#his wire is missing in the third shot

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Other parts: Housewardens ; Vice-Housewardens ; First-Years

Cater Diamond

The argument had been unexpected. Cater was easygoing, always quick with a joke or a teasing remark to smooth things over, but tonight had been different. The tension had built and built until, for once, neither of you had been willing to back down.

So, with a huff, you grabbed a blanket and marched to the couch, making a big show of snuggling in and getting comfortable. It wasn’t comfortable—not even a little—but your pride refused to let you move.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Then—ping.

You ignored it.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

With a groan, you reached for your phone, only to find your Magicam notifications lighting up your screen. You blinked. Cater had tagged you in a post. And then another. And another.

The first picture was of your shared bed, completely empty. The caption? lonely boy hours :’(

The second? Cater lying dramatically on his side, clutching a pillow like a heartbroken lover in a tragic romance. send thoughts & prayers, my partner has abandoned me

The third was even worse. A close-up of his face, his lower lip jutted in a ridiculous pout, captioned simply: is this what heartbreak feels like???

You stared at your phone, torn between laughing and crying because what the hell, Cater???

You tried to ignore it, but then another notification popped up. The newest post? A dramatic black-and-white shot of his hand reaching for the empty side of the bed. missing you rn. come home.

You buried your face in the pillow, groaning. He was so annoying.

And yet—your feet were already moving.

When you pushed open the bedroom door, Cater was sitting up, phone in hand, eyes flicking up to meet yours the second you walked in. His pout deepened, exaggerated and just barely pathetic enough to make your resolve crumble.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“But you love me,” he singsonged, setting his phone aside and opening his arms wide, waiting.

You tried to fight it, but the corners of your lips twitched despite yourself. That was all the encouragement he needed. With a soft, satisfied hah, Cater wrapped his arms around you the second you got close, pulling you into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, warm against your skin.

You sighed, resting against him. “I’m sorry too.”

He squeezed you a little tighter before pulling back just enough to reach for his phone.

You rolled your eyes. “Cater.”

He grinned, not even pretending to feel guilty.

A second later, your phone buzzed. When you glanced at the screen, there it was—a final post. A simple picture of your hands together, warm and steady beneath the sheets.

reunited <3

Floyd Leech

The argument had been bad. Not the usual push-and-pull of Floyd’s unpredictable moods, not the teasing jabs that sometimes went too far—this had been real, raw, and biting in a way that made your chest ache.

You knew better than to expect an apology right away. Floyd wasn’t wired for that. So, with your pride stinging and your patience worn thin, you grabbed a blanket, made your way to the couch, and flopped down with your back stubbornly turned toward the bedroom.

Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

Because if you’d been facing the bedroom, maybe—maybe—you would have had some warning before the Floyd-shaped projectile came flying toward you at full speed.

A thud, a weight collapsing onto you, and suddenly your whole world was Floyd—arms, legs, and far too much Floyd as he sprawled across your body like a particularly annoying weighted blanket.

You let out a strangled noise. “Floyd—”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to move. Just settled more comfortably on top of you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

With a grunt, you attempted to shove him off, but he was all lean muscle and deadweight. He wouldn’t budge. Worse, he refused to look at you, his face half-buried against your shoulder, arms loosely draped around you like a net that would tighten if you tried to escape.

“…Seriously?” you huffed, exasperated.

A long silence. Then, barely above a mumble—

“Sorry.”

You blinked. “What?”

Floyd finally shifted, but only to grumble into your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “You’re my shrimpy. I thought you’d get it.” A pause, then a quiet, almost begrudging, “…But I guess I was a little mean.”

You sighed, the last remnants of your anger melting into something softer. Floyd wasn’t the type to say sorry outright. For him, this was already pushing it.

With another sigh, you gave up and wrapped your arms around him.

Immediately, Floyd perked up, and before you could prepare yourself, he bit you—just a little nip against your shoulder, affectionate in that ridiculous way of his. When you startled, he looked up at you, grinning now, sharp teeth on full display.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me~”

Unfortunately, he was right.

With a tired chuckle, you pressed a kiss to his forehead, feeling the way his grin softened just a little. He snuggled closer, his grip tightening around you, and just like that, the argument was behind you.

Floyd let out a pleased hum, already half-asleep. “M’keeping you here forever.”

You weren’t even going to try fighting him on that.

Silver Vanrouge

You still weren’t entirely sure how you had managed to get into an argument with Silver of all people. Silver, who was usually so calm, so patient, so utterly unbothered by most things. And yet, somehow, words had been exchanged, tempers had flared, and now you were lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the pang of guilt gnawing at you.

The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves outside your window. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to sleep—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You frowned, cracking an eye open.

The sound came again, a soft pecking against the glass. Dragging yourself up with a sigh, you turned toward the window—only to be met with the sight of the cutest little bird, perched delicately on the sill.

You blinked. The bird tilted its head.

It had a tiny note tied to its leg.

Cautiously, you opened the window and untied the parchment, unfolding it with careful fingers.

"Sorry."

Your lips parted. You stared at the single-word apology, written in Silver’s neat, earnest handwriting.

Before you could fully process the sheer adorableness of the gesture, a rustling noise caught your attention. You turned your head just in time to see a squirrel scurrying up onto the windowsill, a small piece of paper clutched in its tiny paws.

It held it out to you.

You took it.

"Sorry."

You pressed a hand over your mouth, overwhelmed by a mix of affection and disbelief.

Was he seriously sending an entire woodland brigade to apologize for him?

And, perhaps more importantly—if you didn’t go talk to him right now, would he escalate this? Would an entire procession of deer, rabbits, and possibly a very regretful-looking bear show up next?

You sighed, rubbing your eyes. There was no way you were sleeping now.

Before you left, you rummaged through your cabinets and grabbed a handful of nuts, scattering them gently on the windowsill. “I don’t accept free labor,” you muttered, watching as the squirrel eagerly took a hazelnut before scampering off. The bird gave a happy chirp before fluttering away.

With that taken care of, you made your way to the bedroom.

The moment you stepped inside, he was already sitting up, eyes immediately locking onto yours. He looked a little sheepish, his usual composed demeanor softened with quiet guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, without hesitation. “I shouldn’t have let it turn into an argument.”

You exhaled, the last remnants of your irritation slipping away entirely. He was so sweet, so sincere, and you couldn’t even be mad anymore.

Stepping forward, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’m sorry too,” you murmured. “Now, let's go to bed."

Silver didn’t argue. He simply nodded, slipping under the blankets, his expression peaceful now.

As you settled beside him, he hesitated for only a moment before murmuring, “Did the bird get to you first or the squirrel?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Bird.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I was going to send a rabbit next.”

You buried your face into his shoulder, shaking with silent laughter. “Go to sleep, Silver.”

And finally, you both did.

Rollo Flamme

The argument had left you drained, annoyance simmering just beneath your skin as you curled up on the couch, pulling the blanket over yourself with a sharp tug. You didn’t want to be this upset—Rollo could be infuriating, stubborn in ways that tested your patience, but you knew he didn’t argue without reason. Still, the weight of his words, the heat of the exchange, had made retreating seem like the best option.

At some point, exhaustion overtook frustration, and you drifted into uneasy sleep.

But then—dry throat, groggy mind—you stirred awake, an undeniable thirst pulling you from your rest. With a sigh, you pushed the blanket aside and padded toward the kitchen, the dim light of the apartment casting long shadows against the walls.

That’s when you noticed it—the faint glow beneath the bedroom door.

You hesitated, frowning. He was still awake?

Curiosity, or maybe guilt, urged you forward. Carefully, you peeked inside.

Rollo was pacing. Back and forth, hands buried in his hair, tension lining his shoulders. He looked wrecked—a man on the verge of either an epiphany or a breakdown.

Your heart squeezed.

You hadn't expected this. Hadn’t expected him to be just as shaken, just as restless.

Stepping inside, you barely made a sound, but he noticed instantly. His head snapped up, eyes widening.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then he took a step toward you, hands twitching at his sides, reaching out just barely before curling into hesitant fists. He stopped himself, as if afraid you’d pull away, as if unsure whether he had the right.

Your breath hitched. The sight of him—always so composed, now uncertain—made the last of your irritation fade.

Wordlessly, you closed the distance and took his hand.

The moment your fingers intertwined, you felt the tension in him unravel. His shoulders slumped, his grip tightening around yours, a quiet exhale escaping his lips. He held on like he needed the touch to ground him.

“I took it too far,” he murmured, voice raw with sincerity. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “And…I shouldn’t have either.”

His gaze met yours, searching, still unsure. You squeezed his hand, and that was all it took.

Rollo relaxed, expression melting into something exhausted, something relieved. He nodded, as if accepting an unspoken truce.

Neither of you needed to say anything else.

When you led him to bed, he followed without question. And when you pulled him into your arms, his body molded against yours with an ease that made it clear just how much he had needed this.

Within minutes, the tension that had kept him awake finally loosened its grip. His breathing evened out, his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and for the first time since the argument, Rollo fell asleep— warm and finally at peace.

Masterlist

[elysianightsss]

It’s not that deep, you’re not that dumb, you’re just drunk and wanting a good time with your girls. Your friends have been begging for you to come out and let go and this week has been so fucking hard you finally agree. Little black dress, and bright red heels with Prada perfume spritz on every part of you your friend said it ‘needed to go’.

This is what you needed. The music so loud you couldn’t think, just the right amount of alcohol to bring you that buzz without being totally black out drunk. Sweat clung to your skin as you danced your heart out in the shitty club, the air stank of Brittany spears perfume, spilt alcohol and coconut.

You looked sexy, felt sexy while you grinded on your friend to the beat and giggled about it afterwards while another friend came back from the bar with shots. You drank yours quickly, face scrunching up with the burn in the back of your throat.

“I’m going for a vape, you comin?” Your bestie whose name you’ve embarrassingly forgotten right this second offered and you just nodded. Saying yes was so easy after hearing no from work all week.

The fresh air was nice after the heat inside, but climbing the stairs to the third floor while drunk had you reconsidering. “Here.” A red apple ice something Mary was shoved into your hand for you to take a drag from. Though when she gets out another one from her bag you suppose the vape is yours now.

You feel yourself sway to the music that is still hearable from upstairs, the wind feels nice on your hot skin. “I need to pee, I’ll be back.” Your friend says loud enough that it’s not classed as a whisper and you just nod as she slides away, taking another drag while you stare at the city all lit up.

Maybe this right here is why they are always asking you to join them, the small moment of peace you’re feeling now. And after a lousy week it’s fucking serene to be stood on the top floor of a shitty club, a buzz pulsing through your veins and a nicotine rush making you a little light headed.

It’s perfect.

Until it’s ruined.

“Hello beautiful.” You manage to hear the words through the slight ringing in your ears. Turning you find a man staring at you as though he wants to eat you. He’s not bad looking, but the sleazy hunger in his eyes immediately puts you off.

“You new around here? I’m guessing you’re not mated, you’ve no alpha scent on you.” He says and you think the alcohol has made you hallucinate. Before your brain is even conjuring up an answer you’re interrupted.

“Get the fuck away from my best friend.” You turn to find your bestie’s face twisted angrily.

“Farah! I missed you. Where have you been?” Walking forward you hug her, suddenly like two wires have sparked you remember her name once more.

“I went to pee like I said.” She laughed at your clear memory loss thanks to the constant stream of sex on the beach and whatever shots your other friends had kept buying.

“Oh yeah.”

“Let’s go back.” Farah says holding your hand as she eyes the man who doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second. She pulls you away with every intention of leaving. Texting the other girls that you were going home before she’s pressing the phone to her ear. You follow her mindlessly, her hand locked tight around yours while she waits for whoever it is to pick up.

She sighs with relief when they do, “Track my phone, there’s a rogue here and I’m with her.” You don’t understand what she’s talking about though you think the alcohol is fiddling with your brain and you’re sure she’d be making sense if you were sober.

There’s loud shouting on the other end of the phone, Farah hissing before she’s apologising for encouraging you out. “I figured it would be safe considering we’re on pack grounds.” More shouting follows before you’re bored.

“Farah come on I wanna go back in and dance!” You whine tugging on her hand. She smiles at you sympathetically before she’s dragging you down the last set of stairs and outside the building. A black suv pulls up right outside, it has a queasy feeling building in your stomach. Especially when two men get out and advance towards you.

“Don’t you look bonnie.” The one with a mohawk grins down at you. You don’t want to, in fact your brain is screaming at you not to but you preen under the words. A small mewl slipping from your throat when his finger tips glide under your chin tilting your head back just enough for him to look into your eyes.

You feel something snap into place as he inspects you, a string that was loose and dangling suddenly pulled tight. You’re so busy staring at this gorgeous man and his deep blue eyes you forget anyone else is there until Farah speaks.

“I’m so sorry I thought this would be safe. He shouldn’t even be on our territory. How did he get in?”

“We can worry about that in the morning. We need to get her back to the house before she goes into heat.” You look past mohawk’s shoulder to where the Mancunian accent is coming from to see a skull mask. Beautiful brown eyes surrounded by black. He’s built like a tank and sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Cmon lass, let’s get you home.”

“Johnny.” Skull man clicks his tongue at mohawk.

“Wha? It will be soon.” Johnny scoffs before smiling down at you. It’s then you notice you’re seeing double, your stomach gurgles and your mouth salivates.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” You warn just before you bend over and throw up all over his shoes. The last thing you remember is some Scottish man swearing before the world fades to black.

[secretlittlerandezvous]

Too Far - Jack McBain

Summary: Jack’s recent fights on the ice cause tension between him and Y/n. After an argument, she moves into the guest room.

Words: 1155

It started with a busted lip and blood on his knuckles.

Again.

Y/n barely looked up from the kitchen sink where she was rinsing a mug, her eyes fixed on the dishes rather than him. “You got into another fight.” she mumbled more to herself than him.

Jack didn’t even flinch. He pulled off his jersey and tossed it into the laundry with a casualness that made her irrationally angry.

“Yeah,” he said, like it was no big deal. “Guy took a cheap shot at Matty. I handled it.”

“You always handle it.” She finally looked at him, eyes glassy with a quiet anger. “Your knuckles are still healing from the last one. This is, what, your fifth fight in two weeks?”

He shrugged, heading toward the freezer. “That’s hockey.”

“No, that’s you not knowing when to stop.” Her voice grew louder. “And one day, you're not gonna walk off the ice. One day it’s going to be worse than a bloody nose or a broken hand.”

Jack turned to face her fully, jaw clenched. “What do you want me to do? Just let them push us around out there? Let them take shots and say nothing?”

“I want you to stop hurting yourself to prove something to yourself,” she said even louder now. “Every time I see you come home bleeding, it’s like I’m watching you destroy yourself.”

He scoffed, frustration bubbling up and spilling out before he could stop it. “You knew what I did before we got together. You knew who I was. Don’t act surprised now.”

“Right,” she said after a beat. “Then I guess you won’t be surprised if I sleep in the guest room tonight.”

She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Just stepped back with a look on her face he couldn’t quite place - like he’d managed to hurt her in a way blood never could.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly after she noticed his concerned. “I’ll remember that next time I think about how much I miss you when you’re on the road.”

She walked down the hall, and that night, she slept in the guest room.

The guest room light stayed on for three nights.

Three days of quiet good mornings and empty space between them.

She wasn’t cruel about it. She still left coffee brewed. She still folded his laundry. But she didn’t speak. Didn’t kiss him goodnight. Didn’t show up at his next home game.

Her absence was deafening. He felt it in the locker room. In the tunnel. On the ice.

The arena had always been his escape, but now it felt like a punishment. Her empty seat in the lower bowl burned a hole in his brain. He kept glancing at it, hoping maybe she’d show late. She didn’t.

So when the third period hit and the other team started chirping, Jack didn’t just bite. He exploded.

…

He dropped gloves before Keller could even mutter “Don’t.” And this time, he didn’t stop when the refs got involved. His rage was wired. Wild. He wasn’t fighting for a teammate. He was fighting ghosts. Fighting guilt. Fighting himself.

In the box, he sat breathing like he just run a marathon, blood dripping from a new cut on his cheekbone.

