutters. 

it’s nonsense. 

wing says this willingly, but he knows it’s foolish, utter nonsense. he shouldn't have said something like that. he feels his stomach twist into a knot, and he wants to shove fineliner away. run out of this dream of nothingness and move far, far away and never meet with her again. 

but he doesn’t. the dream keeps him stationary with fineliner against his body, looking at him and only him. 

for a while, fineliner is silent. she doesn’t move and her gaze sits at his face, just below his eyes. wing can almost spot out the details of a vibrant red and blue in her eyes, but even then it’s all a blur. or maybe, he’s always been too scared to look closer. 

she steadily reaches out and tucks a hair behind wing’s ear, careful to not make him uncomfortable. wing didn’t care how or where she touched him, just that she’d be near. 

“really?” she asks quietly. 

wing can feel the blush from fineliner’s cheeks. she’s never that nervous with him. it’s frustrating that this is only a dream. he’d never get to know if this part of fineliner is accurate. would she act just like this? is she capable of being this shy around him? 

“yes, fineliner. really i… i mean it.” wing places his hands on her sides, only for her fingers to pull them down to her lower waist. he finds that he doesn’t mind, and lets them rest there.

she tilts her head and leans into wing, stopping just before their lips could touch each other. 

“then have me.” 

the words sink into his flesh and his world turns to black. wing feels confused, and his head starts to whirl. he feels like he’s spiraling and crashing between several different hallways that mash into one. when did he get here? where was he? where was fineliner—

he feels hands that roughly shake him back and forth, and only now does he know where he is. 

“wing! thank swords you’re up! i thought someone knocked you out cold.”

“...huh?” 

“yeah!” wing rubs his eyes and hears a chuckle coming from someone vaguely familiar. “i don’t know what i’d do if you didn’t wake up… i’d get in so much trouble. o—oh! and you could’ve been in danger.”

this was his coworker. that’s right. wing was awake now, and any memories prior were made up. a dream of some sort.

wing manages to twitch a smile on his face and pat their shoulder, dusting it off. “it takes a lot of things to bring me down, don’t worry. i’m glad you’re safe too.” 

a weird dream of sorts.

“aww, that’s so nice. i had to, y’know? you were counting on me and everything. i couldn’t let you down and the station would never trust me ever again and i’d get yel…”

the sound of his coworker drowns out as he lets his mouth do all the talking. nodding, agreeing, reassuring, and small instances of laughter. he really should listen. his coworker could be telling him about something important about the next assignment from the warden. or any updates that happened while he was asleep.

it’s what he tells himself, but instead wing taps his bottom lip. the fabric of his glove presses lightly against the center, and abruptly stops. 

how close the two of them were, he recalls briefly. how her body “felt” against his, and her hands intertwined with his own. it should mean nothing, that’s the given truth. he’ll forget about this once the night is over and he’s back at home with a blanket covering his sore body. 

yet, her lips felt so soft against his. he’s never thought of himself as someone easily moved before.

** fineliner’s hand accidently brushes against wing’s glove, and the contact is enough to send a spark up his spine. “oh. sorry. i wasn’t looking where i was going.” she dismisses it completely, and doesn’t bother to look his way. the cold attitude is normal coming from her, but wing can’t seem to miss her acting a certain way. holding him a certain way. surely you need those things much more than me. he shook his head. wing had a job to do. this wasn’t the time for dwelling on things that do not matter. “haha.” he pulls up his scarf. “there’s no need to apologize, miss throwing knife pen.” “...it’s just courtesy, investigator.” ‘investigator.' he didn’t know why he was expecting to be called anything else.

creds: ribbon divider by pixopix! purple divider by cafekitsune! cloud by knightlittle! a/n: HELLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ITS ME... again... ao3 being down finally motivated me to Finish my Wingliner fic thats beenn on the backburner since forever. im for the arts not the charts . i love these 2 . i Love Their dynamic and uhfuhsjndjbbffhhuugugrrr shoutout to pearl and quack for reading it ~ ~ ~ and pearl 4 ... writing one line cuz i didnt wanna do it ... hehe

[mostsurrealusername]

boom jeremike whatever this is. Theres been a drought in jeremike so im using whatever this hobby is to make whatever this is. First image has mica arganaz i think? also oml does pinterest not know what a tan guy is. Thats not jeremys fc i seriously couldnt find anyone else but michael is mica, yes ik shes a girl.

