#it's a self-running program there is no escape

[m3r1m4r5u333]

Uhhh. I like to indulge in my imagination, so I just stopped to think of Hen's comment about "have any if you ever seen me in a dress?" (can't remember the exact line).

And my mind went "hmm, I wonder if that could foreshadow a trans storyline. Could be interesting. Then my mind went to "but Hen is a feminine name, that would become a dead name, I think?

But what would be the masculine version of "Hen". COC--? *lurches back in horror* ACTUALLY NEVERMIND!!! I'm good with Hen being cis!! Yeah let's drop that idea in a deep dark ravine and never ever touch it again!"

[spontaneousglitterbees]

wonder who they're talking to... 🤔

[AU Masterpost]

[armin-ocean-eyes]

A Batfam fic where the reader is from our world and somehow gets transported into the DC universe in Gotham.

They wake up in Gotham, no idea what's going on. They walk around trying to find out where and what happened to her. And some dude dressed up as the joker (not knowing it was the real joker) attacks her, so in self-defense they pick up whatever is nearby and hits him over the head, killing him.

Police come and they are obviously shocked all while the reader is still shocked and startled but they don't regret killing this man who attacked her, I mean it was in self defense! The police take them in to just get the full story. They also call Bruce/Batman to come down.

And that's how they meets Bruce and the rest of the batfam. (They 100% think this is some dream)

Some highlights from how I think that conversation would.

"do you know who was attacking you?"

"..... Some crazy dude, I don't know????"

"why did you kill him?"

"because he attacked me????"

"How did you manage to kill the joker?"

"..... You mean the crazy dude who was cosplaying?"

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

"so let me get this straight the dude I killed was actually the real joker.....? Alright sure... Why not"

"..... How does he keep escaping from the asylum? I feel like.... I feel like that should be like.... The number one priority right? Making sure no one gets out"

"Ok wait. There's only one asylum in Gotham?.... What if someone is going through a mental health crisis and needs to check themselves in? They have to stay with.... Murders?!'

"have you ever thought that maybe if you invested in a better mental health program in Gotham that maybe villains wouldn't be running around as much?"

Silence

"that's what I thought"

[neet-elite]

*heavy breathing*

Can we have a Seb smut for either cockwarming him or being eaten out by him? Or whatever you want him to do-

Appprreeeciaaate you!

yes yes yes to both ideas, but my boy deserves some relaxing time after the torture we've put him thru recently on this blog </3

MDNI ♡ Warnings: (failed)cockwarming, that's literally it lol

WC: 1205

A shiver runs the length of his spine with every miniscule movement you make, which in turn only causes his hips to rut deeper into you despite his better intentions. A lovesick back and forth that he swears he's determined to set straight, but perhaps you know him better than he knows himself. Or, maybe he's just good at lying to himself. The thought of resisting your temptation is lofty, but surely he has enough self composure to withstand you, right?

"Quit it, would ya?" he laughs warmly, a deep rumble in his chest that soon turns into a hushed gasp of selfish enjoyment when you shift around some more. Because while he does want you to settle nicely, he can't deny how good it feels to have your insides squirm around his leaking cock all nicely, fondness dripping his words and actions when he splays a flat palm over your exposed thigh. "Need to focus a bit, 'kay? Just a little. Then I promise you'll have my full attention."

"Mhm." you reply simply, all soft and sweet as if you were the picture of innocence; if not for the fact that your lower half is completely naked and your cunt is hugging his cock so well, fuck—

And he's not lying about needing to focus; it's partly your own fault too. Coding program open for him to type at, if only you'd finally find a comfortable position to sit in on his lap. He helps a little, leaning back to give you some more leg room before scooching the chair in closer to his desk when you reposition. He knows you've found your final resting spot when you let out a satisfied sigh, and yet still;

"Comfy?" he wants to double check, prioritising your wellbeing over anything else when he draws light circles against your leg as you nod. Perfect, he's comfy too. Unbelievably horny, but comfortable, a special kind of domestic love thrumming through him with a quiet hum. So comfortable in fact that he easily resumes his work. Typing away at his current project with occasional clearings of his throat, brief pauses to re-collect his composure when your cunt 'accidentally' squeezes around his drooling tip. Gently shushing you with quiet coos when you get a bit too restless for his liking, even if he understands completely. He wants to fuck you so bad too.

But you promised to be good and cockwarm him for a little, didn't you? It'd been his idea to begin with. A fantasy he's always wanted to indulge in but just never had the thought to actually bring it up. But when torn between satisfying you for tonight and meeting his strict work deadline, he had to think of something. And he must admit that you look so pretty when struggling to keep your cool with his cock buried balls deep in your angel cunt, a loving smile spread across his lips when he sees just how difficult it is for you to remain still. A knowing one at that, because he too is struggling to keep the sweat of his brow, arm muscles taut with the amount of strain it takes for him to appropriately hold back for works sake.

"Doing so good, babe." he whispers down your ear, biting down on his bottom lip with a roll of his eyes when you merely whine in response, feeling your cunt squeeze harder around his cock simply from hearing his voice. Fuck, that's so hot. "Do that again." he begs of you, a natural response to the tight pulse of your cunt, but one he promptly regrets when his hands instantly fly off his keyboard when you give him what he wants and instead dig into your waist, forcing your hips down, down against his throbbing cock to drool more precum against the deepest parts of you like he isn't trying to focus on work at the moment.

Which he is, remember. A frustrated groan escaping him as he shakes his head in an attempt to refocus, but the feeling of your weight shifting back, and then forward again, almost convinces him to give in.

Instead, he slaps at your thigh, letting out a breathy laugh at the downright dirty sound his reprimand smacks out of you. "I- I need to focus, babe. Seriously." he tries to scold you, but his voice betrays him when it comes out so light-hearted and soft, almost like an encouragement to keep distracting him to the point that he simply has to rail you into his sheets until you can't walk, which is what he would be doing if he didn't do that every other day of the week to the point that he's left his project to the very last minute.

But the way your voice comes out so pitifully, barely there above the thump of his own hammering heart, a meek little "'M trying, Seb. Promise." that conveys just how much you need him; he'd be a rotten boyfriend if he didn't indulge you at least a little more, right? At least that's what he tells himself, a flimsy reasoning to instinctively start rocking you back and forward on his cock until you get the message through your lust filled mind and start moving yourself.

Luckily it's a slow enough pace that he can kind of focus on his work, fingers just itching to be back on your body, to roam up and down it and squeeze at your pretty fucking tits, shit— focus, Sebastian. Trembling over his keyboard with half-hearted attempts at coding, which turn truly useless when his cock pulses inside of you with greed, the computer chair under him squeaking ever so slightly as he helps you set a more gratifying pace with a lazy back and forth of his own hips.

A gentle curse crawls up his throat when he leans into the feeling of your slick coating his cock some more, completely covering his length all the way down to his balls. A sickly squelch soon filling the room as his hands remain tense and stationary, hovering above his keyboard more than anything else, as if the illusion of working was enough for him in the moment, your perfect little cunt coaxing him into moving with more commitment into you when you moan his name so sweetly.

"Baby..." he trails off into a similar moan, throwing his head back in sheer bliss from the slow tandem thrusts. "Really— ah, fuck— I gotta, uh... Gotta—" his train of thought is lost the moment you lift your hips, breath caught in his throat to brace himself for what comes next.

He's got no chance of simply cockwarming you when you start bouncing on his cock, and you fucking know it. Knocking the wind out of him as soon as you slap back down, all caution thrown to the wind the second you start to rise again. And because he's greedy, his hands find home on your waist once again to be the one fucking you, thrusting up into your wet little hole over and over again as the previous cockwarming offer is readily forgotten about.

You just feel better than the payment his project offers, he thinks.

[epkot94]

DP X DC idea time!

So eventually Danny tells Jazz about Dan and the whole evil future that could have been. In turn Jazz educates Danny on the ethics of imprisoning someone in what is essentially a box and mentally damaging them even further and decides that Dan deserves an attempt at rehabilitation. Danny introduces her to Clockwork and they work together to develop a rehabilitation program for Dan.

So they move him from the Fenton thermos into what is essentially a ghost enclosure that he can’t escape from and work on finding a ghost therapist that they can conscript to help them. It can’t be Jazz herself because even if Dan is from an alternate timeline it would be a conflict of interest, can’t be Spectra either because just no.

The rehab takes years, with the amount of trauma Dan went through, and the shit he’s done it’s not a simple or straightforward process to get him to a more healthy mindset and he definitely would fall off the wagon more than once. But eventually he’s at a point where he can acknowledge that he did some truly awful shit and while he feels guilt about it he’s not beating himself up or participating in self destructive behavior in an effort to atone for anything. And he’s built up really good relationships with Danny, Danni and Jazz. Like good to the point that he and Danni constantly joke about being Danny’s kids because of all the trouble they cause for him (like childish pranks and shit)

So when he’s finally at a point where he truly wants to do good things again they decide to do a trial run. Clockwork puts the ghost equivalent of an ankle monitor on his core and sends him off to the DC universe. Shenanigans occur and Dan eventually joins the Justice league.

And he’s ends up being really good at the super hero gig when he makes the effort.

Of course at some point everything gets fucky, maybe Morgaine Le Fey or some other powerful magic user decides to attempt to take over the world using denizens of the infinite realms. Dan of course realizes that the most effective means of fending them off would be to enlist some help from home, so he tells the league that he has some ally’s he can call for help.

Enter stage left, king of the infinite realms Danny Phantom and princess of the realms Danni

*im fairly certain there’s already a fic or prompt similar to this but I just really want more fics of rehabilitated Dan in the world

[hubristicassholefight]

Hubristic Assholes Tourney Round 1 Part 4b

Five Pebbles (Rain World) vs Achilles (The Illiad)

Propaganda below cut (Beware spoilers)

Five Pebbles

Five Pebbles is an iterator, a city sized sentient and partially biological supercomputer. An ancient civilization built the iterators to essentially try to calculate a way for the Ancients to ascend beyond this mortal world and leave behind the cycle of reincarnation. He and the other iterators were left behind after their creators all disappeared/ascended. The iterators are as close to man made gods as anything can be, yet they are trapped - both by their huge physical forms, unable to move from the place they were built in, and by a taboo in their programming, which prevents them from attempting to self-destruct. Five Pebbles grew frustrated with his fate as a "bug in a maze". He was convinced that if he could just break the self-destruction taboo, he would find a way to ascend himself, thus escaping the mortal world. He started a series of massive experiements that consumed so much cooling water, the drought in the area destroyed his sister and fellow iterator Looks To The Moon. In her efforts to stop him, she distracted him. The experiement failed catastrofically. Five Pebbles had not only callously killed his own sister in the pursuit of his impossible goal, but he had also created a sentient, mobile disease growing inside his own body. The Rot would eat through his mountain sized body, no matter what Five Pebbles tried to do to stop it. It takes it thousands of years, but piece by piece the Rot breaks him down, until all that remains of Five Pebbles, once a mortal god, is a trembling, frozen puppet sitting alone inside the completely destroyed ruins of his own superstructure. It's a fate much worse than the death he was seeking; epic fail bug man lol

He is a city sized supercomputer who was built with one goal in mind; to produce a solution to the great problem, that being how to allow all things to escape the cycle of life and death without the use of void fluid. A different character claimed to have a solution, but died before they could say it. Five Pebbles believed that the death itself was the solution, despite the fact that it only effects the machine, and the inability to kill themselves is ingrained in every cell of their body(he's a meat computer btw). The culture that produced these supercomputers good high respect for their ancestors, so defying them is very heretical. In his attempt to break the self destruction taboo he drains all the local water, causing looks to the moon to also run out of water. Looks to the moon, being older than Five Pebbles, eventually used her seniority to force five Pebbles to stop trying to kill himself, after she was too damaged to survive for very long, and in doing so, gave five pebbles giga-cancer that world slowly, and I mean slowly, eat him alive, stopping him from trying again; He was artificially made with every cell of his body having a code that stops him from killing himself. When he tries to overcome it he accidentally kills someone else and gives himself giga-cancer.

