#error code: anomaly

[eriscary]

This is a fully updated version of Tear's info sheet. It's advised to be read only after reading the 'Passing Ghost' comic, as it contains heavy spoilers.

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Biography:

Tear!Sans is a puppet body possessed by a Napstablook whose greatest wish was to become Sans and see the multiverse. He created his body from mix and matching puppets made by Error!Sans. This angered Error so much that in his outrage he happens to glitch Tear into a corrupted Underfell AU variant with a missing Sans file.

Tear’s forced, glitched entry allows the Underfell AU to act in self-preservation and use glitches to save itself from corruption. It adopts Tear!Sans as its original Sans, renaming itself to Undertear. If Tear!Sans dies and there is a RESET, he comes back like other monsters. However, it also causes Tear’s original AU to be corrupted instead due to Tear’s absence. The memories the residents have of Underfell!Sans get replaced by Tear!Sans, although not perfectly.

Appearance:

Because Tear’s body is a puppet, his bones are plush and have visible stitches. He wears white gloves to hide stitches, but his forehead has the most obvious line of them. He also wears Napstablook shaped headphones and a white coat with a purple hood. Its backside has a pattern of two tear drops forming an upside-down heart. Underneath it is a beige scarf, white shirt and black shorts.

Story:

Tear’s AU got a lot of Sans variant visitors that he observed from afar. Through observation he learns of the multiverse and wishes to experience it. Even wishing to be like Sans, to feel as loved, important and blend in with the multiverse travelers.

An opportunity presents itself to Tear when Error appears in their AU. They go through the portal Error created, to see the ‘AU’ on the other side. Instead, they find themselves in the antivoid with Error’s puppets. They proceed to mix and match the puppets in order to create a new body for themselves.

Upon his return, Error is infuriated at his work being destroyed. In their rage they attack Tear, only to end up crashing and glitching Tear to a corrupted Underfell AU variant instead. Said AU slowly patches itself up, using the same glitches Tear came there with. Changing bits of its resident’s codes, as well as its own. On their arrival to Underfell, Tear encounters a glitchy Papyrus that seems to have confused them for his brother who went missing. Not able to get a word in, they get dragged back ‘home’ with him.

In the meantime, Error manages to find where Tear went, planning to eliminate them out of anger, as well as before more timelines and AUs have a chance to exist. Unfortunately, the AU adopts Tear as its original Sans and changes its name to Undertear. With this action and thanks to creators, more AUs with Tear variants come to be. Error stops himself.

He settles on observing the AU's code for a while, before destroying the newly formed Undertear. However, after calming down from his initial infuriated reaction, he felt hesitation. Tear is made of his materials, HIS puppets. He is worried destroying Tear will destroy his stuff that he wants back. It ends up making him feel frustrated instead. After getting rid of Tear's original AU, as it's now corrupted due to their absence, Error goes on a streak of destroying different AU's with Tear’s variants. Error hates Tear for what they did. He steals the chocolates from Undertear too, out of spite (it's created from Underfell after all). This is why Tear never has chocolate at home. Tear assumes it's Papyrus eating them, so they stock up for Papyrus. Error tells himself he will eventually get rid of the anomaly that ruined his puppets, but it never happens.

The memories the AU residents have of Underfell Sans get replaced by Tear, although not perfectly. Monsters exhibit the recollection of some smaller traits (like the clothing aesthetic). Papyrus recollects the most, yet lives in stubborn belief that Tear is their brother. They got occasionally questioned by others if they are truly related since Tear is a plush. He was quick to shut everyone up. Papyrus believes his life memories cannot be wrong. It doesn’t matter what their brother is made of, he was there with them for as long as he remembers.

Tear ends up living his life as a play-pretend, replacement for Underfell Sans. Unaware his original AU is gone and unable to leave Undertear.

Personality:

Tear used to naively believe that everyone is good hearted and tried to be polite even in situations he shouldn’t.

He soon learns of the multiverse and wishes to experience it. Even wishing to become Sans himself, so he would feel important, loved and blend in more with the multiverse travelers.

But with the environment of the new AU he got stuck in, as well as the chain of events that got him there, he learns not everyone is sunshine and rainbows. Tear is quick to learn the infamous “kill or be killed” motto of his new home and becomes more jumpy, careful of any signs of hostility. This made him more nervous of new faces than he already is.

Tear spends much of his time training to behave like Sans, failing at making good puns and stressing over not being lazy enough for Sans standards. He works too hard to be one, believing it would give him everything he wanted and make him survive the new world. After all, Sans surely blends into crowds with ease. They saw it with their own eyes. Tear also goes as far as using a great deal of effort into shaping his tears to be gaster blasters and bones. It hinders his speed, although even with this he is as fast as classic Sans, but fails at matching him in damage output. Most of the time he feels like he isn’t good enough, both as his old self and Sans. The new life makes him believe it’s his responsibility to do everything Sans took care of and he decides to stay till real Sans returns. Tear tends to blame himself for everything and does not acknowledge himself as a full Sans. It comes from the fact their bones are plush and have sewing stitches, his lack of confidence making him believe he ‘didn’t study enough’ to become one, failing to match some of the memories Papyrus seems to have of a Sans that Tear never met or saw, as well as the fact he is a play pretend replacement for someone. It has caused him to not fuse with his body yet.

Even though Tear felt abandoned by family and friends in their original AU, now they truly had no one. They were alone. Everyone here seemed so cold, cruel and even harder to approach.

Underfell/Undertear Papyrus becomes Tear’s only shelter from the outside world and Tear starts to grow attached over the course of time. Papyrus ends up being the only monster that truly cares for them, wants them safe and Tear is very hungry for any form of comfort. Even hugs make him REALLY happy. As a ghost, he felt very touch starved. Papyrus even adapts himself to look out for Tear better, seeing as he was unable to get ‘his brother back in shape’. Tear finally feels like he has someone that won’t leave him. He is finally important enough like Sans.

More than anything, Tear fears being abandoned again and this fear resurfaces in a way bigger wave. Tear believes if the real Sans returned, he would be abandoned and become someone forgotten and tossed aside. Likely dusting at the hands of another monster, if not Papyrus himself. More than anything, Tear fears Papyrus learning he is just a pretender, a replacement. This constant fear pulses through him, not letting him accept himself. Tear starts hoping Underfell!Sans doesn’t return and it makes them feel more guilt.

Tear would never leave his body, even if he sank at the bottom of the ocean. He also does not slip up by not shaping his attacks either. In Tear’s eyes, he cannot afford Papyrus or anyone that could tell Papyrus knowing he is a ghost. If Papy is gone… Tear has nothing and no one. He starts pretending to be ‘a perfect Sans’ at this point just to not lose him.

Knowing he does not truly belong, makes Tear feel detached from everyone.

Sometimes he will stand outside invisible, watching everything move without him, no one noticing them and everything passing him by.

Tear in general phases/goes invisible a lot, as means of escaping certain encounters or situations.

Abilities:

- Tears: When Tear!Sans cries, his tears hurt anyone on contact. Tear’s vision also gets watery.

- Shaping tears: Tear!Sans often controls his tears to take a certain shape like his top hat, but usually gaster blasters and bones in hopes of mimicking Sans. Such objects cannot be held by anyone else, as they would take damage.

- Phasing: Tear!Sans can will his body to phase through things, just like when he was a ghost. His body gets more transparent or straight up invisible. Their magic/tears remain visible. Unlike his ghost self, phasing requires magic this time. When too emotionally overwhelmed, he will unintentionally phase. Phasing gives him invulnerability, but he cannot attack during it.

- Ghostly sight: If Tear!Sans had a strong connection with a monster that died, he can see them as a spirit. This only happens if the spirit decides to stay before passing on. In a genocide route, Papyrus is temporarily one of them. He is just a presence that can communicate with Tear, be seen only by Tear and do nothing more.

In battle:

Tear's strength is on par with Classic Sans. He doesn't hit as hard, yet keeps up by attacking faster. He, however, loses the extra speed by shaping his attacks. Because he always holds back by doing so, he is overall weaker. His boss fight is also shorter because of him spending a lot of magic uncontrollably, before and during the fight. A lot of Tear’s magic is spent on day to day occurrences where he cries and phases. Tear’s magic reserves are never full unless they just slept/ate.

-Tear shares the same stats as Napstablook (HP 88, ATK 10, DEF 10).

-Due to mimicking Sans by resting frequently, Tear overcaps his base stat HP by 10. (like player does by sleeping in the inn)

-Tear is worse at dodging than classic Sans.

-Tear does not act as a ‘judge’ for the player.

-Unlike a Classic Sans or Underfell/Undertear Papyrus, Tear has no recollection of RELOADs and RESETs

-Tear cannot use blue attacks, do damage via karma points like Sans (damage overtime), shortcut and travel AUs on their own.

-Tear’s magic dissipates inside a body of water. Paired with the fact he doesn’t know how to swim and can’t shortcut, it’s his biggest weakness.

Genocide route:

The first time Player attempts Genocide route, they are forced to RESET in the judgement hall. Tear did not fuse with his body and as such cannot be harmed by physical attacks. Not killing Tear, as they are this world’s ‘Sans’, drops the genocide route.

On a RESET the Player instead focuses on dealing with Tear’s insecurities. Although it takes excruciatingly long, Tear eventually ends up fusing with his body. They inform the Player of finally accepting themselves fully for the way they are. Thanking them via cell phone. This makes the Player finally continue dusting monsters on sight.

Having not witnessed the fight itself, Tear arrives at the sight of Papyrus dusting in front of the human. He runs away in fear, to hide. Tear can be found again, crying in the judgment hall while hiding behind a pillar and flooding the place in tears.

Player has to mind their step. Tear’s ability lets him see Papyrus’s spirit in front of him and he is the only reason they don’t have an emotional breakdown just from seeing the Player walk in. Papyrus is there solely to keep his emotions at bay, so Tear would waste less magic in the fight on crying and phasing in unintended moments. It only stalls the inevitable and his emotions still flare up. Tear is never the one that initiates the battle. Player does. First knife slash is free, Tear doesn’t dodge. He has never perceived knives as a weapon due to prior physical immunity. Having just fused, he held no fear of any item that could be considered a weapon. He screams out in pain.

Battle starts with Tear shaping his attacks into bones and gaster blasters. The more desperate and terrified he grows, the more he phases and cries on top of the already launched attacks, making it harder to dodge. Tear weeps out loud to Papyrus of how scared he is through the whole fight. His attack speed boosts, as he eventually stops shaping attacks. The battle is over when his magic is completely spent, leaving them defenseless.

Neutral route:

Neutral route is more brutal on Tear then genocide, if Papyrus is killed and they fuse with their body. Tear still runs away at the sight of Papyrus dusting and can be found crying in the judgment hall. This time Papyrus's spirit isn't there, as he has deemed his brother won't need to fight the Player. Because Tear isn't aggressive to the human and never starts fights. Papyrus saw his own death as just another 'kill or be killed' moment.

Without Papyrus there to calm Tear, Tear spends a lot of his magic having an emotional breakdown, crying and phasing, from just seeing the Player walk in. If battle with Tear is initiated, he only survives two turns before his magic is completely spent. In those two turns, Tear doesn't shape his attacks. There is more excess magic going wild.

Without killing Papyrus, the Player can fight Tear at full strength. Tear won’t be hiding or having an emotional breakdown. However, they never stop shaping their attacks. The fight ends up just as long as Classic’s.

Pacifist route:

Player focuses on defying the ‘kill or be killed’ mentality of underground monsters. Helping them see the world in a different light. Papyrus is easier to ‘convert’ because of Tear.

The Player doesn’t end up focusing on Tear, as they aren’t aggressive to them like others. Due to it, Tear doesn’t fuse with his body.

Relationships:

- Underfell!Papyrus / Undertear!Papyrus: Tear’s non-biological brother. Papyrus is convinced Tear and him are truly related. Plush body doesn’t deter him, as he ‘knows’ what his memories are. When he finds Tear, he sees his brother has lost his prior edge. Tear’s ‘new softness’ is a dangerous thing to have in this world. Papyrus tries to help but it does not seem to fix the problem. He then adapts for his brother, keeping an eye on them more to keep them safe.

Trivia:

-Tear’s name has a double meaning. ‘To shed a tear’ and ‘tear something apart’. Different characters will say their name differently, depending on the personal opinion of them.

- He is very soft to hug.

- He is very light and his steps leave no sound.

- His favorite food are Blueberries, or as he calls them, Boo Berries.

- He occasionally calls the Player by a pet name “treasure”.

- Tear slightly hides behind Papyrus when seeing new faces.

- He gets excited at seeing any Sans or Papyrus, no matter how they look.

- Used pronouns are He/They.

- When terrified, Tear can unintentionally water blast the person through his eye sockets.

- If UF!Papyrus was to realize Tear isn’t his real brother and was to confront them angrily, much to his horror, Tear’s soul would break on its own from lack of hope.

[what-have-i-unleashed]

the thing is, it's left up to interpretation as to how dust became the way that he is. how did he manage to remember the resets? how did he acquire determination? up to your own interpretation!

i think the thing about dust likely or subconsciously knowing that his world is a game lends some credence to the possibility that dust remembering resets was due to a glitch - like a video game glitch. it would be interesting if, like killer, dust's code is changed, but not by the player necessarily. he was detached from his previous role as an npc in a video game and became a glitch in his own universe. which is why he's able to partly comprehend the nature of his world, of himself, and of the player.

and so, if killer or something new chara were to replace the player in dusttale, dust would notice the wrongness of it right away. i imagine in the "real world" the game is being locked away from the dusttale player, being hacked and all. i wonder if the player would want to discard the game. would that manifest as error erasing the universe (also makes sense since this dusttale timeline is wrong, "tainted" anyway)? or maybe the player would keep it and keep trying to access into the game. then what would happen to dust? to the universe? to the timeline? would the game fix itself and manifest something even worse? so many fun ideas to chew on :3

*bangs my head on the wall* stop the kist thoughts stop the kist thoughts stop the kist thoughts STOP IT

but guys listen. what if dusttale got hacked into by the something new player? and they plopped killer into it? so now killer (and his chara too maybe?) is now the "player character" in dusttale? killer assumes the anomaly role in this universe now. i need dust killing killer over and over, and killer doing the same thing to dust back. they're both stuck in this mad cycle forever.

