Since AO3 Wants To Be A Funky Bastard I Will Be Posting Fics Here Until I Can Post There.

Behold, I said id do it so i have done it. Heres a small fic about Jacket that I wrote for an rp server a few weeks ago!

Its not the best, but I’m proud of it!

The man rested his baseball bat on his shoulder. Deep crimson red painted the streets, painted his jeans, jacket, hands, painted the dead-eyed chicken mask concealing his face. A shaking, bruised hand reached up and tugged the thick latex from his head. His dirty blonde hair was matted and clung to his forehead with sweat. His hazel eyes gazed up into the orange sky. The sunset was always beautiful over the ocean this time of year. Too bad he wasn’t back in Florida to see it. DC sunsets will have to do. Before he knew it, his back collided with the concrete stairs he rested on. His eyesight began to blur as quick footsteps approached.

“Jacket! There you are! We’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you!”

That voice. His old biker friend. He lifted up an old cassette recorder.

Click.

“Cloaker no longer in working order.”

Click.

“Yeah, I see that. Pretty sure the whole fuckin’ police force is no longer in working order after this.”

Click.

"In the event of personnel damage, please locate the nearest first aid kit."

Click.

“Are you hurt? Where?”

The man sat up, shedding his brown letterman jacket. Under his muted teal t-shirt, his skin was morphing into a collage of deep, blotted purples, reds, yellows, and greens. A beautiful, morbid painting on the body of a beautiful, morbid man.

“Jeez, they really got you, huh? It’s alright. We’ll get you home and put some ice on it. You’re gonna be okay.” The older man cradled Jacket’s arm in his hands. He sniffed. Thick, scarlet liquid ran down his face, over his lips, off his chin, dripping onto his shirt.

Click.

“I made a mistake.” The recorder reversed. “Rust.”

Click.

“It’s gonna be alright, Jacket. You’re gonna be alright.”

Jacket rested his head on the biker’s shoulder, letting his salty tears gently dot the other man’s black leather jacket. He felt his body leave the ground, then it all went black.

When he finally came to, Jacket was home. He lay in his room, on the soft, plush couch pushed so snugly against the wall, and covered with a few crocheted blankets. He reached up and rubbed his eyes. The boxing tape on his hands was gone, leaving nothing but pale skin and the reddened knuckles of his thin fingers. He took a deep breath.

Shhhk shhhk shhhk.

Jacket sat up. Someone had changed his clothes while he was asleep. Instead of his usual jeans-and-tshirt getup, he had on a pair of black sweatpants and a slightly oversized, grey, long-sleeved t-shirt. It was comfy. He looked around.

Shhhk shhhk shhhk.

He slowly swung his legs over the edge of the couch, his bare feet meeting the cold concrete floor. Well, mostly, part of his left foot landed atop the fake tiger-skin rug on the floor. Magenta neon lights illuminated the space around him, and the light over his workbench was shut off.

Shhhk shhhk shhhk.

He pushed off, coming to his feet. He looked towards the entrance of his little cove. Through the doorway (if you could call it that, there wasn’t a door) he saw the closed door to Bodhi’s workshop. Strange, the surfer spent most of his time there. Must be asleep.

Shhhk shhhk shhhk.

Jacket shuffled out of his room. Just outside, Sokol batted a hockey puck to and fro on the concrete floor of the Safehouse basement. The Russian looked up, having seen movement in his peripheral vision.

“You’re awake! I was afraid you’d miss dinner, you need some meat on those little birdy bones of yours!” He laughed heartily.

The workout area a little to the left of the “hockey area” was empty and unlit. Sokol leaned his hockey stick against the wall and made his way over to Jacket. He clapped a hand down on the man’s shoulder.

“Dallas brought food, everyone is upstairs, eating. I told them I would wait for you to wake up so we can eat together.” He smiled.

Jacket felt a tug on the skin around his mouth. Is this smiling? He never really knew. The blonde gently nodded. Sokol beamed and took the Sociopath’s hand and eagerly led him up the stairs, his tennis shoes barely thumping against the stairs. The sound of socializing heisters grew steadily louder and clearer.