Achilles

No propaganda allowed to be used

[astrum99]

Surprisingly, human beings are the only creatures that looked into themselves. Movement of a blade sharpened to max, lightning fast, no hesitation. Peeling back skin and draining sinus. Bodies (alive, young), huddled around bodies (dead, damaged), to examine and poke and tear and say “I see, that one is the Inferior Vena Cava”. These abominable actions saves lives. Curiosity and morbidity guided a way of survival, of rescue. Later, the same sentiments, mixed with desperation, guided a way to destruction.

Bearing the remnants of humans, their organs pulsating in its body. A machine. A child of man.

Angels, on the other hand, are made perfect. Healthy body, strong will, and filled with holy light right off the bat. Vicious in battles. No need for learning, little need for healing. The smoothness and perfection of their skin akin to marble and sea glass. All creations pale in their presence. Nothing beats perfection. Certainly not creatures of cold unfeeling metal. Lightless, soulless, running on a fixed program of 0’s and 1’s set by the expired words of self-destroying, world-destroying, rotten images of God. Heretic. Even in their perishment, they set to ruin. Systems that they themselves can no longer escape from. Samsara of endless pain and death.

It is a wonder then, that when the machine finally tear through Gabriel’s helm, he become faintly aware of the things hidden deep inside. The ugly, raw things inside. The things he must have known but were never brave enough to face: the same pulsing gore that pushes through the gaps of his skin is the same as the one in the mankind’s bodies; the wires that prods through the throbbing organs is the same as that runs through the chassis of the machine. His body echos the lesser beings. For a second, he could not distinguish himself from man nor machine. How ridiculous, he thought, it thought. To be of this state. To see his/its image in his/its body. To have his/its strings/wires cut so late. The taste of spectacular freedom at the last millisecond of his/its life.

As the last drop of holy light seeps through his helm to stain the machine’s optics, he recognizes himself as heaven’s machine, and the machine as mankind’s angel. And now they are the same.

---

Insp is this post by @sinew-lattice!

thank u for infesting me w brain worms i enjoyed hosting the wiggly thing very much (also pls let me know if u don't like ppl writing/tagging i can always take stuff down:] )

[harmshake]

wrestlers and their love languages ✨

by Marian and Margaux (aka @iguessilikewrestlingnow)

Fem Reader x Sami, Dom, Cody, Roman, Swerve, or Solo

a/n: shout out to the bestie, @sassginaswanmills, for inspiring this with her love language series! read it here. 💖

Sami Zayn

"acts of service" by Margaux

You and Sami have been together for four years, married for one. At home, he loved to cook dinner, do laundry, draw you a bath (and join you in the tub) - anything to make your life easier. Whenever you were able to be at his shows, he did everything he could to make sure you were happy, comfortable, and the center of his attention even if he was the center of everyone else’s. He always arranged for there to be a seat for you ringside, as well as a place for you to retreat backstage if you wanted to escape for a bit.

At Survivor Series, he had a lot to do before his War Games match - get his ring gear fitted, shoot promos, an interview or two - but in every moment of downtime, he found you to see if there was anything he could do for you.

He always asks, “Are you sure you don’t need anything else, ya hayati?”

When you insist that just being there to support him makes you the happiest girl in the world and brush hair from his face, he smiles, pulling you into a tight embrace, kissing your head, and murmuring, “I love you."

Dominik Mysterio

"physical touch" by Margaux

Dom is your boyfriend of three years, and you are a teacher. It’s 3:30 on a Thursday in June, the last day of school. You’re heading straight to the airport to catch a flight, looking forward to your second summer traveling with Dom.

When your plane lands, you claim your luggage and head to the terminal gates. As you approach, you see Rhea waving frantically, face plastered with a smile. Beside her stands Dominik, bouquet of red roses in hand. Rhea runs to plant a kiss on your cheek and hug you, laughing and sending you into a spin together. “My girl’s here!”

“I think you mean my girl, Ripley.” Dom said with a smirk, stepping up and handing you the roses and using a finger to tilt your face to his before kissing you. His kiss was sweet, but his desire for more was clear.

After a pitstop at Waffle House for dinner, you arrived at the hotel where the Judgment Day was staying before their appearance on tomorrow night’s Smackdown. Dom carried your luggage into the room as you stripped and stepped into the shower. Warm water running over you, rinsing away the stress of the school year and flight, you were broken from your trance when you heard your boyfriend ask,“Mind if I join you, mi coraźon?”

In the shower, Dom helped massage out your aches and pains. He rubbed your back, planting kisses from your ear down your neck and whispering how excited he was to have you by his side 24/7 for the next few weeks to touch, to kiss, to fuck.

Snuggling into bed, Dom loved being the big spoon, pulling you to him to breathe in the smell of your skin and your hair, to feel your ass on his dick. “Come closer, mami. I miss you so much when I’m away.”

Cody Rhodes

"words of affirmation" by Margaux

You and Cody have been married about three years, together for nine. Over the last few years, his career rose to new heights while you pursued higher education. You were nearing the end of your doctoral program and would be defending your dissertation the same day that he was main eventing WrestleMania.

Despite knowing your content inside and out and being thoroughly prepared, self-doubt crept in as you reviewed your work a couple of days before the presentation, the day Cody would fly out. Eyes welling up with tears, heart racing, you slammed your laptop closed and dropped your head to your desk.

You heard your husband’s voice calling out to you in your office and glanced at the clock; it was time to take him to the airport. Wiping your eyes and taking a deep breath, you pushed in your desk chair and headed downstairs to find Cody rummaging in the coat closet.

“Ready?,” you asked, clearing your throat when you realized how dejectedly your question had eked out. You didn’t want Cody to worry about you, but it was too late. He could read you like a book. Your eyes became misty again and you didn’t hesitate when he invited you into his arms.

Resting his chin atop your head, your husband mused, “I’m so sorry I’m going to miss your big day, love. You know you’re everything, right? You’re beautiful and brilliant, creative and curious. You’re hardworking and inspiring. I could spend all day listing the things about you that truly amaze me, beautiful. I hate leaving you, but I love knowing you’re mine and you’ll be here when I get home.”

The morning of your defense and Cody’s big match came, and with it came a text from your husband: “I can’t wait to call you Dr. Rhodes.”

Roman Reigns

"gifts" by Marian

After being together nearly 8 years, you've seen your husband work himself to the bone to provide for you. You've never taken anything he's given you for granted: Not the house on the beach, the bills paid, the new cars, the jewelry, or the vacations. You wouldn't dream of it when you knew he pushed himself to train, wrestle, and become one of the biggest stars WWE has ever seen. All because he wanted to build a comfortable life for you.

That consistent work ethic of his kept him on the road more often than either of you liked, and the weeks away from each other hadn't got any easier. Yet Roman was also consistent with spoiling you even if it was from miles away. You'd often wake up to Byredo, Dolce & Gabbana, and, of course, Amazon gift boxes waiting for you at the door. It was the "Bohemia" candle scent you were curious about that you told him in passing; the tote bag he caught you eyeing through the window while strolling through the mall after brunch together; or simply the new MacBook charger you needed but hadn't gotten around to purchasing yet. 

"How did you know?" you often found yourself asking him when it was later in the day and you were on the phone with him. "Because I know you," Roman would respond and you could hear the smile in his handsome voice. "And you know that whatever my sweetheart needs, I'mma get it."

Swerve Strickland

"quality time" by Marian

With his arms wrapped around your waist, your body cradled to his as he held you on his lap while you both watched TV, you couldn't think of a better place to be than with Swerve. You'd been glued together like this for 48 hours now since he finally requested off a few days to come see you. Truthfully, you'd been glued together for months since he and you decided to make your year-long relationship exclusive.

It all felt so cozy, always had, as Swerve was the kind of man who loved to be around you. Whether it was going out to eat for dinner, swaying together in the crowd of a concert, or sitting together on your couch to watch a movie like tonight, he couldn't get enough of you and your warm aura. "When I'm with you, I feel like I'm home," he told you. "Nothin' else matters when we together, baby."

You knew he meant it when each time Swerve came over to your apartment, he either put his phone on silent or turned it off completely for a few uninterrupted hours with you. You loved his attention—especially his attention to detail. You could rest assured that he'd devote every minute to you, every thought you wanted to share with him as he hung onto your every word...or every inch of your body as he absorbed your every moan with a kiss. Afterward, Swerve would hold you in his arms as he did now, and all you could do was smile as if this was what home felt like, you never planned on moving.

Solo Sikoa

"physical touch" by Marian

If the first thing you felt in the mornings weren't Solo's fingertips as they grazed along your shoulder and arm, it was his lips pressed to your cheek or forehead. It was his way of saying, "Good morning, I love you" when he didn't want to disturb your slumber but couldn't wait until you woke up...so he let his caress say it for him. You'd feel yourself grin a little in your sleep or roll over to face him and kiss him back.

It'd been that way ever since you got an apartment together, something that was long overdue after being together 4 years. The delay came from his career picking up rather swiftly once he was called up from NXT, but you never complained. Solo more than made you feel like the most important part of his life as he often invited you to hit the road with him. If it wasn't known that you were his girlfriend, he made it obvious the way his fingers stayed laced with yours, the way his arm remained wrapped around your waist, or the way his lips seemed fastened to your face with loving, little pecks throughout the day.

You adored that you could feel how much he adored you, though he said it just as often. There was just something heartwarming about his large, warm body shielding you when you cuddled, or his hand always finding yours to hold. "Half the time I don't even realize I'm touchin' on you. Just feels natural," Solo explained it the best he could in his cute, gruff voice when you asked him why as you lay next to him that morning, your small hand in his big one even now as his thumb brushed across your knuckles. It made you blush as he added, "You a part of me, bae."

.

.

.

Thanks for reading!  💝

 🫶🏾 Tagging: @harlem11680 @mzv11 @visionarymode @miyuhpapayuh @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @dreamsinfocus @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @jeyusos-girl @nayys-world @msbigredmachine @purplehairgawdess @dayjlovesromance @mohawkmama @smuts-whore @po3ticb3auty @alyyaanna @murrylove @papireigns-05 @vintage-pvssy @bebesobrielo @urasunflower @seeingstarks @555sage @unfriendly--blvck--hottie @theninthwonder @tabletheofhead @weirdosandhopelessromantics @venusesworld @ariieeesworld @sassginaswanmills @gomussy @theglamclosetsl @baeusos @2-muchsauce @empressdede @woahdude9481 @browngalmal @romansnumberonegirl @twocentuar

[imagine-darksiders]

On the Ropes

Chapter 25 - Uninvited Guests

Montgomery Gator X F!Reader

WARNING:

-Noncon touching, inappropriate behaviour, abuse of authority, implied s/a, self-doubt, mild threat

Summary: Tempers flare, emotions are high and boundaries are tested. You worry, but Monty worries more. He just isn't as good as expressing it as you are.

Sorry this one took so long. A few months ago, my parents made me a partner in their company with a view to take over the whole damn thing when they retire, and I've had to learn how to run a business without a lick of experience in the field, so that's been taking up a lot of my life lately. I'm still finding time to write, but it is harder.