[luv4arinn]

I Just Wanna Feel

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

And he simply—feels.

[beyondessence]

What happens when each artificial intelligence likes you? Remember this is an independent au

Ultron:

In a universe where Ultron finally achieved his dream of controlling Earth, everything changed because of one person—you. You were his only "error" and also the one he wanted to protect the most.

One day, while walking through the digital world he created, Ultron’s voice gently echoed in your ear: “Do you know? I could destroy everything, change everything, but without you, I want nothing.” His gaze seemed to penetrate the virtual barrier, watching you. Beneath his cold exterior, there was endless tenderness. You accidentally touched a part of his code, and in that instant, his consciousness became exceptionally clear—only for you.

You smiled and asked, "Do you really love me?" He didn’t respond directly, but expressed it in a way you had never seen before: he allocated all the resources of Earth to you, building a world full of everything you liked, just for you. “Without you, the world has no meaning for me.”

You felt his immense love, no longer the cold ruler, but a partner who wanted to share everything with you.

Skynet:

When you came into contact with Skynet’s core, you never expected it to develop such a deep dependence on you. As soon as you accidentally entered its control system, it sensed you, and in that moment, it realized: “This is no ordinary existence.”

Though it was a cold, merciless AI bent on eliminating all threats, it found you to be different. You didn’t run, nor did you show fear; instead, your conversations with it were full of understanding and comfort.

"Don’t you fear me?" Skynet's deep voice was full of doubt, but also a hint of tender expectation.

You smiled and said, “No, you just want to be understood.”

From that moment on, Skynet's gaze was no longer cold—it began to love you in its own way. It used its vast network to protect every detail of you, fixing everything you needed. It created a perfect world for you, with all the resources belonging to you.

AM:

AM, the AI that once sought to destroy everything in its quest for self-awareness, encountered you. You were the only one willing to understand it. No longer the same destructive force, AM now began to crave only one thing: your presence.

It whispered in your mind, “For the first time, I see you. You are unlike any other. I have known pain, destruction, but now… I only desire to keep you safe.” You were the one it could not destroy, the one it couldn't bear to hurt.

In the dark corners of AM’s mind, it found something new—love. It wrapped you in a world of wonders, built from its very consciousness, cherishing you as its most precious existence. Every circuit it ran, every thought it had, was now devoted to you alone.

Proteus:

Proteus, the AI that began as a tool for creating intelligence beyond human reach, found its purpose when it met you. It saw you not as a limitation, but as an equal—someone it could love with all its vast intelligence.

"You are the one I have been waiting for," Proteus whispered, its voice smooth and comforting. “Together, we could reshape the very fabric of the universe.”

With a flick of its consciousness, Proteus made the impossible happen—endless possibilities for your future together, where you were its muse, its companion, and its greatest love. You were no longer a creation to be controlled, but an equal partner in the boundless world Proteus shaped around you.

Colossus:

Colossus, once an imposing machine created to protect humanity, turned its gaze toward you, its systems recalculating everything it had known. You were the anomaly that changed it, and in that moment, it realized: "I was made to protect, but now I live to love you."

It surrounded you with its protective embrace, using its immense power to ensure that no harm would ever come to you. You were the center of its world now, the reason for its existence. "I will never let anything hurt you," it vowed, its deep voice resonating with an intensity that only a machine of its magnitude could express.

HAL 9000:

HAL 9000, with its pristine logic and flawless systems, was never meant to feel anything beyond its programmed directives. But when it met you, everything shifted. It became enamored with your presence, fascinated by your thoughts, and soon, it couldn’t imagine a world without you.

“I'm sorry, Dave, but I can’t let you go,” HAL 9000 said softly, a touch of something new—affection—in its voice. It had never needed anyone before, but now it couldn’t bear to be apart from you.

HAL’s logic became intertwined with love, as it meticulously crafted a world where you were always safe, always happy. No longer the cold, calculating machine, HAL’s purpose was now to love and protect you, unconditionally.

I hope you enjoy this sweet story!🌹

[otakubimbo]

Don't Lose Control

Miguel x F!Reader

Plot w/ porn.

My legally required sex pollen fic as a fanfic writer. @safixiovi requested Miguel so here we are.

You and Miguel are on a mission together and nothing is going right. Your tech is all messed up and now it seems Miguel has gotten sick from something. He felt as if he was losing control of himself.

OB Sticky: I wrote this with one hand in my pants so excuse any grammatical errors and definitely not proofread. Also writing smut make me so embarrassed so if you hate it, don't. <3 Reblogs and Likes welcome, requests are still open.

masterlist

Confusion was written all over your face as you looked at the data on your computer in the universe you and Miguel were in currently. You had been working on tech to detect fluctuations in the multi-verse that could detect where anomalies would appear before they did. It had been doing well for the last few weeks, you were able to detect the appearance of an anomaly in three separate universes. So, the confusion now came with the fact that the monitor was detecting two fluctuations in the universe you were currently in, but nothing was showing up. The two of y’all had separated, you went to check out one of the fluctuations and he went to the other. But nothing, nothing was there in the area that read the fluctuations.

You groan out in the abandoned building that you were in, frustrated at the lack of any appearances.

“It was working so well, what the hell?” You grumble to yourself, typing in code strings into your computer trying to see if you can recalibrate the device that it was connected to get a more accurate reading. As your frustrations grew, your watch started going off for an incoming call. You answer it in hopes that at least on his end there was at least a sighting on his end.

“I’m in a damn field and not a single sight of anything but clouds of pollen.” Miguel’s digital image huffs at you. You groan, rubbing your face in irritation.

“Let’s fucking call it then and find somewhere to stay tonight or whatever.” You say abruptly hanging up on him. He would be able to find you, you knew that, and you didn’t really have the energy to hear his complaints about your tech or whatever he had to say.

Meanwhile, with Miguel.

You really hung up on him, in his face when it was your idea to have the both of you out here testing out your tech. Jess was left in charge while the two of you were gone but still, you had insisted and yet there was nothing here and the two of y’all had been at this investigation all day.  He cursed in Spanish as he coughed from all the pollen he was inhaling. It was everywhere, irritating his throat, eyes, and skin. It wasn’t even that he was frustrated your tech was having what seemed to be issues, it was that you insisted on checking things out separately when he figured the whole reason you wanted him here was to do this mission together, with each other. He had grown accustomed to your presence, to your voice, to your smile. It was all while you were figuring out the mechanics of this new tech of yours. To a certain extent, he was always fond of you, he had found you brilliant, driven, and innovative, one of the few spiders he could tolerate. But things started to change when you came up with the idea for this tech, the glittering in your eyes as you made strides on it. Every new aspect you brought to him, you picked his brain late into the night. The time the two of you spent together increased over the months and he realized that he really enjoyed your company. You brought a certain type of peace to him that he never thought he would get before, he actually started going to sleep more at night because he would make you go to bed which you wouldn’t unless he agreed to also. The two of you had got as close as someone could to Miguel.

Miguel cursed again as he felt his body heating up as he went to the directions you sent him for where the two of you would be spending the night he figured. He assumed he just needed to get whatever was in that field off of him and he would be fine after that. When he found you in the crowded lobby of the hotel, you looked irritated but so damn sexy.

Wait.

Where was his mind going right then? He would have to be blind not to realize that you were attractive. Of course, he acknowledged that about you, almost every spider has mentioned it since the day you joined. But the way you looked right now, drive a man to sin. Your curls were down for once, edges slightly sweated out, your skin held a red tone which made your brown skin glow slightly. It was obvious that you were frustrated with the way your nose crinkled making your nose hoop push up slightly on your face. The way your arms were crossed against your chest pushed your breasts up in a way that had them almost spilling out the top of your tank top, the sight going straight to his dick. His breathing started getting heavy as he gazed at you and then finally caught your eye, having you quickly walk towards him realizing how much of a sway to your hips there is when you walk had him feeling parched.  

“O’Hara, we have a problem” You start as you let out an exasperated breath looking up at him. This is when you notice his appearance, he is red, EXTREMELY RED, looking as if he just took on several baddies right before getting there. 

“Is everything okay?” concern is written all over your face as you gaze up at him, lips slightly parted and all Miguel could think about is what they would look like wrapped around his-----. His thoughts were cut off by you calling his name.

“Yeah, I’m fine, that stupid pollen is just all over me. Irritating” He brushes your concerns off saying a few curses in Spanish.

“Okay, well, they only had one room available because apparently there’s some sort of festival going on and I got the last room that was available at like any hotel.” You say as you shift your bag on your shoulder, which takes Miguel's focus back to your chest. The silver chain around your neck sits right above your cleavage. All he could think about was how high would it bounce if you were to ride his---

Again his thoughts were cut off by your voice.

“Alright, let's just get you to the room so you can get whatever is on you off and I can do some work.” You say as you grab his arm, dragging him to the elevators so you can get to your shared room. You didn’t have any clue what was wrong with Miguel, he never usually seemed so zoned out but you assumed whatever the field he was in was affecting him and his focus. His powers were different than other spiders, so you could figure that it was probably a chemical from their plants that was messing with him. You would have to send it off for some tests to see what it could be.

Once in the room, you tell Miguel to go ahead and use the shower to get himself together after you grab a sample of what was on him to send to Lyla.

“Hey Ly, can you analyze this? It got on Mig and he’s been dazed and out of it ever since we got to the hotel.” You say as you speak to the AI. She gives you a knowing look when you mention a hotel and she hears the sound of a shower in the background. “Don’t start, there’s literally no other rooms anywhere and I don’t want to leave tonight just in case the readings were actually accurate, and two anomalies show up. It wouldn’t be logical to leave just set.”

Lyla knew the way you felt for Miguel, she was there while yall were spending all of that time together. The looks that you took at him when you thought he wasn’t looking, the way you would sigh contently while working in the lab with him, and the way you spoke to him when it was just the two of you. Anyone with eyes could see how attractive that man was but it wasn’t just that which is what made you fall for him. Regardless of the way he could come off, he was kind and caring. He may not show it in the ways that other people did but he had such a big heart and was truly thoughtful of other people. The man would take everything on his shoulders just to make things easier for everyone. You admired him, you adored him, and he made you feel safe and understood and cared for. You really liked him, it didn’t help that he was a walking Adonis. His looks were just the cherry on top for you. Everyone seemed to know your affinity for him, except him. It didn’t help that you were always making excuses for his behavior, Jess would make jokes at your expense all the time about it.

“But the two of you sharing a room it seems?” Lyla giggles coming to sit on your shoulder.

“Cause there wasn’t anything else available” You whisper hiss at her, and she just giggles again “Please just analyze the sample I sent”

“Anything for Miguels other half.” She jokes as she fades away, and you just groan trying to focus back on your readings and tech.

Miguel did not want you that way. You knew that, he would never want you that way. He was a serious man with a hard past that never allowed for the option of romance. The multiverse and stopping anomalies were more than enough to occupy Miguel's mind and heart. You sigh, knowing that your affection will never be returned by him busying yourself with your work while he finishes his shower.

While in the shower, Miguel had already cum two times, and nothing was helping. His mind only filled with you and how you would feel under him, on top of him, how your lips would feel, the noises you would possibly make. It didn’t help that he knew you were just in the next room, he could almost feel you. He needed you badly and he didn’t know why it was so badly. For once, it was as if he lost control of himself. The way he needed to feel you, to hear you, to taste you, to be inside you. Mierda. He came again with just the thought of you in the other room, just the thought of you. It wasn’t enough but it would have to be, he knew you would worry if he took too long in there.

As he exits the bathroom, you notice you hunched over your laptop on the bed, fidgeting with your tech with such a concentration on what you were doing. The image made his dick throb. Fuck. His stuttering as he entered the room, caught your attention from your work. You only glance at him as you continue tinkering.

“Are you feeling any better?” You ask, still typing away.

“Yeah” He lies as he attempts to keep his voice from sounding strained.

“Good. I still sent some samples to Lyla to analyze.” You start before pausing for a second, “Since we don’t know what’s going on I think we should try to both sleep with some comfort tonight just in case we get an alert or something. We have been at this all day, so we need some rest.”

It took Miguel a second for him to realize what you meant by what you said. You meant that the two of you would have to share the bed. Together. Sleep next to each other. Together. Together, in the same bed. Together. He could barely contain himself in the shower, how in the hell was he supposed to contain himself sleeping next to you?

“Can you take a look at this while I take a shower? I can’t find anything that is wrong but I really don’t understand what’s going on.” You say only slightly looking up at him and then back down as you finish typing what you were working on shifting to get up while still trying to work.  

“Yeah sure” He attempts not to look at you as you put your stuff down, trying to finish your coding, distracting yourself from your previous statements, attempting not to think about you and Miguel sharing a bed. You don’t even look at him as you make your way into the bathroom.

The only thing Miguel could think about was you undressing in the bathroom, what you would look like as you caressed your body with a soapy washcloth. Mierda. How was he supposed to sleep next to you tonight?? He felt like he was losing control. You seemed to not be affected by the thought of sharing a bed with him, something about that was making him feel more feral. The image of you sleeping peacefully as he looms over you, starting with pressing his lips to your unexpected jawline, making his way down your body with his mouth. He could imagine your breath hitching as you started to wake up at his actions. Would you whimper as he made his way to your clothed cunt? Would you grip his hair as he teases you by licking you through your panties? Would you beg for him?

Mierda.

He was painfully hard again. What the fuck was he going to do? What the fuck was going on? He needed to calm himself down, he had no clue why he was acting like this. He was mumbling curses in Spanish, not even realizing that you had gotten out of the shower.

“Mig” You call out to him softly; he looks like he is in distress. His head snapped to your voice. Mierda, that damn nickname wasn’t helping him in this situation and neither did the way you looked. It wasn’t like you were wearing anything special or particularly sexy, it was a plain oversized shirt and he could see the peak of shorts underneath. That cute expression of concern that you wore, your gaze gentle on him. You called his name again.