Michaels letter to jeremy ig

[mostsurrealusername]

Monachopsis

“In another universe, the one we eternally imagined ( during lonely nights, resting our tipsy bodies on lanky rooftops, under the confusion we know as stars ), I could’ve said more. Maybe in another universe, forever.”

Elsewhere, Michael and Elizabeth are trying to outrun something that keeps reshaping them. Jeremy becomes tangled in their lives by accident, then by ruthless devotion, learning too late that their story is far bigger — and far stranger — than anything he thought he stepped into.

This took me SO long oml. Thank you thank you thank you @thequackest for letting me use your fic as inspo/make this!!

[thequackest]

OMGGGGGG IM GONNA READ💕💕💕 EEEKK im so excited THANK YOU FOR BEING INSPIRED 🥹🥹🥹🥹 im so excited wait okay bedtime story aahhggvevwgndhdhsbb

[pearlescentparade]

everyone look at my valentines day cake i made with @camiene and @thequackest EXPEDITIOUSLY. LOOK AT HOW CUTE IT IIIISSSS

cam arranged the fruit and i did most of the frosting decoration work and quack CHUDDED OUT ON OVERWATCH kidding she frosted the cake dont kill me

filled with so much luv but also so much hate cus i got ragebaited by my dad like 10 times during the whole thing

[thequackest]

how it felt destroying bots as dva while u guys decorated

[camiene]

in sickness and in health - hyperlaser x reader

fluff, sickfic, established relationship

hyperlaser over exhausts himself during work, and catches a flu. luckily, you're there to soothe all his pain and worries.

wk:: 2.3k a/n:: at the end

be that as it may, but even mercenaries get the flu.

hyperlaser, a demon filled with so much grit and grime behind his name—so much so that it warrants fear—has caught the typical sickness.

he knows it’s only nature. it’s an expected thing to happen to anyone when they don’t take care of themselves, and hyperlaser knows he isn’t the best at personal wellness. the constant schedule of being a hitman, body guard, and other miscellaneous things for quick cash is part of his qualifications. nobody said he had to get eight hours of sleep or eat his vegetables to do his job. it just didn’t feel necessary, he mistakenly thought.

this mindset obviously backfires as his consequences reside in his body. he feels hot, unusually so in comparison to blackrock’s weather. the snow that falls ever so delicately onto his clothes, and the cool touch makes him twitch. it makes him feel sensitive. in a way, the snowflakes burn into the thick fabric of his sleeves, and reminds him that he is not so scary after all. 

it’s not as if he’s never gotten sick before. he can count on various missions where he’s suffered from a fever, and still worked at the end of the night. sure, a cold or two may have issued a migraine while firing his shots, but hyperlaser is part of blackrock’s finest. he’s like no other. he never misses. that is the difference between him and the mass. 

but it’s oh, so embarrassing to admit that his body does weigh him down eventually. if not for surviving prior injuries that coat his entire body, hyperlaser would’ve thought that this was it for him. he saw a future where he’d be confined to a hospital bed, or one where he’s gone and replaced by metal intimidations of life. a sorry future that would be.

an interruption hits him.