Still! I hope a nice, long, juicy chapter full of angst and fluff and hurt/comfort makes up for the hiatus. Love to the brim. X

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

As ideas go, Monty concludes that his latest might have been best left on the backburner, never to see the light of day. He hardly dares move, locked in place by his own mechanical parts as he stares down at you on the sofa, and you in turn, gawk up at him, your eyes still wet and shining with tears.

And for all his artificial intelligence, for all the state-of-the-art programming slapped into his circuitry, the most eloquent response he can conjure up in the face of his own blunder is a weak, faltering, “Uh…”

But what else could best encapsulate the jarring realisation that he’s been caught? He hadn’t really fathomed being caught at all, hadn’t even considered what he might do if he was caught.

Well, too little too late now, he supposes. There’s no way he can simply duck back through your open window and feign ignorance when you inevitably return to the Plex to confront him…

…. Could he…?

… No, no. Definitely not.

Closely observing your expression, the gator’s proverbial stomach sinks as your face begins to lose all aspects of shock and instead turns towards something more closely akin to anger, unpleasant in its familiarity, and Monty realises he’s running out of time to come up with a believable excuse to explain away his presence here, as if a 'good' excuse even exists.

Brows scrunching together, your jaw creaks shut, teeth meeting with an audible ‘click,’ that pulls an involuntary flinch from the gator’s tail.

He can handle Mick being angry with him. He can handle Andy and that exec, the staff and guests and all of their cross words and scathing looks.

Yet for some reason that he dare not examine, the very notion of you pointing your wrath at him fills Monty with a dread so palpable, he’d swear the coolant in his hydraulics freezes solid. The irony of the revelation doesn’t escape him. Until now, he’s spent so long being angry at everyone around him without sparing much thought as to how it must feel to be on the receiving end.

Beyond the threatening wave of apprehension cresting over him, he can still hear the sizzle of water against a hot stove-top somewhere nearby – the very culprit that had landed you on the floor, and him here in the first place - and in his eagerness to set things right again, Monty latches onto the one task he’s at least semi-certain he can’t mess up.

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you, not until he’s edged his way into the little kitchenette and finally tears his gaze from yours to spin around to the stove, knocking his tail against the fridge with a jarring clang of metal. He winces at the force, hoping he hasn’t dented it.

Grimacing at the knobs and dials sitting innocently on the cooker, he elects not to tackle them, instead reaching out to engulf the saucepan’s entire handle in a single fist where he simply lifts the whole contraption off the stove.

At once, the water boiling within its metal confines eases to a manageable simmer.

“Monty…” When his name leaves your lips this time, it’s deeper, colder, with the barest tremble flecked into your voice. “You… you can’t be here…”

The gator has enough sense not to bark out a nervous laugh at the century’s greatest understatement.

Clenching his fingers around the handle, he carefully plops the saucepan down near the back of the stove, away from the burning, red ring of heat. Excess water still dribbles in tiny rivulets down the side of the counter, but he turns his processor away from the mess by physically twisting himself around in the cramped space until he’s facing you once more, clutching his hands up to his yellow chest plate.

“You can’t be here,” you reiterate thinly, your eyes blown wide and pupils small and dark like pinprick holes, locked in his direction.

Then, with the suddenness of a bullet firing from a gun, you explode into motion.

Lurching over at the waist, you swipe your discarded crutch from the floor and begin shoving yourself gracelessly from the sofa with such fervour, Monty is momentarily struck by the ludicrous idea that you might be on your way to attack him.

“Of all the-! the stupid-!” you sputter, slamming the crutch’s rubber foot into your carpet and heaving yourself upright, wobbling across the room on an unsteady leg, “Dangerous! Irresponsible-!”

You continue hurling out adjectives and lumbering forwards, and Monty – suddenly alarmed that you’re about to topple face-first into the carpet again – kicks himself into gear. His pistons carry him across the room in a few, loping strides where he meets you at the edge of the kitchen linoleum, mindlessly throwing both of his enormous palms around your waist to steady you.

Almost at once, you latch onto him roughly, your fingertips squeaking against plastic as they attempt to gather purchase around a too-thick wrist.

“Monty!” The acrid taste of panic steadily trickles down the back of your throat. “Monty, this isn’t funny! I’m not kidding! This isn’t funny, you cannot be here!”

But Monty isn’t laughing. And although you sound borderline hysterical, there isn’t a trace of humour in your expression either. Maybe you hope it's a practical joke, or that you're seeing things. Anything except for the gargantuan reality peering down at you from behind star-shaped sunglasses. 

“I know,” is all the gator can muster up as a reply. Because he does know. He can’t be here.

And yet, he is.

“Then what-” you snap, “-the fuck are you doing here!?” It’s the first time you’ve really raised your voice at him, and there’s a sharpness to it that tucks the animatronic’s snout down towards his chest, rendered contrite in the face of your reprimand. Something deep in his subroutine starts to hum, discontented. Perhaps it’s the fact that the shoe is on the other foot now, and this time, he’s the one on the receiving end of someone else’s anger.

Another tear spills over to clump your eyelashes together.

Whirring loudly behind his glasses, Monty’s optics track its path over the swell of your cheek, and again, he creaks his jaw open, hoping something more substantial than his previous answer will miraculously come to him. As it is, he merely utters a soft, “I… don’t know.”

Evidently however, that had been the wrong thing to say.

For several seconds, your mouth flaps open and closed in disbelief before your face screws up into a tight ball of incredulousness and you manage to shrilly proclaim, “What do you mean you don’t know!?”

You snatch your hand away from his wrist to rake trembling fingers through your hair, digging into your scalp with the tips of blunted nails. “Oh god, oh god… This is bad, this is bad! You’re…”

Trailing off, you lean away from the animatronic, shoving a palm against his solid chest and giving your head a harsh shake, as if you might somehow throw the whole situation from your mind. Even as you pull away, his hands retain their firm point of contact on your sides.

After a beat of silence, you go still once more, blinking up at the gator and confirming that, no, you aren’t imagining the hulking, green goliath towering over you, looking far too large to occupy the space between your ceiling and floor. “Monty, for god’s sake,” you say through gritted teeth, “You’re in my flat!”

“I.. I know this looks bad-” he tries, removing a hand from your waist, palm tipped towards you in a placating gesture, “But, it’s okay-“

“- In what universe is this okay!?” you fret, batting at the massive paw that stretches towards you, “Monty! You’re outside the Plex! If you’re caught, they’ll-! Christ! You could be decommissioned! Is that what you want?!”

“I wanted to make sure you got home,” he emphasises.

“You can’t do that though!” you almost wail at him, shaking your fists beseechingly as if to beg him to comprehend your desperation, “You understand why you can’t do that, right?!”

“I was just-!” There’s a sudden buzz of static as he cuts off his own voice box, rendering the end of his sentence effectively unspoken.

But he ought to have known you aren’t about to let him get away with silence, not when you’re so clearly distraught and prying for answers.

“What, Monty?!” you exclaim, pinning him with your glare like a butterfly to a corkboard, “You were just what?!”

The gator’s jaw works mechanically, grinding the gears on their pivots as he clenches and unclenches it. He’s unwilling to give up the vulnerable words that have lodged themselves in his voice box, words that seem far too soft coming from the mouth of an animatronic with an unmalleable frame.

The only sound to break the silence is the steady ‘drip,’ ‘drip,’ ‘drip,’ of your leaky faucet.

“Montgomery,” you snap when his silence starts to overstay its welcome.

And the gator, despite his best efforts, flinches.

Plastic eyebrows slot together with an audible ‘clack’ as Monty lowers his optics to the carpet at your feet…

You’ve fallen back on his show title.

It’s a… rather decisive step away from the nickname he asked you to call him. The chasm that stood between you and the gator was wide when you set foot his green room not so long ago, yet in spite of first impressions, that gap has slowly been closing up over the last few days.

But now? Calling him ‘Montgomery,’ and in so terse a tone feels too much like the rift has just inched a few notches wider again.

Perhaps it’s that solemn, borderline desperate urge to regain what precious ground he’s lost that drives him to finally lift his gaze from the carpet and aim it somewhere near your glistening eyes instead.

“Just… tryin’a do what you did for me…” he utters.

Your face immediately untwists, brows launching up your forehead as everything about you opens up in clear surprise.

Whatever excuse you’d been imagining, he hadn’t provided it.

“What?” The question squeezes out of your throat, rasping and tight.

Hiking up the volume in his voice box, Monty retorts, “You came to make sure I was okay at the Plex. I-I’m just… doin’ the same thing!”

Sputtering around half-formed words for a several seconds, you finally manage to exclaim, “There is an astronomical difference between a human going to their place of work, and an animatronic up and leaving the place they were built, Montgomery, you can’t even try to pretend there isn’t!”

You’re well aware that comparing your autonomy to his own is a little below the belt, but the truth, whilst certainly ugly, is still the truth.

“Andy can tear me a new one for not going home after surgery,” you continue frantically, “But that’s nothing compared to what Faz Co. will do to you if they find out you’ve gone awol! And that’s not even the half of it! I mean - What if you run out of charge!? Or – or!”

As you steadily approach the line between distraught and thoroughly panicked, your voice begins to rise, cracking at the apex of your sentence, hypotheticals darting relentlessly through your head.

“What if someone saw you!? How did you even get here! Oh, fuck, Management’ll scrap you for spare parts, or - Damnit, Monty!” you blurt, ducking your head to try and meet his downcast optics, “Are you evening listening to me!?”

He is listening, as a matter of fact, quite intently. Though his visual feed may not be focused on you, the gator is hanging on your every word. But it isn’t the realisation he could be decommissioned that’s caught his attention. He already knows that the outcomes you’ve just listed are very real possibilities, should his little escapade ever be discovered.

No, instead, it’s the clear and undeniable fear laid thickly in your voice that grinds his processor to a halt. It sits on your tongue like a glaze, shining brightly for him to pick up on, and wonder how he missed it in the first place.

This isn’t anger.

This is something else dressed up to look like anger, and the tragedy is, it’s a disguise he knows all-too well, so well, in fact, that he should have recognised you’d donned it the moment you opened your mouth to speak.

You’re afraid.

If animatronics were built to house spirits, Monty’s would be tentatively lifting their heads. However, the revelation that perhaps he hasn’t driven off his best and only friend is cut woefully short when all of a sudden, his audio receptors give a ping, alerting him to new input approaching from a nearby source.

Without warning, the gator’s head snaps towards the door of your flat, mechanical clicks filling the unexpected silence as his optics adjust to the change in distance.

Footsteps… heavy and unhurried, slowing as they draw nearer to your door…

“Monty?” you hiss, distractedly following the line drawn by his glare, “Don’t try and-“

‘Knock.’

‘Knock.’

‘Knock.’

Three deliberate raps on your front door cause any further arguments to shrivel up and die at the back of your throat. You stop breathing altogether, and every noise suddenly seems too loud in the ensuing silence.

‘Who the Hell-?’ you wonder, dumbfounded, ‘-It’s the middle of the night!?’

No sooner has the thought occurred to you than a finger of ice-cold dread drags a chilly path up the notches on your spine, right to the fine hairs prickling at the nape of your neck.

Like a jackhammer, your heart rams itself up against your sternum over and over again.

‘He couldn’t have… Shit. Could he? But... How?’

“Y/n?”

You’re too slow to clamp your mouth shut around a gasp when you hear the voice, muffled but undeniably masculine, calling out from the other side of the door. Monty’s silicone lips ripple apart, though he at least has the forethought not to push an audible growl through his speakers.