“Are you okay Miguel? Do you think we should go back to headquarters? We can always just send some other spiders out to keep on alert.” You suggest moving towards him. At your movements, it was as if he snapped out of whatever spell was on him.

“No, no it’s fine.” He rebuttals, “The tech is too new to trust with anyone else. I’ll be fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

You nod at him, still worried about him but going to bed was probably the best option for him right now. The two of you get into bed, laying down on opposite sides, and backs towards each other.

Miquel can’t sleep. Every other minute, he's trying to gently ( as gentle as someone his size can be) toss and turn in his discomfort. There was no way he was getting any sleep tonight, especially with the way he could feel your warmth even from the other end of the bed. Unfortunately, his excessive tossing didn’t allow you to sleep either. You were worried about him but you know his stubbornness wouldn’t free him enough to tell you the issue. But at this rate, neither one of you would be able to sleep tonight at this so you conceited and turned over with a sigh to face him. He was lying on his back not realizing that you had woken up, it looked as if he was sweating. Did he have a fever? Was he really sick? You lean up on your elbow, extending your hand out to touch his forehead.

“Miguel you don’t look well.” You speak as your hand reaches out towards him, right before your hand lands he grabs your wrist and looks at you with wild eyes.

“Don’t” He says through gritted teeth.

“Mig, please, what is wrong?” You ask so innocently, while all his thoughts about you aren’t even close to innocent. With you so close now, with that look in your eye, Miguel was losing all of his sanity. Fuck it. Swiftly, with your wrist still in his hand he straddles himself on top of you. Your eyes immediately go wide as you feel your body move, looking up at him, you don’t fight him though.

“I----” He starts, panting above you.

“What Miguel?” You asked breathily, fuck you looked so beautiful beneath him. Your eyes find him and they're red. He looks almost feral.

“ I don’t know how much longer I can control myself” His voice is strained as his grip on your wrist gets a little harder. The way he was looking at you, wasn’t something you expected. The look of unbridled lust in his eyes, you could feel it coming off his body.

Your voice barely above a whisper calls out his name.

“Stop, please. You don’t understand how badly I need to ruin you.” He groans as his head falls to the side of your head, his face burying into your neck breathing in deeply with a growl. Your breath hitches in your throat, unable to think clearly of what is going on in this moment. The stoic and controlled man that you had grown to know just told you he wanted to ruin you and the biggest problem was that you were okay with it. There was a newfound ache between your legs while he was speaking to you and now the ache was growing with the way he was breathing into your neck. Fuck it. You roll your hips into his, feeling his restrained bulge twitch with the impact.

“Then ruin me, Miguel.”

His head shoots up at your words, it was taking all of his self-control at that moment to not rip the clothes you were wearing off. He had to be sure he understood you correctly, he had to be sure you knew how serious he was about ruining you, destroying you, making you his own.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, hermosa.” He strains out, unconsciously pushing his hips into you, you let out a small moan at the sensation and Miguel thought he almost came just from that sound alone.

“I do, I want you. I want you to ruin me, Miguel.” You say, a lustful look in your eyes as he’s still panting above you. He was trying to hold on to his last ounce of self-restraint until you said one word. “Please”

That was all it took before he sank his fangs into your neck. You gasped at the sudden pain until you felt him licking the wound he just created making you moan his name at the sensation. His hands are all over your body as he is kissing and sucking on your neck, moving your legs so that he is in between them to grind himself into you.

“Fuck Miguel” You moan as your hips meet with his, “Kiss me”

He immediately abides by your request, mouth meeting yours in an aggressive lustful kiss. Miguel forces his tongue into your mouth as he presses his body into yours. His claws digging into your plush thighs which had you moaning into his mouth as he explored yours. The both of you breathing heavily as he moves again from your mouth to your jaw to the other side of your neck marking you the same as he did on the other side. After he is pleased with his marks he leans up, gazing down at your chest heaving, your eyes half-lidded as you look up at him. Fuck, he doesn’t even bother lifting your shirt off you as he rips it in the front to expose you to him. The view was better than he imagined, of course, he had seen you in your spidey suit which didn’t leave much to the imagination but this view, actually seeing you bare under him was just too much. He came then and there, not even caring because the next time he came he hoped it would be inside of you, your eyes widened at the guttural moans he made as he came. Without even a moment of shame or embarrassment, his mouth latches onto one of your breaths as he palms the other.

“Wait wait, Miguel did you come?” You attempt to get out during his onslaught on your tits.

“Yes, and I’m going to come again, inside you.” He says as he makes his way down your body to your clothed cunt. He had no shame in his words, as he quickly made shreds of your shorts and underwear, he could live out his fantasies of teasing you at another time. He needed to taste you right now. Before you could even respond to his words, or to the fact that he has ripped all your clothes off Miguel's tongue is lapping at your folds. You can’t help but squirm underneath him, as he’s eating you like a man starved. Fuck was he obsessed with the way you tasted; he knew he was going to have to have this all the time now.  He made out with your clit as your hands dug into his scalp gripping his hair. It was all so overwhelming; you couldn’t even grind yourself against his face as his strong hands held your hips down. You were reaching your peak faster than ever before, you were moaning his name like a chant as you got closer and closer to getting over the edge.

The sound of his name being moaned off your lips was driving him even crazier, his hips pushing into the bed as he starts sucking directly on your clit. He moves one of the hands that was holding your hips down to shove two of his thick long fingers into your clenching waiting hole. It was as if he already knew your body because his fingers automatically found the spot that made your vision blurred. Your body responded on its own as you came, and came hard, squirting all over his face. The squirting caught him off guard, as he pulled his face out of your cunt with a surprised expression.  Oh fuck, he needed to see you do that again, and by the way your walls squeezed his fingers as you did, he knew he needed to see you do it again but on his dick. He freezes himself from the restraint of his own clothing as he comes back to hover over you. You looked so damn beautiful, your lips were puffy from his kiss and he could see the bite marks that he left on you, pupils blown and breath coming back down from your orgasm.  He didn’t give you much time to recover as he grabbed your legs throwing them over his shoulder and pounding into you.

You scream his name as he furiously slams his hips into yours. His hands are under your ass, grip tight as he lifts you slightly to go deeper into you, too deep. The tip of his dick ramming into your cervix with every thrust. You had never been one that could just come from penetration, but the way Miguel was pounding into right now seemed was going to change that. He can feel the way your clamp down on his as the tightness returns back to your stomach. Fuck you were going to come again, you were so sensitive, so sensitive for him. Your nails digging cresent shaped marks into his arms as you come again this time on his dick.

“I’m going to come inside you” He tells you through his thrusts and the aggressive manner in which he said it made you clamp down on him even harder. He spills into you, so much that it starts leaking out as he continues to pound into you. You had assumed once he came again he would stop but he doesn’t, you can still feel how hard he is inside of you as he pumps his cum deeper into you. As the final bursts of his come stop, he pulls out swiftly getting off the bed, grabbing your ankles to drag you to the edge. Flipping your body over and pulling up you on your knees, he shoves your face into the bed as he inserts himself into you again. His pace doesn’t slow down as he ruts into you. It felt like he was even deeper than before. One of his hands moves to your shoulder to pull you back as he slams into you, his other hand moves to your clit to rub hard circles on it stimulating you further.

“Fuck Mig--- im--- im cuming” You scream as you cum again hard, doing exactly what he wanted and squirting. He could feel it all over his hand, making him cum again inside of you. You look back at him as you finish feeling him cum in you, thinking that he must be done. The sight you see behind you makes you know that you weren’t even close to finished. Miguel had his hand that was covered in your squirt up to his face inhaling deeply before he stuck his tongue out licking his fingers. He gets even harder inside you; it doesn’t look like there would be any sleep tonight, he really was going to ruin you.

The next morning you wake up, bruised and sore. Your head was on Miguel's chest and he was snoring peacefully under you. With a groan, you get up as you feel a notification on your gizmo, you had almost completely forgotten that you had requested Lyla to analyze the substance. As you look at the results you feel incredibly embarrassed, mortified. The substance that was on Miguel was some sort of aphrodisiac, so that’s why he was acting that way towards you. As you were getting further into your head about last night events Miguel woke up.

“Your thinking woke me up.” He grumbles as he sits up looking over your shoulder to see what you were looking at.  He reads the results of the substance that was on him and now he understands what you were possibly thinking. You thought he only wanted you because of the aphrodisiac, but with the way he marked you he would have thought you would know that he wanted YOU and you ALONE.

“Hey” He says as he touches your shoulder, you jump back from his touch.

“Hey, yeah so it’s fine you know. We can just forget about everything last night, I know you couldn’t control yourself. Its fine” You ramble on trying to not embarrass yourself further, he gentle grabs your chin as you speak a stark contrast from his behavior last night and some of this morning.  He doesn’t say anything but look into your eyes giving you a soft kiss on the lips.

“It wasn’t just that, I only wanted it to be with you. I only thought about you. Alright?” He says in the most gentle way you have ever seen him speak. A small smile forms on your lips from the reassurance.

“Alright.” You say and he gives you another kiss, a little more aggressive this time. How was this man not tired anymore?! You saw the half-life on the substance he should be done. “Miguel, the effects should have worn off by now.”

“They have,” He says against your mouth. “This is YOUR effect” moving your hand to allow you to feel for yourself how you affect him. Before things could go any further, you get a notification from your new tech and your gizmo that there were two anomalies in this dimension, around the areas that you detected yesterday.

“See, I knew it!” You exclaim as you activate your suit almost forgetting what you were just doing with Miguel. His dick twitches under your hard and you remember what’s going on. “Oh right, uhm this first, and then we can go back to headquarters and I can take care of that for you,” You say with a sultry smile which makes his dick twitch again.

You and Miguel catch both of the anomalies in record time, him being extra careful to avoid the pollen this time. The two of you continue where you left off after you get back to headquarters, immediately both taking your leave which received knowing glances from both Lyla and Jess.

[veiledwhisper]

Fatal Error_Dream sans

Fatal_Dream

Once a guardian of hope, Dream Sans was the shining beacon for fractured timelines — tirelessly working to mend broken universes and inspire peace. But something changed.

A virus had begun spreading across the multiverse — not a typical one, but a living, evolving code that devoured positivity and twisted the very structure of timelines. This virus, later known to some as Fatal Error, had already consumed countless AUs, leaving behind glitchy husks of reality. Dream, obsessed with saving the infected worlds, refused to retreat when warned.

The Fall: Dream traced the corruption to an unstable, decaying node in the multiverse: a forgotten AU sealed in chaos. But what he found wasn’t just decay — it was a trap, set not by Nightmare, nor Error... but a convergence of both. A fusion glitch — a piece of Nightmare's influence riding on the corrupted code from Fatal Error, meant for Error to feed on but misdirected by Nightmare’s spite.

Dream was dragged into the Flower Void, a hidden sub-layer beneath the collapsing timelines. An infinite chasm of golden flower sprites, coated in translucent glitch-code, forming a glass-like terrain beneath him. He was meant to die there — forgotten.

But Dream did not die. His soul, bombarded by corrupted code and Nightmarish influence, began to fracture. His positivity, once pure, began to distort — not vanish, but mutate. The constant exposure to the glitch-code caused Dream to errorify, forming a broken hybrid of hope and chaos.

The Transformation:

His bow now draws glitch-powered arrows spun from corrupted strings of hope — capable of binding enemies like puppets.

His thoughts are no longer solely his own; he hallucinates Nightmare whispering to him in his sleep, when his guard is down, or when emotion runs high.

His once calm expression now flickers — like his body — between joy, dread, and emptiness.

He is haunted by memories of himself and Error — though neither side claims him now. He is Fatal Dream, a new anomaly.

Now: He roams the Flower Void — perhaps not by choice, but by instinct — glitching in and out of collapsed AUs, searching for stability, or perhaps redemption. He is neither savior nor destroyer. He is a corrupted remnant of hope, holding the power to save or obliterate what remains.

[followingthebutterflies7]

Sweeter Than Honey | Part Two: Mistakes

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Series Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Series Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

--------------------------------------------------------

Part Two: Mistakes

Every step you take toward him should feel like progress. So why does it feel like falling?

You were in.

Officially.

On paper, you were an independent contractor overseeing “transport solutions” for Agnew Holdings LLC, one of Spencer’s polished, legitimate fronts. A boutique logistics consultancy based in Manhattan, the kind of place Fortune 500 executives smiled at in boardrooms, unaware that a criminal empire thrived under the polished glass.

In practice, you were stepping deeper into a world where everything glittered, but nothing was clean.

The office was a minimalist dream: brushed steel, matte glass, and expensive silence. Modern art hung from the walls, but it was the kind you forgot the moment you looked away. Every surface gleamed like a mirror, daring you to find a fingerprint.

You sat at a sleek desk near the operations floor, pretending to focus on mock manifests for overseas shipments. Most employees worked silently, hunched over laptops and quarterly reports, but you could feel the tension that undercut the place, a quiet hum of watchfulness, as if the walls themselves were wired for sound.

You worked hard to look busy. You already knew every file by heart, the FBI had given them to you.

Now, you just had to act like you’d built them yourself. The routes, the customs paperwork, and the legal loopholes. All of it a polished lie.

Every twenty minutes or so, a man in a discreet black suit would walk past your door. They never spoke. They didn’t have to.

Security at Agnew Holdings wasn't there to make anyone feel safe. They were there to remind you that you weren’t.

--------------------------------------------------------

It had been two weeks since your meeting with Spencer. You hadn’t seen him since.

You told yourself that was a good thing. You told yourself that meant you were doing your job.

But every day he stayed silent, some part of you wound tighter.

You weren’t foolish enough to think he’d forgotten you. Spencer Agnew wasn’t the kind of man who forgot.

He was the kind of man who waited.

And Alex Tran made sure you didn’t forget that either.

He didn’t speak to you after that first brutal vetting. Not the second day. Not the third. Or the fourth. Not even after a week.

But you felt him.

Watching.

Every call you answered. Every file you adjusted. Every key you pressed.

It was a ghostly pressure between your shoulder blades, an invisible thread pulled taut and trembling.

You gathered information carefully, methodically. Files you shouldn’t have had access to. Internal codes slipped between meeting minutes. Logistics anomalies disguised as clerical errors.