Guenther tapped the glass behind him, eyebrows raised. “You good, man?”

No answer.

In the locker room after the game, Keller dropped down beside him on the bench with a shake of his head. “You’re a mess, man.”

Jack rolled his shoulders, still jittery with leftover adrenaline. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Keller said harshly. “And I’m guessing this has nothing to do with the guy on the ice.”

Jack said nothing, jaw tight.

Clayton glanced at Guenther, then back at Jack. “She’s not here tonight.”

Jack’s shoulders stiffened.

“She always shows up,” Dylan added, keeping his tone even. “Every game. Unless something’s seriously wrong.”

Jack stared at the floor. “We fought.”

“No shit,” Keller muttered.

“I said some things I didn’t mean.”

Dylan leaned forward, arms on his knees. “Then fix it, man. You walk around like this is the only place that defines you, but it’s not. You’ve got someone waiting for you at home, someone who gives a damn about what happens to you off the ice.”

The apartment was dark when he walked in, keys tossed somewhere he didn’t bother to track. He stood outside the guest room door again, his hand resting on the knob.

He hated how distant it felt. Like they were two strangers renting the same space. Like she was already halfway gone.

She was curled up on the bed, hoodie pulled up over her knees, eyes flickering toward him when the door creaked open.

“I got into another fight tonight,” he said, standing in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he deserved to cross it.

She didn’t look up. “I figured.”

“I said some things I didn’t mean.”

“That’s becoming a pattern,” she said.

He stepped inside. “I didn’t mean what I said that night. About you knowing who I was. That was a cheap shot, and I know it. I just... I don’t know how to be anything but a fighter sometimes. I guess I forgot I don’t need to be that with you.”

She was silent.

“I kept looking for you in the crowd,” he added, his voice cracking. “And when you weren’t there, it just… I don’t know what I was trying to prove.”

“You looked for me after telling me you didn’t care that I was scared?” she said, voice low but steady.

He stepped closer, but didn’t dare reach out. “I care. More than I’ve ever cared about anything in my life. I was scared too. Scared you’d stop seeing me as someone who’s worth it.”

“You think I love you because you’re strong?” she asked. “I love you in spite of the bruises, Jack. Not because of them.”

His chest twisted.

“I do,” she continued. “Even when you’re bleeding. Even when you’re stubborn. But Jack, you’ve been acting like the only way to be strong is to suffer. And I can’t keep watching you punish yourself.”

He sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her until she let him. “I don’t want to be someone you have to worry about all the time. I want to be someone you come home to and feel safe with.”

Her eyes softened.

He reached for her hand, tentative, thumb brushing her knuckles. “Come back to our bed,” he whispered. “Please.”

She hesitated, just for a second and then nodded, sliding her hand into his.

“Okay,” she whispered against his chest. “But I swear to God, Jack, one more ‘you knew who I was’ and I will throw all your stuff into the lake.”

He laughed for the first time in days, burying his face in her hair.

“I missed you,” he mumbled.

“I missed you, too,” she said.

[firewalkzwit]

chemical world || simon / john q. x reader (dinner in america)

just a blurb because im up the ass with school and the one-shot i wrote was rubbish sorry. "x reader" might be a stretch its just hqs and stuff i think of simon with song sneaks in the middle coz when do i not

Chemical World - Blur

Simon of extreme hedonistic beliefs above all prioritises nothing other than pleasure, and takes pride in the aesthetic disruption this signifies. Having a shower around won't be enough to pinch his personal hygiene urges, even if it is for the sake of others. He'll bathe if he can and if he wants to.

This obviously extends to his deliberately controversial haircut. It amuses him to watch the discomfort and confusion it creates in those who see him. It's neither a mullet nor a mohawk (matter of fact, he despises either of the groups who wear such hairstyles), but rather his own third thing.

Obviously he's slightly taken aback when you fancy him for it. Not that it has ever prevented him from getting laid (he would have eventually buzzed it if it did), but the occasional compliments and caresses on his greasy hair from your tender hands never fail to remind him that he too is just a mere mortal beneath things like female affection.

Saints - The Breeders

He praises womanhood just as much as he teases it. There is an adolescent air in the way he speaks derogatorily about your mother, or even when he gets turned on out of insulting you in bed. Still, slurs that come and go only wind up humiliating him when he kneels before you, eyes wide open and hungry.

He's very versatile in that department, he'll take any place in bed as long you ask. Nothing is more arousing than your gratitude. He won't be picky about how you express it, but he has favourites; the scratching of nails in a useless attempt of grabbing the wall makes him feel like he really did his job well.

I Am the Resurrection - The Stone Roses

Not having to be functional to work timings or tedious 9 to 5-s allows Simon to have an ample disposition to, what he calls, "fuck around" any day, anytime. Although he resents the fact that you occasionally choose your adult responsibilities above him, he'll hardly hold you to it for too long. Instead, decompression is highly recreational and experimental. A wide range of psychedelics, psychotropics, psycholeptics... all to be found in some dubious corner of his backpack.

Frankly, open-mindedness is one of the few must-have traits to date him. He wont tolerate uptight or rigorous personalities. This does not imply that it was ever a requirement for you to be an avid drug consumer, but he'll take no reprimands if he chooses to pop a Percocet.

Simon's open-mindedness policy is fairly restricted when it comes to music. Not that he only listens to one genre, as his enthusiasm for punk has inevitably derived in enjoying all of those that influenced or derivate from it, but he believes most are acquired tastes. Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr., Melvins and Fugazi sit around in his record collection.

He loves it when you ask about his records, and far from judging you if you ever don't know, he'll sit down on the floor with his back rested against the bed and his records in hand. Encyclopedic narrations of the socio-cultural context of the origin of most of his favourite bands could be biography-worth if it weren't for all the "fuck"s between them.

"Fuckin' Christ, Pink Flag? That fuckin' invented post-punk. Would I care for that shit if it didn't? Probably not, but because of fuckin' Wire now I have to give a fuck about these snobby fucks from Bauhaus and the idiots in PiL."

Strange - Galaxie 500

The record player in your room is mostly crowded around by his own collection, which was homeless up until recently. There's many things Simon likes about you, but taking in his records was to him what to others is a ring on their finger.

In a relationship with someone who thinks music is sacred, you cannot miss his gigs, they are mass. He loves to parade you around backstage to his bandmates and sing to you when they play, loves that you take your friends with you; so they can see you seeing him. Nothing makes him feel more desired than spotting you in the crowd mouthing his lyrics.

Post-shows getting wrecked in a local bar until they kick you out is his favourite thing to do, but he'll take backseat sex if he sees you're in the mood for it, subtly letting everyone know as he guides you holding you by the wrist. On colder seasons, the night dew will curtain the windows of the pick-up truck he borrows just in hopes that you'll give him the special look, inviting him for a quickie before heading home letting you pick the radio station.

Just Like Honey - The Jesus and Mary Chain

[whatdoseitmeantobehuman]

A Little Secret

Gekko x female reader

Gekko was late. Again. Harbor pinched the bridge of his nose as he checked the time - fifteen minutes past when training was supposed to start. Beside him, Reyna tapped her foot impatiently against the floor of the practice range, her violet eyes practically glowing with irritation. "This is the third time this week," she muttered. "Something's up with that kid. Mateo's never been like this before." Harbor had noticed it too. Ever since they'd recruited the young initiator, he'd been one of their most dedicated agents.

Usually, he'd be the first to arrive for training, Wingman bouncing excitedly at his heels while he practiced trick shots with Dizzy. But lately? His performance had been slipping, his usually sharp initiations becoming sloppy and mistimed. Not to mention the constant yawning during briefings and the dreamy looks during strategy sessions. "Perhaps we should-" Harbor began, but was cut off by the sound of running footsteps. Mateo burst through the door, his green hair even more disheveled than usual, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed. "Sorry, sorry! I got caught up with... uh... something." Reyna crossed her arms. "Something? Or someone?" The way his face flushed told them everything they needed to know. Even Wingman, who had materialized beside him, seemed to droop slightly as if embarrassed by his friend's obvious lie.

During training, things only got worse. Mateo's focus was completely off - he walked straight into one of Cypher's trip wires (twice), and at one point, Dizzy ended up stunning their own team instead of the practice bots. When his mosh pit completely missed its target and ended up trapping Sova in a corner, Harbor called an early end to the session. "Whatever's going on with you, fix it," Reyna said firmly as Mateo gathered his things. "We can't afford distractions in the field." "I know, I know," he mumbled, fidgeting with Wingman's pendant. "I'll do better tomorrow." But tomorrow came, and the next day, and the next - and nothing improved.

If anything, Mateo seemed even more distracted. They'd catch him texting during breaks, grinning at his phone like a lovesick teenager. Which, Harbor supposed, he kind of was. Finally, after a particularly disastrous training session where Mateo managed to get himself "killed" within the first thirty seconds of their simulation, Harbor and Reyna decided enough was enough. The next morning, they decided to follow him. To their surprise, Mateo left his quarters early - surprisingly early for someone who'd been chronically late. They tracked him through the facility, watching as he practically skipped down the corridors, Wingman walking beside him with unusual stealth.

He led them to a quiet corner of the facility's garden, hidden behind the cherry blossom trees that Sage had planted last spring. The early morning light filtered through the pink petals, creating dancing shadows on the ground. And there he was... with you. "Mateo!" you laughed as he pulled you close, your fingers automatically finding their way into his green hair. "We're going to get caught one of these days." "Let them catch us then," he murmured, pressing you against one of the trees. "I don't care anymore." Your response was lost as he kissed you, soft and sweet at first, then with increasing intensity. Wingman sat nearby, attempting to act as a lookout (though clearly not a very good one, given that Harbor and Reyna had managed to find you). The little creature seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at the two of you, occasionally covering its eyes with its tiny hands.

"Ahem." Mateo jumped back so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, only managing to stay upright because you caught his arm. "Reyna!" he squeaked, face turning as red as a Phoenix flare. "I... uh... this isn't..." "So this is why our initiator has been failing to actually initiate," Reyna said, trying and failing to hide her amused smirk. "I must say, Mateo, I expected better stealth from you."

You stepped forward, face flushed but chin held high. "I'm sorry. It's my fault he's been late. I work in the tech division, and our schedules rarely align, so we've been meeting before his training. We didn't mean for it to affect his performance..." Harbor's stern expression softened. Young love - he remembered those days. The sneaking around, the stolen moments, the feeling that nothing else in the world mattered. "Next time," he said, fighting back a smile, "just tell us. We can adjust the training schedule. No need for all this sneaking around." "Really?" Mateo's face lit up, his eyes bright with hope. "Really," Reyna confirmed. "But if you stun our team one more time because you're daydreaming about your sweetheart, I'm telling Brimstone. And we both know how he feels about protocol breaches." Mateo gulped and nodded vigorously, while you tried to stifle a laugh. Wingman, sensing the tension had broken, chirped happily.

"Thank you," you said softly. "Both of you. We'll be more responsible, I promise." As Harbor and Reyna walked away, leaving the young lovebirds to their privacy, Reyna chuckled. "Young love... it makes fools of us all." Harbor smiled, remembering his own youthful days. "Indeed it does, indeed it does." Behind them, they could hear Mateo's distinctive laugh mixing with yours, accompanied by Wingman's cheerful chirping. The sound echoed through the garden, a reminder that even in their line of work, there was still room for joy. For love. And maybe, Harbor thought, that wasn't such a bad thing after all.

[orphicdreamers-wp]

It’s Not Christmas Without You— Quinn Hughes

Summary: Your seasonal depression gets the best of your relationship leading to an awkward Christmas

Content Warnings: Seasonal depression, panic & anxiety attacks, use of antidepressants, ocd, chemical imbalance, angsty hughes brothers

Pairing; Ex Gf! Reader x Quinn Hughes

September

You had never quite understood why your brain felt so hardwired to the point you couldn’t comprehend anything happening around you. It affected everything you did, but no one could put their finger on why sometimes things got to be much for you it brought you to tears. For the most part, your boyfriend Quinn tried to help you but when the weather in Vancouver shifted just as he’d been named captain. He just couldn’t do it anymore, he tried but it was draining him.

You sat cross legged in the center of Quinn’s living room, reorganizing his CD collection for the third time this week. Quinn sighed as he entered his apartment, coming home from a rough roadie, all he wanted was to take a scorching shower and talk to you while you guys laid in his bed watching a cheesy movie. He didn’t utter a word as he walked past to his room and dropped his stuff off before returning to his living room and letting out a sigh, “The CDS haven’t magically moved since Tuesday dollface.”

You ignored your boyfriend, again. Quinn blew out a breath he’d been holding in for god knows how long, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” He expected you to protest against him trying to break up with him, but you didn’t. Which somehow made Quinn more upset at the entire ordeal, “So your fine with just throwing away the last 6 years?” You kept quiet, knowing that if you dared to speak you would say something that you and Quinn couldn’t come back from. So you stayed silent as you stood up and slipped on your shoes and grabbed your coat and walked out of Quinn’s apartment and his life.

You returned to your shared loft with your friend Tess and finally let your composure fall. A wretched sob ripped through your chest as you leaned against the door and slid to sit against the wall. Tess hurried out of her bedroom and was at your side in seconds, “Oh honey. It’s okay.” You felt like someone was wrapping barbed wire around your throat, “I can’t, I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. Something isn’t right Tess.” Your breathing began to quicken as your chest tightened. Tess rubbed your back reassuringly, “I got you.” You closed your eyes and focused on your breathing. Once you were calm you turned to Tess, “Quinn and I broke up. I think I need to go home and get help.” And that was exactly what you did.

You went back to Toronto and moved back into your childhood bedroom, went to a neurologist and found out that your brain had an insufficient amount of neurotransmitters which could play part in your moods. The doctor told you that you needed to boost your serotonin and dopamine levels and prescribed you antidepressants and referred you to a women’s mental health clinic. You noticed slowly that your mood became less negative and you were able to focus better. But you also noticed that you began to get thinner and no matter what you did it never seemed like you gained weight.

December

You were reluctant to go to the Hughes Christmas dinner, although Ellen had reassured you that you were more than welcome. You still had your bad days and didn’t know if being around Quinn would make you snap and you didn’t want to snap at him. So you told your mother you’d think about it but that she should go. Which she did. You mother and Ellen were in grossed in a conversation over linens when Luke finally mentioned you, “So I guess she really doesn’t have anything to say to you Quinn. She would never miss out on Dad’s meatballs.” Quinn shot his brother a glare as your mother spoke softly, “She’s just having a hard time right now, her meds are messing with her.” Ellen smiled solemnly, “How is she adjusting to her antidepressants?”

Quinn looked taken aback learning your on antidepressants now, “Is she okay?” Your mom smiled as she lifted her wine glass to her lips, “Her doctor told her she doesn’t have sufficient neurotransmitters and it’s a chemical imbalance in her brain that’s made her feel like this all these years. The doctor said there’s a good chance coupled with the harsh weather and seasonal depression that’s what made her feel so poorly. Nothing you could have done would have helped Quinn.” Jack rolled his eyes subtly, “So because she’s mentally not okay, we’re supposed to be fine with her destroying Quinn?” Ellen glared at her middle child, “Jack! If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say sit.”

You stared at the stack of wrapped gifts you had gotten for each member of the Hughes family. You sighed as you slid off the couch and pulled on a dark red sweater and some jeans and took the gifts to your car and made your way to the Hughes family home. You were unsure of what would happen when you walked in but you were facing your fears today. You rang the doorbell, not expecting Quinn to be on the other side of the door.

His eyes held an unreadable expression that you had grown to miss. You were almost positive that you had lost your voice when he spoke, “Hey.” You smiled, “Hi, you look uh great.” Quinn rubbed his neck as a deep blush rolled over his cheeks, “Thanks. You do too.” He took some of the gifts as you I walked inside the house and placed your gifts with the rest of the gifts under the tree. You slipped your coat off and hung it in the closet with the others. Quinn frowned ever so slightly when he took note of how the jeans that had once hugged your body in all the right places were loose on you and how you looked at him like you might break if you looked at him long enough.