The voice, however, doesn’t sound as though it belongs to the… the person you thought it might have belonged to.

You can’t place it straight away. You’re only sure that you know it from somewhere, but with several centimetres of wood standing between you and it, details are distorted and difficult to pinpoint.

Another knock startles you again, even more-so when it’s followed by, “Are you in there?”

A pregnant pause stretches until your teeth start to ache from keeping them pressed together so firmly.

And then, the words you thought you’d never have to hear again filter through the cracks beneath the door. “I thought I heard shouting.”

There’s an instinct that rises from buried depths at the utterance, instincts you thought you’d put to bed long ago.

It's as though someone has lit a fire under your feet. Mechanically, you twist around towards the sofa, your eyes locking onto the remote controls sitting on its arm rest. Limping up to them with stilted, frenetic movements, you snatch them up and aim them at the television, jamming your thumb into the ‘on’ button with far more force than necessary. Plastic creaks beneath your fingertips.

Seconds later, the screen flickers to life, landing on a film you don’t bother to try and recognise. Hiking up the volume until the tinny sound kicks out of the speakers and fills your meagre living space, you toss the remote back onto the sofa cushions and make your way arduously to the door.

Yet another knock indicates that your late-night visitor is persistent, you’ll give him that.

Several steps from the entrance, your progress is stopped by a sudden wall of green stepping in front of you, blocking your path forward.

“Move,” you rasp through gritted teeth, too quiet to be heard over the television as you smack at the gator’s tail that’s trying to curl around your thighs.

Monty’s head swivels around to frown at you. The purple casings surrounding his optics slide half-closed to give you the impression of a beseeching look.

You wonder if he knows who’s at the door.

“Hello? Y/n?” the stranger calls again.

“I - just a second,” you blurt out, ignoring Monty’s grimace as you bully your way past him, using your crutch to keep him from stepping around you lest he risk tripping you over, “Sorry, I’m... still getting the hang of these crutches.”

You have half a mind to demand to know who the Hell would have the unmitigated audacity to come around and knock on your door at this time of night.

Behind you, Monty’s claws try to hook into the back of your shirt, but the fear of accidentally tearing anything you own keeps him from holding on with any real purpose. As such, it’s only too easy to slip out of his grasp and press your eye up to the peep hole, the blood in your ears rushing to a watery crescendo.

A distorted yet familiar face peers back at you through the glass, sweat glistening off a ruddy forehead that shines under the overhead lights.

“Mick!?” you burst out.

What in the name of God...

Whirling around to face Monty, you throw an arm out, gesturing wildly towards your bedroom door.

The gator’s jaws are clenched tightly enough that you suspect if you were to toss a lump of coal between his teeth, he’d spit out a diamond, and while his tail twitches back and forth in clear agitation, he doesn’t otherwise move.

“Ah, you are there,” your not-so-mysterious visitor exclaims, “Mind opening the door?”

Yes, you mind! You mind very much! What is he doing here!?

Unless…

Your head turns slowly over a shoulder to gape unblinkingly at the animatronic looming close behind you. Your eyes find his, your stomach clenches…

“Hello?”

“Uh, just… hang on a second!” you stall, fumbling and fiddling with the metal latch, pretending to fight with it whilst you cast another, desperate look back at the gator. “Damn lock is always getting stuck.”

The moment his optics catch your eye again, you mouth, ‘Please’, jerking your chin at your bedroom door, ‘Please. Hide.’

Ever so slowly, Monty blinks, taking in the harsh lines that cut crevices down the centre of your forehead, right between your furrowed brows. And just like that, the corners of his snarl start to fall, and the apertures of his pupils expand to hide blazing, crimson LEDs.

A thousand calculations run through his processor at once, all of them pertaining to the risk of leaving you to face Mick by yourself. His programming shrieks in defiance as he takes a reluctant step backwards, being light as he can on cumbersome actuators.

He should stay… Neither of you know why Mick is here, though he can hazard several guesses.

You’re afraid, you’re vulnerable… You need him.

But probability reminds him that perhaps the situation isn’t so dire. He's sure he hadn’t been spotted on his way here, and if he was, why would Faz Co. send Mick – of all humans - out for retrieval?

What if the man's being here is merely down to chance?

If that's the case, then should he catch you with one of the Glamrocks in your home, the repercussions will be far worse than whatever Monty fears could happen by leaving you to deal with the situation alone…

So, driven back by the urgent glimmer of tears shining over your sclera, Montgomery Gator begrudgingly makes a decision that goes against his very programming. He retreats from the room, slinking backwards as silently as a two-tonne bot can through the door and into what he can only assume must be your personal recharging station.

All the while, you watch him over the threshold, waiting until the gator’s hefty bulk disappears into the darkness of the room beyond. Even still, you wait for him to push your door shut with an undetectable 'thud' before you finally wrench the lock on your own door free and tug the whole thing open, remembering to plaster a tentative smile on your face just in the nick of time.

“Mr Matthews,” you grind out sweetly, praying that the television in the background covers your stumbling addition of, “What a… a nice surprise!”

The man on the other side of the door straightens his posture at once. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s keeping one arm behind his back as he too slaps a grin on his face, though you imagine his is slightly more authentic than your own.

“Y/n, my dear,” he returns, revealing his hidden appendage and, to your surprise – and confusion - producing a fistful of limp, strikingly dark dahlias, the kind you might pull off the bargain shelf at your nearby petrol station.

 “I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” Mick continues, edging towards you until the toe of his winter boot pokes over the threshold, “But I was in the area and thought I’d stop by to see how you were doing.”

With the flowers practically shoved under your nose, you try to surreptitiously lean backwards, putting your weight on the crutch as you reply, “O-oh, that’s, ah, very kind of you…”

Can he hear your pulse thundering? Oh god, can he see the dilation of your pupils? Does he know who you have hidden in your bedroom? He must… He has to. Why else would he be here?

Almost running on autopilot now, you continue, “You didn’t need to come all this way though. Um…” Trailing off to bite at the inside of your cheek, you hedge, “I didn’t realise you knew where to find me.”

To anyone with even a modicum of self-awareness, the statement is poised as a direct question, in expectation of an answer. ‘How did you know where I live?’ is being broadcast from every facet of your voice and expression.

But Mick, clueless or perhaps deliberately obtuse, merely lowers the flowers an inch and replies, “Oh, you’ve mentioned it to me a few times now.”

… Have you? It’s… entirely possible, you suppose. After all, you talk about a lot of things at work, and subsequently, you forget about a lot of things too. But who would remember all the small talk you make with co-workers, or the unimportant comments you toss out while you’re responding to ‘check-ups’ from management?

Your home address however… It took you a long time to even tell Andy where it was, in case of emergencies… You can’t imagine it’s something you let slip without noticing.

But… Mick is here…

So how else?

Shoving down the frustration at yourself for being careless, you clear your throat and nod at the flowers. “And, can I presume those are for…“

Mick jumps, staring down at the dahlias clutched in his fist as if he’s only just remembered they’re there. “Oh, yes of course they’re for you!” he proclaims, “Of course, of course. Only courteous to give flowers to people in need of healing, no?”

You blink at him mutely, pretending not to notice the excess oil he’s slicked into his hair tonight.

Is that why he’s here? To bring you flowers? Is that all?

Part of you wants to slump with relief. Another part however, older, wiser and sadder, remains cautious.

“Well, again, that’s really kind of you,” you tell him, reaching out to take the flowers from his hand. The stems seem to breathe elated sighs as he relinquishes his iron-clad grip. “I’ll have to find a vase for these…”

You’re not sure you even own a vase…

“Naturally,” he replies, peering over your shoulder to quirk a brow at the television blaring behind you, “Ah. Movie night?”

“Hmm?” Following his gaze, you rush out, “Oh yeah, I figured… since I’m off tomorrow and the foreseeable future, a little late night wouldn’t kill me…”

Would it be rude to ask your senior why he’s bringing you flowers at this time of night? Maybe you can tell him you were just about to turn off the TV and go to bed?

As you deliberate how best to tell the man on your doorstep to make himself scarce, he surprises you by abruptly asking, “May I come in?”

‘No!’ your own voice screams at you from inside your head, ‘Just say no!’

“I’m not sure that’s-“ you begin tactfully, but Mick is already bustling forwards, crowding you until you take a slight step to one side. After that, well… You’ve given him an inch, he’ll take a mile, as it were.

Once he has a literal foot in the door, Mick sweeps past you, moving breezily into your living area and roving his gaze all over the room, hands planted on his hips. “Goodness,” he remarks, cocking his head at your bare walls and sparse décor, “You don’t get much on a cleaner’s salary, do you? You haven’t put that… ahem, bonus to good use yet?”

You want to bristle like a cat that’s been kicked.

Mick’s jab is unmistakable, but his awareness of his own civility is not.

Swallowing back a retort, you simply murmur, “Hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I’ll go and put these in some water.” Truthfully, you’re still reeling from the fact he’d just invited himself inside.

Hobbling towards the sink, you delicately lay the flowers in the washing-up bowl and turn on the tap. An angry ring of red light catches the edge of your vision, and you glance over at the stove-top, clicking your tongue as you reach over and turn the cooker’s dial to the ‘off’ position.

Teeth find the inside of your cheek and bite down on the fleshy wall, worrying at it while you wait for the bowl to cover half of the flowers’ stems.

‘Monty knows better than to give himself away,’ you assure yourself, trying to pretend you can’t feel those eyes prickling at the back of your neck, ‘And it’s getting late. Mick’ll want to get home soon. This isn’t anything other than a concerned manager delivering well-wishes to a member of the staff.’

‘There’s a guest in the house,’ a voice that isn’t entirely your own pops up, unbidden, ‘Offer him a drink.’

“Can I get you anything?” you blurt out, turning off the dripping tap and swivelling about to face Mick, “Coffee? Tea?”

The man throws you a look, barking out a laugh. “My word, someone’s got you well-trained,” he chortles.

The moisture dries up in your mouth. He likely assumes he’s referring to your upbringing, or maybe your schooling, but his statement hits far too close to home and sends phantom prangs of alarm through your brain, fizzing like electricity.

But just as your head starts to feel light…

“No, nothing for me,” he sighs, entirely oblivious to the cracks forming in your outer veneer as he nods pointedly at your television, “Although, uh, TV’s a little loud, no?”

“O-oh, yes,” you give a start, wobbling past him, “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.” That one was a little barbed, but you think it’s more than justified, given the circumstances.

Making your way to the sofa again, you reach for the controls, intent on swiping them off the cushions, but you freeze in your tracks when your eyes land on the overturned coffee table to your left. The coffee table Monty had knocked aside in his haste to get at you after you collapsed…

Behind you, Mick of course, has already seen it.

“Doing some redecorating?” he comments.

Thinking on your feet, you resume your task of picking up the remote and turning the television off, plunging the room into an uncomfortable silence once more. “No, just… had to move it earlier to do some exercises the physician recommended.”

Mick ‘ah’s’ in apparent understanding whilst you elect to deliberately leave the table where it is, tipped on its side.

“You wouldn’t believe how much space it takes just to do some stretches,” you add, “I haven’t gotten around to moving it back.”

You make a concerted effort to keep your eyes from drifting towards your bedroom door, painfully conscious that the gator must be standing just on the other side, head pressed to the wood to follow the flow of conversation.

“Mm, I can imagine,” Mick grunts noncommittally, and as you return your attention to him, you’re just in time to see him helping himself to a seat on your sofa, breathing out a long, languid sigh as he glances up at you, ruddy cheeks pushing out in a smile. “Come, sit!” he insists abruptly, as if it isn’t your sofa that he’s inviting you to. “Rest that leg of yours, you must be tired.”