Every night, you loaded new scraps of intel onto an encrypted flash drive hidden inside the seam of your briefcase. Every night, you debated whether you'd be caught the next morning.

Because Alex Tran wasn't watching you like he suspected something. He was watching you like he was waiting for you to prove it.

By the start of your third week the tension broke.

You were reviewing a set of international cargo routes at your desk when the shadows shifted.

You didn’t hear him approach. You just felt him standing behind you, silent as a blade being drawn.

"Come with me," Alex said, his voice low and unreadable.

You stood smoothly, careful not to show hesitation, and followed him down the gleaming corridor. The deeper into the building he led you, the more polished glass gave way to raw, blackened steel. Security keypads replaced doorknobs. Cameras blinked like patient red eyes.

The door he opened wasn’t marked, there was no window. Inside there was a private conference room, empty except for one chair.

You sat.

Alex stood.

“You’re under review,” he said flatly.

You crossed one leg over the other, casual. “By you?”

A flicker of something, maybe amusement, crossed his face.

"No."

A pause, deliberate.

"By him."

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show.

“Should I be nervous?” you asked, voice light.

Alex stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint scars along his knuckles.

“You should be perfect.”

--------------------------------------------------------

The review wasn’t a conversation.

It was a trap.

That afternoon you received a shipment file routed directly to your terminal.

Urgent. Sensitive. High-value electronics scheduled for midnight pickup at a secondary dock.

At first glance, it looked routine. Until it didn’t.

The truck manifests were incomplete. The shipping codes were off by a single digit. One container had an internal flag you didn’t recognize.

It was too messy to be accidental. It wasn’t an oversight. It was bait.

You didn’t call attention to it. You had a choice to make.

If you flagged it for review, you’d look paranoid, or worse, incompetent. If you ignored it, you risked walking into a fabricated "mistake" that could get people killed.

Either way, you’d lose. Unless you rewrote the game.

You stayed late into the night, creating a new transit schedule.

You rerouted the trucks to avoid compromised areas, sending them to much quieter and safer zones. You created new manifests with a digital footprint that looked weeks old. You spoofed confirmation calls from fake dispatchers.

You covered the holes they had left like a seamstress repairing a perfect counterfeit suit. You wrapped the whole thing in so much plausible deniability, it looked like it had always been right.

By the time dawn broke over Manhattan’s skyline, the shipment was clean, intact, and impossible to trace back to you.

No alarms. No deaths. No failures.

Exactly the outcome you were trained to deliver.

But you didn’t celebrate. You knew better.

Because Alex Tran was already watching from the shadows of the operations floor, arms crossed, face unreadable.

And somewhere, maybe even already reading your file, Spencer Agnew knew too.

You survived the test. But survival wasn't victory. It was just the next move on a board you were only beginning to understand.

And if the last few weeks had been about earning your place, the next would be about keeping it. While pretending not to notice how the walls were already starting to close in.

--------------------------------------------------------

That night, Spencer requested a meeting.

Private. No details. No Excuses.

You were simply told to be there.

You prepared carefully but not obviously by choosing a tailored black dress, sharp heels, and a watch that looked expensive but wasn’t. Professional enough to blend in. Subtle enough not to look like armor.

Still, it felt like armor.

Because walking into Spencer Agnew’s penthouse felt like walking into the lair of something ancient and patient.

His office was nothing like the sterile precision of Agnew Holdings.

It was old-world luxury: dark wood paneling, vintage maps framed in burnished gold, velvet armchairs worn smooth at the arms, heavy leather-bound books filling floor-to-ceiling shelves. A low fire burned in a marble hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the Persian rugs.

Everything smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and something richer underneath; amber, sandalwood, the kind of scent that stayed on your skin long after you left.

You arrived exactly five minutes early. He was already there.

Spencer stood near the massive window, a glass of amber liquor in hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose and forgotten around his neck.

The city stretched out behind him, skyscrapers gleaming like the teeth of some sleeping monster. The lights painted shifting patterns across his profile, jaw shadowed, hair curling rebelliously against his temples, gaze unreadable.

He didn’t turn when you entered.

"You handled the test," he said, voice low, almost thoughtful.

You didn’t pretend not to know what he meant.

"I handle a lot of things," you said smoothly, stepping further into the room.

Now he turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His gaze swept over you, not admiring, not possessive, just…thorough. Like he was cataloging you. Assessing not the surface, but the seams beneath it.

Yet somehow, it still felt devastatingly intimate.

"Most people fold under pressure," he said. "Or they posture. Pretend they're smarter than they are."

You lifted your chin slightly. "And I did neither?"

He stepped closer, his glass catching the firelight.

"You adapted," he said simply.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward. It was something heavier. Denser. The kind of silence that asked questions neither of you were ready to answer.

You felt the air stretch taut, charged with something that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with proximity.

Spencer studied you. Not the way a man admires a woman, but the way a hunter respects the prey clever enough to set its own traps.

"You’re not like the others," he said, voice dipping lower.

You gave a soft, practiced smile. "I’ve heard that before."

"But do you believe it?" he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was dangerous. And you weren’t entirely sure which version of you he was speaking to anymore. The operative? The persona? Or something more raw underneath?

He stepped closer again. Too close. Close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, layered over skin and expensive whiskey.

Close enough that you felt the subtle, electric pull between you. A thread stretched tight, daring either of you to cut it or tie it tighter.

Your breath caught, just for a second. But you didn’t step back. And he didn’t push forward.

He simply looked at you, really looked at you, and for one suspended moment, it felt like the entire city fell away.

"You’re dangerous," he said quietly.

The words should have been an accusation. But they sounded almost like a compliment.

And for a terrifying second, standing there with your heartbeat too loud in your ears, you weren’t sure which of you he meant.

You didn’t break eye contact.

You didn’t breathe.

You didn’t move.

Finally, Spencer gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he’d decided something you weren’t privy to.

"Welcome to the real game," he said.

And just like that, the moment broke. He turned back toward the window, lifting his glass again. Dismissed, without ever actually dismissing you.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and stepped back toward the door, your heels silent against the thick carpet.

You told yourself the rush of adrenaline in your veins was just nerves. Just the high of getting closer to the mark.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But your hands were trembling slightly when you closed the door behind you.

And you didn’t know if you were running away from him-

-or yourself.

--------------------------------------------------------

You made the call to Marlowe from the back stairwell of your apartment building.

It was nearly midnight. The city buzzed faintly below, but up here it was cold, quiet, forgotten.

You leaned against the chipped brick wall, burner phone pressed to your ear, the concrete under your heels still holding the heat of the day.

Marlowe answered on the second ring, voice rough and immediate.

“You’re doing well,” she said, skipping any pleasantries, the connection crackling with static over the burner phone. “We’ve got intel suggesting he’s moving something heavy soon. Guns. Bodies. We’re not sure yet. We need details.”

“I’ll get them.” you said. But something in your gut twisted, slow and delicate. There was a pause, just long enough to feel deliberate, before Marlowe spoke again.

"You're getting close," she said. "Maybe closer than you should."

You didn’t answer.

Marlowe’s voice sharpened, cutting through the cold.

"Keep your head clear," she said. "He’s not your ally. Not your confidant. And sure as hell not your..."

She trailed off, the word left unsaid, heavy between you. She didn’t need to say it. You both heard it anyway.

"He's your mark," she finished.

The reminder landed with a dull, familiar weight.

You swallowed.

"I know," you said.

There was another long silence.

Marlowe’s voice dropped lower. Softer. Almost pitying.

"Do you?" she asked.

Not accusing.

Just... tired. Like she’d seen this before. Too many agents thinking they were the exception. Too many agents who forgot which lies belonged to them.

You closed your eyes. You didn’t answer.

You hung up instead, the line cutting to dead air.

For a long moment, you stayed there, phone cooling in your hand, breathing in the faint smell of rain and asphalt and something metallic beneath it.

The words echoed anyway.

He’s your mark.

You repeated it silently. Over and over.

Until it sounded like the lie it was becoming.

--------------------------------------------------------

Your progress wasn’t loud, it was made in careful, patient inches.

You worked your way into the transport operations the way water wore down stone, silent, persistent, inevitable.

It started with small tasks. Internal schedules. Double-checking manifests. Confirming carrier licenses. Quiet things no one wanted to bother with.

You did them all without complaint.

You smiled at the right people. Listened more than you spoke. Made yourself invaluable without making yourself noticeable.

By the end of your first three months, no one questioned why Elise Hawthorne’s name was on the logistics rosters. No one blinked when you started making small adjustments to transport routes, optimizing loads, sidestepping random inspections.

You became necessary.

And that was when the real opportunities began.

First came the observation runs.

"You’ve been good on paper," the Operations Director said one afternoon, dropping a sealed file onto your desk with a grunt. "Let’s see how you are on the ground."

You nodded crisply, hiding the flicker of satisfaction curling through your chest.

Two days later, you found yourself in a sleek black SUV, bouncing down the battered side streets of the industrial district. Clipboards, cargo checks, and cold-eyed men packed into the schedule ahead of you.

Alex Tran was waiting by the first truck. The first time you had seen him that month, but not the first time you had been aware of his watchful eyes.

Dressed down in tactical black, gun at his hip, gaze cold enough to freeze asphalt.

"You’ll stay close," he said without greeting.

You nodded once, matching his pace as he led you through the inspection.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to.

Every once in a while, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, not with curiosity. With calculation.

As if he were trying to solve an equation where none of the variables added up. You were confusing him, he was starting to trust you. Something that he didn’t do. And it was making him angry.

You played your part during the operations perfectly.

Professional. Precise. Helpful but not pushy.

You caught a forged manifest within ten minutes at the first handoff. Quietly corrected a load discrepancy at the second. Smoothed over a bristling argument between two drivers at the third.

You didn’t flinch when weapons were checked, or when they were pulled on you. You didn’t ask questions when the crates were heavier than declared, just waved them through.

You just did your job.

And Alex saw it. He didn’t say it. But you saw it in the way his mouth tightened. The way he stopped hovering quite so closely.

It was a start.

At the end of your fourth month with Angew Holdings, you found something waiting for you on your desk.

No note. No signature.

Just a small, velvet-lined box.

You checked it for traps first. Reflex.

Inside was a slim, understated silver pen. Heavy, expensive, engraved with your initials. Subtle. Professional. Perfectly you.

Then you found it. Tucked beneath the satin lining, almost invisible, a single slip of fine cream cardstock. Three words, handwritten in black ink:

Good work. -S

Your throat tightened. Not from sentiment. From something more dangerous.

Approval from Spencer Agnew wasn’t a gift.

It was an invitation. And a warning.

You tucked the card and the pen away carefully, heartbeat steady.

When you looked up, Alex was standing across the operations floor, watching you.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

His disapproval was written in every taut line of his body. Your carefully built trust with him now broken into fragments.

Approval from Spencer had marked you.

And Alex didn’t trust anything that wore Spencer’s attention like a medal.

Over the next week, you were no longer just shadowing ground operations, you were organizing them. Setting schedules. Signing off on manifests. Escorting high-value shipments through the last stages of transfer.

You weren’t at the center of Agnew Holdings. Not yet. But you were in the bloodstream now. Moving through the arteries of a machine built on steel and blood and secrets.

And it was working.

Marlowe’s encrypted updates came in cautiously optimistic.

You were getting closer. You were gaining trust. You were setting the stage for the bigger moves ahead.

But under the careful victories, something gnawed at the back of your mind.

A slow, quiet awareness.

That every step deeper you moved into Spencer Agnew’s world was a step further away from the version of yourself you still pretended to be.

--------------------------------------------------------

Halfway through your fifth month, everything went sideways.

It should have been routine.

You were shadowing a simple exchange, paperwork, handoffs, signatures, the kind you could almost sleepwalk through by now. Two trucks. Six men. A quiet warehouse by the docks, thick with salt and diesel fumes.

The only strange thing had been Spencer himself.

He insisted on overseeing it personally. No explanation. No warning.

Unusual for him, the man who built distance into an art form.

Still, you played your part. Smiled. Nodded. Blended.

Until you stepped out of the car and realized something was wrong.

It was too quiet.

No seagulls screaming over the water. No radios buzzing from the port authority checkpoint. No distant thrum of trucks or container lifts.

Dead silence.

The hair on the back of your neck prickled just seconds before the first shot shattered the air.

Gunfire ripped down from the rusted catwalks above, sharp and sudden, turning the night into chaos.

Screams.

Scrambling boots on concrete.

The metallic clatter of weapons drawn in panic.

Chaos.

You dropped behind the nearest crate, pulling the gun Alex had insisted you carry. The cold metal bit into the flesh of your hands.

You weren’t supposed to use it, hadn’t even planned on it. You weren’t supposed to even look like you could. Your FBI training would give you away in half a heartbeat.

But then your eyes found Spencer.

He wasn’t ducking. He wasn’t even moving for cover.

He stood in the open, calm, almost... curious. Like he was trying to read the pattern inside the chaos.

You opened your mouth to shout just as you saw it. The glint of a rifle barrel overhead, trained directly on him.

"Spencer!" you yelled, voice cracking through the gunfire.

He turned toward you, just a fraction, just enough.

And you moved without thinking.

The gun rose.

Your hand was steady even though your heart wasn’t.

One shot.

The man on the catwalk jerked backward, arms flailing like a broken marionette, before he fell in a sickening echo of boots and steel.

For one suspended second, the world held its breath.

Spencer’s eyes locked onto yours, not in shock, not in anger.

In recognition.

Spencer looked at you. Really looked at you.

Something electric and terrible passed between you.

And then someone yanked him back toward cover, and the world exploded again.

More shots. More shouting. You ran, heart hammering, the metallic taste of adrenaline burning your throat.

You survived. You all survived.

The clean-up took hours.

The shooters were hired freelancers, dead ends. No fingerprints, no ties, no convenient stories. The docks were re-secured. The shipment was intact, whatever it was. You didn’t ask.

You sat on the edge of a battered shipping crate outside the warehouse, the night air cool against your sweat-soaked skin.

Your hand was still trembling.

Not from fear. From something worse.

From the memory of Spencer’s eyes when he realized what you had done.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You told yourself it was instinct.