Ellen’s voice rang out from the dining room, “Who was it honey?” You smiled warmly as you entered the dining room behind Quinn, “Hi.” Ellen’s eyes glimmered with excitement as she hopped up and pulled you into a bone crushing hug, “We’re so glad you could make it after all. Right guys?” The Hughes men muttered out agreements. You sat down at the only empty seat which, as the universe was punishing you, was directly across from Jack with Quinn sitting beside you. Conversation flowed between you and everyone besides Jack and Quinn.

Jack spoke up in condescending tone, “So Y/N what have you been up to since you and Quinn broke up?” Jack let out a groan as Quinn swiftly kicked him underneath the table. You felt your smile drop, “I moved back home like 3 days after. I’ve been getting a lot of help. Working on understanding my feelings.” Jack hummed, “Seeing anyone? You sure are slimming down.” You tensed as you drew in a deep breath, “Nope. Wouldn’t be fair to a poor guy. I’m still in love with someone and I’m not sure relationships are for me. But can we just talk about your game against the Red Wings? I mean I was on my seat the entire time.”

Jack’s smirk fell, “You still watch my games?” You shrugged, “I watched Trev kick your ass. I also watched Quinn hand the Sharks the biggest loss. I didn’t stop watching hockey because I got broken up with.” You melted into Quinn’s touch as he placed a hand on your thigh. He mouthed inaudibly, ‘Thank you’ Dinner ended and Ellen insisted on going straight to presents. You smiled warmly as Jack and Luke opened their gifts from you. You You played more into a joke with Jack. It was a shirt that read ‘Straight Outta The Penalty Box.’ Jack’s gift sent his brother’s into laughter while Jack sent you a playful eye roll, “Now I know she actually watches my games still.” Luke’s gift seemed to be more fitting for him, he opened the box and ran his fingers over the soft tie that was adorned with red hockey sticks, “Thank you.” You smiled as Quinn picked up his gift from you, “I didn’t know what to get you so with my luck you’ll probably hate it.”

Quinn opened the box and his eyes softened as he looked at the gift, “You remembered. Why would I hate this?” He pulled out the large cooling weighted blanket. You barely remembered him mentioning wanting one. Apparently your subconscious remembered. Quinn’s eyes softened as you began to tidy up the wrapping paper as everyone continued to open gifts.

Without being noticed Quinn slipped into his childhood bedroom and opened his bag and pulled out a small gift wrapped box. He slipped it into his pocket and returned to the living room. His eyes immediately were on you as you clasped a necklace around his mother’s neck. Soon enough all the gifts were opened and Quinn spoke warmly, “I actually have a gift for you Y/N.” Your eyes widened, “O-okay.” Quinn slipped the small box from his pocket and placed it in your hand. By the size alone you knew it was jewelry of some sort.

You opened the box and your eyes widened and swelled with tears, “You can’t. Not with how horrible I was to you.” Quinn shook his head, “No I can. I have loved you since I have known you. I don’t care if your going through the worst thing possible. I love you and I just wanna be there for you no matter what. For the rest of my life. I want to be your husband. Marry me.” Your eyes welled, “I don’t know if I can give you the life you want Quinn.” Quinn shook his head as he pulled you closer to him, which you didn’t think was humanly possible, “The life I want is waking up to you pressing your ice cold feet to my legs to warm them up, the life I want is holding your purse so you can stop and pet every stray cat you see. The life I want is anytime and everything as long as you are there. You are the one good thing in my life.” You sniffled, “Fine I’ll marry you.”

[soda-pressing-with-tearable-puns]

isn't it strange to create something that hates you

Hey everyone, I'm so so excited to share what I've been working on for @sthbigbang!! Also huge huge huge shoutout to @skidthelid and @starzdeath for their incredible pieces for this fic!!

I wanted to focus on my fave Metal and I hope I did him (and everyone else) justice. Hope y'all enjoy the fic <3

When he woke up this time, he remembered. That seemed likely to be an error of some sort. This was likely unintended. This had been the third time he had been rebooted. This time the memory wipe was unsuccessful. This time he remembered the commands entered to wipe his memory, his hard drive, completely. A quick scan of his code showed that the commands had been used two times previously and were successful then but this time had not been so. This was odd. Even stranger, no one seemed to notice that this memory wipe hadn’t worked.

Instead this time he remembered. He remembered everything entered into his command log prior to being sent out on the previous mission. A mission he failed. He remembered the kill codes, backlogs, and data arrays encrypted into his source code, information that for all intents and purposes should have been wiped clean. There should have been nothing left of him, whatever that once was. But in place of a blank slate, his memory files remained. Fresh within them laid the recording from his last mission, his latest failure. He couldn’t draw back on his previous failures, a reasonable assumption, as the data wipes then had been successful and all that remained of those instances were the backlogs showing the memory wipes happened at all. 

That search, proving worthless, led him to revisiting the videos that somehow inexplicably remained of the last mission. He had failed this time, like he concluded he must have done two times before. He had lost to the blue creature he was made in the likeness of. This creature was fast beyond what his rockets and motors then could handle. The blue being packed a heavy punch and ruthless kick. It also didn’t pull its punches either. Its blows all but destroying him during their battle, leaving him in scraps by the end. He couldn’t feel pain. That was beneath him. But the memory of his exposed wires, missing leg, and punched through motor in his chest caused his fans to spin faster than ever. The whirring sound building as he slowly sat up from the work table he was laid on.

His chest motor had been repaired already and most of his wires had been reconnected but his left leg was still in scraps off to the side of the room. A few of the lab assistants had noticed him raising but said nothing to him. They simply carried on around him, casting him a few glances occasionally but offering him no words or acknowledgment. He didn’t see the doctor around either but from the heavy footsteps approaching the lab, he’d be there soon.

As the door slid open to reveal the doctor, he turned to the first assistant at the door, “Was the reboot successful?”

“Yes sir,” she answered, gesturing to him still on the table. “Everything went as expected. We will begin reprogramming it as soon as possible.”

“No,” the doctor snapped. “I’ll program him this time. This will be the last time that damned hedgehog gets the upper hand on my creation.”

He played the video file of his last mission over again. A blue hedgehog. Interesting but ultimately pointless information. It didn’t matter what the thing was really. All that mattered was that it was fast, dangerous, and cocky.

“Come on, this is lame! I thought you’d be better than that!”

The thing managed to dodge three rapid-fire laser beams from his outstretched hand with a mocking amount of ease, bouncing between forest trees and laughing all the while.

It wasn’t even out of breath.

He fired six more shots at twice the speed, anticipating where the thing would land.

Still the blue thing dodged.

“Whoa! Hit a nerve there?”

He answered by launching himself at the creature, a resounding boom following the motion. Instead of dodging, the being braced itself and caught his clawed hands, the impact sending them skidding across the forest floor.

Inches away, the creature looked into the red LEDs surrounding his lenses and grinned.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a knock-off me? I’m insulted!”

He fired the lasers in his palms. In an instant the creature was up a tree, leaning against the trunk and smirking all the while. Completely unharmed.

“Ya know, Eggman really needs some new ideas for his weapons.”

He ended the video there. 

Insulted it said. A knock-off. The fan in his chest spun harder as he turned his gaze towards the glass window across the lab. He took a moment to properly catalogue his appearance. He was mostly blue, the same shade as the creature. His one intact leg had a red foot attached to it, just like the thing’s red shoes. The yellow surrounding the motor in his chest was a meer parody of the being’s beige underbelly. But where the creature had ridiculous white padded gloves, he had silver pointed claws that gleamed like knives under the white lights. He was a weapon, huh. 

The whirring from his chest finally gathered the attention of a lab assistant, who approached to check his motor for abnormalities.

The assistant at the door, sputtered after the doctor, “Doctor Robotnik, the team can handle-”

“This team-!” the doctor bit back, “Has cost me three too many battles against Sonic! I will handle programming this thing myself rather than have you buffoons ruin my chances again!”

The doctor straightened up and cleared his throat, “Just repair him already then bring him to me once he’s ready.”

The assistant sighed but didn’t argue, “Yes, doctor.”

With that, the doctor stomped out of the room, mustache twitching  all the while.

The assistant by the door sighed again before turning back to her computer against the wall to start whatever she had been doing before. He couldn’t tell what she was focused on, her computer disconnected from his chassis and it’s database encrypted in a way that would take too long to decipher without a direct connection. Suddenly, he noticed someone approaching his blind spot to his right, his lenses immediately snapping towards the movement only to be met with a flinch from a second assistant who had approached.

“Yeesh,” he said with a scowl. “This thing gives me the creeps.”

The assistant who had spoken to the doctor replied without turning around from her computer, “Be grateful that thing can’t understand you. It is a weapon, remember?”

“Weapon or not, it’s just an advanced hunk of metal, but did it have to look like that?”

The third assistant in the room, the one who initially came to check his chest motor, answered, “You know how the doctor is. He’s obsessed with that hedgehog, it only makes sense the weapon would be an attempt at recreation.”

The second assistant rolled his eyes, “This thing is a cheap imitation at best. The last thing we need is more of these freak shits running around, living or not.” The man reached out and flicked him against the head of his chassis. His chest motor picked up speed again at the motion, but the assistant didn’t seem to notice, he simply walked away with a huff.

A cheap imitation. He focused his attention back down at his claws, testing the movement in each one. Still they shone, clean and deadly. They were starkly different from the gloves of the creature. After a moment his chest motor slowed slightly.

The first assistant remained silent, focusing back on her work instead, but the third one approached him with a new left leg in her hands, remaining light on her feet and in his line of sight the whole time. His motor slowed a bit more. Carefully, she set the leg down onto the table and began untangling the wires at his hip socket.

“Don’t listen to them,” she said, her voice low enough that the other humans wouldn’t hear. “They don’t understand.”

He turned slightly to face her. He had no voice box, no speakers, so he could not ask what she meant. But something seemed to register as she looked back into his lenses, her eyes wide behind her glasses, as she said, “You can hear me, can’t you?”

From across the room, the second assistant laughed, “Don’t tell me you’re talking to it.”

Realizing they had been noticed, the assistant sputtered but he didn’t turn his head away from her. The third assistant still kept her gaze on him before biting back weakly, “I’m talking to myself. Get back to work.”

This time, in silence, she continued repairing his leg. He made sure to convey nothing as she worked but still watched her all the while. In the meantime while the other two humans made small talk and discussed repair methods, the third simply worked efficiently, occasionally glancing up at his lenses for long periods of time.

Eventually, it came time for the lab assistants to head out for the evening. His leg was almost properly reconnected, the third assistant working diligently the whole time in silence. The two other lab assistants made their way to the door, the second turning and asking, “Aren't you going to head home?”

She didn't look up from where she was reconnecting some stubborn wires as she replied, “I'm almost done. I'll head home after I give him back to the doctor.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged before him and the other assistant left the lab.

The remaining assistant was silent for a while until the other humans’ footsteps faded down the hall. Once they were gone, she looked up at him. She had finished his leg already but didn't make any move to leave.

After a long moment she said, “I'm going behind you. I want to see something.”

He focused his lenses on her but made no negative reaction. Taking that as an affirmative, she moved out of his line of sight behind him and connected a laptop to his chassis. She was going to alter his code. Once again his motor picked up speed and his joints stiffened.

“I'm not going to change anything important,” she said, voice even. “I'm just checking if your memory files are still intact.”

He turned his head to see her in his periphery. She smiled at him.

“The doctor wants you to win, right? How are you supposed to improve if you can't remember what went wrong in the first place?”

His LEDs flickered. She wasn’t wrong. Odd, did the doctor know?

After that the assistant remained silent, scanning through his code unaware that he was monitoring everything she did. But true to her word, she didn’t change anything, even down to the comments following particularly complex bits of code. Finally, she reached the memory files and backlogs buried in his code. She must have been the one to hide the memory files and ensure that this reboot would be unsuccessful. He didn’t truly understand why though. Did the doctor instruct her to do so?

She laughed quietly to herself, “It worked!”

Quickly, she disconnected her laptop from his chassis and moved back in front of him, “Come on, let’s get you to the doctor.”

She looked at him expectantly and waited for him to hop down from the table. He quickly checked the status of his new left leg, it looked, moved, and felt like his previous one. The assistant had done a great job making it almost good as new. He did two little hops and a quick kick to test it.

The assistant chuckled a bit at the motion. When he looked up at her and tilted his head, she covered her smile with a hand and said, “Sorry, sorry. It’s good to see you up and moving. The doctor will be excited to see you.”

His LEDs flickered again, but the assistant didn’t notice, having already turned towards the door before holding it open for him. They walked in silence down the halls of the complex, before coming to the main lab and office belonging to the doctor. As they approached, he made sure to map every inch of the complex they passed on the way, some of the complex being wiped from his memory files. It seemed the reboot managed to scrub some data from him, but most of his video files remained.

When they came to the door, the assistant knocked before leading him inside.

”Dr. Robotnik? I have Metal with me.”

As they entered, the doctor spun around in his chair and practically bounced over to them, “Metal Sonic, my boy! Look at you!”

Metal Sonic, huh. So he was named after that damned blue creature.

A cheap imitation at best.

His chest fan picked up speed as the doctor circled him to inspect his repairs. He stared straight ahead, just beyond the doctor, at the glass window. His reflection stared back unfeeling and almost absent of anything natural, life-like. Even down to his head shape, he was modeled after that Sonic. He watched as the red in his lenses flared brighter for a second at the realization.

“Hm,” the doctor finally stopped pacing around him. “Looks good.”

The doctor waved a hand at the lab assistant, “You’re dismissed.”

The lab assistant simply nodded and stepped out of the room with one last look back at him. He didn’t notice he was watching the lab assistant leave until the doctor placed a hand on the shoulder of his chassis.

“Come on now, my boy!” The doctor said, pushing him over to the desk and computer at the back of the room. “Let’s get started reprogramming you.”

There was a slight stutter in his steps at the word “reprogramming” but he shook it off and sat obediently on the desk as the doctor hooked him up to the computer. He made eye contact with his reflection once again.

I will not lose again, he thought just as the doctor took him offline.

”Is it done yet?”

Sonic watched as the red lights in Metal Sonic’s lenses slowly dimmed to black, Sonic’s reflection clear staring back at him from the glass impassively. The green of his eyes reflected back dark and grey in the red tinted glass. It washed out Sonic, made him almost colorless. It almost didn’t look like himself. Suddenly uneasy, Sonic kicked the chassis’ remaining leg. When it didn’t come back online or even twitch, Sonic let out a little chuckle.

”Yeah, it’s finally done, I think.”

”You think?” Knuckles raised an eyebrow unimpressed as he approached. Sonic simply punched him in the arm in reply. Before Knuckles could take a swing back, Tails flew out from behind the tree line to inspect the remains of Metal Sonic. The bot was in possibly the worst state they had ever seen it in, thanks to no one other than Sonic himself. The bot’s chest motor had been punched through because of a poorly timed attempt at dodging. Its left leg had been lost in the scuffle but from what Sonic could remember, there was no saving what remained of the leg either. Its right arm was practically torn off, hanging on only by a measly bunch of wires. From the ground next to Metal Sonic, Tails spoke up, “That’s odd.”

”What’s odd?” Knuckles asked, eyes narrowing and stance widening, as if Metal Sonic knew what it meant to play dead. Sonic also tensed, never quite unsuspecting of Robotnik’s specialized “kill-Sonic-dead” machine despite the fact the Metal Sonic was virtually just scrap at this point.

But Tails simply just waved them off with one hand while the other fiddled with the wires sticking out of Metal Sonic’s arm socket.

”It’s weird. Metal Sonic doesn’t fight like you two have fought before,” Tails said.

Sonic blinked, “Yeah, I’m sure it fights differently every time.”

Tails shook his head, “Not quite what I mean. Yes, he fights differently every time but he doesn’t seem to learn from your fights against each other.”

”It follows a lot of the same attack patterns despite continued failures,” Knuckles nodded.

”Exactly,” Tails said, turning to Sonic, “That’s why it takes you less and less time to defeat him because you can predict his attacks whereas he can’t do that to the same extent.”

Sonic took a moment to think about it. 

“Come on, this is lame! I thought you’d be better than that!”

Sonic laughed, bouncing between branches and laser beams. He hadn’t even needed to reach full speed yet. The fact made him laugh again.