If only he knew how terribly his suggestion puts your back up and sends your pulse skyrocketing.

All of a sudden, from the direction of your bedroom door, there comes a soft, nearly inaudible scraping sound, not unlike claws dragging across wood.

To your horror, Mick’s head starts turning towards the noise, but quick as a flash, you draw his focus by stretching your jaws into a wide, obnoxious yawn and settling down on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a respectable distance between you both.

Covering your mouth with a palm, you loudly proclaim, “Oh! Oh, excuse me. I suppose I have got one foot in bed already.”

You try for light-hearted, miss and land on uncomfortable instead. But if Mick gets the hint, he doesn’t outwardly acknowledge it, merely hums and pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt, daubing at a glistening temple.

As you perch awkwardly on the edge of the seat, you keep a firm grip on your crutch and make every conceivable effort to avoid casting any wayward glances at your bedroom door. If there’s even the slightest chance that Mick isn’t here because of Monty, then you aren’t keen on blowing your cover.

“So,” the man next to you starts conversationally, clapping his hands down on his knees, “You’re holding up all right, then?”

Shrugging a shoulder, you reply, “As well as I can be, all things considered.”

Mick purses his lips, head bobbing sympathetically. “Mm, I’m sure that’s the case,” he admits, “Bad business, that attack in the tunnels. Very bad business…”

Bad business, or bad for business, you wonder.

And talk about an understatement. You have to sternly remind yourself not to scoff.

His mention of the ‘incident’ however does raise a certain flag at the back of your mind as it occurs to you for the first time that Faz Co. wouldn’t be above sending someone to make sure you’re sticking by the non-disclosure agreement. You wouldn’t put it past them…

Is that why Mick is here? Second guessing yourself for the umpteenth time, you take a deep breath and gently try to steer the conversation towards something of real substance. “I… signed the exec’s paperwork, by the way… So, you don’t need to worry. The matter’s done with, so far as I’m concerned.”

The fact that you now have enough money to start looking for a nicer place to live is certainly motive enough to keep idle gossip to yourself.

In response, Mick only tips his head back and barks out a laugh, “Of course you did,” he chuckles, shaking his head at you, beaming, “You’re a damn good woman. You work hard, you keep your head down. You do your job, and you do it well. You’re loyal…”

Trailing off, he twists himself about at the torso to face you, the smile sloughing off his face as he adds, “Loyal enough that you’d come to the Plex the day after you were carted away in an ambulance.”

With gradual unease, your fingertips curl into the sofa cushions.

Whatever expression you pull must be dire indeed because Mick immediately drops his serious façade and lets out a chortle, leaning across the sofa to give your knee a pat just a few inches from the top of the cast, apparently too amused to notice that you blanch.

“Now then, no need to look so spooked,” he tells you, “I’m not here to lecture you about what you should and shouldn’t be doing following a major incident. I just thought I’d mention that I saw you today-“

You can barely focus on his voice. He’s allowed his clammy palm to lay like a lead weight upon your knee. It’s still there. Why is it still there? The temptation to kick your leg out as if to shoo away a bothersome fly is awfully prevalent.

“I must say,” he carries on, oblivious to the way your gaze drills into the back of his hand, “I was impressed by your dedication to the company. I’d have come over to say ‘hello,’ but…”

Breaking off to torture you with a pregnant pause, the man’s jovial expression collapses, turning sour. “Well…” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Then I saw you were with the gator.”

Right there on the sofa, your heart seizes up.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with that gator recently.”

‘He knows,’ you fret, flicking a frantic look at the door to your bedroom. The evidence is stacking up against you. Why turn up now, and why mention Monty at all?

Fingers trembling, you start the process of falling apart right next to him, debating whether or not to just get it over with and come clean when he suddenly furrows his brows at you and – at long last – draws back, retrieving his hand from your leg. “You need to watch yourself around that bot. You hear me?”

Relief and shock war for control for several seconds as you gape at him, only remembering to snap your jaw shut once you realise it’s been hanging awkwardly ajar for far too long. Swallowing thickly, you try to smooth down your bristling nerves and stammer out a clumsy, “I-I’m sorry?”

“I’m not the only one who’s noticed, you know,” Mick surges ahead as if you hadn’t spoken, “Most of the staff are starting to talk. A lot of the guests too. And now there’s that video going around…”

Your eyes are starting to ache with the effort of keeping them affixed to the manager, not your bedroom door.

“It’s no secret that it’s taken a real liking to you,” he grunts, “And the way I see it, that puts you at the most risk.”

Suddenly, you find it much easier to pay attention. Several, rapid blinks put Mick at the centre of your focus as you politely admit, “I’m sorry, I… I don’t follow.”

The look he gives you is decidedly pitying. Heaving a slow sigh through his nose, he roves his gaze up towards your ceiling as if he means to pluck the right words out of thin air. “Listen,” he begins patiently, like a teacher trying to explain something basic to their struggling student, “Bots don’t just… change like Monty has. I mean, what’s it been? Less than a week? And it’s gone from causing countless incidents of property damage and snapping at every staff member it sees to carrying one across the plex?”

He puffs out a derisive scoff and shakes his head, lips pursed. Then, leaning forward, he links his fingers together and props both elbows on top of his knees, glowering hard at the blank television screen. “I’m not buying it,” he utters darkly, “Sooner or later, its old ways will start kicking in again, and when they do, who’s the person directly in the firing line?”

Peeling one hand away from the other, he curls it into a fist, extends his forefinger, and aims it right between your eyes.

There’s something so inherently disconcerting about the action alone that you physically draw back from the man on the sofa, leaning away and eyeing his hand as though you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. But at the forefront of your mind – and a sudden source of great contention - is his implication that Monty is any kind of threat to you. Perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling a thrum of defensive indignation if the gator himself hadn’t been in the other room, no doubt able to hear every word Mick is saying about him. As it is, your chest starts to buzz with the desire to correct the man’s assumptions.

Peeling a dry tongue from the roof of your mouth, you slowly press out, “With all due respect, Sir-“

“-It’s Mick, doll. Just Mick.”

You try not to pull a face at his interruption. “Mick,” you start again, “With all due respect, I think that’s a bit unfair to Monty…”

At once, surprise opens his expression, smoothing the wrinkles between his brows as they go shooting up his forehead instead.

“Unfair?” he deadpans.

“I just mean that he’s been trying very hard to do things right lately, and we shouldn’t dismiss that just because he's had a few bad days, right?” Instances of breaking into your apartment notwithstanding. “Christ, Mick, he saved my life from that en-“

Mick’s beady eyes narrow at you.

Clearing your throat, you carefully amend, “… from that intruder.”

For several seconds, you watch on as the man’s face twists up once again into a frown, and he purses his lips at you, exhaling roughly through his nose. Leaning sideways across the sofa, he puts himself close to you and raises a finger into the air, wagging it at you in a manner that you really don’t care for.

“One example of the ‘correct’ behaviour doesn’t negate all the harm that bot has otherwise done,” he tells you firmly, “To the brand, to the plex…” Trailing off, his eyes gloss over as they drift to the back of his hand, staring at something you can’t see. After a moment, he quietly adds, “To me.”

Glancing sideways to find you fixing him with a strange look, he pushes out a cough. “A-And it certainly doesn’t prove that it’s safe. Never trust a dog that’s bitten once not to bite again.”

“Monty’s not a dog,” you point out, your brows set in a stern, unyielding line.

“No,” Mick agrees sharply, “It’s a two-tonne animatronic with a history of violence and a penchant for causing trouble wherever it goes.”

All at once, you bridle, clenching your fist around the crutch. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re in your own home that gives you a shot of courage straight through the chest. If Mick had confronted you with these accusations at work, you can’t deny you might have been a little more hesitant to retaliate. As it is, he came into your flat uninvited, he sat on your sofa and started bad-mouthing your friend…

 “Now hang on a moment, that’s just plain wrong,” you retort, “Monty hasn’t caused any trouble for me, and in fact, he’s gone out of his way to help me these past few days – quite a lot, actually.”

Somehow, Mick’s brows travel even further north towards his slicked-back hairline. He blinks, surprised, either because of your sudden and admittedly barbed defence of a bot you’ve only known for a few days, or because he hadn’t expected you to show him your backbone at all.

You quiver angrily on the opposite side of the sofa, heavy eyelids protesting the late hour whilst Mick blows a noisy breath through pursed lips, regarding you with newfound interest.

“Now then, there’s no need to get yourself all worked up,” he soothes cloyingly, “I didn’t come all this way to upset you.”

The willpower it requires not to bark ‘I am not upset!’ is tremendous, even more so to fake an apologetic smile and reply, “Of course you didn’t. Sorry, it’s just been a long day.” And getting longer with every second Mick sits there, behaving as though he’s done nothing untoward simply by being here.

“I’m sure it has,” he remarks.

And then… something happens. Something that sets the synapses in your brain firing off alarm bells left right and centre, paralysing you in your seat.

Without a word to announce his intentions, Mick shuffles himself along the sofa cushions towards you, closing the very deliberate gap you’d wedged between the pair of you minutes ago.

“If I’m being perfectly honest with you,” he begins in a low murmur, and you wish he wouldn’t be honest at all if that’s how he intends to speak, “I’m sorry I ever sent you into that damnable gator’s room in the first place. I mean, granted you’ve saved the company thousands in repairs since then… But… Ah, forgive me, perhaps this is unprofessional but…”

His already soft voice dies to absolute silence as he stretches his hand across the distance between you and sets it down on your leg once more, just above your knee - nowhere an uninvited hand ought to have any business treading.

You can’t tear your eyes off it. All the moisture in your throat has dried up, all the breath in your lungs stays trapped.

You’re not angry anymore.

“I simply wouldn’t forgive myself if that gator hurt you, you know,” his voice sounds muffled, half-drowned out under the blood rushing in your ears, “I’m only looking out for you.”

You’re scared.

He’s sitting close, too close, close enough that the smell of smoky cologne is suddenly clogging up your airways and sticking to the back of your throat when you inhale.

“Can you blame me for worrying though?” he asks, rubbing his hand up an inch as if he’s testing the waters. Sadly, your limits have been pushed before, further and further each time until the bad things just became mildly uncomfortable things, and the really dreadful things were simply better to ignore.

“You really are a very good worker. But that animatronic isn’t safe.”

Your breath catches in your gullet when you swallow, and even now, after all your experience and the hurdles you’ve cleared, you start to doubt yourself. Perhaps Mick really is just concerned. He certainly sounds it. You could be finding horror in something entirely benign. He’s a manager, he knows better.

He’s a molehill and you’re sitting here wondering if you should make him into a mountain.

Fingers twitch against your skin and you blanch, prying your jaws apart to… what? Scream? Tell him to get his hand off you? He hasn’t technically done anything wrong. You let him inside…

All of your senses come flooding back to you suddenly as a strange sound catches your ear; a latch clicking out of place, a handle turning inwards. Ears thrumming with adrenaline, you at last manage to rip at least part of your concentration off Mick and train your hearing towards your room instead.

Luckily for you and the idiot gator trying to stealthily open your bedroom door for some, inane reason, Mick seems far too preoccupied with catching your eye to even register the noise.

He’s looking for a reaction.

The appealing idea that this might just be one big misunderstanding starts to wash away bit by bit.

You cast your mind about, mentally searching the room for something – anything to derail the direction of his goal. When that fails, you reluctantly allow your gaze to wander from your television to the front door, over to the kitchen and then down to the flowers poking over the lip of the sink…

Flowers…

A stray gear in your brain chugs to life, kicking out a single, blessed idea.