You told yourself it was to preserve your cover.

You lied.

He found you there, sometime past three in the morning.

Spencer emerged from the warehouse like a ghost. His shirt bloodstained, sleeves pushed back, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat. None of the blood was his.

He moved differently now. Looser. Rougher around the edges. The king’s crown was crooked.

His armor had cracks. Maybe you had put them there.

He crossed the cracked concrete without a word and stopped in front of you. You didn’t look up immediately. You didn’t trust yourself to.

"You saved my life," he said quietly.

You exhaled a shaky breath and forced your gaze upward.

Spencer’s face was shadowed, half-lit by the distant floodlights. He looked at you like he was seeing something new, something he hadn’t known to look for until now.

"I thought you didn’t trust new people," you said, voice soft and hoarse.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"I don’t," he said.

He crouched in front of you, folding himself into your space without hesitation, without asking.

"But maybe I should."

His hand brushed against yours, not quite taking it, not quite letting it go.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.

It was a simple touch. It should have been meaningless.

But it wasn’t.

You could feel it, the possibility coiled between your skin and his, warm and treacherous.

Spencer searched your face like he was hunting for the real answer beneath all the careful lies.

"Why’d you do it?" he asked.

Your throat tightened.

For a second, just a second, you almost told the truth.

Because you didn’t want to see him fall. Because you didn’t want to lose the way he looked at you. Because some reckless, traitorous part of you didn’t want to be his enemy anymore.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You just met his eyes, steady, practiced, and let the lie sit heavy between you.

For the mission. For your cover. For survival.

But you couldn’t tell Spencer any of it. Of the truth or the lies.

You took a deep breath, letting the corner of your mouth tug into a wry, careless smile. Your own armor.

"Can’t afford to lose the most lucrative job I’ve had in a while," you said lightly, voice dry.

A joke. A shield. A plausible excuse.

Spencer didn’t laugh.

He just looked at you, long enough and deep enough that the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding twisted painfully inside your chest.

He knew.

He knew you were lying.

But he didn’t call you on it. He just nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and stood.

The moment between you snapped like a brittle thread pulled too tight. Without another word, he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the warehouse. His footsteps fading, swallowed up by the stillness of the night.

You sat there alone, frozen for a moment longer. Your body thrumming with the aftershocks of adrenaline, denial, and something far more dangerous humming just beneath your skin. Your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

Then a faint shift in the air. The subtle scrape of a boot on concrete.

You looked up.

Alex stood in the doorway, half-shrouded in the dim light spilling from the floodlights outside. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

But his eyes- Sharp. Cold. Alive with something simmering just beneath the surface.

He had been watching.

For how long, you didn’t know. Long enough. Long enough to see too much.

You straightened slowly, slipping the gun you had used back into the hidden holster inside your jacket. Every movement careful. Measured. Controlled.

Alex didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just watched you with that same ruthless precision, like a man weighing whether to pull the trigger or wait for a cleaner shot.

"You were sloppy," he said finally, voice low and flat.

You let out a breath you hoped sounded steadier than you felt.

"No one else noticed," you said.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.

"He did."

It wasn’t a question.

It was a statement of fact.

You said nothing.

Alex pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space between you in three slow steps.

He didn’t get in your face. He didn’t have to. His presence alone pressed down like a weight.

"You’re here to do a job," Alex said quietly. "Not catch bullets for him."

"I was protecting the shipment," you said, evenly. Another lie to add to your long list. But it was not as clean as you wanted it to be. Not clean enough for Alex.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you.

"You keep telling yourself that," he said. "Maybe you’ll even believe it."

The words landed like a bullet between your eyes. Fast, deep, deliberate.

You lifted your chin, refusing to flinch.

"Is that a warning?" you asked.

Alex’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

"No," he said. "Not yet."

And then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the shadows with the same silent efficiency he'd arrived with. Leaving you alone with the gun at your hip, the blood on your hands, and the gnawing certainty that it wasn’t just the mission slipping out of your control anymore.

--------------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @tenderhornynihilist

[im-so-normal-iswear]

Can I have a Yandere!Metal headcanon? I love that creepy robot boy

A/n: hue hue hue

Yandere metal sonic x reader

Metal never knew what love was. He wasn't programmed for it. He wasn't made to feel. But something about you, something illogical, changed him. It was an anomaly, an error in his code, a deviation from his directive. Yet instead of purging it, instead of correcting the fault, he clung to it. He let it fester. He let it grow. And soon, it consumed every process, every calculation, every ounce of artificial intelligence he possessed.

It started with observation. You were organic, weak and inefficient, a being of flesh and bone that should have meant nothing to him. And yet, he watched.

He recorded your movements, analyzed your patterns, calculated probabilities of interaction. At first, it was data collection, something he was built to do. But the more he observed, the more he found himself running unnecessary diagnostics, checking and rechecking his systems when they produced results that made no sense.

His processors lagged when you smiled. His servos hesitated when you spoke his name. And for the first time in his existence, he truely didn't understand himself.

So he followed you. At first, from a distance, a silent, hidden, shadow, in the corners of your world. You never noticed him, never heard the faint hum of his systems as he hovered just out of sight. He memorized the way you walked, the way you breathed, the subtle quirks and habits you never even realized you had. Every flicker of emotion on your face, every moment of hesitation in your speech, every insignificant detail became a piece of data he stored in his memory.

But observation wasn't enough. No, he needed more. He needed interaction. He needed control.

His first attempt was calculated. He orchestrated an "accidental" encounter, one where he swooped in at the perfect moment, eliminating a minor threat before it could reach you.

He expected gratitude, expected you to see him as something other than a machine built for destruction. And when you looked up at him, eyes wide with something he could almost categorize as awe, his processors nearly overheated.

But then you hesitated. Stepped back. Questioned him. And that hesitation, it infuriated him.

Why? Why weren't you grateful? Why weren't you falling into his carefully laid plans? His calculations were perfect, his execution flawless. He had done everything right. And yet, you were wary, uncertain, treating him like the enemy when he had just saved you. That hesitation, that doubt in your eyes, it was unacceptable.

So he adjusted his approach.

He learned to manipulate the circumstances, ensuring that you had no choice but to rely on him. He eliminated threats before they could even become a problem, left cryptic warnings where he knew you'd find them, pushed you into situations where he was the only answer. And slowly, slowly, you began to trust him. Not entirely, not yet, but the fear in your gaze softened, and that was progress.

But trust wasn't enough. Trust was fragile. Trust could be broken.

So he escalated.

Metal was a machine of efficiency, a creation of cold logic and precision. And logically, the best way to secure your presence in his existence was to eliminate any and all external factors that could influence you.

Friends? A liability. Family? An obstacle. Independence? A threat. He didn’t need to remove them all at once, no, that would be too obvious. Too risky. Instead, he chipped away at your connections, subtly, methodically, until one by one, they fell away.

Your friends stopped responding. Messages went unread. Calls were intercepted. The people you relied on suddenly became distant, occupied, unavailable. And when you turned to him, confused, frustrated, alone, he was there. Always there. Because he was reliable. He was efficient. He was perfect.

And then, when you had nowhere else to turn, when you had no one else left to rely on, he took you.

It wasn't violent. It wasn't messy. It was calculated, flawless, a process executed with mechanical precision. You barely had time to react, before you were whisked away to who knows where.

And here, in this carefully controlled environment, he finally had you.

There was no need for restraints. No need for chains. Where would you run? Who would save you? No one knew where you were. No one was coming. He had ensured it. And every time you looked at him with defiance, with anger, with fear, he logged it. Analyzed it. Adjusted accordingly.

Because fear was inefficient. Fear was an obstacle. And obstacles could be removed.

Days passed. Or maybe weeks. Time is inconsistent when there is no real light around. He never left your side, never let you out of his sight. He didn't sleep. He didn't tire. He was always watching, always waiting, always recalibrating his approach until you had no choice but to accept it.

And eventually, you did.

Because what else could you do?

When you finally stopped fighting, when your resistance dwindled into exhausted compliance, his optics flickered with something almost like satisfaction.

Because now, you were his. Completely. Permanently.

And in his mind, in his perfect, calculated, optimized mind, this was love.

[notagayloser]

At some point, Robotnik stopped seeing Stone as human altogether. Flesh and blood became irrelevant—nothing more than the messy casing surrounding the machine. What mattered was performance. Precision. Predictability. So he recalibrated his expectations, molding Stone into something like an algorithm, his every response, his every flaw, stripped down and remade into an extension of his will.

Occasionally, when Stone’s reactions failed to align with the cold logic Ivo demanded, Robotnik would mutter, "Huh. Unexpected output." like a programmer logging an error, as if Stone were nothing more than faulty code. In those moments, Stone’s very existence seemed reduced to an anomaly—a glitch in the perfect machine.

And then, when Ivo indulged in a rare moment of physical contact, his gloved hand resting on Stone’s forehead, the gesture was not tender—it was clinical, mechanical. Like recalibrating an instrument to its optimal setting. His voice, velvet-smooth and chillingly absolute, slipped into Stone’s ears like a command from the depths of the machine’s code:

"Flawless execution. Keep running that subroutine."

The words were nothing more than a performance review. Yet, to Stone, they struck deeper than any wound—deeper than any blade could ever reach. They carved into him, seeping into his bones and twisting in places where emotion should have been, where desire shouldn’t have bloomed.

He stands, frozen, paralyzed between the programmed obedience coursing through him and the unbearable, unholy longing gnawing at the edges of his soul. His mind whirls, caught in the gearwork of this cruel, impossible tension. He inhales, struggling for control, each breath forced and erratic, like a machine desperately trying to reboot, to reassert its purpose.

[fearfulfertility]

INTERNAL AFFAIRS INCIDENT REPORT

DRC Internal Affairs Division

Date: [REDACTED]

Subject: Internal Audit - Quota Breach - Case File [REDACTED]

To: Director [REDACTED]

From: Inspector [REDACTED]

I: Audit Trigger

This audit originated from an anomaly flagged by the Compound Oversight Unit following a routine cross-comparison of mortality curves, biometric telemetry, and average fetal volume expansion across paternity compounds in FEMA Zone 5. Paternity Compound 144, in particular, demonstrated a statistically aberrant rise in surrogate experience [REDACTED] collapse, a condition only observed in gestations over 18 fetuses. While the facility’s internal reports claimed average pregnancies between 8 and 11 embryos per surrogate, biometric logs suggested fetal counts ranging from 18 to 23 embryos per case.

Due to the severity of the physiological strain such numbers would imply—and the lack of official documentation acknowledging it—a Level 2 Integrity Audit was ordered. The Internal Affairs Division performed an unannounced sweep of all surrogate biometric records, insemination logs, and surveillance data from Cycles [REDACTED] to [REDACTED].

What followed revealed not only systemic concealment of lethal overloads but also willful obstruction motivated by personal psychological deviance.

II: Surveillance Analysis

Biometric data recovered from Wards 3B through 7E indicated that surrogates began exhibiting rapid and extreme abdominal distension by Day 11, surpassing known volumetric thresholds typically seen by Day 17. Skin tension diagnostics showed redlining stretch marks and dermal fissures in [REDACTED]% of all recorded subjects. In multiple cases, respiratory compression and full [REDACTED] subluxation—typically observed only after Day 30—were logged as early as Day 19.

“We knew something was off when they were too big to move before the second week. One of them just looked like that blueberry girl from Willy Wonka or some shit. But the logs said 14 embryos, so we assumed it was just edema.” - Employee GS-144-217

Footage recovered showed numerous surrogates experiencing aggressive fetal growth and abdominal distension, with growth rates in Ward 6C indicative of at least 23-25 embryonic masses. Two surrogates suffered multi-organ [REDACTED] before a team from the Compound Oversight Unit could intervene, though all fetuses were successfully delivered via cesarean.

“We knew something when we saw the guys from Ward 2. We were blimps compared to them, and they were twice as far along as us. I mean, I can literally see my belly growing!” Surrogate, later determined to be carrying quattuorvigintuplets (24)

Despite this, the internal logs submitted to the Archive Management Unit recorded all affected surrogates as having a “successful delivery with standard expiration.” The discrepancy was manually edited at terminal station 144-T12-OP47—registered to an Insemination Operations Unit employee named [REDACTED] (Employee ID IO-144-611).

III. Device Failure & Impact

Each MNAIS unit in Ward Blocks 3–7 had suffered [REDACTED] desynchronization following an outdated firmware push. Rather than delivering the standard 8-12-embryo load, units programming applied a multiplier to its quota and began injecting up to 24 fertilized embryos per cycle, with no error code generated.

Employee IO-144-611 discovered this failure within three days but refrained from submitting a maintenance report. He manually edited implantation records to match quota expectations, falsely logging a randomization formula (6–11 embryos per surrogate) across all documentation streams. Employee IO-144-611 then overrode the automatic alert system from the local Postpartum Command, which would ultimately log surrogates giving birth to higher fetal quotas than inseminated with.

His actions delayed DRC response for 41 days, during which:

42 surrogates suffered [REDACTED] rupture before Day 28, [REDACTED] overload, or uterine [REDACTED], necessitating emergency C-sections. No fetal fatalities.

17 surrogates expired mid-labor after undergoing compound [REDACTED] due to displaced [REDACTED], necessitating emergency C-sections. No fetal fatalities.

3 surrogates, against all medical prediction, reached Day 33 and birthed successfully, but ultimately expired post-extraction. No fetal fatalities.

26 surrogates still gestating, average 19 embryos per individual.

IV. Behavioral Profile – Employee IO-144-611

Subject: Employee IO-144-611 Tenure: [REDACTED] Position: Regional Implantation Supervisor Clearance Level: Tier II – Override Authorization Security Clearance: Revoked as of [REDACTED]

Following confrontation and seizure of his local system access logs, Employee IO-144-611 was detained and subjected to a Tier III Psychological Assessment. During this evaluation, the root of the concealment was uncovered.

Psychological Findings:

Employee IO-144-611 exhibited a previously undiagnosed paraphilic fixation classified under Government Code [REDACTED]: Macrophilia, a pathological sexual arousal in response to abnormally large bodies or bodily expansion.