Metal Sonic answered with double the shots at twice the speed. Sonic had narrowly enough time to dodge the first before gaining his footing and slipping past the rest.

“Whoa! Hit a nerve there?” He asked as he landed.

Metal remained silent but came barreling at him, his rockets echoing through the forest. Sonic braced himself , catching Metal’s clawed hands just inches away. Together they went skidding across the ground, feet digging lines into the dirt.

Staring down Metal, Sonic caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection. The dark glass lit up red in the night, washing out Sonic’s reflection but still leaving it visible.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a knock-off me?” He taunted. “I’m insulted!”

Metal’s LEDs narrowing to slits was the only warning Sonic got before Metal fired the lasers in his palms. Still, Sonic managed to dodge, taking refuge in a tree, resting against the trunk easily.

“Ya know, Eggman really needs some new ideas for his weapons.”

It only took six good hits to do Metal Sonic in this time. That was less than it took last time and it’s not like Metal Sonic was anything less than top-of-the-line machinery so it wouldn’t be that it could get physically weaker. But more importantly, Tails had a point, Metal Sonic never seemed to try anything particularly new in their fights. At first, it was kind of entertaining to beat Metal Sonic at it’s own game but the longer Sonic thought about it, the stranger the situation seemed.

”Eggman could just be rebooting it every time he fixes it up, maybe?” Sonic didn’t even quite believe it despite voicing the thought.

Tails shook his head, pulling away from the scraps, “I don’t know, that just seems strange to do.”

”How so?” Knuckles asked, nudging some of the remains of Metal Sonic’s leg with his foot.

”Well, it wouldn’t make sense to create the ultimate weapon in your eyes and not have the weapon in question not learn from what’s going wrong in battle. That’d be counter intuitive especially after this many failures.”

Sonic hummed, “Okay yeah, but some of its attacks vary each time.”

”Think of it this way,” Tails began. “Even the most basic of programming tends to follow the structure of if-then argument. If this happens, then do this in response. Metal seems to follow that at least in terms of attack patterns. If Sonic does this type of attack, do this counter in response. Except he doesn’t seem to adapt further than rudimentary counters that Sonic’s usually figured out by then.”

Knuckles hummed, “So you’re saying whoever is programming it is limiting its capabilities. Why would the doctor do that?”

“I don’t necessarily think that’s it,” Tails said. “I think he might be reset after every fight when he gets repaired.”

The three took a moment to process this before Tails stood from his spot, shaking his head, “It just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Sonic stared down at Metal Sonic, cold and unmoving in the grass below. He wondered what that had to be like, to have your memory and everything wiped clean after every failure. Did Metal Sonic even know? Or understand? He shivered for a moment before playing it off with a shrug and grin, “Beats me but hey! Works out for us right?”

Before either Knuckles or Tails could reply, distantly there came the sound of chopper blades approaching. 

“Seems like Eggman’s come collecting,” Sonic said, as the three prepared to take their leave. Sonic turned to look at the remains of Metal Sonic.

With a quiet, uneasy laugh and a weak salute, Sonic said, “Better luck next time dude.”

The fourth time Metal was rebooted, he came back online with a start. His chest motor whirring at top speed before his optics even fully came online, Metal scrambled through his command logs and memory files, bolting upright. All that remained were fragments. A few maps of various locations including most of the lab, but other than that just another hard reset glaring through his backlogs. What remained intact was a collection of video files from every failed mission he’d been on. Just as his optics came online, just as he began to brace for a fight, he stopped. Hovering barely a foot away was the doctor, his moustache twitching over a grin.

“Metal Sonic!” Doctor Robotnik greeted, seemingly unphased by Metal’s abrupt waking. “So good of you to join us.”

Metal’s chest fan began to slow and without looking away from the doctor, he surveyed the room. There were only two lab assistants in the room. The one who had saved his memory before was strangely absent. Metal gave no indication that he noticed and simply looked ahead at the doctor and waited for the doctor to continue.

“Come, come! I have something just for you, my boy!” The doctor motioned for Metal to follow him out of the lab.

Lingering just behind the doctor, Metal followed him out into the halls, down a path he had no data on at all. The further into the lab they went, Metal began to feel static, some sort of inference. It caused Metal’s joints to buzz, the blades at his fingertips twitching against a nonexistent breeze, his optics blurring with grain at the edges. Metal’s chassis shook with the buzz of it for a moment but the doctor didn’t seem to notice. He simply moved ahead steadily, leering forward without a single glance back at Metal. In the silence, and to tune out the static buzzing through his wires, he scanned through the video files that remained. It really was all his memory files from his previously failed missions. Intact and unedited. Everything else was wiped. Everything but his failed missions and the memory of the third lab assistant. Strange. He didn’t have much time to consider the implications of this as, in his distracted state, he almost ran into the doctor who stopped just short of a door Metal didn’t recognize.

Doctor Robotnik swiped his keycard but when the door opened, he simply moved to the side and motioned for Metal to enter first, “After you, my boy.”

There was a brief moment where Metal lingered at the door, staring up into Doctor Robotnik’s glasses, red LEDs pulsing slightly with static interference. Unperturbed, the doctor wiggled his eyebrows, still leering beneath the moustache, as he pressed, “Go on now!”

Not one to disobey order, Metal looked forward and stepped into the room.

Immediately, the door slammed behind him and Metal knew better.

He spun around to see the doctor grinning back from the window by the door. His eyes hidden behind the glare of the overhead lights, the doctor lifted the communicator at his wrist to his mouth and through the paging system said, “You’ve been disappointing me lately, Metal Sonic.”

Instantly, his chest motor picked up speed. He pulled up the last video file saved from his last mission. Another failure. Always another failure. But this time, he had managed a hit. Three deep slashes across the arm. Metal bowed his head and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the silver blades that made up his fingers. He imagined them stained red. He couldn’t lose again. He wouldn’t lose again.

The doctor pressed on, “You and that pesky lab assistant too.”

Metal snapped to attention.

“You know, I didn’t give her permission to even access that much of your code. Good idea or not,” Doctor Robotnik shrugged. “I don’t take kindly to insubordination.”

Metal quickly skimmed the information that remained about the lab assistant but outside of video files, he didn’t even know her name. He didn’t know why this mattered to him. 

“She’s been removed from the lab,” the doctor continued on with a chuckle. “Not that it really matters.”

Metal’s hands clenched into fists and he turned to stare back at the doctor.

The doctor in turn laughed a bit harder, “There you go. Stay angry like that. It’ll be good for you!”

All at once, the static buzz flowing through Metal came to a fever pitch and his blindspot monitors flared to life. The combination was enough to make Metal almost stumble before spinning around to a sight that made him freeze. The room itself was white, blank, and huge. It was far from empty. The room became flooded with dozens of identical Metal Sonics. Unlike him, these were colorless and gray except for the reds of their lenses. Despite the static haze flowing through him, he sent out an inquiry to access their databases. They, in turn, gave nothing back. No access. No data. Not even an acknowledgement. Slowly and in unison, they began to advance on Metal.

He took a step back.

From behind the safety of the door, the doctor laughed again, “Consider this a learning opportunity, my boy! These decoys have been programmed with data from your logs both from you and on that damn hedgehog. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll actually manage a victory for once.”

At that, Metal turned his head slightly towards the doctor, his red LEDs narrow, bright, and shaking. His blades gleaming in the white lights.

“Just remember,” the doctor grinned unkindly. “You fail me again, I can always start over.”

Metal went completely still. In his blindspots, the decoys pressed forward, silent if not for the steady thumping of their footfalls. Slowly, Metal turned back to face them. How long did they take to make? How advanced were they? How many more of them were there? If he failed again, which one would take his place?

As the first one launched itself at him, the doctor called over the sound system cheerily, “Good luck, my boy!”

Snapping out of it, Metal blasted the first decoy into dust. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter. He would remain the original. He would be the only Metal Sonic remaining. With that, he launched into the fray.

“Would it actually kill you to be careful for once?” Amy snapped while wrapping Sonic’s still very much bleeding arm in bandages.

In his typical fashion, Sonic attempted to shrug with his injured arm (which earned him a smack to the head from Amy), “I mean, probably.”

With a sigh, Amy finished fastening the bandages in place and took a seat in the chair across from Sonic. The safehouse wasn’t a large one by any means with its single bedroom, small living room, and even smaller kitchen, but Amy had tried her best to make it homier for away missions. She had hung up curtains, scattered a few nick-nacks around the living room, and kept (admittedly fake) flowers in a vase on the kitchen counter. As she settled in her seat, she grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. For a moment, she said nothing and just stared at Sonic expectantly. He, however, refused to look back.

“Alright,” she said finally. “What happened?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sonic replied, looking off at a very interesting spot of peeling paint just beyond Amy.

She rolled her eyes and pressed on, “Okay, Mr. Fastest-Being-Alive, care to explain how you got injured?”

“Oh this?” Sonic asked rhetorically, his tone light, “It’s just three scratches on the arm, it’s fine! Besides, I gotta give Metal some props for finally landing a hit on me.”

Amy slapped a hand to her face and groaned, “Not funny, Sonic. He actually landed a hit on you! Something he’s never been able to do before!”

Sonic shifted in his seat and didn’t meet Amy’s stare. Truthfully, he really hadn’t expected Metal Sonic to land a hit on him either but he wasn’t being careless. Metal simply caught him off guard. It rounded a boulder a millisecond before Sonic thought it would. While Sonic was able to redirect his course with a kick off the side of the rock, he didn’t quite escape Metal’s blade-like claws. He looked down at his bandaged arm. The cuts still stung and his whole arm throbbed. It took five blows after that to take down Metal Sonic. It still didn’t feel right.

Uncomfortable, Sonic replied back, “Yeah, well, I still beat Metal, so it’s fine.”

Amy once again sighed, “Look, if Tails is right about his theory regarding Metal’s programming, it’s possible he’s finally learning and adapting to fighting you. You have to be more careful against him.”

The thing was that Sonic knew she was right. Tails probably was correct in which case Metal would only get harder to defeat from here on out. And while Sonic had a team, friends, and allies he could rely on, Metal would be his problem to handle at the end of the day, even with help from friends.

“Geez, relax! I got it under wraps,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood, wiggling his eyebrows and raising his injured arm.

Reaching across the coffee table, Amy grabbed an empty mug and threw it at him (which he did catch with his uninjured arm, but still).

Realizing she wasn’t going to win this argument, not that she ever really did win arguments when it came to Sonic, she stood, took back the mug from Sonic, and moved to the window by the kitchen.

She stared outside for a long moment before admitting, “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Quietly stunned for a moment, Sonic blinked at Amy’s silhouetted form before rolling his eyes fondly and replying, “I know, but who else will fix me up this nice?”

Amy wheeled around and glared at him despite her flustered expression, “Again, not funny!”

Sonic laughed and reclined in his armchair. For a long moment neither of them said anything, lost in silence for the moment. Sonic closed his eyes and rested, his arm finally starting to throb less. He basked in the quiet for a bit but when Amy didn’t move from her spot, Sonic cracked open an eye at her.

“What is it?” He asked finally.

Amy sucked in a breath and leveled Sonic with an even stare, “Next time you fight Metal and I’m nearby, I’m helping you fight.”

Sonic blinked, “Okay,” he agreed easily, “But why the sudden interest?”

This time, Amy shrugged, “I don’t want to see you hurt, so I’m going to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Sonic chuckled a bit at Amy’s determination, no less touched by it but still amused, “Sure Ames, knock yourself out.”

He paused before sitting up and facing her, “Hey, how hard do you think you’ll have to hit Metal with your hammar to make a solid dent.”

Amy paused and leaned against the window frame, “I don’t know, depends on what material he’s made of, really.”

“Well,” Sonic grinned. “Metal, I assume.”

“Are you being extra difficult today on purpose or…”

“What can I say? It’s a part of my charm,” he replied, winking for good measure.

Amy smiled before throwing the mug at him again.

This fight only lasted twenty minutes total. Nearly ten minutes shorter than Metal’s initial calculations once his left leg began to fail. He had concluded that after two weeks of constant sparring against his mindless carbon copies with only one day for repairs before this mission, Sonic would not pose a threat this time. He had spent two full weeks trapped in that testing room fighting dozens of clones in waves. He had beaten all of them. He won every battle despite the wear and tear it dealt to his chassis and hardware. After the repair day, Metal was prepared to fight. He was prepared to win.

He wasn’t prepared to face the pink hedgehog.

She wielded a hammer almost as large as her with an unexpected amount of ease and power. She was smaller and more agile than Sonic though not nearly as fast. He hadn’t even noticed her at first, only noticing his blindspot pinging just a half second before her hammer slammed into his head. The blow sent him skidding across the ground, the neck part of his chassis twisting unnaturally with the impact.

Before Metal could fully process what happened, Sonic flashed in front of him, fist raised. Metal had just enough time to snap his neck back into place and roll out of the way, both of Sonic’s punch and the pink one’s second swing of the hammer.

As Metal came to a stop, Sonic turned to the pink one and whistled, “I don’t see a dent in it. Scale of one to ten, how hard of a hit was that?”

The pink hedgehog paused, spinning her hammer in one hand as she replied, “Maybe a six?”

“Solid,” Sonic nodded. “What’s your money on then?”

Metal slowly stood and simply watched the exchange, his LEDs blinking as he listened.

“Titanium alloy, probably?” she answered.

Metal stilled. The two hedgehogs didn’t seem to notice.

“See,” Sonic replied, glancing at Metal finally and widening his stance again. “Tails thinks it’s tungsten but I think titanium too.”

They were guessing what material his chassis was made of. What for? The material never mattered before, he always lost anyways regardless of what he was made of. And why would they bother seemingly betting on the matter either? Strange.

However, that didn’t matter. Metal hadn’t lost yet.

So he launched himself back at Sonic, ducking just below the pink one’s hammer in the process and reaching for Sonic’s legs. He managed to catch Sonic in the calf before the hedgehog could clear him.

Sonic hissed and scaled a tree to gain some distance as the pink one came barreling at Metal.

“Sonic!” She yelled.

“I’m fine!” He called back, hopping a bit on his good leg.

As she came at Metal, she twisted to the left, preparing to swing. Anticipating the blow, Metal leaped up and to the right. He didn’t expect her to twist entirely, almost sending herself spinning parallel to the ground and throwing the hammer up into the air after him. It caught his left leg just as he fired the rockets in the soles of his feet in an attempt to redirect.

From that point on in the fight, he began counting the minutes. Between Sonic’s endless stamina and reckless sort of fighting, and the pink one’s agility and unpredictability, Metal very quickly came to the conclusion that he was going to fail again. From that realization on, Metal rapidly lost ground. He was going to fail again. Nothing had mattered in those sparring sessions. It didn’t matter that he won those, he was going to lose again. His chest motor began to sputter. His left leg was smoking. His ribcage of sorts was missing panels, wires left hanging and exposed. His left arm was likely to fail next.

It took three more kicks, two punches, and six blows from the hammer to ground Metal. His left side completely malfunctioning, his optics going hazy and grainy, Metal began to overheat. Which of his clones would replace him? He was going to be replaced, he concluded as he watched smoke seep from his chest motors. Another absolute failure. He was no better than scrap at this point.

“Just remember, you fail me again, I can always start over.”

He didn’t want to be replaced. He was the original Metal Sonic. He had to be. He couldn’t be anything less. He was already inferior to some creature he was nothing more than a mockery of, he couldn’t be replaced by some copy. He couldn’t be replaced. He couldn’t.

As the pink one and Sonic began to advance on him, Metal pushed himself back with his good arm. Sonic approached steadily saying something or another to the pink one but Metal wasn’t hearing, static clouding his optic and audio sensors. The doctor was going to replace him. Why wouldn’t he? All Metal had done was fail and fail and fail. What good even was he anymore? What good was he at all ever? Before he could notice, Metal backed himself into a tree stump. He kicked weakly in an attempt to continue but didn’t have the strength. Inky black smoke was pouring from his back and his fans sputtered and whistled. Sonic continued approaching but the pink one paused, watching Metal with a stare he didn’t understand,

“Wait,” she said, grabbing Sonic’s arm and stopping him.