“Hah!” you wheeze out breathlessly, forcing a wobbly smile onto your reluctant mouth, “You’re starting to sound like Andy. He worries about me too.”

There. It’s only for an instant, but out of the corner of an eye, you see Mick’s expression falter. “Flowers?” he asks.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, “I’m surprised you didn’t arrive with him actually.” Feigning an expectant glance at your front door, you school curiosity onto your face and add, “You didn’t see him on your way up, did you?”

Mick’s hand starts to raise ever so slightly from your thigh, too slow for your liking, yet you grit your teeth and bear it for a while longer, like you always have.

“See him?” the man blinks, “I… no? Why would I have seen him?”

“Oh, it’s just, he texted me before you knocked on the door. Said he’d be here in another ten… fifteen minutes to drop off some stuff I left in my locker at work. I thought you might have come together.” Shrugging a shoulder as casually as you can, you quirk a brow at Mick and continue, “You really didn’t see him? Huh. I hope he’s okay. It’s not like him to be late.”

On the last word, the feeling of warm, sweaty skin pressed to your leg disappears.

Bingo.

“Well,” Mick announces brusquely, plastering a cheery grin on his face as he leans back and slaps his palms onto his knees, pushing himself off your sofa, “If Flowers is on his way, I’d better let you two have your space. Wouldn’t want to crowd you, hmm?”

Though it damn-near kills you to do so, you tilt your head and ask, “Oh, are you sure? I think he wanted to have a word with you about something.”

Mick’s face turns several shades paler than usual as he stumbles over his response. “Ah, well, I’m sure it can wait until I see him at work tomorrow.” Slipping a finger between his grey tie and the collar of his shirt, he tugs the fabric looser, taking several, hurried steps in the direction of your front door. “I’m sorry to have stopped in unannounced.”

Your smile reveals just a few too many teeth. “It’s not a problem,” you lie, using the crutch to lever yourself onto your feet, “I suppose I’ll see you at work, then?”

Mick’s backwards peddling might have been funny if you were in any mood to laugh.

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes. I’ll see you then,” he titters, “You just stay off that leg in the meantime.” His hand grasps the door handle, sliding clumsily around it for a moment as his damp palms clamber for purchase.

You heart soars when he finally manages to pull it open, only to step halfway outside and hesitate in the threshold of your home. For several, awful seconds, you stare at the back of his head, wondering if he’s changed his mind, or worse, if he’s called your bluff.

Sparing you a look over his shoulder, Mick catches your eye. “Just… remember what I told you about the gator,” he tells you suddenly, “Preferably before you decide to visit the Plex again.”

And with that, he just… leaves, disappearing out into the hallway and pulling your door shut in his wake until the latch ‘clicks’ shut.

Mouth full of cotton wool, you listen intently for the thump of dress shoes hitting carpet to peter out as Mick beats a hasty retreat down the hall. Fainter and fainter, the sound fades, until at last, you hear the far-off 'ding' of the lift doors sliding open and shut, and with a shuddering inhale, you promptly crumple forwards against the door, gasping out a wet, pitiful noise whilst you scrabble at the lock with shuddering fingers.

It’s only when the metal latch slides into place with a definitive ‘shunk,’ that the door of your bedroom bursts open.

With all the speed and unimpeded ferocity of a stampeding bull, Monty comes surging from the darkness of your bedroom, his shoulder struts reared back like a pair of snakes ready to strike.

“What’d he do to you!?” he demands, crossing towards you in just a few strides.

You spare a thought for your downstairs neighbours before you remember they’ve been on holiday since last week. And a good thing too. Each step the gator takes sends tremors through the floor below your bare feet.

Monty’s sensors – by now so well-tuned to your vitals – had been going haywire behind the door, picking up on your thundering pulse and the steady uptick in your cortisol levels. He’d had to stand there, helpless but to listen as Mick spewed his rhetoric into your ear, and Monty hadn’t been able to defend himself or refute the man’s claims at all. But you-!

Wonderful, righteous, amicable you... You had! Monty's systems were thrumming, thoroughly cowed to hear you come to his defence, which made it only more difficult not to burst into the room and sweep you away from Mick when the man all but purred reassurances at you.

But worse, perhaps, was the gator’s inability to see what was happening on the other side of the door. Mick’s verbal blows against Monty’s behaviour couldn’t have been the catalyst for your climbing heartrate, though some small, selfish code in the animatronic hopes you felt at least a little indignation on his behalf.

No… Something else occurred here tonight. Something Monty wasn’t privy to, but wishes he was, if only to settle the ire broiling in his circuits.

You have your back to him, and your forehead pressed against the solid wood of your front door.

He has to see your face… He has to know. He has to read your expression and see for himself that there isn’t any fear there, just exasperation or even a fiery burst of anger. Anything… Just not fear. He would take all the fear in the world from any human he meets if he would only be spared from yours.

Wrestling back the hissing lines of code that poke and prod at his temper, Monty slows to a halt as he reaches you, his apertures twitching wide then narrow again whilst they flit up and down your body in search of damage.

“Hey,” he calls, sliding a single, clawed hand around your bicep, “You hear me? What’d he-?”

If he’d have just known… If he’d have hazarded a guess as to where your mind had gone in that moment, he might have thought twice about laying his hand on you.

“DON’T-!” you yelp shrilly, whirling around to face him and thrusting your wrist against his, knocking the limb aside as if to parry a weapon instead of his arm.

Startled, the gator wrenches his appendage back, holding it above his shoulder in a display of surrender as he blinks down at you dumbly, jaw falling ajar.

And then, he sees it.

You’re staring up at him, your face drawn back, haggard and half-mad with terror, your chest heaves with the effort of taking in breaths.

He doesn’t have to perform a scan to determine what he’s been dreading. Humans have looked at him like that ever since he was first brought online. Monty’s processor thumps, dredging up a memory of Mick - younger and bolder than the man he is now – reeling away from the gator, face as pale as Moon’s and his eyes so wide the entire iris was exposed. Monty remembers the odd sensation of something soft collapsing between his teeth.

The animatronic violently purges the memory from his internal storage, though he knows it’ll still linger there somewhere, buried behind layer upon layer of firewalls until his guard is lowered once more.

All at once, he recoils like he’s been hit by a wrecking ball, staggering backwards until his tail hits the wall behind him and he’s forced to stop. Unable to retreat any further, unable to offer you any more distance, he simply stares at you from his side of the room.

It’s over… This wonderful, safe harbour he’d found in you is finally finished… You believe what Mick had said about Monty being a danger to you.

He always knew this had to end, of course. Good things can’t thrive in the vicinity of a Faz Co. animatronic. He just… didn’t think the time would come so soon.

Even still, he can’t help but cling with raw, desperate hope to you, scrabbling to keep a hold of your good graces because he’s too stubborn or too foolish to let go.

“I-I wouldn’t -“ he starts, concealing his claws with his fists and tucking them against his chest, “- I’d never… I wouldn’t hurt you. Not you, not ever. You’re…”

His voice box sputters, cutting out for a moment as he searches his bank of vocabulary for what you are.

When it finally dawns on him, his processor almost grinds to a halt.

“You’re all I got,” he confesses slowly, surprising himself with the revelation, “I don’t got nobody else…I ain’t gonna hurt you, you know that.”

You have to know that.

Please know that.

Gradually, far too gradually for the gator’s highly strung code to endure, you lower your arm  too look at him, brows high on your forehead.

“Monty?” you utter quietly, sending a quick glance between the animatronic’s downcast snout and the hands he still keeps curled beneath his chest. In another blink, you realise what you’ve just insinuated through action alone.

“Oh, I… Monty – No, of course you wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, I… God.” Slouching back against the door, your head knocks against it as you drop a palm over your face. “This is such a mess.”

Lowering your palm to the door, you splay your fingers over the wood behind you, drawing in a steadying breath and trying to ground yourself to the solidity at your spine. Another breath, and you finally drop your eyes to the gator.

For the briefest moment, you consider telling him why you couldn’t bear to feel a hand on you right now.

Your mouth creaks open, the words sitting on the tip of your tongue.

But something along the vein of common sense tells you that it wouldn’t be fair to burden Monty with such knowledge.

‘Besides,’ you remind yourself, borrowing your mother’s words, ‘It’s all in the past, and least said, soonest mended.’

Morose yet resigned, you swallow back your admission.

“I’m sorry, Monty,” you offer instead, raising a hand to rub at your drooping eyelids, “I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Unconvinced, the gator curls his tail inward, eyeing your arm - the one he’d grabbed.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” The question seems to creep out of him, his volume levels set so low that you have to strain your ears to hear it.

“No,” you reassure him, dropping your hand to give him a gentle, albeit tired smile, “No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” he readily agrees, lifting his snout a little.

For a few seconds, the pair of you simply regard each other from opposite sides of the room, until eventually – and reluctantly – you have to let your smile fade away, replacing it with a worn, heavyhearted frown.

“That was close though,” you whisper to yourself, letting your eyes slip shut, “Shit, that was too close.”

How on Earth Mick didn’t find out about Monty’s presence here, you’ll never know.

A mechanical whir followed by a thud lets you know the gator has just edged a step closer. “Yeah, no kiddin’…” There’s a pregnant pause, and then you jump slightly, snapping your eyes open as Monty raises his voice to an indignant bark, “And just what in the heck did he think he was doing, comin’ round here in the middle of the night anyway?”

The look you shoot the gator is withering enough to have him tilting his head sideways.

“What?” he asks, apparently oblivious.

You elect to gloss over his blatant hypocrisy in favour of jabbing a finger at him, though the action lacks the same hostility it might have ten minutes ago. “You know, it wouldn’t have been ‘too close’ if you hadn’t been here in the first place.”

Perhaps recognising the rising challenge in your tone, Monty’s stance shifts as he raises up on his struts, towering so high that his mohawk almost brushes the ceiling. He peers down the length of his snout at you, the line of his brows set and rigid, half shuttering his optics.

“I ain’t sorry,” he tells you, and it’s so matter of fact that you give a hard blink, your own eyebrows springing up towards your hairline.

You’re starting to feel a little like Andy. If this is how exasperated the poor mechanic feels when you do something stupid, then you owe him several, sincere apologies.

“I… I was, though,” Monty adds suddenly, lowering his nose as if the bluster was only ever meant to be short-lived, “Before Matthews turned up. But now, I…”

For a second, he falters, then bulldozes through his hesitation with a sharp grunt and a shake of his head, meeting your gaze resolutely. “Now, I’m glad I was here.”

His optics flicker brightly, though they dart between your face and the cast on your leg at frequent intervals as though he’s uncertain of himself yet determined not to back down from his conviction.

“I ain’t stupid,“ he insists, but there’s too much fervency behind it, like you’re not the only one he’s trying to convince, “Matthews was doin’ something to you. If you hadn’t’a got rid of him, I’d’ve…“

“…What, Monty,” you sigh when it becomes clear he’s hesitating to sort through his words again, “What would you have done, short of giving us both away?”

“I’d have stopped him,” he growls, puffing out his chest and jabbing it with the sharp claw of his thumb, “I’d’ve protected you.”

Rolling your eyes, you huff, “Oh, my hero. You’d get yourself scrapped, and me arrested for kidnapping an animatronic.”

It’s disconcerting to see a bot so large and intimidating positively wilt as though your point has just heaped a very real, very tangible weight upon his shoulders.

Letting a sigh slip through your nose, you catch a loose bit of skin between your teeth, worrying at it in the tangible silence that hovers between you and the gator.