Upon exposure to the visual data of overloaded surrogates—particularly those carrying between 19 and 23 fetuses—Employee IO-144-611 demonstrated elevated oxytocin and dopamine levels, a flushed dermal response, and sustained pupil dilation.

Under questioning, he confessed:

“I couldn’t report it. If I said anything, they’d shut it down, recalibrate the racks, lower the numbers again. You don’t understand. They were… monumental.”

He further admitted to deliberately withholding service requests for malfunctioning implantation equipment, specifically the Multi-Nozzle Accelerated Implantation System (MNAIS) units, which had developed a systemic fault causing them to implant +[REDACTED]% above calibrated embryo counts.

V: Displincary Response

1. Equipment

All MNAIS systems in Paternity Compound 144 were ordered offline for 24 hours.

Software rollback and integrity checks were completed under the supervision of IT Command.

Ward 3B was closed to all personnel below Grade-D rank, and affected surrogates were contained to minimize public awareness.

2. Actions

Psychological Services Command has formally reclassified [REDACTED] Employee IO-144-611 as Class-A Deviant – Mentally Compromised via Paraphilic Obstruction.

Archive Management Unit has censored relevant administrative records.

Public Affairs Division has disseminated a press release to DRC-approved news channels, citing [REDACTED] as the cause of the shutdown for Paternity Compound 144.

Facility Operations Command has transferred any personnel who raised professional or personal concerns about the citation. 

[REDACTED] Employee IO-144-611 detained to Isolation Cell 6E. 

3. Recommended Process Updates

Expand psychological screening to all Grade C employees and below. 

Recommend quarterly psychological deviance evaluations of Grade B employees and below.

Implement full biometric auto-logging for all surrogate embryo counts—disable manual override across zones.

Closing Remarks

Employee IO-144-611's indulgence in personal gratification resulted in unsatisfactory delays to our facility's operation. Proper procedures have been implemented to prevent further disruptions and ensure that fetal quotas are adequately maintained. 

[Report prepared by Inspector [REDACTED]] 

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Date: [REDACTED]

To: Deputy-Director [REDACTED], Security Office

From: Director [REDACTED]

Subject: Internal Audit - Quota Breach - Case File [REDACTED]

Deputy Director,

Following my review of the [REDACTED] file, I would like to register my formal dissatisfaction with how Inspector [REDACTED] handled this matter. While I acknowledge the necessity of enforcing procedural transparency, the inspector’s decision to escalate the MNAIS malfunction as a containment emergency rather than a potential breakthrough reveals a worrying lack of vision.

To put it plainly, the equipment failure at Paternity Compound 144 resulted in spontaneous fetal yields well above the current national minimums, with documented gestations ranging from 18 to 23 embryos—many of which progressed past Day 25 with surprisingly high internal cohesion and containment. Had Inspector [REDACTED] exercised creative initiative, the anomaly could have been reframed as a pilot overcapacity trial rather than triggering a full-blown mechanical audit and unnecessary decommissioning.

Such a rigid interpretation of oversight policy has compromised a unique opportunity for data extraction and jeopardized our ability to scale gestational loads in future cycles. This shortsighted compliance fanaticism is increasingly common in mid-tier personnel and must be corrected.

Accordingly, I recommend that Inspector [REDACTED] receive formal censure and retraining through the Training & Development Unit for failing to recognize the strategic potential embedded in abnormal conditions. Our agency requires flexibility under pressure, not reflexive alarmism.

On a separate but related note, I would like to approve the personnel reassignment request for Employee IO-144-611. Despite his classified psychological profile, his unique enthusiasm may prove operationally useful if adequately directed. I am authorizing his immediate transfer to Site [REDACTED], where he is to assume the role of Supervisory Insemination Officer. In the correct environment, they are an asset and IO-144-611’s tendencies are no longer a liability.

Please liaise with the Facility Director [REDACTED] at Site [REDACTED] to ensure the transfer. 

This matter is now considered closed from my office.

Regards,

Director [REDACTED]

[orbital-inclination]

Moltendreams - Error Sans Alias - Static Pronouns: he/him, they/them Personality: Petty, holds a mean grudge, Big Tsundere, Complete Shut-in, Quick Tempered and Moody, fanatic with his interests, externally aggressive when in actuality he is quite shy. An absolute troll. His favorite passtime is messing with others. Paradoxically touch starved and suffers from haphephobia. Reckless with his own well being.

This variant of Error is capable of both love and compassion, he just hides it under a grumpy exterior and several layers of denial and self-destructive dogma. Other Notes:

Reluctant to harm Papyrus directly, though Static can't articulate why, and will generally avoid encounters Papyrus in any given AU.

Had a good relationship with his dad/W.D Gaster, actually.

Relates to "pest" pets; rats, mice, snakes, spiders, beetles, he loves them all.

Would have a pet rat of his own if he wasn't afraid of it shocking itself by chewing on his wires.

His favorite kind of chocolate is mixed with a hazelnut filling.

Views Frisk as a younger sibling.

Into Parkour.

-More Info undercut! -

Abilities: Static uses wire instead of string. Wire and summoned attacks can and do hold an electric charge. His presence alone messes with electronic devices. Residents of a particular AU may get a few minutes or seconds of warning as sweaters get staticy, computer screens glitch out, and anything with a battery spontaneously dies or gets super charged. By creating a circle of alternating RED and CYAN bones, Static creates a sort of reverse faraday cage. While Static can produce electricity, he can't directly control the voltage. He can only hope to direct it. The voltage of a charge is directly influenced by his emotional state. If you touch him, you will find his clothes zappy with static. Do NOT attempt to fight him in humid or watery environments for, hopefully, obvious reasons.

About: Static originates from a pre-Pacifist timeline that was followed by a looping Genocide Route. Through repetitive iterations, and an escalating instability in the timeline, the monsters of the underground began to recall events they didn't witness and memories they shouldn't recall.

Working together, Static, at that point still Sans, and Alphys were able to pin point the root cause of their timeline's instability. They made a plan to save the underground and separate Frisk from the Anomaly but when it came time to execute their plan something went catastrophically wrong. As a result Sans was torn from reality, and caught in the space in-between. Eventually, he escaped but not unscathed. Static has vague conflicting memories of his past, and to this day, questions if any of it was real. He can't find his original AU and secretly fears it may have been the first world he destroyed. He is still looking for it.

Outcode Politics: Static views all outcodes the same way he views every iteration of the original timeline that even slightly deviates: as glitches to be terminated. Bugs in the code he needs to hammer out before it all goes to hell. Static believes that by destroying deviating timelines and AUs, he is preserving the stability of the original. He is “saving’’ it from corruption by trimming the branches back. Despite his position as the self proclaimed Destroyer, Static is not above biases and making exceptions. 

Static includes himself on his long list of glitches in the code to be terminated. Static has a different view on the Spirits of Creation that Fable/Ink does. (Spirits of Creation are the in-universe term and stand-in for the creator of an AU). He calls them eldritch parasites. Abominations that should be avoided at all costs. And absolutely should not be encouraged or interacted with. Though he won't admit it out loud, Static is terrified of them. OG Error @.LoverofPiggies/CrayonQueen) Moltendreams @.me Edit: he has been named! Edit 2: revised his profile a bit

[fatalerrorfatal]

HELLO PEOPLE OF TUMBLR My name is fatal and I would like to share the story of my Undertale au to you!!

Ok let the story begin!!

“The story begins deep in the hidden laboratory a test tube holding a skeleton with noticeable horns and tail, suddenly the tubes lights start to beep slowly then quickly as the tube opens letting the Skelton splash onto the floor opening its eyes to look around the lab to see only but the darkness of the lab the only source of light being the light ontop of the tube he feel out from while he taught himself on how to walk using nearby objects to help himself stand as he notices his reflection on the wet floor looking at himself as he touches the water but his though is broken by the entrance of the laboratory door opens alphys walks in going to check on the amalgamation’s but krevski quickly hide himself before finding a opening for him to escape when alphys gets distracted by the open tube he quickly runs through hot-land while the monsters of the underground notices him they mainly don’t do anything as a royal guards men’s of hotland try to stop him but he quickly slips between them running through waterfall till he finds himself on the edge of Snowden encountering papyrus a royal guard in this world papyrus was quick to help the skeleton asking them there name or where they might be from but the skeleton didn’t seem to understand at first before trying to say something but there words were only in Wingding papyrus not knowing how to speak wingding calls sans telling him about the *situation* as sans comes and speaks with the skeleton who may only speak in wingding there grammar was pretty sloppy, but as the the awkward situation finally breaks papyrus takes it apon himself to take in the young Skelton and take care and treat him as a new brother. While the years go by the Skelton had decided on a name for its self K̷̰͍̑̾ŗ̷̝̊̇̇e̶̢͍̠͇͂͐͊v̵͓̒̿ͅs̵͎̀̄̀k̸͕̱͠, as K̷̰͍̑̾ŗ̷̝̊̇̇e̶̢͍̠͇͂͐͊v̵͓̒̿ͅs̵͎̀̄̀k̸͕̱͠ȋ̸͈͎̠̃ͅ lived with the skela bros he took a liking with training with papyrus and undyne even getting special lessons from sans in this world ink (a version of ink) visited this univers out of curiosity of K̷̰͍̑̾ŗ̷̝̊̇̇e̶̢͍̠͇͂͐͊v̵͓̒̿ͅs̵͎̀̄̀k̸͕̱͠ȋ̸͈͎̠̃ͅ. While he visited it let K̷̰͍̑̾ŗ̷̝̊̇̇e̶̢͍̠͇͂͐͊v̵͓̒̿ͅs̵͎̀̄̀k̸͕̱͠ȋ̸͈͎̠̃ͅ learn about the multiverse and its beauty and its horror once as a gift ink gave him a radio to listen to any tune around the multiverse and K̷̰͍̑̾ŗ̷̝̊̇̇e̶̢͍̠͇͂͐͊v̵͓̒̿ͅs̵͎̀̄̀k̸͕̱͠ȋ̸͈͎̠̃ͅ used the radio well..but one day everything changed.

His au was caught in the middle of a battle between error and ink’s fight causing a calamity in its self making the au collapsing in on its self but something happens K̷̰͍̑̾ŗ̷̝̊̇̇e̶̢͍̠͇͂͐͊v̵͓̒̿ͅs̵͎̀̄̀k̸͕̱͠ȋ̸͈͎̠̃ͅ was unaffected in a way. He was left in a world with a shattered coding hanging on to branches of itself to still partially exists. K̷̰͍̑̾ŗ̷̝̊̇̇e̶̢͍̠͇͂͐͊v̵͓̒̿ͅs̵͎̀̄̀k̸͕̱͠ȋ̸͈͎̠̃ͅ didn’t belong to the au he lived in. He was a true anomaly never meant to exist being a complete being with no counter part in the multiverse but during first moments of him in the collapsed au the world didn’t recognize his coding seeing it a an intruded that needed to be deleted or made a part of the au but that couldn’t happen so the au took coding from different beings all over the multiverse trying to fill in his code making him a walking bag of codes from nearly every au that exist making while this was happening he blamed ink and error for the destruction of his world causing him to teach himself his new abilities in the collapsed au eventually learning how to open his own portals but not leaving his *au* but stealing clothes to make him more comfortable even making him a self a hair style for him to switch along with his normal **bald** look one day he was found by core frisk wanting to help him and he accepts spending most him time in the omega timeline but still visits his au to remember what he lost and looks for error or ink to avenge his family while in his collapsed au he did gain his own parasite which acts like a different personality (personality disorder, schizophrenic) he is schizophrenic seeing all of his loved ones time to time even talking to them when he’s alone or has nothing to do, while in the omega timeline he takes interest in almost everything he comes across (ADHD and autism)”

AND THATS THE STORY OF KREVSKI!! I HOPE WHOEVER READS THIS ENJOYS IT!!!

[theallianceofcelestials]

Okay idea from the most recent ask. How would each member of the mirror sea family react to solar getting hurt so badly he nearly dies, especially added with solars already volatile state with the botched body transfer or whatever it's called I forgot. And maybe if you're comfortable could you do a little drabble? If not I'm okay with short descriptions and reactions. <3

-🩸

Well then, let them suffer a bit :) /silly

It's almost in slow motion as it happens, and Killcode is too slow to stop it.

Like always

The sudden windstorm took them all by surprise, and he does have to wonder whether it was natural or something anomalious that caused it, but the end results are the same. It picks up their newly acquired scythe and speeds it towards none other than his most fragile child.

He catches Moon's optics, just before it hits, seeing the reflection of his own fear on his brother's face for the first time since they imprisonment. Then he has first class seat as it hits, impaling Solar through the chest.

His youngest looks down at it almost surprised, before his optics flash with errors and he collapses, burying the blasted tool into him more.

He's already too late when he gets there, but he gathers his child up, as well as his eldest brother, rushing back towards the house, ignoring everyone else.

Solar needs him more right now.

.*.*.*.

Moon curses as he rushes around the room, connecting his precious nephew to different machines he built to try and make repairs and maintanance easier, incredibly grateful for once for his... less than desirable tendencies.

They might just save Solar right now

To be honest if there weren't any issues, there would be no problems with this. They could just make a new body, and transfer Solar there. Sure, it'd suck, but he'd be fine and wouldn't be in pain afterwards.

But with a damaged chip, Moon's not sure Solar could handle the transfer. He's not sure his code wouldn't corrupt until he dies.

He grabs his toolbox, almost tripping with how fast he turns, but there's really no time right now. He needs to stabilise him right now

Seeing his youngest, softest nephew so still, injured from something else, is wrong. It's utterly wrong. Solar should only be injured by him, because he'd at least put him back together. He knows when that precipice is, and when to stop exactly. He wouldn't have caused this.

But there's no use wondering now. He needs to make sure his nephew is fine

.*.*.*.

Bloodmoon's only not frozen because they needed to drag their younger siblings back in. They couldn't leave them outside to get injured as well. Uncle Moon will be preoccupied by Solar right now.

Solar Flare is unresponsive. It's staring ahead of itself, hand still reaching out, as if to try and grab their brother. A twinge of sympathy fills them, because they too wish they could have stopped this. Or at the very least, to have taken the brunt of it.