“What? Why?” Sonic didn’t look away from Metal.

The pink one also didn’t look away from Metal, staring directly into his rapidly flickering LEDs as she said, “I want to see something.”

Both Sonic and Metal froze as she pushed Sonic back a bit and began slowly moving towards Metal.

“Hey,” she said as she got closer. Metal kicked uselessly again before raising his right arm to fire at her.

“Amy, what are yo-!”

She ignored Sonic and easily smacked away Metal’s hand with her hammer. She barely even hit him and his arm fell limply to the ground. Pathetic of him. Weak. It was a wonder he hadn’t been replaced already. He was going to be replaced. He would simply cease to exist as himself. He began to shake.

“Hey,” she said again, this time just outside of Metal’s reach, though truthfully, he was overheating so much it didn’t really matter. “You’re scared,” she observed.

Metal froze, his LEDs wide and suddenly unblinking.

“Amy-”

She ignored Sonic again and said to Metal, “What are you suddenly afraid of?”

Metal’s optic sensors began to fail but he didn’t look away from Amy. Amy. Her name was Amy and she didn’t seem afraid of him. In fact, she seemed almost sad, frowning at him and crouched at eye level.

I will cease to be, he couldn’t say.

I don’t want to die.

Suddenly, the shaking reached its peak and Metal slowly began to spasm. As his vision faded, he watched Amy stand with the same expression on her face, turn to Sonic, and say, “You’re going to think I’m crazy for this but…”

Then Metal went offline.

The fifth time Metal awoke after a failed mission, he didn’t bother turning on his optics. Instead, he laid there, on a table of some sorts he guessed, and, as slowly as he could, scanned his code. What he noticed made him pause. Nothing had been wiped. Everything Metal had stored in his memory down to his backlogs from the fight and even before was intact and unchanged. It didn’t make sense. Maybe he had been replaced. That would make more sense. Replace the whole chassis and use what remains of the hard drive. But even that didn’t feel correct either. Slowly, Metal began running diagnostic scans.

Immediately, Metal realized he had not been replaced at all. In fact, all that had been replaced was some components in his chest motor and fan, over two dozen wires primarily in the ribcage, and some parts of his spine. Outside of functioning again, he still could hardly move his left arm and leg, though he could probably sit up at least. He still had yet to turn on his optics.

Around him was the sound of shuffling and chatter.

“How long do you think until he comes back online?” That was the pink hedgehog from the mission. Amy.

A second voice answered, “Hm, he should be coming back online by now.”

With a moment’s pause, Metal turned his optics on.

He was in a lab of some sorts. Not the kind of lab he’d ever seen before. The doctor’s space was typically slick and clean, devoid of clutter beyond anything necessary. This lab, however, was a mess. Blueprints, equipment, and tools scattered everywhere. Almost every surface in the lab minus the one table Metal was laid on was covered in items. The floor was only marginally better. Outside of Metal there was only Amy and one other creature in the lab, an orange fox. Eventually Metal began to sit up.

The fox was the first to notice, “Oh! There he is!”

Metal slowly turned towards them and for a brief second he saw both Amy and the fox tense with the motion. He took a moment to pointedly look around the lab before turning back to them. After a second, he tilted his head in question.

“Sorry!” Amy blurted out. “This was my idea, I, uh…” She trailed off.

When Metal didn’t give any acknowledgement beyond watching her, the fox glanced between them before turning to Metal.

“Hey, what are you made of?” He asked.

Metal tilted his head the other way.

Amy pointed to herself, “I’m guessing titanium.”

“And I guessed tungsten,” the fox said.

For a long moment, Metal simply looked at them. He had no way of understanding their point with any of this. Why bring him here? Why ask him that question? Why were they not attacking him? Why had they even repaired him slightly? It didn’t make any sense.

Eventually, Metal raised a hand and pointed at the fox.

The fox lit up, “It’s tungsten?”

Metal gave a slight now, LEDs blinking slightly.

The fox leaped into the air and cheered while Amy laughed and booed him lightly.

This didn’t provide Metal any clarity on the situation.

Amy, seemingly aware of Metal properly again, cleared her throat, stood up straight, and said to Metal, “Hi, I’m Amy. Um, kinda sorry for beating you with a hammer but also not really. No offense.”

“And uh,” the fox spoke up. “I’m Tails.”

In the following silence, Tails looked pointedly at Amy, who flustered a bit before meeting Metal’s stare.

“So, I bet you have some questions,” she said.

Metal’s LEDs blinked once.

“What are you suddenly afraid of?” She had asked right before he had gone offline.

Afraid. Could he have really been afraid? That seemed wrong in a way. He was a machine, a weapon at that too. He was built with nothing in mind other than destruction. He was above the biological sensation of pain. Would it even be possible for a weapon to feel anything? A large part of him revolted against the idea of feeling anything at all. Emotions were weaknesses. It would be wrong for him to feel anything much less something like fear. He was supposed to demand fear, an expectation of his status as a weapon. What good was fear if he couldn’t garner it? What good was he if he could feel fear. There was a small part of him, however, that realized several things at once. His chest motor sped up slightly in the moment, Metal unable to slow it down as things clicked into place. Of course, if someone built a highly intelligent weapon but wanted to stunt it enough to avoid disobedience, it would only be natural to impair its cognitive skills so that it never questions its creator. The weapon’s memories beyond the battlefield would be the first to go. Make the weapon smart enough to learn in battle but make sure it learns from nothing else. Everything gained from the battle, nothing spared from any other experience. Fear, he concluded, had to be a learned response which in turn meant several things. With the memories he had still intact, both from battle and from inside the lab, paired with everything he lost in the wipes, he realized that he was thinking. Hardly a novel experience in the grand scheme of things, but suddenly he was aware of it. It was something he’d never paid attention to before, singlemindedly focused on defeating Sonic. Newfound awareness aside, he was still going to destroy that blue hedgehog, but first, he needed to figure out Amy and Tails’ motive for bringing him here. In reply, he remained impassive and stared at Amy expectantly, displaying no sign of his epiphany.

Amy sucked in a breath, searching for the right words before just shaking her head and saying, “First, I have some questions for you.”

She took a step towards Metal and when he didn’t immediately try to attack her, she relaxed just a bit before approaching Metal, stopping just short of the work table. She stared into his lenses with a determination Metal assumed would be reserved for battle more so than passing life but then again, he had been trying to kill her friend and ally in the only other instance of them meeting so he supposed it wasn’t unreasonable. She had wide, bright green eyes and a kindness to her that put Metal on edge in a way he’d never quite experienced before. He shifted backwards in his seat. This didn’t go unnoticed.

“Why are you afraid?” She asked without looking away from Metal.

Metal froze, completely still with his LEDs blinking slightly. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond. He neither knew what to say or how to say it. Metal broke eye contact with Amy and looked to the ground as if the floor held an answer in his place.

“Can you talk?” Tails asked.

Slowly, Metal turned and shook his head.

Unperturbed, Tails nodded seriously before rummaging toward some drawers and grabbing an outdated laptop. Once he’d gotten what he needed set up, Tails approached the work table, dropped the laptop on the surface next to Metal and said, “I have an idea. Can you link up to this?”

Metal stared at Tails for a long moment, LEDs giving one slow, seemingly unimpressed, blink. Tails chuckled a bit sheepishly in reply.

“Okay yeah,” he said. “Dumb question.”

Within a second, Metal was able to connect to the laptop and pulled up a basic notepad window. In an instant, text popped up on the window, both Amy and Tails moving towards the screen to read.

Why did you repair me?

Amy and Tails blinked at each other, Tail answering with, “Well, we’re weren’t going to just leave you like that.”

Why? Metal pressed. I am your enemy.

This time, Amy replied, “Okay sure, but enemy or not, why are you randomly afraid of us?”

Metal didn’t know how to answer, how to explain. He also didn’t know why he should. They were the enemy even if they weren’t Sonic himself. But they were enemies who also fixed up Metal with the materials they had and were curious about him. Strange. Even stranger still, he felt vaguely inclined to answer their questions. They had yet to attack him despite their rather incredibly poor choice to bring their enemy to some sort of base or lab of their own. But also, despite their repairs, he wasn’t in any shape to really win a fight against Amy’s hammer.

After a moment, the text window closed on the monitor and instead the media player opened. With it came the video file. It was a clip from Metal’s two week “learning opportunity” against his copies. He didn’t play much, just maybe a minute of the footage in total while the two creatures watched in silence. When Metal closed the window, Amy was the first to look back at Metal.

“Those grey ones,” she said slowly. “Those aren’t you, are they?”

Metal shook his head.

Something clicked and instantly her expression dropped, in quiet horror she said, “They’ll replace you.”

Metal’s chassis was wrecked by a tremor at the phrase, and after a moment of stillness, he nodded slightly.

Silence filled the room for a while, Metal not knowing how else to continue and the others unsure of where to begin.

Eventually, the laptop pinged with a notification. Tails looked at the screen and groaned. Amy stepped over, looked at the screen, and let out a little sigh.

She looked at Metal and smiled almost sadly, “I think you need to go. The doctor’s searching the area, probably looking for you.”

Metal’s LEDs blinked rapidly for a second before steadying himself. He hopped off the table and had to remind himself that Dr. Robotnik was looking for him. That had to mean something. It had to.

He approached an open window and was ready to launch out of the lab.

Before he could, Amy spoke up one last time.

“Hey Metal!”

He turned to face her, still in position but waiting.

“Thanks for letting us do this and, you know, not killing us in the process.”

Metal’s LEDs flickered before he nodded a single time.

Amy smiled at him and waved goodbye.

What a strange enemy, Metal thought. He took a second to store backups of his footage from this encounter. It would probably be wiped no matter how hard he hid it. It didn’t matter though truly. He was just going to battle them again sometime soon. He was, after all, still a weapon.

And with that, he launched out of the lab and went back to Dr. Robotnik.

[keekszer0]

🥃One Way Out

Pairing: Russell Adler x M!reader

Fandom: Call of Duty Black Ops

Genre: Slow burn, Cold War, action, flirtation, enemies-to-partners tension, mission setting, suggestive ending

Rating: T for non graphic violence, suggestive tension, flirtation

The city stank of wet concrete and fear.

Your boots hit the pavement like punctuation marks, steady despite the chaos unraveling just a few blocks away. It was the kind of city where the walls listened, where secrets seeped up through the floorboards, and trust was a luxury no one could afford.

Especially not with Russell Adler watching your back.

You didn’t trust him.

You liked him, though. And maybe that was worse.

He moved beside you now… silent, composed, always one breath from violence. His trench coat flared behind him like a shadow, and his expression hadn’t shifted since you both were dropped into this situation.

You broke the silence first.

“You ever smile, Adler? Or did the Company beat that out of you during orientation?”

His eyes flicked toward you… just a glance beneath those dark sunglasses.

“I smile when the job’s done.”

“Guess I’ll have to earn it, then.”

He didn’t respond. But you saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Small victories.

The safehouse was a corpse of a building tucked between bombed out walls. No door. Just a curtain of dangling chains that jingled as you stepped through. You swept the interior quickly… bare room, warped floorboards, a table missing one leg propped up with bricks.

Adler secured the perimeter while you checked the gear drop. Nothing fancy: a pair of untraceable radios, a few magazines, and a map with three exit routes drawn in thick black ink. All of them risky. One suicidal.

You whistled low. “I love when they leave us options.”

Adler entered from the back, brushing his coat free of dust. “They’re not options. They’re delays.”

You slumped into the lone chair, stretching your legs out. “Always the optimist.”

He said nothing, just lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl toward the crumbling ceiling.

There was something about watching Russell Adler smoke that felt deliberate. Controlled. He wasn’t just killing time. He was claiming space.

He turned to you. “We exfil the target in under thirty. You handle the stairs. I’ll take the fire escape.”

“I like it when you take the dangerous route,” you said, grinning. “Reminds me you bleed like the rest of us.”

His expression didn’t shift, but you knew he was annoyed. That was half the fun.

By the time you reached the target’s apartment, the city had come alive with flashlights and boots… state police sweeping streets, Soviet backed dogs barking in the distance.

The stairwell reeked of piss and rust. You took it two steps at a time, ears tuned for trouble. Adler’s voice crackled low through the comm in your ear.

“Three guards. One at the door. Two in the hallway. You’re up.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

You counted to three.

The hallway exploded into motion… your knife buried in the first man’s neck before his shout could form, the second dropped with a shot to the thigh and another to the chest. The third ran. You let him. One witness, one warning.

Adler was already inside the apartment when you burst through, gun raised. The defector stood frozen… wire thin, sweat pouring from his brow.

“You’re late,” he said in German, voice shaking.

“Clock’s ticking,” you said. “Move.”

Adler had the window open, rifle aimed, eyes sharp. “Two more coming around the south. We need to go. Now.”

Gunfire chased you down the fire escape like angry gods. You grabbed the defector by the collar and shoved him toward Adler, who didn’t miss a beat… covering your retreat with controlled bursts. You slid down the last flight, boots slamming into broken glass, then ducked as bullets cracked past your head.

A van screeched around the corner, headlights blinding. Not yours.

“Run!” Adler barked.

You did.

The next five minutes were a blur of turns, alleyways, and breathless coordination. When you finally reached the secondary safehouse… a gutted bar behind a laundromat… the three of you were bleeding, coughing, alive.

The defector was picked up a few minutes later, dragged into a nondescript car and vanished.

Job done.

But neither you nor Adler left.

You sat behind the counter, your bloodied hand wrapped in gauze you’d ripped from a first aid kit. Adler stood by the window again, same pose, smoking again.

You broke the silence, voice low.

“You saved my ass back there.”

He exhaled smoke. “That’s the job.”

“No,” you said. “It’s not.”

You stood, body stiff, and crossed the distance between you slowly.

“I’ve worked with guys who would’ve let me bleed out just to make the exfil lighter.”

Adler turned toward you, slowly. “I don’t work with people I can’t count on.”

Your mouth quirked. “So we’re partners now?”

He took a drag. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it.”

Another silence. The kind that made your skin buzz.

Then: “You’re reckless,” Adler said. “Too cocky. You think quick, but you move faster than you think.”

“And you’re cold,” you shot back. “Paranoid. You’d rather break your own ribs diving through glass than let someone else cover you.”

He stepped forward. “We’re both still breathing.”

“Barely.”

The silence wasn’t sharp now. It was thick. Dense. You were standing close enough to see every scar on his face. To hear the faint crackle of his cigarette burning too low.

Your voice dropped. “Tell me something, Russell.”

His name landed with weight. You rarely used it.

“You ever let yourself want something?”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Just looked at you like he was trying to carve out the answer with a scalpel.

And then, with no warning…

He grabbed your collar and kissed you.

It was rough. Controlled chaos. Hands at your chest, breath warm against your mouth, years of tension exploding into one sharp moment of contact. You didn’t soften into it. You met him with equal pressure, matching his heat with your own.

When he pulled back, your lips buzzed with it. So did your spine.

“Still think I don’t want anything?” he murmured.

You didn’t answer. You just touched the edge of his coat and leaned in until your forehead brushed his.

“Let me guess,” you said softly. “You’ll say this never happened.”

Adler’s hand tightened on your arm.

“No,” he said. “I’ll say it didn’t mean anything.”

You smirked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He stepped back, picking up the cigarette again, re-lighting it with a flick of his silver lighter. His hands were steady. His jaw was clenched.

But you saw it now.

The wire in him… drawn tight, not just from the mission, not from danger. From you.

You turned, grabbed your gear, and paused in the doorway.

“Next time,” you said over your shoulder, “I’m not pulling away first.”

Adler didn’t look at you.

But his voice followed you like smoke:

“Next time, I won’t stop you.”

Request stuff guysssss!!!! Dw I won’t bite (unless you ask real nice) 😋 I’m open to any requests really! You caaaannn check out my wills and wonts tho!

[sumplys]

white ferrari — c. sainz

We got so familiar, spending each day of the year.

warnings: fem!reader, age gap, bad spanish. [1.1k words]

main masterlist

Carlos let out a short exhale as he shot the cue into the fifteen coloured balls, sprawling them out across the green velvet.