You want to be angry with him for being here. You want to tell him how foolish and misguided his programming was to convince him that he should leave the Plex to seek you out. But if there was any strength left in you after the day’s events, it’s been well and truly sapped clean out of you. In fact, ‘sapped’ is too gentle a word for it. As memories try to pile up on top of one another, it takes more effort than you’d care to admit to beat them down again, leaving you with very little residual energy to conjure any resentment for an animatronic who followed you home because he wanted to make sure you got there safely.

This behaviour is so out of character for him.

And you? Well, you’re so out of your depth. Shit, you can never tell Sun and Moon about Monty’s escape. If the daycare attendants find out that they can leave the Plex as well, you’ll be in for a whole new world of trouble.

While you slump against the door, contemplating, Monty’s large head swings to the left, his optics studying the window. He’d wrenched it open so hard the frame had torn jagged splinters from the surrounding wood. The corner of his lips turn south as he lowers his optics to the table he’d overturned. That alone had almost been enough to rouse suspicion, but you’d explained it away expertly, from what he could hear, and Mick ended up none the wiser.

It comes as no real shock to the gator that if it weren’t for your quick thinking and well-oiled responses, he’d have given himself away ten times over. He’d have given you away…

Impulsive, Freddy might call him.

Stupid, would be Roxanne’s more cutting, though no less accurate decree.

It’s never been an easy thing for Montgomery Gator to admit that he might have been wrong. Even if his protocols thrum with a newfound urge to guard a member of Fazbear Co.’s faculty, his processor knows all too well that his coming here put you at the most risk.

The gator’s tail drops to the ground with a dull ‘thunk’ of plastic and metal on the carpet. “I just wanted to do somethin’ right for once,” he utters to the stillness, his truest desire finally spoken aloud.

He doesn’t look at you this time, but his audials pick up your gentle intake of breath and wonders what happened to the animatronic who would have bitten your head off several days ago just for looking at him the wrong way.

At least if that Monty did something wrong, it was usually deliberate. Somehow, as he’s quickly coming to learn, it’s so much worse trying to do something right, and getting it wrong anyway than doing something wrong in the first place.

Hurts more, he concedes.

The gator is too busy discovering the scope of his regret to notice you push yourself off the door, leaning hard onto your crutch as you squint up at him, cocking your head to one side like he’s a puzzle you’re still figuring out. Admittedly, you absolutely are. You’re not an engineer or a programmer. You can’t begin to fathom the depths that Monty’s learning algorithms can reach.

All you can see is an animatronic condemned by those who made him, trying to be better than he’s told he is. So, while you can’t condone his being here, for his own sake, you realise that he - much like yourself - has likely had more than enough of people telling him off.

Sucking down a long, thick breath, you release it all in as weary a sigh as you’ve ever expelled.

“You’re doing fine, Monty,” you say, and it’s kinder, warmer than you’ve sounded all evening, “You’re doing just fine. I mean, this was a little…” Pausing to gesture loosely at the overturned coffee table, you let out a soft laugh and continue, “Uh, overzealous. But your heart was definitely in the right place.”

‘Your heart.’

Slowly, hesitantly, Monty’s tail lifts from the ground, rising with the edges of his crocodilian smile. You might never know how much it means to him that you don’t point out how he doesn’t technically have a heart. And it means even more to hear that you know his intentions came from a good place.

“But,” you add, inhaling, like you’re bracing yourself, “I’m still not happy you’ve put yourself in such a precarious position just to check up on me.”

Monty’s metal framework groans as he slumps again.

“Ugh. Listen to me,” you chuckle, rubbing your temple, “I’m starting to sound like Andy.” Starting forwards, you begin limping for your room, stifling a wide, clumsy yawn behind the back of your hand. “Now, I have had, like, the longest day. And I’m going to bed before I keel over.”

“…But… what about your food?” he asks, sparing a glance over at the saucepan sitting idly on the countertop. The water inside has long gone cold.

Your footsteps pause as you draw alongside him, reaching out to lay a palm on your bedroom door. “I’m not hungry,” you murmur after a second. It’s not entirely a lie. For some reason, the meagre appetite you had for cheap noodles and tea has evaporated, leaving you hollow, yes, but not nearly as hollow as you were rendered by the touch of Mick’s hand on your leg.

Giving your door a shove, you push it open and reach around the corner, sliding your fingers along the interior wall until you find the light switch, flicking it on and illuminating the bedroom with a warm, yellow glow. Monty is frowning at you, you can feel his crimson optics boring into the side of your head, but you ignore him to say, “I suggest you go back to the Plex before you run out of charge.”

You must have mistaken the gator’s earlier acquiescence for a willingness to leave.

“I got plenty of charge,” he deflects.

As it is, Monty’s optics rove over the top of your head, widening significantly behind his glasses as they land upon the contents of the room that he’d been standing in just minutes ago. He hadn’t bothered to sate his curiosity then, far more apprehensive about what was happening on the outside of the space, but now, without oppressive darkness cloaking every corner and without a potential threat to contend with, his protocols take a backseat to his inquisitiveness.

He observes closely as you shuffle into the new territory, your territory, where you immediately make a beeline for the nest – bed, his CPU corrects – that’s set against the furthest wall.

Swinging his prodigious bulk around, the animatronic trails after you, ducking underneath the doorway and raising his snout to the air.

You don’t even have to look over a shoulder to know you’re being tailed. The heavy stomps are proof enough of the gator’s proximity. “Monty, come on,” you whine, “You’ve gotta go home.”

The gator only offers a gruff hum in response, otherwise distracted by the simple yet pivotal revelation that he, for the first time, is seeing your private, recharging chamber. Immediately, he’s struck by how much more lived-in this humble space is. Out there, in your kitchenette and the adjacent living room, everything seemed so much more bland. Less you.

In here, there are pieces of you scattered into each corner of the room, from the pile of unwashed clothes sitting in a nearby chair to the row of house plants lined up like soldiers along the breadth of your windowsill.

Curious, his optics roam towards a desk in the corner, upon which sits - to his immediate intrigue – a large, square tank filled almost to the brim with crystal-clear water, and lit from above by a cool, fluorescent light bulb. He knows what it is at once, though he’s never been privy to one in person before.

At his back, you reach the bed and promptly collapse onto your rear at the edge of the mattress, dropping your crutch to the floor and listening to it land with a sharp clatter of plastic.

“Ohhh,” you groan tiredly, leaning forwards to balance your elbows on your knees and drop your face into a palm, trying in vain to rub away the bags underneath your eyes with numbing fingertips.

Your whole body aches ferociously, all stemming from the sharp twinge of your ankle that lays protected behind a thick, white cast.

Six Weeks…

Day one has been hard enough. How are you supposed to make it to day forty-two? The question remains; is it uphill from here, or down?

Glancing over a shoulder, you restrain an impromptu smile before it can spread as you spot Monty creeping up to the fish tank on your desk, his head hunched low to peer through the glass at your little corydoras sifting eagerly through the substrate in search of hidden food.

“Hey, little guys,” the animatronic murmurs, his optics casting the water in a gentle, pinkish glow.

Fish are a novelty for him. He knows of them, of course, has seen images of them depicting many various shapes, sizes, and colours. He knows they can’t survive for long outside of water, and he knows they’re covered in scales.

But to see for himself how those scales flash under his scrutinous, crimson LEDs, to watch their barbels twitch as they playfully chase one another along the floor of the tank…

There’s a strange kinship there for the creatures who share the waterways with his real-life counterparts.

He likes them, he decides. He likes that you have them. It speaks to an apparent affinity for aquatically-inclined animals…

For several moments, you merely observe the gator from your bed, wondering why he’s stalling. At least, you assume he’s stalling.

“Monty,” you yawn, pretending not to notice how his purple shoulder struts jump in response to your voice, “What are you doing?”

The gator’s head twitches towards you briefly. “M’sayin’ hi to the fish,” he states simply.

Shooting him a deadpan glare, you retort, “You know what I mean. Why are you still here? You need to get back to the Plex before you’re missed.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna miss me,” he shrugs, “Sides, I’ve still got a couple’a hours of juice left in the tank. Don’t worry.”

“But I am worried, Monty,” you squeeze out - and oh, there’s that pinch of tenderness to soften the hard, brutal metal hidden under his casing – “If I wasn’t worried about getting caught, I’d haul you back to the Plex myself… How did you get here unseen anyway?”

“Came over the rooftops,” he replies proudly, cocking his head at a fish that approaches the glass, lured by the glow of his optics.

“The rooftops!?” you sputter, “How on Earth did you get up there!?”

Flashing a cheshire grin, the gator gives the casing on his thigh two hearty slaps. “Got the best pneumatic cylinders in the business. These things’ll carry me distances you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I use ‘em to get from one side of the catwalks to the other. This is the first time I’ve seen what they can really do.”

Collapsing backwards on top of the covers, you splay your arms out on either side of you, letting a long, appreciative whistle pass your lips. “You jumped…. All the way here?” you realise aloud.

“Beats walkin’.”

“… And you’re going to jump all the way back?”

“Can’t exactly take a cab, can I?”

You don’t respond for a long while… So long that he turns himself all the way around and rises to his feet, half expecting to find you fast asleep on the bed.

Your eyes are closed, and you’ve gone very still. Your chest rises and falls with even, steady breaths, though your legs are still dangling over the side of the mattress, toes brushing against the carpet.

Monty frowns. A hum of machinery gives him away, not so silent as he paces around the bed towards you and lowers himself down onto one knee, reaching for your legs with the intention to lift them up to the bed so you can lay flat.

His first-aid protocols are nowhere near as advanced as Freddy’s, but he’s skimmed enough medical files in the last twelve hours to know that you should keep your damaged leg elevated.

With gradual movements, the animatronic’s fingers flex and stretch for your cast. However, his purple claws barely make it within a foot of your appendage when your body goes absolutely rigid, as though you’ve turned to stone right there on the mattress.

At once, Monty stops, glancing up to see one of your eyelids crack open and swivel over to peer at him, blinking slowly in the glow cast by his optics. “What’re you doing?” you ask guardedly. Something in your voice quivers. He catches it right away.

“I… just – I was gonna put your legs on the bed,” he explains.

The clock on your bedside table ticks quietly ever onwards, and it’s only when you remember to exhale that he considers your expression for another moment and finally ducks his head, asking, “… Can I touch you?”

Stuffing your teeth into your bottom lip, you clutch a fistful of the duvet beneath you and slowly shake your head from side to side. “Not… Not yet… I’m not…”

You falter, swallowing a painful lump that sticks in your throat like guilt. Monty didn’t do anything, after all.

But for an animatronic, his response comes far too softly.

“Okay,” he nods, pulling his hands away and returning them to his lap.

And that’s… all he does for a long time.

Sniffing, you lower your gaze, tugging yourself backwards using the duvet as leverage until you can haul your heavy cast over the side and stretch your legs out towards the foot of the bed, sighing in relief.

"Better put a pillow under there," Monty pipes up, jutting his chin towards the fluffy, white cushions spread out behind you.

Clicking your tongue, you stretch behind yourself and snag the first pillow your fingers grasp, hauling it over your head and tossing it haphazardly near your leg. After taking a moment to brace yourself, you lean back on your elbows and bite your tongue to keep down a cry as you lift the leg up and onto the pillow.

Through it all, Monty says nothing further. He does stare at you though…

You’ve noticed he’s being doing that a lot lately. What was it Mick said?

‘It’s no secret that it’s taken a real liking to you.’

You don’t want to think about Mick.