“i’ll be back, okay? you just stay there. it won’t take long—and don’t even think about coming with me.” 

he blinks slowly. those were the words you said right before running out the door, saying something about medicine and homemade soup. this is a future he didn’t foresee. hyperlaser sits up on the extravagant couch he paid way too much for, staring. thinking. 

the two of you have lived together for some time now. photos of you two and princess, many trinkets that he tried to argue against, and a subtle mix of his cologne and your perfume. all signs that this apartment is lived in.

it’s a domestic life you two have. he didn’t expect himself to be so fond of you, to cherish the way you prance around his life. so carefree, understanding of how he feels. how each touch of yours makes him react. not with hostility, but with ambition. is it sappy to admit that you motivate him? 

hyperlaser sneezes into his arm. he really does feel warm to the touch, and the heat radiates off his skin like a stovetop. he curses himself, wished he slept in a bit more. he didn’t have to be so early most of the time, and maybe he could’ve snuck in an hour or two. maybe even eat a carrot while he’s at it.

he amuses himself. what a silly thought.

hyperlaser knows that slacking off isn’t an option. it’s a dream that mercenaries like him can have, but never act on. he knows that one mistake, no matter how small, will cost him his life. he’s already cheated death once, and he’s a very unlucky guy. the chances aren’t enough to allow any more mistakes.

princess strolls along the bottom of the couch, whining about something. it’s a daily occurrence, as she may want food, attention, or both. hyperlaser finds that he doesn’t mind and spoils her rotten anyway. the world is her oyster afterall. he just lives in it.

“hello to you too.” his throat feels dry, but he can’t resist his feline daughter. hyperlaser is as strong as they say, but weak to the charms of a cat. pitiful. “shouldn’t come up here. sick. see?” he points to himself, gesturing in a way that makes princess tilt her head. 

'mreeow,' is all she says. before pouncing onto the arm of the couch, and resting alongside hyperlaser. he’d laugh, but it hurts to do so, and keeps himself quiet. he drags his glove against her head, scratching it. princess relishes in the affection, and purrs to her heart’s content.

then, hyperlaser hears the front door click. he knows who it is by the sound of your keys. overloaded with charms and other useless things. 

“haah. you’d think traffic would die down by nighttime. apparently everyone’s sick in blackrock nowadays.” you kick out your shoes and slip into your house slippers, and carry your bag onto the kitchen countertop. “i mean seriously. how hard is it to get cough syrup on a wednesday night?”

“mm.” he agrees. hyperlaser is already a demon of a few words, and the sickness doesn’t help. but you get that he’s listening to you as you take out the various items you bought.

hyperlaser can note many vegetables, broth, and medicine. as expected, you really did stick to your word. 

weakly, he turns his head to face you. “...is this necessary?” 

“uh, yeah. if it wasn’t, you think i’d wait fifteen minutes at self checkout for this? c’mon. i thought we had the greatest technology ever.” you open the cough syrup and read its lengthy instructions. something about taking a dose every few hours and the right measurements… yeah. couldn’t be hard. 

he groans. he thinks he can handle himself very well, and his sickness rarely caused failures in his job. hyperlaser can still work and move. realistically, no employer would care if he had a headache or nausea. he’s paid to provide a service. he doesn’t need to be babied.

you pour in the right amount of liquid after what felt like forever. it might’ve been a little off, and hyperlaser can immediately tell, but it won’t kill him. if anything, it’d hurt him more if he didn’t take the medicine entirely. that’s a case that neither you or him wants to face.

“don’t pout.” you make your way over to him, and sit next to him with the tiny cup in hand. “you practically did this to yourself, you know.”

he drinks up the disgusting liquid. you are right. for a faction as advanced as blackrock, they couldn’t have made medicine taste better? 

“feeling under the weather doesn’t affect my work. i used to always tough it out.” shameless, he is. 

your hand presses against his helmet. hot to the touch. 

“well. that was then, and this is now. what happens if you’re so sick, and your head’s pounding, and you miss a shot? huh?”

“wouldn’t happen. i don’t miss.”

“...can you humor me?”

he laughs, followed by a dry cough. the medicine isn’t immediate, but it works faster than other syrups found outside of blackrock. hyperlaser can’t believe nobody’s asked him to snag a medical formula from blackrock to a different faction yet. sure, it’d cost a lot to do such a task, but it can be done. 