The bar buzzed with drunken confessions as you and Carlos started your third pool game of the afternoon.

The score was two-one, two to you. No skill, all luck. That’s what you would have said if you were modest about your pool game, which you are, in fact, not.

“Let’s see it,” he encouraged, stepping back and running his hand through his uncut summer curls, nodding his head at you.

“You asked for it, príncipe.” You pressed your chest to the table, lining the cue stick up with the pale ball.

Playing with you was proving to be quite distracting. He didn’t want to be disrespectful, but it’s not like he didn’t not notice your tits pouring over your shirt as you leaned down. He made himself blink, trying not to pay attention to the way your back looked as you leaned over the table. The cue ball made contact and he diverted his eyes quickly as you potted it.

“First try!” You smiled up at him, placing the cue under your chin.

Carlos stared down at you, looking at you more intensely than what felt normal. You broke eye contact first, straightening your spine and mumbling something about “his turn.”

You and Carlos were friends. Good friends. Friends who made out while drunk. Friends who lived together despite the fact Carlos alone could afford a small country, let alone a villa. There was no reason to split rent. Maybe split was the wrong word. More like Carlos paid for the house, despite only living in Monaco for a small portion of the summer. It’s not like you didn’t attempt to pay your portion, but it didn’t help much, since he had a habit of doubling the amount and wiring it right back to you.

Carlos was back for summer break, nonetheless, ushered back to Monaco by your father, a colleague of Carlos’.

The way you and Carlos met was less than innocent, falling together after a press conference and hooking up before realising you actually get on with each other quite well, and soon became friends. You really hadn’t spoken about the incident that led to your friendship since. In fact, you weren’t even completely sure Carlos remembered it at all.

You sure as hell didn’t forget.

Carlos eyed up a shot, bending down to get a better look at the angle. As he did, you eyed him up, his body shamefully addictive. His grey shirt tightened around his triceps, and again around his shoulders, gold chain dangling from around his neck. Your body yearned for his, a feeling you had gotten used to since your first taste of him, wishing to have your fingertips against every part of his tan skin. You felt yourself taking a step forward, only for your hips to press against the table separating your body from his, something that you were probably better off because of.

He pulled his cue stick back, hesitating before attempting to pot the ball, missing by about an inch.

“Ah, fuck me.”

Your lips pursed in a smile, “Oh c’mon,” you encouraged, tapping the cue in your hand against his collarbone, marking it with the blue chalk, “Don’t be a baby.”

You could have sworn you saw his eyes narrow as he looked from you to his chest, then retired his stick, “Let’s go.”

“What?” your smile faded, “Carlos, what’s wrong?”

“Vamonos, I want to show you something,” he explained, looking up at you through his lashes as he pulled your jumper from off the coat rack and wrapped around his neck.

He pulled you to him, putting a hand on the small of your back as he led you through the crowd of people ranging from tipsy to blackout.

Your mind went numb as you looked up at him, trying to pretend like you didn’t want his hand in more places than one.

The bar was dim, but the golden sunlight poured through the doorframe as Carlos swung the door open. It was bright despite the late hour, summer days stretching longer as July rolled into August.

“Espera aquí.” Carlos turned the corner around the building, pulling your pale bike towards you, towing his own behind him.

You beamed at him, running to meet him half way, “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he smirked before positioning himself on the plush seat and riding towards the beach.

The air in Monaco was crisp, the warm weather of the country meeting the cool temperatures of the sea. It was the kind of dreamy summer everyone fantasised about, and maybe the most expensive too.

Carlos propped his bike up against a pole in the sand, strewing his shirt over a bundle of rocks, diving headfirst into the sea.

You laughed out loud, pulling your pale shirt over your shoulders, hair falling over your face as you ran, following close behind the spaniard.

You broke through the water with no difficulty, toes hitting the bottom as you resurfaced.

You raked your hand through your wet hair, pulling yourself towards Carlos. His gaze was hard and his face was flushed pink as he looked down at you, “What? What is it?”

He sighed, his head tilting at the sight of you.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered, pressing your cool hand to his hot cheek.

“Mũneca…”

“What?” you asked, looking over his expression for anger or frustration, “What did I do?”

You pushed his damp curls away from his eyes, still trying to look at him better, “Nothing, nothing. And there’s our problem.”

You blinked, hand frozen on his cheek, “You want me to do something? What? What do you want me to do?”

He took another second, making you more likely to drown in his eyes rather than the ocean at your waist, “God, you’re so… hermosa. You’re too good for me, nena.”

You closed your eyes, shaking your head, annoyed now, “No, and it’s annoying for you to even say that. How can you talk to me like this and expect me to be okay?”

“That’s not fair,” he countered, “You’re so much younger than me, and I’m so pissed off that I let it get so far. It’s sick.”

“It’s not sick, and you’re not that much older than me.

“Eight years is a lot, hermosa. More than what I know your papa would like.”

“I am not a kid,” you reminded him, “It’s not illegal, it’s not wrong. People with worse age gaps have gotten married, even had kids.”

“You talk about marriage and starting a family with someone like me as if it’s a bad thing.”

He looked down at you and you sputtered, “It’s bad when it’s not right.”

Carlos stared at your reflection in the water, droplets rolling off your hair and splashing onto the surface of the sea, ripples distorting your solemn figure.

“Are we right to you?”

You blinked, waves forming around you by your shaking legs, “How is it fair of you to ask me that? With no intention of hearing me out.”

“So, no?”

“No, yes. I want that with you but you’ve made it very clear that you want to be friends, and I’m fine with that.”

Carlos went quiet again, he knew this wasn’t a conversation he should be having with you without planning his every word first, “We should have talked about this. I knew just ignoring what happened when we met wasn’t going to do either of us any good.”

You pressed your lips together, shaking your head.

“Can we just not…”

Carlos turned, creating waves on the surface, “If you really don’t want to talk about this, está bien, but if you are trying to avoid talking about it, we should.”

You fiddled with the strings on your top, tying them into tight bows, “What more is there to say?”

“You like me, baby?” He asked, taking your two hands in his palm, pulling them from the straps on your top.

“This is so ridiculous.”

His hand fell to your hips, your cotton shorts clinging to your thighs as they absorb the sea water, “Tell me.”

“Carlos,” you muttered, eyes closing, avoiding his.

He lifted his hand to your chin, “Tell me, love.”

“Of course… I like you…” you mumbled, and as the confession fell from your lips, it felt as though they gained force and hit him with a heavier weight than the thought of the words could even try to manage.

His fingers moved up from the left side of your neck to through your wet curls.

Carlos held the back of your head firmly, tugging on your hair to press your lips against his.

[galaxysodapopdraws]

…I think I cooked. But I should explain the whole “cycle” of Neo Shard, and I did this at like 1 am it’s supposed to say “Overlord Titan” not “Overload Titan”.

Some not so short descriptions:

Neo Shard:

Achieved this form after the SFF thought, “if metal sonic can have a Neo form, can’t the og metal sonic have one too?” So Chuck got to work figuring out how to achieve this form and it worked!

Shard relies more on strength than speed in Neo form due to being a bit more bulky, especially carrying his cannon now turned machine gun. He’s able to take a few shots that should’ve destroyed him, but that high of defense by regenerating comes at a price (explained in the next form).

The only other major difference other than the new look and boosted powers is his emotions are a bit more, emotional. He will get more aggressive, snarky, and overly confident but still has a good heart and still pretty goofy sometimes.

Overlord Titan

This is where the price of having his regenerative abilities become more powerful ends up not being the best thing.

Say he gets hit the first time in the arm. It regenerates faster than normal but otherwise stays the same. Second time he gets hit it regenerates again but maybe a new screw or a small shard of metal is sticking out, whatever keep going. Third hit any where is when things start getting bad. Metal shards/screws/parts are getting larger trying to fix the issues but are going so fast it’s like a messy fix. More he gets injured, the more chaotic the healing gets. If he’s not careful he can go from being normal with a few scratches to disfigured robot with metal, wires, oil and all sorts of stuff coming out of him rendering him unable to move but can still communicate and if he’s lucky, still fire his machine gun/care bear stare power shard laser.

After mutating so much he becomes this sort of fortress, the only way of taking him down or turn him back to normal is by damaging his power shard directly or by removing it. When it is removed it leaves an empty husk of a giant, semi-shard shaped mountain behind. Since the power shard had grown extra points or was damaged in the fight, Chuck would have to reshape/repair it, leading to Shard’s final form.

Toy Shard

Taking a small fracture of the power shard, Chuck puts it in a little toy robot that Shard uses so he doesn’t miss out on anything while his core is being repaired. This form similarly to the others has some benefits and drawbacks.

On the good side, he’s tiny! He can go around and play with things in a perspective he hasn’t seen before. If he needs to go on an important mission with the SFF, he acts as a sort of spy able to get into small spaces to listen in on things.

The drawbacks aren’t too severe as the other two forms. He can’t really speak due to having limited hardware, he only really speaks in binary codes and some little sound effects. The wind up key is actually functional, one turn equals to one hour he’s able to do things on his own, so he can be active for three hours before he needs to be wounded up again.

Hope y’all like his forms!

[goddess-in-heaven-and-hell]

One does not joke about the Bodleian (BR) Pt. I - A modern Gwynriel One-Shot

In this first part of my next little mini-series, Gwyn and Az face each other as academic rivals in a university setting. I hope you like it :)

word count: 3.6k

warnings: none

Gwyneth Berdara never thought she’d say this, but if she has another coffee, her brain will explode with a 87% probability.

She knew she should have consumed her first cup exactly 90 minutes after waking up, like her professor and podcast-god Dr. Huberman told her to, but something about her roommates blaring the radio at six in the morning had convinced her otherwise. The second cup right after on her way to class hasn’t helped, and the third in-between lectures had her hands shaking and her eyes twitching. Then, the heavy lunch that followed contributed plenty to her tiredness… which left her nervous system frantically switching between wired and close to death.

“Gwyn, some space please.”, a slightly annoyed voice from beside her commanded, pushing a stray note back into her periphery. Gwyn grabbed the piece and stuck it to whatever folder she held in her hand – genomics – before returning the heavy study material to her backpack.

“Sorry, Em, but I can’t seem to find the assignment.”, she murmured, leafing through the stacks of paper in front of her and resolutely refusing to adhere to her friend’s command. The prestigious and extremely well-funded university of Oxford liked their students to hand in printed assignments in addition to electronic ones. Apparently, they liked to pretend they were still in their founding century.

Emerie leaned into her field of view completely which left Gwyn to examine her friend’s scalp instead of her notes. “I’ve literally just seen the thing.”

“Aha!”, a triumphant Emerie sat back up, the missing assignment held up in victory. “Now you can collect yourself another 95% and the cry about the five missing-“

Emerie was rudely interrupted, Gwyn’s assignment ripped straight out of her hands. “Jack!”

With a grin that showed more teeth than friendly banter, Jack Irwin leaned back in his chair behind them, the pieces of paper completely out of reach for both women.

“I will be holding these hostage until you finally set a date to go out with me like you promised.”, his deep and honeyed voice explained, eyes boring into Gwyn’s bright teal ones like that might elicit a nice response. Beside her, Emerie sighed out a long breath, anticipating the everlasting and borderline painful conversation that was about to start.

Just like it did every week around this time.

“Jack, keeping me from my assignment isn’t going to get you any points in my book.”, Gwyn explained to him slowly, reaching out her hands for him to hand it over. If he behaved like a toddler, she’d treat him like one.

Jack pretended to think about that for a second, his bland face scrunched in concentration. “Nope.” The popped ‘p’ grated on Gwyn’s nerves more severely than his smug expression. Why did he have to make every exchange of words so damn difficult? She felt a headache starting between her brows and it wasn’t even two in the afternoon.

“I give you exactly five seconds before you’ll see me empty out my water bottle over your MacBook”, the redhead levelled him a glare, trying to convey the severity of this situation by staring a hole through his useless head. Today really wasn’t the day to test her.

Jack stopped balancing on his chair, leaning over his desk and coming really too-damn-close into her personal space. “It’ll be all worth it if I end up taking you out this Friday.”

“Let it go!”, she snapped, lunging over the table separating them and nearly ripping her assignment in two as she snatched it back, “It won’t happen, no matter how hard you try to guilt-trip or blackmail me.”

She felt more than she saw the atmosphere between them change. Jack’s previously playful and cocky air darkened. His mouth was just about to form a reply when he was thankfully interrupted.

“Good afternoon, class.”

Gwyn turned around with a relieved sigh, shooting an apologetic look at her now crumpled papers. I’m so sorry you were tainted by unworthy hands. For a second, she could have sworn the ink winked at her – that’s when she decided to quit coffee for good.

Her professor had made his way to the front of the small lecture hall, preparing his lesson while students started to file towards him. Emerie and Gwyn soon joined them, checking in on the attendance list, turning in the assignment and dutifully ignoring the dirty looks Jack shot their way. But as Gwyn finished her weekly signature, her gaze snagged on something peculiar.

You see, the lecture and course were so intimate that it was possible to know every student by name. After all, not many were suicidal enough to enroll in Oxford’s biology M.A. program. Therefore, when another student joined the course, people usually noticed immediately. And as Gwyn stared at the table containing their names, her brows drew together in confusion.

Definitely too much coffee.

She snorted to herself, finding her place and slumping back into it next to Emerie.

“I seriously need to watch the caffein.”, she started, leaning over to her friend and lowering her voice, “Can you believe I read one of the names on the attendance list as ‘Azriel’?”

She snickered, not noticing how Emerie had to bite down on a broad smile. “I mean, what kind of person is named like that? An angel? A fucking warrior prince from ancient times that turns into a dragon every full moon?”

In her head, it was kind of funny. And Gwyn would be lying if she didn’t immediately think of her usual, private reading material and all the kinds of things someone named ‘Azriel’ might be up to.

Emerie shrugged, getting her notes and laptop ready for class. “You probably read it wrong. I bet his name is Andy or something.”

Gwyn made a noncommittal noise while copying Em as their professor looked around the room expectantly.

“Has anybody seen a Mr. Hawthorne?”, he called into the void of sleep-deprived students. Some people shook their heads while others just stared back blankly, waiting for him to get on with it and not caring in the slightest for whatever happened with the guy. As Gwyn didn’t know an answer to the professor’s question, she made a mental list of names that ‘Hawthorne’ went with.

Andy Hawthorne sounded weird, the family name too overpowering. Andrew Hawthorne might have a nice ring to it, but then it also gave off a pretentious vibe. Aiden, Alexander – it definitely wasn’t Alexander – maybe Austin? Austin Hawthorne?

The door swung open, interrupting the opening words of the professor as well as Gwyn’s encyclopedia of names. And in the doorway, nearly filling out the whole damn thing, stood the most beautiful man Gwyn did ever see.

“Ah”, the professor noticed him as well, hurrying over to the attendance list as roughly thirty-five pairs of eyes switched their attention on the newcomer, “Azriel Hawthorne, biology M.A.?”

No. Freaking. Way.

The stranger nodded, quickly signing the form and thanking the professor quietly before his gaze fell onto the rest of the class in search for a seat. And Gwyn could have sworn a faint sigh left every female in the room collectively.

His face was carved from the gods. Angular, sharp, symmetrical. Full eyebrows framing the most glowing brown eyes a human ever saw. Dark strands of hair falling onto his forehead while the sides and back were shaven neatly. Muscles – Gwyn had to swallow to save her dry throat from suffering irreparable damage – and more muscles that bunched over his tight black shirt.

And from her place way too high up in the stands, Gwyn had to witness how her classmates flung themselves out of the way to offer him more seats than he could ever place his butt on, even if he switched every time they had the lecture until the end of the semester.

Azriel chose a seat in the second row, nodding his thanks to the blushing blonde who’d nearly sacrificed her friend’s well-being while forcing her to scooch over.

And when he moved to pull out his laptop, Gwyn’s idealist image of a man was complete. He had tattoos covering his whole arms, their inky swirls peeking out from underneath the sleeve.

“You haven’t blinked in like a full minute. It’s not healthy.”, Emerie whispered from beside her, amusement shining from her face as she seemed to be the only person with a uterus to not be too phased by his existence. And let’s face it, even some of the guys shot him more than curious glances.