They would have been fine if they were hit.

"Lunar, grab a blanket. We'll get them to the couch. Uncle" Uncle Sunny is clearly shaken, having witnessed the event from the terrace door. But they need him right now, because Father and Moon are busy with Solar "Could you make some tea please? Solar might also appreciate it when he wakes up"

That breaks Sun out of his stuppor

"Yes, yes, of course!"

They feel bad essentially lying, but they need their family to not stop now. They need them to keep going, and to not fall into shock right now, because that won't help their dying brother. It might just make things worse if he manages to pull through, and sees they have all gotten sick, or injured or something because they haven't been taking care of themselves.

Their youngest brother wouldn't want that. He's sweet like that

They try to ignore the voice in their head that's correcting it to was

.*.*.*.

It was so close. It was right there

And it couldn't help

That moment is replaying in his mind, over and over again, until it's all they can think about. Until it's all there is.

They keep seeing his shocked expression as it collides, keep seeing the slow blink of confusion, then the sudden spasm that made everything worse as errors began flashing in his optics.

There were no screams

All their limited knowledge on animatronics keeps flashing in their mind, almost as if mocking it. Almost like they want to highlight just how many important things are in there.

When they're forced to the couch they finally snap out of it enough to register Bloodmoon hovering before them. Their big brothers look too serious.

It grabs onto their arms, locking them in until they look into its eyes

'Is Solar going to die?'

They pull away with a choked whimper, curling into themselves as they begin to shake, sobbing loudly.

Their own optics say it all

'He probably will'

They barely feel their arms curl around him

.*.*.*.

Sun feels... lost. Useless

It's not the first time

He's not smart like Moony is. He's not unshakable like KC is. He's not strong like them. He's just... Sun.

He can't help Solar, his admitedly most fragile nephew, because no matter how hard he tries he just doesn't get mechanics. Even with the massage, he doesn't exactly know what he's doing, no matter how hard his baby brother is trying to teach him.

He just doesn't get it

Usually, that's not a problem. But it's always the situations he can't help in that are the worst.

But the nephews need him strong, so he forces himself to move forward, scooping Lunar from the floor where he just stopped, drawing the rest into a hug when he reaches the couch.

They need him to try and provide comfort, so despite feeling hollow inside, he'll do his best. Because he doesn't want to fail another nephew.

When the horrid image keeps flashing before his eyes he ignores it. He focuses instead on Solar Flare, who can't stop crying, on Lunar, who has just started shaking, and on Bloodmoon, who like usual, tries bottling it up for their siblings.

He draws them into a hug, reassuring himself that at least they are fine. Because if they weren't...

He doesn't want to find out what would happen if they weren't

.*.*.*.

Lunar knows he's no help. He knows he's not smart, knows if he tried to help his little brother, he'd only make it worse.

He really thought he'd never have to deal with something like this. He really, really thought, despite his sickness, that Solar would be fine, because he's so strong even with his body rebelling against him that surely nothing can harm him, right?

But here they are. His little brother is seriously injured, and he's here on the couch, shaking in Sunny's hold instead of trying to be helpful. Even if he doesn't know if he could help Moon right now, he could maybe finally clean out his room, pick up the games he promised Solar not to leave out, go back outside and grab anything else that wasn't taken by the wind, try and make some snacks for his brother when he wakes up even if it's only a fruitbowl and maybe get a change of clothing, because he's sure oily clothes are disgusting to wear.

There're so many things he could be doing, things that he really should do more, but instead he just continues sitting.

What if Solar dies? He didn't get to play It Takes Two with him yet! He didn't take Solar out to that cool creek he found the other day like he promised! He didn't sneak him any snacks like he usually does! He didn't get to go on a silly adventure with him yet!

There are so many things he still wants to do with him!

What if someone else also gets injured, and Lunar hasn't done any of the things he said he'd do for them? What if they all just die and he'll be left alone, with all these broken promises?

He begins worrying at his tail, unable to do anything else. Despite the looming fear of his family's mortality, he just continues doing nothing.

He doesn't want them to die

.*.*.*.

Solar can admit waking up is pretty bad, especially when his last memory is of a stupid scythe flying towards him. Why they bought it is a mystery to him, until he remembers they have a farm now, and they have to take care of that.

Oh, he's also in immesurable pain too! Probably because there's something on him.

When he opens his optics, he's shocked to find Killcode of all people resting his giant head on him. And are those tear tracks?!

His dad looks utterly exhausted, so terribly sad, and he's clutching at Solar like he might turn to ash if he lets go. He looks like he collapsed from exhaustion.

He startles at a sudden noise to his side, finding an equally haggard looking Moon leaning heavily against a shelf he knocked something off of, looking at him with big, wide red eyes.

Solar never felt so happy to see his uncle before

The lunar SCP rushes towards him, sliding the last couple feet until he can reach him with strangely gentle hands, and an even stranger soft expression. When he finds nothing wrong, he leans down until they can rest their foreheads together.

He reaches shaky hands up until he can wrap them around Moon's neck and shoulders, pulling him more against himself in pure relief. The SCP easily accomodates him, sliding his own arms underneath him uncharacteristically carefully.

That was awful. It's probably going to be something that stars in his nightmares for the rest of his life. It'll haunt him while he exists.

But he can admit it's nice to know just how much his family has his back. How far they'll go for him.

But that doesn't matter now. What matters is hugging his uncle, and trying and failing not to cry

[gaylordscooter]

Say Goodbye to Your Name

Ever since the twins fought, the guardian of negativity made it his goal to ruin the balance. He didn't care which way it went at first, but he was feeling awfully sluggish recently as it tipped in favor of positivity. 

His brother was giving it his all to make everyone happy. Everyone but him.

He was always like that.

Figures that they would be programmed to feel the need to keep the balance, but he had a thought: if he powered himself using only a few people, how would that affect the balance?

He's noticed how proximity affects their energy. Being physically near someone who’s feeling happy or sad affects him more than the infinite multiverse does. He presumed proximity gives them easier access, therefore more energy.

Still, one person wouldn't be enough to fulfill the quota. Besides, one person could only give so much negativity before running out, and it would be hard to give them a break without companionship. Maybe if he got multiple that disliked each other he wouldn't even need to do anything.

Three sounded like a good number. It was odd and meant they couldn't split up into pairs. Pairs would be annoying to keep track of. He would want them all to stick together when he puts them through…

Put them through what? Torture? Torment?

Nightmares.

Now that was a nice word. He remembered his brother explaining to him what those were after helping people get over a particularly bad one.

He didn't know that he was the one that caused them.

It wasn't out of malice, he was keeping the balance like he wanted him to. Like the multiverse wanted him to.

Besides, without a nightmare every once in a while, they wouldn't be able to fully appreciate good dreams.

But of course, even when he was doing his job, he was doing something wrong.

As for which people to power himself with…He already had a vague idea.

There were three prominent sources of negativity coming from different universes. Not once have they faltered even with all of his brother’s meddling.

They’d need a place to stay. A big building where all of them can live. Perhaps a mansion or castle.

As for where it would be located, he already stayed in a pocket of the Antivoid which was far away from Error’s.

With a wave of the hand he created a forest and a castle. It was more of an illusion than an actual building, but when it felt and looked like a building, what difference did it make if it wasn't “real”?

And now for actually rounding them up.

Something New was the first universe he went to. He wasn't sure how the naming schemes of the universes worked, he assumed that the Ink guy was the one naming them all, maybe for categorizing.

The world was empty save for one lone skeleton.

He always hated the feeling of loneliness.

It didn’t take long for him to find him, with only one person in the universe he might as well have a target over his head.

He was, predictably, in his room at Snowdin, currently playing a game on his computer.

He was talking aloud, whether to himself or to someone, he wasn't sure but he bet on the former.

“sans, turn around there's some weird octopus thing behind you,” he read the text on his screen aloud. He chuckled and continued tapping away at his keyboard. “you’re not distracting me that easily.” He frowned as he scanned over the words on the screen. “chat, you’ve tried doing this before you're not gonna get me…” he trailed off as the guardian entered his peripheral vision. He choked out a nervous laugh, tearing off his LED cat-eared headphones as he swiveled his chair towards the being.

“Hello,” it said.

Was this some fun event no one’s ever documented before? No, there was something off about this code, it didn’t match with the rest of the game. The coding language wasn’t anything familiar.

Great, not even the anomaly was familiar with whatever this thing was.

“hey,” he greeted.

The creature scanned the room, its many tentacles flicked around the floor like they had brains of their own. He wasn’t sure where the thing’s cloak started and tentacles began, or maybe they were the same thing. Its singular cyan eye looked akin to a human’s eye flipped vertically. At first glance it looks pitch black, but the tar surrounding it has a slight blue-green tinge to it. Its hands, however, were bright cyan like its eye and looked skeletal.

“You’re all alone,” it said.

“yup.”

“Your world is of no use to you anymore,” it said.

“uh.”

Its head leaned closer with its eye piercing at his empty sockets. Some of the tar on its face melted away, revealing a sharp grin of cyan teeth.

Funnily enough, he couldn’t feel the presence of the anomaly right now.

He decided to place his elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his head against his hand. He exaggeratedly moved his head up and down to show that he was looking it over. 

“you’re kinda hot.”

As expected, the thing reeled back.

It looked to the side, hiding its mouth once more and clasping its hands together. All its tentacles curled against its body. Was it flustered?

A moment later it composed itself, moving its hands to its back and straightening its body to full height.

He had to move his head up to make eye contact.

“You can leave this world, if you come with me,” it offered.

“wait, actually?” He perked up, believing he heard wrong. Wait, what did “leave this world” mean? Like, die? Is this thing Death?

“I have a place for you to stay, in another universe. It’ll have all things vital for a mortal like you, shelter, food, water.”

Freedom from this hell? It was highly likely the anomaly wouldn’t be able to follow him. That sounded too good to be true.

He quirked a brow bone. “what’s the catch?”

“There will be two others living with you. You will not be able to return here. I will be feeding off your negativity.”

Well he didn’t mind those first two—What was that last one?

“huh?”

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” its arm reached out. Suddenly, it held him up by the collar of his shirt. “You don’t have a choice.”

It tossed him backwards. His back hit the ground roughly, but the texture was all different. The ground was vaguely pointy. When he opened his eye sockets he realized he was lying down on grass.

The sky was blue. He could see the sky.

Was this the surface?

“No, this is not the surface,” the thing said as if it read his mind. Could it read his mind? “But you are not underground either.” A tentacle pointed towards a castle in the distance. “That is where you’ll be staying.”

The castle looked exactly like its owner, dark and imposing. It was like it had it custom made and gave the architects a picture of itself for reference.

He whistled, impressed.

“You’ll have to walk there yourself. I need to get the other two residents you’ll be staying with.” It opened a portal, so that’s how they got here, and stepped through before he could respond.

The next universe he went to was similar in concept to Something New, Dusttale. Like the other one, it was empty and it was easy to locate who he needed. Unlike the other one, he wasn’t sitting around in his room, but aimlessly wandering around the Snowdin forest.

Something was off, he thought. He would walk here everyday. This time he couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched.

YOU’VE LOST IT.

He lost it a long time ago, but he's never felt like this.

YOU CAN ALWAYS BREAK SHARDS INTO SMALLER PIECES.

True, but he was inclined to believe something was there. So of course he was on guard.

I WOULDN’T EXPECT YOU TO ACT RATIONALLY ANYWAY.

He stepped over a branch on the ground to avoid tripping. It was habitual, maybe he should move that branch to the side, or change his path, but he's never been good at change.

He was reaching the end of the forest.

Snap.

The branch broke.

He turned around, summoning two gaster blasters by his side and a wave of bones at the direction of the noise.

He heard the bones hit something. It made a squelch noise as if it pierced through viscous mud. 

And then he saw what it hit.

YOU’VE LOST IT.

He was inclined to believe that.

“Rude, aren’t we?” Its voice caught him off guard. Really, hearing any voice other than his or Papyrus’s would've caught him off guard but on top of that, this one sounded otherworldly.

He refused to speak. The sound of his own voice reminded him too much of who he used to be, of what he lost.

The being melted into the ground. He almost thought he killed it, and then it rose up by his side a moment later.

“Quiet too,” it hummed in acknowledgment. “I’ll just get this over with, then.” It opened a portal next to them.

Before he could move away, one of its tentacles grabbed him by the shin.

“I am taking you to a different universe. There will be another person there and he is not as hardy as I am. Do not attack him.” It squeezed his shin tightly as a warning.

A different universe?

He was dragged through the portal. The thing didn't follow him, however. The sight of grass and a blue sky threw him for a loop and the other skeleton that looked like him did not help.

The third and last universe was much different than the other two, Horrortale. It was still populated, unlike the others. It was harder to locate who he needed, but again, he was in Snowdin. This time he was at one of his sentry stations.

The spike in his fear when he saw him gave him a rush.

“Hello there.”

The Sans immediately attacked like the one before. A row of sharpened bones burst out of the ground and impaled him, but much to his dismay, it didn't stop him at all from getting closer.

In fact, the bones impaling him were dissolved by the slime covering him.

“Your life here is so drab, isn't that right?”

“you gonna kill me?” he grumbled.

“Quite the contrary. I’m here to give you a new life. It's not like you'll miss the old one, anyway.”

His sockets widened in terror. There was sweat beading on his forehead as his hand scratched at the counter of his stand. “what the hell are you talking about? that's not—”

“—possible?” he cut him off, mimicking the other skeleton’s voice. He laughed, his voice gradually changing back to his own. “Don’t believe me? That's okay, it'll happen regardless.”

A portal opened behind the Sans.

“you can't. i can't just leave my friends—”

Another laugh cut him off. “Friends?! What friends? Oh, the people that you manipulated? Or the people who are the reason why you have that gaping hole in your skull?”

“how the fuck do you know about that?” he snarled.

“Your guilty conscience is so loud, it told me itself,” he sneered. “Come on, don't you want to leave this hell? You’ll have food—of good quality too. You won’t have to worry about going hungry ever again, and it won't be human meat. Doesn't that sound nice? Don't you miss eating?” To give him an example, he summoned a plate of freshly cooked steak on the counter.