“hypothetically then, i’d get fired for failing my mission.” hyperlaser muses. in reality, the real meaning behind being fired meant instant death. the two of you knew that very well. 

you cross your arms. through his sniffling and coughing, he can catch a glimpse of your expression. confident. never a good sign. “and?”

hyperlaser scoffs, or makes an attempt to do so. talking with you is probably not the best thing to do with his situation, but it’s so tempting. to respond at your every beck and call. answer to the sounds of your voice, even if it burned him. it felt so lovely, inviting. and you don’t even have to pay him to do any of that. 

“...and?” if he could, he’d raise a brow. 

you lean closer to him, as if he wasn’t sick. “and… what should you do to prevent that from ever happening?”

pride is sprinkled all over your face. urging him to admit his faults, and his carelessness on health. he’s so adamant on your well being, yet cannot afford to take care of himself from time to time. 

“oh.” he makes a gesture that suggests critical thinking, but he knows his answer. an answer that seems fit for what you’re looking for. “i…guess the tactical thing to do is to keep myself healthy.” 

“smart guy,” you grin. cheeky demon you are. the feared mercenary that could kill in the blink of an eye declares mercy in front of you. “can you make room for that in your schedule?”

hyperlaser lowers his head. if you had to guess, you would say that his eyes are avoiding you. the toughest sniper in blackrock, and he hides away from you as if you’re his biggest threat. cute. 

“i can try. it’s a very tedious thing, sweetheart.” 

“hmm. and look where not being tedious got you.” you nag. you don’t like to do it, but running the risk is all too great. he needed to get better, stay alive to his fullest potential.

although, it should be noted that hyperlaser really is a good sniper and an even better soldier. there’s a reason why many try to take him down, and want to rip him to the core of his body; shredding it apart. yet here he stands in front of you. in a loving home with well made food, mundane chores, and a warm bed. it’s important to preserve this life as much as possible. that’s why he has to be well. 

softly, you murmur. “...at the very least, could you take the medicine for the next few days? i can handle preparing meals for you.”

you don’t mean to be so pitiful. hyperlaser knows that he should be careful, and that idea has been drilled into his head since he spawned in blackrock. it’d be annoying to hear it out loud, you understand that much. but a compromise would satisfy you both. and there’s no harm in that. 

he nods. he can at least do that if it concerns you so much. hyperlaser couldn’t dream of you being a frantic mess because of his wellbeing. you already do such a great job when he’s away on continuous missions. he’d hate to worry you. 

“you have my word.” he holds your hand, and brings it closer to his chest. his heart is beating—and swords—he’s so, so warm. hyperlaser’s presence has always been a comfort, and if you squint, you could see his darling eyes staring right at you. only you. always you. 

flustered, you look away. he really is captivating like this. “...you know i’ll be upset if you’re just saying that to shut me up.” 

hyperlaser intertwines his fingers with yours, squeezing you as if he’d ever let go. if the world was perfect, he’d never leave your side. always near, close by, to hear your laughter right in front of him. he never thought of himself as someone so sappy.

“that’s why i mean it.” he leans into you. tilting his head as if he could kiss you behind his helmet. taking it off would be ideal, but he’d probably get you sick. then nobody would get well. “really…” his eyes meet your lips nonetheless. “...i do.” 

you chuckle. seemingly, you don’t mind the gap closing between you two. he really was beautiful up close, even if he insists that he’s not. a mistaken demon, he is. “you don’t need to say it like that. so embarrassing.” 

his fingers squeeze against yours, but not enough to hurt. probably not even enough to hurt a fly. he’s so tender, softer with you around. 

“how else should i say it then, doll?”

all you can do is roll your eyes. “a simple i’m not lying would work. but it’s… nice to hear you say things like that too.”

he tilts his head. almost, you see the resemblance with princess. both of them have that same pleading look, even if one’s extremely moody and the others in a shielded mask most of the time. 