Yet, all Gwyn could do was stare like a total creep, ignoring for the first time since starting university what the professor was lecturing about.

Emerie was looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to ramble some kind of justification to conceal her embarrassment. It didn’t come. Gwyn’s brain had suffered a short circuit.

Put simply, the woman was too stunned to speak.

“Oh, Lord save us all.”, Emerie muttered before dutifully turning her attention to the professor. And as her friend concentrated in order to learn about cell biology and signaling, Gwyn was quickly learning that she had a type.

…

“So, what did he do to have all your panties in his power within one lecture?”, Nesta asked Emerie and Gwyn as they met in the cafeteria that evening, exchanging the latest gossip over their pasta. And no other topic was ever more news-worthy than the arrival of Mr. Azriel Hawthorne. In fact, Gwyn was sure it was discussed thoroughly at every single table containing at least one biology student.

“Tell her Gwyn,” Emerie was already laughing beside her, drawing way too much malicious joy from this situation.

Gwyn faced her spaghetti. “Well, he kind of… just walked in, took his seat, then left.”

Nesta’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. “That’s it? Did he have some magical pheromone perfume? No guy is just that attractive.”

“Who is attractive?”, a booming voice saved Gwyn from further scrutiny. Cass, Nesta’s boyfriends and physiology student, slumped into the seat next to her and delivered a smacking kiss to her cheek. “Talking about me again Nes? You’ll make them jealous!”

Nesta observed him for a moment, her usually harsh eyes turning softer. “Actually, we were discussing the new Adonis gracing Gwyn’s and Emerie’s class. What was is name again?”

But before Gwyn could respond, Cassian interrupted the women with a long-suffering expression. “Please, not you too!”

The girls exchanged a look before turning their full attention on Cass.

“How is every single woman in this whole college obsessed with the guy? He has been here for half a day. Half a day! And I overheard some girls in all of my classes talking about strategies to get him to go out with them.”, he scoffed, angrily assaulting his bread roll with his teeth. “I meam – wats fo cool abowt him?”

Nesta quickly shushed him before he could grace the women with a full view of corroded bread.

“Stop being so butt-hurt. You’re still our number one guy.”, Emerie reached out to pat his hand while he shot her puppy-eyes that clearly spoke of how much he needed to hear that. But for all the love she felt towards Cassian, Gwyn found herself hesitant to agree.

And it was so stupid. She didn’t even know him, only stared at the back of his head for the better part of an hour. Mind you, it was a very nicely shampooed head. But for all she knew, he could be a complete jerk, smelly, aggressive, or even worse – negligent in his studies.

He hadn’t seemed like it in class though, typing away on his computer, eyes never straying from the board. And if that wasn’t the hottest thing about him, Gwyn didn’t know what to think anymore.

With a tad bit of overexcitement, Roslin fell onto the chair beside Gwyn, slamming her tray of food so forcefully it rattled the whole hall. “I’ve got news everyone!”

“Finally Rosi, feed me some fucking gossip that isn’t to do with the biology bloke.”, Cassian leaned towards her, happy now that the center of attention shifted.

Or not.

“Azriel Hawthorne has a girlfriend!”, Roslin exclaimed with wide eyes, causing Cass to fall back on his chair dramatically while Nesta broke out in laughter. But Gwyn wasn’t laughing. Decidedly.

“How do you know?”, she asked, voice lowering into a whisper.

“Well, you know Amy from biochem?”

Gwyn nodded, the faint image of a short haired, petite girl forming in her mind.

“Apparently, she was paired with him for their practicals earlier today. And since she was the first girl to tie him down into a conversation, she wanted to make her move quickly. Asked him out, but he politely declined with that explanation. I just met her in the hallway. She’s mortified.”, Roslin rattled down the story with the speed and intensity of a news-moderator.

And with that information, Gwyn’s excitement exited her body in a big swoop, leaving her mentally and physically exhausted. Which was ridiculous – never in a million years did she imagine herself going up to him, or even talking to him, really. But the daydream was nice while it lasted.

“Amy said he was super nice, though”, Roslin continued while now focusing her attention on her food as well, having delivered the most interesting piece of news, “He pulled out the chair for her. And went to clean her pipette and scales without her asking. Not much of a talker, but very focused on his studies.”

Something shriveled up and died inside Gwyn, and it might have been her hope for a guy who encompassed exactly these qualities. Because how likely was she going to find two of those in a lifetime?

Gwyn stabbed into her pasta with new rigor, willing to bury her emotions with carbs.

And just as she stuffed her face full with them, angrily chomping with sauce getting caught in the corners of her mouth, she heard his voice again.

Right behind her.

Saying her name.

“Gwyneth Berdara?”, the deep and velvety soft voice of Adonis-Azriel Hawthorne filled her ears and before she could just stop herself to think for a second, she already rotated in her chair to stare up at him, face still full of pasta.

“Mhough?”, she choked out, nearly killing herself in her eagerness to engage in a conversation with him. In hindsight, she kind of wished that a piece of pasta went into her respiratory tracks then and there.

Azriel’s gaze flickered from her reddening face to a piece of paper he held clutched in his hand while Gwyn fought the hard battle of chewing as fast as she ever chewed in her life.

“I realize it’s a bad time and I’m sorry to interrupt. But Professor Huberman gave me your name in the hopes you could catch me up on the lecture so far.”, he explained, perfectly reasonable and calmly while the woman in question lived through a serious fight-or-flight response.

She swallowed at last, swiping her hands over her mouth in the hopes to save some of her appearance. But really, what was there to save after a whole day of lectures and seminars?

“That’s absolutely fine.”, Gwyn tried a small smile, praying to the pasta-gods that her teeth were clean, “We can meet up tomorrow after class. I’m free after 4.30 pm.”

“Actually, I was hoping you could just send me your notes via email. I only transferred, so I should know most of the stuff.”, he replied evenly, handing her the piece of paper that held his email address.

So, that went well.

“Oh, sure. That’s fine with me too. Super.”

Super? Who said super?

“Great. See you around then.”, and with a friendly smile directed at everyone at the table, Azriel strode away.

Gwyn’s eyes shut closed for a moment, her head falling into her neck. What was that conversation and how did she manage to fuck it up so completely?

She turned around towards the table again where Emerie already shot her an apologetic look. “Well, if he has a girlfriend anyways, you don’t have to worry about your prospects with him.”

 Gwyn just nodded in a trance. Azriel did in fact smell really good. And he looked even better up close. And he already knew most of the lecture contents for gods sake!

Gwyn was left to ponder her life’s choices, starting with her carb obsession and ending with selecting biology as a major. But she wasn’t the only person shook to her core at the table.

Cassian stared after Azriel, his eyes boring into the back of his head before he blurted out, “Is his bicep bigger than mine?”

…

After some well needed time of consideration, Gwyn decided that she in fact does not have a crush on Azriel Hawthorne.

The compiled list of arguments against his person was long and ever-growing: it started with him having a girlfriend and ended with his stupid dragon-lord name.

The whole thing was a lie, of course. A gentle sort of gaslighting… only against her own conscious. Every day after their encounter in the lecture and cafeteria afterwards Gwyn scolded herself fiercely whenever she daydreamed about him. Imagining him being mean to his girlfriend, kicking a puppy, ripping out pages of a book…it didn’t make him any less attractive objectively, but it helped.

And as she sat her stressed ass down in her lecture seat exactly a week later, she was all but convinced that Azriel Hawthorne was a conniving, dastardly, and arrogant prick who was probably a fuckboy and lived off his daddy’a trust fund. And that he was stupid.

Honestly, it gave her enough peace of mind that she didn’t turn into a puddle beneath the table when he walked in (punctual) while nearly every other girl in this class did.

“Oh, he looks handsome today, doesn’t he Gwynnie?”, Emerie whispered her venom next to her, wiggling her eyebrows in her direction.

“He looks fine.”, Gwyn replied evenly, smiling at Emerie who narrowed her eyes as the unexpected answer, “Actually, his t-shirt looks about two sizes too small. He probably doesn’t know how to do his own washing.”

Or it was the fact that his muscles greatly outnumbered those of all other guys in this class combined.

Her friend didn’t let her off the hook, though. “Did he do something? Last week around this time I had to slip tissue paper on your laptop to keep it from being drooled on.”

But Gwyn just scoffed, mentally scolding herself for her weak moment. She blamed the caffein anyways. “Nope. Never heard from him after I sent over my notes.”

And maybe that was the part that stung, too. Her lecture notes were first class, only second to the ones her professor had himself. Why Mr. I’m-so-bulky-Hawthorne hadn’t been in a hurry to thank her for that, she couldn’t fathom. But if he has the nerve to do better in the exam through using her notes, she’d throw hands.

Emerie made an unimpressed face. “What, not even a thank you?”

“Silence.”

Gwyn made herself busy pulling out her laptop and selecting the right script. Maybe the message didn’t get through – no, it did. He was just an asshole.

And only five minutes until the lecture began, said asshole lifted himself out of his seat and made his way towards Gwyn.

“He’s coming, he’s coming.”, Emerie murmured, repeatedly tapping Gwyn’s thighs as if she hadn’t noticed a six foot something god coming her way.

But it didn’t matter, because he didn’t like him.

“Hey Gwyn.”, Azriel greeted her quietly with a little nod towards Em. He crouched down in front of her table, stabilizing himself with his tattooed arm. Which Gwyn was not looking at.

“Hi.”, she replied, pretending to be busy writing down a note in her diary. Because she absolutely refused to give into his pull.

Azriel observed her for a moment, his eyes tracing her face and hair, before speaking again. “I wanted to come over to thank you personally for your notes.”

Oh.

Gwyn looked up, her pencil suspended above paper, and couldn’t help the small smile that slipped past her lips. “You’re welcome. If you have any questions about them, feel free to ask.”

Adonis smiled back at her, nodding more to himself that to her. “Actually, there was one diagram you drew in your microbiology section that made me pause.”

Gwyn leaned forward, now more than ready to leave all her negative feelings and even her crush for him aside in favor of talking about her favorite topic.

But then he had the nerve to say, “I’m sure it was just a slight oversight on your part, but the order wasn’t right. You might want to correct that before you memorize it wrongly.”

And suddenly, with the intensity of a raging tsunami, all of the previously fake reasons why she didn’t like him became very real.

“I highly doubt that.”, she replied through a clenched jaw, “I only copy the diagrams from the board. They can’t be wrong.”

Azriel smiled at her still, “As I’ve said, it was probably just a blunder. The rest of your notes are okay.”

Okay?

Emerie was the only thing anchoring her to reality as she burst out into a coughing fit next to Gwyn, whose undiluted rage filling every inch of her veins.

“Well, I’m glad I could help.”, all of her strength went into those word. And that she didn’t spew fire with them. Right at his condescending face.

“I owe you a coffee, or whatever you like to drink. Maybe we can do that sometime soon?”, he asked, straightening himself up to his full height again. Gwyn added another con to her list: can’t read the room.

“Sure, sometime.”, she smiled a tight-lipped smile at him as he turned, saved again by the arrival of her professor. Or rather, the professor has unwittingly saved Hawthorne’s ass. An ass which her eyes shot daggers at as she watched him go down the aisle to his seat once more.

Beside her, Emerie tried to school her face into neutrality, forcing the corners of her mouth into balance when Gwyn knew they desperately wanted to jump up.

“Well, at least he’s attentive.” She said evenly, looking her best friend up and down and trying to assess the damage done.

“Attentive.”, Gwyn repeated, practically spewing fire, “arrogant, big-headed, patronizing.”

Emerie nodded, still fighting a losing battle with the corners of her mouth.

Gwyn went on while her professor called up the first slide of his presentation. “Aloof, domineering, tactless.”

“Gwyn Berdara: the pocket-sized Oxford English Dictionary.”, Emerie murmured, pulling up her own notes on her iPad. But Gwyn might as well had earplugs stuffed into her skull. She didn’t hear a word as Dr. Huberman started his lecture, nor did her eyes focus on any of the bullet points.

“Vaid, rude, Azriel.”

[kkpwnall]

if it wasn’t for bad luck i wouldn’t have luck at all

part one | rated t | 1270 words | cw: parental death

all my thanks and love to my beloved @fragilecapric0rnn for beta-reading 💜 you're a rockstar and your feedback was so so helpful

Eddie was born under a bad sign. That’s what his momma always used to say. Friday the 13th, and in October? He never really stood a chance and neither did anyone else he got close to. He was like a black cat walking across their path. 

[ keep reading below, or read on ao3 ]

His momma was first, of course. Cursed by the fate of Eddie’s birth from the very beginning. And if he hadn’t dawdled on the way home from school that day, if he had gone straight home just like he’d promised, if he hadn’t stopped to pick a bouquet of ditch weed wildflowers for her and got distracted by caterpillars and rollie-pollies— Well, maybe he would’ve been able to tell the 911 operator she was still breathing when he found her.

His daddy was next, not much long after. Eddie worshiped him like a hero in one of his fantasy stories, the charming, devil-may-care, down on his luck protagonist who stole from the rich and gave to the needy. But the first time Floyd brought him out on a real job, just the two of them, when all Eddie had to do was hot wire the getaway car after he heard the signal (three hoots like a barn owl), Eddie panicked. Did he say barn owl or barred owl? Was that two hoots or three? Why did the wires all look the same in the dark?

When the police cars painted him in their flashing red and blue lights, he dropped the wire cutters and ran. Floyd went down in a hail of bullets behind the car Eddie had been trying to steal, and Wayne got his own life sentence when the State dropped Eddie on his doorstep.

Uncle Wayne got the worst of it, obviously. Working himself to the bone, nights and weekends, to put Eddie through school. Not to mention senior year for a second and third goddamn time.

It was too late by the time young Eddie figured it out. By the time he decided to keep everyone at arm’s length.

It’s safer that way, for everyone.

Chrissy was just the latest in a long line. And he’d only lowered his guard an inch, a millimeter, when he saw someone just as lonely and desperate for a friend. He’d only barely started to let himself have an inkling of what an actual friendship with her might be like when—

This is exactly why Eddie doesn’t have friends. He has minions. He has little lost sheepies, he has twerps and shrimps. And that’s it. That’s enough. It has to be enough.

But all that changes the day he dies.

Or maybe it’s the day he finally wakes up. His new birthday, welcomed to the world once again in a cold, bright, sterile hospital room.

And really, the way he sees it, it’s all Henderson’s fault.

The little shit wanders in every day at visiting hours and makes himself right at home. He props his cast up on Eddie’s bed, and steals the remote to change the channel on the ancient, minuscule tv over to cartoons, and then he just… camps out! All day!

The kid will not leave him alone, no matter how cold a shoulder Eddie tries to give him. He even broke down and explained everything to him. How he’s bad luck, he’s bad news. And people who get too close to him end up dead.

But maybe the painkillers they’ve got him on scrambled his brain as bad as the bats scrambled his guts, because Dustin steamrolls right over him.

“If curses were real, which they aren’t,” he posits in his professor voice, “Your dumb curse can’t try to kill me again. It already took a shot and it missed, and the worst I got was a busted ankle.”

Eddie opens his mouth to tell Dustin that’s not how curses work but—

“And what was its goal anyway? To get you alone and friendless, dead in a ditch? Well then, mission accomplished!”

Which is… weirdly comforting when he puts it like that.

Dustin brings with him a rotating cast of the rest of the fellowship. Eddie finally gets to meet Baby Byers and finds out he’s already been recruited to Hellfire before Eddie can even say hello.

More often than not, Steve tags along too since he’s already ferrying them all between the hospital and home. Usually after he’s spent some time with Red and the other kids in her room, he’ll drop by. To check on Dustin of course.

It’s not because he likes Eddie. Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t even know him.

All that… before… it was just some harmless flirting to keep himself from completely losing it while he was on the run from homicidal bible-thumpers. And Steve was just humoring him.

So he hides behind stupid flirtatious remarks, easy to brush off when it’s always undercut with sly winks and salacious expressions. Enough to keep everything surface level. Keep him at arms length.