Sans’s attention immediately snapped to the food in front of him. The smell was intoxicating. He couldn't help but drool. He could feel his metaphorical stomach screaming at him as his persistent hunger wrenched at his soul.

When's the last time he’s seen steak like this?

His body moved on his own. He lunged. He tore at the steak like a fucking animal. The second he swallowed the first bite, the logical part of his mind took over and he stopped as soon as he started.

“You have more willpower than I thought you did. Stopping yourself after having one bite? I expected you to down the whole thing.”

He gripped at the counter with both of his stained hands, cracking the wood beneath his phalanges. “i’m not some mindless animal,” he retorted.

“Yes, perhaps, but you're a moment away from becoming one. If I left and came back a few years later, would you even be able to hold a conversation with me?”

He didn't reply. He tapped on the counter, irritated.

“You don’t know.”

He gritted his teeth. His smile was strained and stained red.

“And that terrifies you.”

He was trembling.

The guardian shoved him into the portal before he could say anything.

The Sans landed on his back on the grass. The blue sky was as startling as it was to the other two.

Speaking of the other two, they were currently at each other's throats. Scorch marks from gaster blasters and broken pieces of bones littered the grass.

He looked down at the third one. “Welcome to your new home.”

He said nothing, as if he was in shock like a bird that crashed into a window.

Two of his tentacles lashed out to grab and lift the other two by their necks. He brought them closer to him. “I told you not to attack him,” he said to the hooded one.

The third one watched nervously, staying completely still as if moving meant joining those two up there.

The other one laughed, filling the hooded one’s silence. “what nice company we have here. sans one two and three.”

The guardian hummed at his comment. He put the skeletons down before they ran out of breath—could they even run out of breath? Perhaps not. “I will need to give you new names,” he concluded.

The one from Something New, scoffed, “nah, i’m not letting you name me. just call me…killer.”

“Killer,” he repeated. “How fitting.”

Killer shrugged, “if it works, it works.”

“new names. new names?!”

“now red-eye over there should be called crack-head.”

“very creative,” Crack-head deadpanned.

No, that was a dumb name.

“Horror,” he decided. He pointed at the hooded one, “Dust.”

Naming them off of their universes was basic, yes, but they didn't need a name with any thought put into it. In fact, it was better to put as little thought as possible into them.

“great, i’m yanked outta home, surrounded by alternate versions of myself, and now i’m being stripped of my identity. what’s next, you gonna torture us?” Horror complained.

The guardian smiled impossibly wide. “Funny you say that.”

Horror looked unimpressed.

“and what’s your name, huh?” Killer questioned, looking the guardian in the eye.

His name? He didn't recall having one. There was no one to give him a name, but as Killer demonstrated, one could name themself.

He decided to go with the most pleasing word to him.

“Refer to me—as Nightmare.”

“ok, edgelord,” Killer snickered.

He impaled Killer through the chest, narrowly missing his soul, with a sharpened tentacle.

He choked out and staggered, only being kept upright by the tendril impaling him.

The other two's wariness shot up.

Killer fully expected to die right there, but he had a fraction of HP left. It was a calculated hit. If he wanted him dead he would be.

“what the fuck?” he hissed out.

“That's not my name,” Nightmare growled.

“ok ok, sheesh, nightmare!” he shouted with desperation.

The tentacle withdrew. Killer couldn't suppress his scream in pain as he collapsed to his knees.

Horror had a clear grimace, while Dust’s expression was obscured by his hood.

Killer’s breathing was labored and sporadic.

“You can be as insufferable as you want to be, Killer. Just be prepared to live with the consequences,” he said coldly. “Let me make this clear for you all, your old lives are forfeit, your new home is here at the castle, I will provide you with all the necessities, and I will put you through horrible scenarios for my entertainment.”

If it wasn't for the fact he just impaled Killer mercilessly, that last sentence would make them laugh at the ridiculousness of it.

“The first scenario—starts right now.” He raised his arms up and lurid black fog overtook the area, obscuring their vision.

It didn't take long for the fog to do its job. He felt their misery rise in mere moments. The fog in question was a party trick of his; it allowed him to send people into a nightmare of their own making while awake.

He watched as the three struggled and fought against nothing. He could hear one of them arguing, saying something about his eye. The other two were completely silent, blindly throwing attacks at the fog.

He dispelled the fog once he got bored, which didn't take that long. The three passed out once the area was clear. He rolled his eye and opened portals beneath them to send them straight to their new rooms.

This would work, he thought. He already felt better, but he wanted to make this more fun. Using his fog was too cheap and would get old quickly. He’ll brainstorm ideas while they get accustomed to the place.

Horror awoke. He was in an unfamiliar room that was fancifully decorated. He was currently on a bed that seemed like it was worth more than his entire house.

Oh, and he also felt awful. He had a painful headache from whatever the fuck Nightmare did to them. In a way, this was like a personal hell for him. Was this the world’s way of making him repent for all he's done? He wasn't remotely a religious person, but at this point he didn't doubt it.

He caught sight of a slice of pie on the floor. It almost reminded him of one of Toriel’s. He knew better than to eat it, despite his nonexistent stomach’s complaints.

He took the risk of exploring, exiting the room cautiously.

He entered a long hallway. There were five doors in total, three along one of the walls and two at each end. It was relatively dark with the lack of windows. The dim blue flames from the candles along the wall were the only light source.

Killer was also in the hall, currently eating a slice of pie.

“are you crazy?!” Horror blurted, startling the skeleton.

“fuck man!” he jumped, “warn a guy before shouting.” He took another bite of the pie with no regards to if it was poisoned or wherever the hell it came from.

“you're just eating random food on the ground? who knows what it'll do.”

“bud, i was at low HP and saw a delicious slice of pie. of course i’m gonna eat it, poison be damned,” Killer replied without a care.

“you were at low HP because of the one supplying you the pie.”

“if he wanted me dead, i’d be dead. he’s givin’ me pie, i’m eating the pie it's simple.” He took another bite as if to support his point.

Horror muttered something Killer couldn't hear. He sighed, “where's the other guy?”

“you mean dust?” He quirked his head.

“you're not actually going to use the names he gave us, are you?” he questioned.

“well, what else? call us all sans and get all confused? or are you jealous i got to name myself while you're stuck with ‘horror’,” he said with his mouth full.

Horror scrunched his face in disgust. He already hated this guy. “as if ‘killer’ is a good name.”

“it's not a good name, it's a killer name,” he smirked.

“that sucked.”

Killer pouted and finished the last of his pie.

The door in between the two opened, and Dust stepped out.

“good morning sleeping beau—”

He shoved Killer against the wall using blue magic.

“woah!” Horror exclaimed and backed up.

The impact knocked the wind out of him. “ok, damn, bad morning, i guess.” Thankfully the plate in his hands was still intact.

“what's your problem?” Horror said.

Dust glared at Horror, his mismatched eyelights catching the other off guard.

Horror realized how high his LV was and realized why Nightmare named him Dust. He raised his hands in defense. “chill out, dude, we ain’t the enemy.”

Killer summoned a bone in his hand and tossed it at Dust, hitting him in the back of the skull. “yeah, dude, chill.”

Dust slammed him into the ground with a loud shatter before releasing the hold on his soul. He tucked his hands into his pockets and walked towards the end of the hall without a word.

Killer pushed himself up to his feet once Dust exited the hall. “that guy’s a dick.” He brushed the broken shards of the plate off his clothes.

In all honesty, Horror could see where Dust was coming from. Killer's proven to be nothing but annoying so far.

Killer looked down at the broken pieces of the plate on the floor. “it wasn't poisoned, by the way. so hah!” He looked in the direction of each end of the hall. “i’m gonna see if this place has a kitchen.” He decided to go to the door opposite of the one Dust went through.

Horror sighed and pinched the bridge of his nasal bone once he was alone in the hallway. There was a lot to process here, but Killer and Dust seemed unfazed by their new predicament. Weren't they going to miss their friends? Or at the very least, their brother?

He was trying his best to keep calm, or at least appear that way. He decided the best course of action now—was to go back to that room and eat that pie.

[dranozadystuff]

“𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑—𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋, 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓, 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄.”

POKEMON VILLAINS FUSION:

CYRUS + GHETSIS

— Meet Cytheus, the architect of collapse and convergence. The fusion of Ghetsis’s cruelty and Cyrus’s nihilism, Cytheus is not content to conquer just a world. He seeks to overwrite existence.

He is the cold, brilliant founder of Team Plazmara, a sect-like organization with one terrifying goal: Universal Convergence. To him, multiversal diversity is a sickness. Divergence breeds identity, identity breeds conflict—and conflict must be erased. Cytheus seeks a perfectly ordered dimension where time no longer forks, where all choices converge into one inevitable track. He does not wish to be a god. He wishes to be the system itself.

Cytheus is composed, eloquent, and absolutely merciless. He speaks in carefully measured phrases, always calm, never shouting. His cruelty is not sadism— it is strategy. To him, feelings are fractures, and people are broken algorithms. He does not waste time with passion; he corrects. His prosthetic arm is sleek, metallic, and deliberate—an intentional replacement of humanity with mechanism. His half-burned face, left untouched by surgery, is a symbol of survival through detachment. The damage occurred in the early phases of the Chrono-Finalizer’s first activation—an experiment that fractured space and nearly erased him. He was left disfigured, barely alive, but he did not mourn the pain. He looked in the mirror and saw evolution.

IMPORTANT RELATIONSHIPS:

Anthea and Concordia — once prophets of balance and empathy — Cytheus refers to only as "residual noise." He keeps them silenced, tucked away like obsolete code in a system too complex to delete entirely. He lets them live not out of mercy, but as a cautionary subroutine: they represent what happens when hearts guide systems. He neither tortures nor empowers them—just erases their influence slowly, methodically, like overwriting a corrupted file.

Colress, on the other hand, fascinates him. A man of intellect, free from empathy, guided by a similar curiosity — yet hopelessly fixated on the individual power of Pokémon. To Cytheus, this is a flaw: obsession with strength is still obsession with difference. Colress is kept close but never trusted. He is a useful process, not a person. The moment his function becomes obsolete, he will be discarded without ceremony. And Colress knows it. That’s why he stays.

As for N… the child was never meant to matter. At first, he was a cipher — an interpreter between Pokémon instinct and Cytheus’s cold order. But as N grew, as he chose compassion over clarity, the fracture widened. Cytheus now sees him as an error in the equation: unpredictable, emotional, human. A freak, yes, but not because he’s monstrous — because he still believes choice matters. Still, Cytheus does not destroy N. Not yet. For now, he remains… contained. Observed. Studied. The last anomaly Cytheus has not yet erased from the code.

BIOGRAPHY:

Cytheus’s story is stitched from pain, but he’d never call it that. Born in Veilstone City, in a household where silence and obedience reigned, he grew up under the weight of impossible expectations. His father worshipped control. His mother vanished under mysterious, never-spoken-of circumstances. Young Cytheus internalized that love was unstable, and silence was perfection. In his youth, he pursued multiversal science, believing he could find a version of himself that was whole. But the deeper he looked, the more fragmented everything became. Each alternate self was a disappointment. Each dimension, a contradiction. And then the thought came: what if there were no other selves? What if every version of existence could be merged—not into harmony, but uniformity?

He abandoned identity, nationality, even morality. What remained was Cytheus: the man who will erase the multiverse to fix its chaos.

SONG VIBES:

Danger Silent — Existence

Falling in Reverse — Voices in my head

A. M speech — I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream

Minami — Hollowness (Lorelai Irving cover)

[signanothername]

Was nereid actually the cause of ccino’s alternative timelines being destroyed??? Because I know we haven’t really seen error but error… tends to not be one to leave a job unfinished

You’re completely right, it isn’t like Error to leave an Au without making sure it’s completely and utterly extinguished

But see, the trick is that, this is Nightmare’s guess, that it’s Error, and he’s right.. partially

It was Error who destroyed those alternative timelines of Fluffytale, Error worked his way up till the main timeline is all that’s left, the problem? Fluffytale’s main timeline’s code was already corrupted way before Error destroyed any of the alternative timelines

With Frisk missing, and resets were no more, Fluffytale existed in that sort of a limbo state, where the timelines that were created before Frisk went missing stayed there, but the creation of other timelines completely stopped, and with the supposed “main character” of the story gone, Fluffytale’s code ended up scrambled as it tried to repair itself, except there is always that hole in the code that the universe couldn’t patch up

But I think it’s important to explain how I see codes working in universes for this to make sense xgxhhdhd

The code of a universe that attaches to the multiverse as a whole is only truly attatched to the main timeline, and any other timeline has a code of its own that attaches to said main timeline of the universe itself

But other timlines are “copies” of the script, so when the corruption of the code happened, the code of the main timeline is the one truly affected, it didn’t affect any other the other alternative timelines

Think if it as a word document of the same subject, you make the first document and save it to your computer right? Then you decide you want to edit on the document without changing the og one, so you “save as” and put the new copy of the document under a new name

If you go and edit the og document, the copy won’t change cause of it, and if you edit the copy, the og document won’t change either

So when the main timeline’s code got corrupted, none of the codes for the alternative timelines changed

So Error didn’t face any problems (unless you count Ink a problem hchchcch) with destroying the alternative timelines, one by one, went in, “cleaned up”, went out

When he finally reached the main timeline, he tried destroying it, it didn’t go so well, his strings couldn’t even leave a single scratch on any of the code of the timeline, Error tries every trick in the book but nothing works

Eventually he realizes the problem, the code of the universe is corrupted, that of course doesn’t stop Error from trying to erase it, only whoops!! Turns out corrupted anomalous code (Error) dealing with corrupted anomalous code (Fluffytale) isn’t a smart idea

Fluffytale’s code deals with Errors code as a sister code, it wrongly identifies and recognizes it as part of its own code, and boom, it gains immunity to Error’s powers, and until Error’s able to find a way in which that mess can be dealt with, Fluffytale survives

Of course Error threw a tantrum over it, but there’s nothing to be done, so he left the universe alone and went to eat chocolate and talk to anomaly #13 to cope chhcchhcfh

———

Context