“you like it?” his voice is gentle, low. obviously with the twinge of sickness, but his question is sincere. 

your head dips in, and you press your lips against his visor where his mouth would be. oh, how you can tell that he wanted to kiss you back too. desperate, he is. 

“i love it. i relish in it, and could die in it. would wait a thousand years for it. should i go on?” 

“so dramatic.” he nudges you away, only to long for your touch the moment after. the way hyperlaser’s hands feel lost without yours is laughable, as if he didn’t know his way around military equipment.

“yeah, yeah, whateveerr!" you place a hand on his leg, patting him. “anyway, now that i think about it, we’ve been up for awhile. especially after i made that run to the store. we should get to bed… and i’m sure you’re getting tired too.” 

hyperlaser shakes his head, “i’m really not.” 

and it probably was true. knowing his area of work, he could stay up for months if he had to. that’s a fate worse than death in your opinion. hallucinations could ensue and all sorts of scary stuff. you couldn’t have that happen to hyperlaser outside of work. 

“okaaay, well… i’m getting tired! i don’t care what you do, but you’re gonna have to force yourself to sleep anyway. rest improves your health, you know.”

princess rubs her cheek against hyperlaser’s arm, almost like she’s agreeing with whatever you’re saying. you wish you could get your hands on pet mind-reading devices. who knows what else princess agrees with you on? 

“see. even she agrees. now come on, come to bed. the couch isn’t big enough for both of us to sleep comfortably.” 

“i could take the couch and you—”

“hyperlaser.”

he chuckles. “i’m kidding. i’ll be there in a bit, alright? save me a spot.” 

“you better be there in under an hour.” you cross your arms. 

“roger that.”

a/n:: the lace divider belongs to vg-k! , glitter divider i don't remember ... if you recognize who this belongs to, lmk and i'll credit it properly! hihi guys HAPPY 2026 YAYYY i love hyperlaser and i think he deseves sm more love !!! he's so attractive idk how ppl don't write more stuf abt him :( but its ok I'll Take Charge . . . I'll be the change I want to see inthe world this was really fun to write and im hoping to write more in the future ! i hope anyone reading this lieks how i characterized hyperlaserrr ^_^ i personally think he's a huge cutie under all that aura and mystery behind him. kinda like. ghost from call of duty in a way. shoutout to @pearlescentparade and @thequackest for betareading for me! god knows i hate reading my own shit lol

[camiene]

drew my friend @thequackest 's jeremy design!!! no i dont know anything about fnaf everything i know is from my bumbling friends .... its kinda like me and phighting in a way

[thequackest]

OAASRRTIG FB HHSUHH ITTUSS I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM GRH HE’S SO ORETTY THTBW NKYOU THANK YOUUUUHHEEHOIUH

[pearlescentparade]

youre gonna fall off so hard now that youre not doing forsaken anymore because in all honesty nobody really gives a shit about phighting or block tales and DEFINITELY not your shitty ocs….. hope it was worth it though LOL

OH MY GOD I ACTUALLY GOT HATE I MADE IT 🥹🥹🥹

[thequackest]

somebody REALLY wants their dbd knockoff fanfiction

[camiene]

was learning how to do movement on capcut and thought id make a shitpost while im at it

featuring my wonderful friends @pearlescentparade @thequackest @fl0oweery

[camiene]

more mbi

istvan / seventy1 beliong to me catalina belongs to @thequackest brief mention of cocone belongs to @pearlescentparade

[camiene]

i think im getting this oc thing down istvan and seventy1 belong to me ~~~ but catalina belongs to @thequackest

mbi strikes again

[camiene]

mbi crumbs for me and me only

catalina belongs to @thequackest and cocone belongs to @pearlescentparade

[pearlescentparade]

can i hab hyperlaser x reader eeemmm and can u make it so he snipes cameron and ummrrmmm can we write about his kitty cat too

izy im gonna put you right into freddys mouth at halloween horror night.

[thequackest]

is this what led michael to kill his brother