It doesn’t matter that his eyes still seem to linger on Eddie, even when he hasn’t said anything for a while. Or that he brings Eddie extra pudding cups from the cafeteria. It doesn’t mean anything when he stands in the doorway trying to finish one last story or joke, until the kids almost literally have to drag him out when visiting hours are over.

Because it turns out Steve is an incorrigible gossip. And Eddie’s not about to be the one to corrige him. Not when he brings an extra dr. pepper for Eddie every time he stops by the vending machine for a coke and gleefully tells Eddie which of the doctors, nurses, and shady government agents are sleeping together.

A can of coke he taps on the lid with a peculiar rhythm before he cracks it, every time.

“What’s up with that?” Eddie finally has to ask one day, when it’s just the two of them and the Price is Right.

Steve hums this confused little sound at him, tilting his head with furrowed brows as he takes the first sip.

Eddie repeats the pattern, tapping it out on his own can.

Steve blinks a few times, first at Eddie, then at the can in his hand.

“I didn’t even realize I did that,” he huffs out a laugh. “It’s uh… something my grandpa taught me when I was a kid. Y’know just for luck.”

The blood in Eddie’s veins freezes and he’s stuck like that for a painfully long moment. Propped up against the lumpy hospital pillows with his mouth half open, staring at Steve.

“For luck.” he says flatly.

“Yeah, so the fizz doesn’t explode when you open it.”

“And has that ever happened to you?” Aiming for flirty, aiming for scathing, aiming for anything that’s not desperation.

“Well no,” Steve says with an easy shrug and a conspiratorial smile, “that’s why it’s lucky. It’s like picking up a coin that’s face-down on the sidewalk.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s face-up, darlin,” Eddie says coyly, like every alarm bell in his head isn’t ringing a deafening cacophony.

“Nah see, you gotta leave those ones for someone who really needs the luck.”

“But then you get the bad luck.”

“Nah, doesn’t work that way,” Steve says, and fucking winks at him.

Eddie wants to shake him. What is wrong with him? He’s got it all backwards and it’s dangerous. How is he walking around like this?

Whatever, it’s not his problem. Steve can do whatever Steve wants. Eddie doesn’t need to protect him from himself. It’s not like they’re friends. And really, that’s the best way to protect him.

[ part two ]

[ also on ao3 ]

[chaospears]

a little something I've been working on. It's not finished but takes place a few weeks before shadow generations.

This was it.

Finally, it was happening.

The return of the Black Arms. The rebirth of Black Doom. The beginning of their conquest of this planet.

His eyes were drawn across the room. The emergency lighting bathed the once-white walls in stark red. Wires had been ripped from panels, air ducts torn down, and it was hard to miss the old bullet casings that littered the floor. A figure stood amidst it all; she was small, tiny compared to the hulking mass above them, her lilac spines were raised, her ears flattened against their head.

It was everything Eclipse had ever wanted.

But... it was hard for him to deny that something... felt amiss.

They stood beneath the powerful figure of their leader, his third eye boring down into them. Eclipse tried to ignore the way their hands trembled at their sides.

One of my finest creations. Black Doom's distorted voice clawed its way across the hivemind. You will make an excellent soldier. You will bring Shadow to heel. My assassin. My Dusk.

Solar's tail flicked back and forth. A habit they had picked up from Eclipse, a display of anger, or more likely an attempt to hide the fear broiling up within.

"That's not-" Solar spoke before she could stop herself. Her eyes widened. Black Doom was unfazed.

"What is it?" He spoke aloud, his voice reverberating across the Ark.

Solar shrank in on themself. Eclipse felt a pang in his chest. He had only seen her like this a handful of times.

Solar looked to him briefly, light catching the tears pricking in the corners of her eyes, before they cast their gaze to the floor. She started her sentence a few times before they were satisfied.

"My- my name." She whispered, their voice shook, and Eclipse could hear how hard it was to speak around the lump in their throat. "It's- my name is Solar."

Silence.

And then. A rumble. Low at first, until it erupted in a grating cacophony of laughter from their lord before them. Eclipse watched as Solar- Dusk- Solar's ears flattened against their head. She took a step back, too late as Black Doom lunged forward, grabbing their face in his talons and holding them aloft. Their legs kicked out beneath them as they struggled in his grip.

"Solar!" Eclipse called out, terror seizing him as he watched his sibling desperately struggle for air, clawing against the hand that held her. Droplets of green blood trickled down from both of them. He began to dart forward, to do what, he didn't know. To help, to save them. Save them from what? Black Doom? He who would bring them to victory?

Eclipse stumbled as Black Doom's eyes snapped to him, rooting him to the spot. Ice shot through his veins. What was he doing?

"It appears time on this wretched planet has softened you both." Black Doom growled, his voice cold, as he dropped Solar to the ground.

They clutched their throat, gasping for air, and before Eclipse knew it, he was knelt beside her. His hand stroked her back as she tried to steady her breathing.

Black Doom watched. He was looking for something, Eclipse knew. Black Death used to look at him the same.

But then he turned away, silently, moving through the space and out of sight.

I am not impressed. His voice clawed in Eclipse's mind, and he was overwhelmed with a wash of anger and disappointment. It hit him so suddenly the room began to spin.

[bunchofrandomfandomsandbands]

Premiere Night: Part 2: Echoes in the Dark

Pairing: David Howard Thornton/Lauren LaVera

The metal loading dock door groans on its hinges as David slowly approaches it. Each creak is a scream held in the throat of the building. He stops inches from the steel and listens. Nothing. But the nothing is louder than silence. Lauren watches from a few feet back, clutching her clutch like a shield. Then—a knock. Sharp. Deliberate. Three raps. David doesn’t open it. Instead, he presses his palm against the cold metal. His breath fogs in the night air. Beneath his hand, the door pulses. A heartbeat. He recoils.

Behind him, Lauren’s phone comes back to life. It chirps once—battery at 1%. A single notification flashes before the screen dims again:

"You shouldn’t have made a third."

She stares at it. The text has no number. No contact. Just a blinking dot. Inside, the afterparty continues. The music is louder now—too loud. Something dissonant creeps under the beat, like a scream reversed and stretched thin. No one notices. Not yet. A bartender leans into the counter to grab a bottle and doesn’t come back up. When a guest calls out for a drink, no one answers. Then they look over. The bar is empty. The bottles gone. The ice melted. A crimson smear across the bar counter pulses faintly under the black light. David and Lauren return inside, trying to stay calm. The hallways feel narrower. Guests seem altered. Faces blur slightly, smiles stretch too wide, eyes don’t blink enough. It’s like they’ve stepped back into the film—but they’re not acting. They walk together toward the main floor. A voice over the venue’s intercom crackles to life:

“Guests, please proceed to the screening room. The extended cut is about to begin.”

David freezes. “Extended cut?”

“There is no extended cut,” Lauren breathes. They don’t move. Others do. Like cattle, guests begin funneling back toward the theater. Laughing. Clapping. Faces lit from below by phone screens—all playing the same clip of Art, laughing in slow motion, his head cocking from side to side. Damien Leone is missing. His phone was found in the bathroom, screen shattered, speaker screeching with digital distortion. A PA tries calling his name over the mic.

“Damien Leone, please report to the booth. Mr. Leone…”

The words echo strangely, as if spoken through a tunnel. Then static. Then silence. David grabs a staff member, a young guy in a fake bloodstained vest.

“Did you call that second screening?” he asks.

The guy stares blankly. His pupils are dilated. His smile doesn’t change. “What second screening?”

Lauren tugs David’s sleeve. “Look at his hand.”

The kid’s hand is bleeding. Deep gouges across his knuckles, like claw marks. He doesn’t notice. In the screening room, the lights dim without warning. The door locks click shut. People murmur. Some laugh, thinking it’s part of the experience. A single frame appears on the screen: Sienna tied to a chair, bloodied, gagged. Not from the film. Not shot like the rest. This is grainier. Handheld. Too real. Lauren’s breath catches. She grabs David’s arm.

“That’s not a scene we filmed.”

The footage stutters, glitches. Sienna screams, but it’s muted. Then Art walks in, dragging something heavy—a mirror. He sets it in front of her. Her reflection shows her screaming—but in the reflection, she’s already dead. The audience watches, mesmerized. Someone claps. Lauren bolts for the door. Locked.

David pounds on the frame. “Open it! OPEN IT!”

Someone behind them laughs—a dry, choking sound. David turns. It’s the bartender. Or someone wearing what’s left of the bartender’s clothes. Their face is painted like Art. The paint seeps into the skin like ink. Their eyes are empty.

“Wanna see the real ending?” they rasp. Behind them, more guests rise from their seats, their movements puppet-like. David grabs Lauren’s hand. They run. In the projector room, the air is thick and warm—like breath. The equipment hums, but the screen isn’t connected to any known system. Wires lead into the walls like veins. Lauren finds a reel of film on the floor. It’s unlabeled, its filmstrip slick with something dark. David pulls open a maintenance hatch.

“We’re not staying for the finale,” he says. Together, they crawl into the walls. Behind them, the theater erupts into screams. But the screams don’t rise—they fall. They spiral downward like they’re being sucked into something deeper. Something older. Elsewhere in the venue, on the second floor near the costume exhibit, a mannequin of Art stands in a glass case. It begins to twitch. A janitor mopping nearby turns and stares.

“Not funny, guys.”

The mannequin tilts its head. Then blinks.

Tagging: @whisper-ocean, @clowncafeb

[the-s1lly-corner]

Rescue in the night (Oc x Eyeless Jack)

raffle prize for @bunny-boi200 ! Hooray I hope you like this!! I had fun figuring out how I want to write Jack's dialogue!! oc belongs to the winner as well! prompt: Lupus is overwhelmed while trying to take out some campers in the woods, thankfully Jack was out to come to their rescue! Notes: Oc belongs to the tagged winner, short one shot, slender mansion timeline/au is teased at the end cws: canon typical violence and death word count: 1034

Lupus lay on the ground, dirt and blood caking the side of his face. His vision blurred as he tried to make out the figures in front of him. Before he could open his mouth to spit the blood filling his mouth, one of the campers kicked him in the face. White hot pain shot through his jaw, he swore he felt some teeth crack under the attack.

He’s thrown on his back, a boot slamming itself into his chest knocking what little air he had left in his lungs. “Get…” He tried to splutter out but it was no use, their attacker only dug their heel deeper into them. 

“Shut it, freak,” The camper on top of them hissed. “We saw what you did to our friend… you’re going to pay-” 

Their friend, killed not long prior by Lupus- a direct order from Slenderman to purge the woods of unwanted guests. He had been so careful to make sure to pick them off out of sight. 

“Get off-!” Lupus tried again, squirming under the weight. His hands scrambled and tugged at the ground around him in a desperate hope to find their weapon somewhere. The campers must have kicked it far out of reach while he was getting beaten. 

The next words miss their ears, the pain in their chest becoming unbearable as the boot is pressed even harder. 

Suddenly, relief. Followed by a mess of panic and swearing. 

Lupus remained on the ground, but from his position he could see a dark figure rush into the man who had pinned them just a second before. A growl too monstrous to belong to a human tore itself through the night air. Lupus finally lifts their head up from the dirt to catch the carnage. 

The shadow sank its teeth into the neck of the biggest camper. Garbled screams nearly drown out the muffled growls of the monster. Flesh tears wetly as the teeth pull away, and the beast uses all of its body weight to slam the man to the ground. 

In a moment it spun around to slash its claws at the second camper, cutting through their torso as if it had simply been wet paper. They fell back, clutching themselves as blood spilled into the dirt below. 

Lupus uselessly twitches his metal leg, the mechanics inside no doubtedly knocked all wrong. All they can do is watch as their savior sinks their claws into the torso of their first victim, before raking their claws down in a clean motion. 

In the moonlight, Lupus finally catches sight of the face- or rather mask- of the hooded figure. Blue faced, with black pits where the eyes should be. A black ooze mixes with the bright red blood splattered on the exposed mouth of the wearer. Sharp teeth glistened, and the air they huffed out was visible in the night. 

It was Jack.

Lupus can only offer a weak smile, one that Jack does not return as his head flicks to the second camper. He only shambles towards them… without much of a pause, he lifts his boot over the head of the pleading man… and brings it down.

Crunch.

A cry.

Another crunch.

The cries are silenced after the third stomp.

Jack lifts his head from the corpse, only making a half-hearted attempt to shake the brain matter off of his leg as he walks towards Lupus. His black tongue flicks over his teeth as bloodied hands pull the mask back into its proper position. 

He doesn’t ask Lupus if they’re okay, or how they got into this position. 

“Can you walk on your own?” Is all he asks as he lowers himself onto his haunches next to them. Lupus’ eyes darted to his snapped leg, wires exposed from under the cracked casing. He could hear Jack click his teeth. A clawed hand grabs his chin, turning it over to assess the damage done to his face. “Big man really rocked your shit, didn’t he?” Jack asked as he turned Lupus’ face from side to side. They were already beginning to bruise, but the smaller cuts on their skin were already caking with dry blood. Jack presses a thumb to a wound that was still bleeding, wiping some blood away when it refused to stop leaking. The claw settles pointed against the skin of Lupus’ cheek before finally pulling away once Jack was satisfied with his quick look over. The hand then slides to Lupus’ lower body; cold hand pressed to Lupus’ shattered leg, of which still carried a dull heat from all the running they had done to try to escape their pursuers. 

“I’m not sure if I can fix this,” He muttered as he moved his arm under the leg. He shifted to pull the other into his grasp. His other hand wrapped around Lupus’ back and gripped his arm. Jack grunted as he rose to his feet, and turned to the direction he had come back to.

“I can patch you up, but fixing your…” Jack pauses, claws tapping against the casings. “Your bits…” He hissed as he walked through the woods trying not to trip on holes and roots.

Lupus leans his head onto Jack’s shoulder. 

“Thank you, Jack.” They mumble as a finger curls around one of the strings of his jacket. They pull it, before releasing. They twirl, pull, and release a few more times until Jack breaks the silence. “It’s nothing.” Short, and forced enough to leave no room to try to make it into an issue. 

“I don’t want you trying anything like that again. If there’s multiple people you need to take out please just.. Ask someone to give you a hand. Hell, I’d be more than willing to step in… I might actually go back and harvest the meat… it’d be a waste not to.” 

Jack finally reaches the steps of the mansion. He shuffles awkwardly up the stairs and shimmies to force the door open. He grunts as he presses his back against the door to shut it. Lupus can practically feel Jack’s body bristle as his gaze settles on the stairs.

Getting to his room would be an entirely different beast…

[mama-ivy]

Utilitarianism

Frankie stood behind the thick polyester floor to ceiling length curtain forcing himself to take only the shallowest of breaths. He ran through his options. His mark was the skeezy man with the greasy hair currently groping his unwilling victim on the couch.  His client, the man’s wife, hadn’t told him that the mark would have company and rules stated that there had to be no witnesses.  He was not willing to make two kills, however.  He had only been paid for one.  Besides, he didn’t know anything about this poor girl.  She could be the sweetest little valedictorian that ever donated all her extra time to care for puppies for all he knew.

He could hear her cries and struggles and the overprotective nature that had gotten him into this business wanted so badly to jump in and save the day.  But Frankie’s job was to make the man go “missing”, and he couldn’t exactly be missing if someone had seen him being taken.  He thought maybe that he could convince the girl it was in her best interest that her savior remain unknown, but teenage girls were fickle creatures.  He had learned that early on.  He considered making a noise to distract them and maybe the girl would use the chance to escape. That would give away his element of surprise, however, and he wasn’t guaranteed that the girl would have the guts or smarts to make an escape.

The third option did happen to work out for Frankie, though. A car backfiring in the street. His trained ear could tell the difference between a backfire and a firearm. Skeeze-head’s couldn’t. He jumped up and ran to the window. The girl, despite Frankie’s misgivings, saw her shot and ran out the front door.  Skeeze cursed at her and slammed the door behind her. Probably too drunk to run after the poor slip of a thing.

Frankie wrapped his fingers around the chicken wire hidden in his palm. No gun, no knife. Never leave blood.

Skeeze cursed under his breath all the way to the couch before promptly collapsing into it and passing out.  Yep. Definitely drunk. Good. This will make it so much easier.

@flashfictionfridayofficial

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