“AW, ya shoulda SEEN ‘im! Jacket’s a beast, mate, I’m tellin’ ya!” Jimmy gestured wildly with his fork as he spoke. “Took down like, eight dozers by ‘imself! Ran off and just kept goin’ and goin’!”

“Where’d ya even find ‘im, Rust?” Sydney looked at the older man. He sat, almost hunched over, eating out of a takeout box.

“Stairs outside of the library.”

“Wait, the big one? Downtown?”

Rust nodded.

“Christ, that’s like four miles from where you guys were!” *Sydney gawked in amazement.*

“Still had a bag of coke on him, too.” Rust grumbled. “He fuckin ran off and slaughtered three quarters of the police force just to clock out on some stairs.”

“Jeez.” Jimmy sighed happily.

Wick looked up from his drink and elbowed Rust’s shoulder. “Look who climbed outta bed.”

The biker looked up from his food and locked eyes with Jacket. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes twinkled with….relief? Almost…excitement, even.

“Speak o’ the devil! There’s the man o’ the hour!” Jimmy beamed. “Cmon! There’s plenty of food still left!”

Sokol led Jacket past the group and to the kitchen. The main five stood together, exchanging quiet stories and witty remarks. Hoxton turned to the newcomers.

“Christ, you look like hell.” He scoffed, earning a firm bat on the shoulder from Houston, who set down his water bottle on the counter and approached the pair.

“You alright? You look pretty banged up, dyou need anything?” He spoke gently. Jacket shook his head.

“Just food.” Sokol piped up. Houston immediately got to work, separating two takeout boxes from the rest and quickly scribbling their names on them with a Sharpie. He handed the two their meals.

“Let me know if you guys need anything.” He smiled kindly before getting back to the group.

“Oh, hey, Jacket.”

Jacket locked eyes with the unstated Leader of the Payday Gang.

“Good job out there. You did great today.” Dallas gave him a thumbs up. The blonde responded with a simple nod and followed Sokol out to join his friends.

“Why do you ever tell us that?”

“Piss off, Jim.”

I have evolved past hand cramps. I now get

My thumb will not return to its normal position because of how I hold my tablet.

I can still move it, its just super weak for a few seconds after I move my hand away from my tablet.

Combining all my favourite charcter design traits into one mf, I’ll keep yall updated

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Everybody bang out some tunes today ❤️❤️❤️

my biggest beef with the FNAF fandom rn is the fact that everyone is drawing versions of the human Freddy’s as super buff tit-equipped men with waists 1700′s women wished they could have. But guys. 

Freddy is a bear. 

It’s right there.

Some of yall needed to hear this

Credits to @/mattxiv on Instagram

Gordon: We took your advice and spoke to him about it, we told him that we want to have the same treatment as the others, and he agreed to let us front, little by little of course, because he's still having trouble getting use to all of us, especially myself and others like Barney and the such, but I think it went well. Thank you for your advice! I think he'll be more comfortable with us the more time we spend together.

Yo, I've recently let my boyf know that I'm part of a system, and he says he loves all of us, but constantly puts down the fictives, and says he doesn't want to interact with them and that they don't count. Thoughts?

Don't take my advice too seriously because I'm tired, but I'd say either tell him to stop being an ass and act like fictives aren't just as much alters and people as the rest of you or dump his ass. We've made a few posts about fictives and the way singlets treat us, and don't take any shit from singlets or non fictives. -William

Artfight attack for @its-spelt-hermaeus-mora!! I was immediatelyyyy drawn to her I don’t use super saturated colors that often so it was fun to see how far I could push it!!! 

Suomi, Finland, 1976. Waylo was born.

In the year 1995, he finds himself in Peräjärvi, Finland. With his parents out of town for who knows how long, our intrepid antihero Waylo Schmidtt is left to care for himself. He’s got sewer wells to pump, a Satsuma to build, and a town to burn to the goddamn ground.

The people of Peräjärvi, however, have grown used to Waylo’s antics. From the local store owner to the town drunkard, Waylo has roots everywhere; which means whether they want it or not, the people of Peräjärvi are always, somehow, involved. These are their experiences.

Lmao. Whatever, have these, this is fun :3333

Trying to find a good picture of jesse pinkman so i can make a pride flag edit of him but i cannot for the life of me find the specific one im looking for this is cringe