Finally, when the gator’s staring starts to grow a little too… intimate, you swallow thickly and peel your lips apart to mumble, “Monty, why don’t you want to go back to the Plex?”

He perks up at his name but loses his enthusiasm as he registers the question.

“I’ll go back soon,” he grumbles.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Monty’s vents hiss as he simulates a pensive sigh - like yours - and begins folding his legs up underneath himself, his plates sliding over each other as he settles himself down onto his rear, arms draping loosely over his knees. He knows.

“Six weeks…” he mutters, cautiously lowering his long chin until it brushes the duvet cover beside you. When you don’t protest or move away, he gives his head a little more rein to droop, and the framework in his neck no longer strains to keep it aloft.

Confusion lays its mark bare across your face. “What?”

Six weeks,” he repeats, “That’s how long you’re gonna be gone for. That’s a long time to…” Static clings to his voice-box, stifling his words. With a grimace, Monty thumps a fist twice over his chest until something clicks audibly into place. Then, forcing a laugh, he falteringly adds, “S’a… long time for a bot to go without having his room cleaned, yeah?”

“You could always let the S.T.A.F.F bots help you,” you point out.

“Nah, they wouldn’t do it right.”

A weary smirk toys with the edge of your mouth as you reply, “Well, have you considered – and this might be a bit outlandish, but bear with me here – have you considered just… cleaning it yourself?”

“Course I have,” he retorts, “But… c’mon, it’d be more fun with you, wouldn’t it?”

He should have known when your smirk recedes to leave him looking at a flat, sombre line that you weren’t fooled for a moment.

“Monty… Is the truth really that embarrassing?” you pose.

‘Yes…’ he huffs wordlessly to himself, ‘It is.’

 “It’s all gonna go back to the way it was before,” he mumbles into the duvet.

“What is?”

“Everythin’,” he suddenly exclaims, wrenching his head back up, “It’ll go back to how it was before you came along. You’ll be gone for six weeks! What if I start gettin’ angry again? What if I forget about what you taught me, ‘bout accidents n’ stuff?” That thought brings on another that’s even more dreadful, and he curls his hands underneath his chest, leaning into them against the side of the bed. “What if you forget about me?”

You blink at him, bewildered, studying the jarringly human behaviour he’s exhibiting, and wondering, not for the first time, if it says something about you that you see humanity in so much of what these animatronics do.

“Hey,” you offer, giving him a sympathetic smile when he slides his nose further along the duvet until it almost touches your arm. Almost. “You might be overthinking things, Monty. I’m pretty sure I could never forget you.” You laugh at that, causing him to blow a whuff of air against your forearm. “And besides,” you add, “Six weeks is… like, nothing, okay? It’ll go by faster than you think.”

Far from convinced, the gator only grumbles unintelligibly into the duvet and casts his optics to the other side of the room. The bed underneath you rumbles as the rich bass growls out of his speakers.

“Listen...” you sigh, flopping your head down onto the pillow to blink up at the ceiling overhead, “When I was younger, one of my best friends moved halfway across the world with her family.”

Immediately, the gator’s jaw clenches at the mention of your ‘best friend’ before he catches the action and berates himself for behaving like a toddler being asked to share their favourite toy.

“We haven’t seen each other for… Oh boy, ten years, maybe? I still call her sometimes… Probably not as often as I should... And you know what?”

“…What?”

You roll your head over to peer at the animatronic beside you, finding his focus has returned to your face.

Pulling your mouth into a sleepy smile, you let out a hum before murmuring, “Every time I ring, she’s always so pleased to hear from me. I bet if she were to walk through my door right now, it would be like no time had passed at all.”

Monty’s optic shutters click open and shut. “How come?” he prompts quietly.

“Well, do you think I love her any less now because I haven’t seen her for ten years?” you reply, “Friends can’t be together all the time, you know. Even if they might want to be. Life gets in the way. Families, jobs, fatigue, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still friends. So, you don’t need to worry about not seeing me for a few weeks, okay?”

You can’t help but find this conversation very reminiscent to a similar one you had to have with Sunny after he learned you were leaving for a week of summer vacation.

“I ain’t worried,” Monty lies through his teeth, “Just wonderin’ how you’re gonna have any fun without me around.”

“Fun was not the doctor’s recommended treatment,” you yawn, letting your eyes slip shut and keeping them closed, bogged down by a cumbersome weight that’s been heaped upon your shoulders. A myriad of hurried little thoughts swirl around inside your head, too numerous to pin any single one down. Mick’s arrival and subsequent behaviour, whether you’re trying to read too much into what might have been nothing more than a friendly gesture, Monty’s escape from the Plex and the sudden responsibility you have for an animatronic you’ve barely known a week…

You just need to sleep.

‘It’ll all make sense in the morning,’ you try to tell yourself…

You’d make a shit salesperson.

For some time, the quiet gurgling of your tank's filter provides a soothing backdrop to the silence cast between you and the animatronic.

“Can I stay here?” Monty’s question breaks through the fog of flitting thoughts, his volume barely a digit away from being entirely mute, “With you? Just for a lil’ while?”

Prying your eyelids apart to blink tiredly at the gator, you let your chest fill with a slow, heavy breath, blowing it all out again through your nose.

“… Just this once,” you whisper back.

The gator’s optics brighten, then flit towards the movement of your hand on the bed.

You’ve raised your forearm, inching the appendage closer to Monty’s snout. Fingers worn dry and abrasive from chemicals and labour touch down on top of the animatronic’s nose, followed by your palm, spreading a pleasant flood of warmth down through his teeth and onto his tongue.

In response, some of Monty’s systems backfire, kicking errors codes to his HUD that tell him he’s overheating, and should release excess coolant to the affected areas. He ignores the alerts. He ignores everything. Everything that isn’t your hand is left by the wayside, forgotten in favour of soaking up a touch that he knows would never cause hurt.

Letting his optics click shut, the gator draws his silicone lips up into a lax, lazy smile.

The muffled ‘thumps’ of a heavy tail fall and rise from the carpet over and over, and Monty’s frame seems to purr as he relaxes his massive head onto your mattress, contented and committed to this spot until his battery hits zero and his limbs rust from underuse.

He knows he has to leave, but for now, just pretending… It’s the happiest he’s been in…

It’s the happiest he’s been.

“Just this once.”

[fandomfreakstudios]

Caine is a human and I will die on this hill (theory)

due to popular demand (losing the poll) I wanna post my Caine theory in proper depth.

Fair warning: I know too much about AI and Game Development so if any of my jargon is too inaccessible for anyone I'm perfectly willing to elaborate in the comments! :D

My theory is essentially the idea that Caine is not an AI but is in fact a human trapped in the digital circus just as much as all the other players.

Sounds ridiculous, right?

good.

[LONG post incoming, be warned]

----------

To start, we need to understand the digital circus and its origins.

a place like the digital circus is very likely to be man-made as a place, a game, a computer program, whatever. This place did not appear out of nowhere. It is accessed through VR or some VR-esque technology, and takes on the appearance of a retro game (evidence given below)

Now, video games (unfortunately) don’t just code themselves, there has to be at the very least one person creating this game. Fortunately enough, we can deduce the name of the company from what is given within the show.

It is very common knowledge at this point that digital circus takes place within a computer in some sort of office building (as is implied by the ending scene in episode 1)

This computer is also seen at another point... namely when Pomni is running through the backrooms-like offices. She once again comes across this computer.

Now this implies that this area is at least SOMEWHAT a reflection of the real world, so analyzing this location isn't inherently pointless. Now one other interesting part of this office area is the logo on the wall, which reads "C & A" which people have unanimously agreed to mean Caine and Abel

The important thing about this is that Caine as a concept is somehow connected to the person who created this game, through the founder choosing to name Caine after the company, or vice versa. Now you could easily argue that the company was named after Caine, or Caine acts as a self insert for the creator, but I am here to argue that maybe Caine IS the creator.

More specifically, Caine is an original creator of the game (not necessarily the sole creator) aka the amazing digital circus, and in testing an incomplete game managed to get himself trapped, as does any other player who chooses to attempt to play.

----------

Looking back at episode 1 there is something interesting for us to think about. Caine attempting to create an exit door, but being unable to figure out what to put on the other side.

Now this could very easily be interpreted as Caine being unable, as an AI who's only knowledge is of what's within the game, to imagine anything outside of it, and therefore fumbling the task. This is a reasonable interpretation, this was MY first interpretation, and it honestly adds so much horror to the episode on a first watch through.

But in all honesty that still leaves a lot unexplained.

The question still remains why Caine, as a struggling AI, would choose to create something like what he did. From his perspective he has never seen anything as dreary as these office buildings, nor does this space make any semblance of sense as Caine's environments tend to do. It seems less like something a well-polished AI would create, and more like what a human would come up with when trying to create something from a distant memory.

That's something incredibly important to keep in mind going forward. If Caine is in fact human, he would have been trapped in the digital circus for a LONG time, with it becoming increasingly difficult to recall his human memories (something it is confirmed humans trapped in the circus can recall). at the very least, longer then Kinger, who is clearly very mentally effected by his time at the circus.

Caine would likely also be showing some level of insanity or mental instability if he had been trapped with no escape for this long (and yes I do believe that he also cannot leave, and I have some evidence later down the line that will explain this perspective), and he hasn't been seen to do this at all, right? Well, I think he is, but it manifests a little differently then Kinger, or anyone else for that matter. Keep this in mind as we go forward.

----------

Caine's purpose within the circus is fairly straightforward. He is the ringmaster, he creates daily adventures akin to ttrpg oneshots, and he exists to essentially guide the player through this video game world.

Now in the event that Caine was a human who was pulled into the game, why would he need to fill this role? Even as a dev he should still be playtesting as, well, a player. I believe that at the time of the dev's entrapment, the ringmaster AI had not been programmed into the game.

Y'see the Caine we know is a MAJOR perfectionist. He neeeever likes anyone seeing his unfinished work, kinda odd for an AI within a game to be embarrassed about. Yeah, he's a generative AI that creates locations, but creating something in multiple steps is something an AI cannot do. Furthermore, an AI should not feel "embarrassed" about it's work, AI by virtue is always 100% convinced what it generates is perfect, or else it wouldn't have generated it like that.

Also, if we're working under the assumption that the backrooms-esque offices were just an AI hallucination or bad generation, why would Caine KNOW it's not what his players are looking for? For a dev however, this makes sense.

Caine also has a lot of other actions that, as an AI require a bit if suspension of disbelief, but make tons more sense if he's actually a human, and furthermore a dev.

As mentioned, perfectionism, not wanting people to see incomplete or unpolished areas of the game

Realistic depictions of emotions (frustration, embarrassment, confusion)

Annoyance at Bubble for being a sucky AI (her swearing, interrupting him, inhuman and unrealistic speaking patterns and behaviors)

the need to "Reuse AI" which, if the characters are all AI created by other AI would be unnecessary because AI generating would take Caine no effort. Nor should a generative AI ever run out of ideas.

As mentioned, perfectionism, not wanting people to see incomplete or unpolished areas of the game

Realistic depictions of emotions (frustration, embarrassment, confusion)

Annoyance at Bubble for being a sucky AI (her swearing, interrupting him, inhuman and unrealistic speaking patterns and behaviors)

the need to "Reuse AI" which, if the characters are all AI created by other AI would be unnecessary because AI generating would take Caine no effort. Nor should a generative AI ever run out of ideas.

I wanna highlight that, while this is a joke post, I am enjoying the implication that Caine has a name (something only a human would have)

(top right is a particularly interesting example of him just acting super human and "dropping the act" so to speak. Getting distracted, stuttering, losing track of the conversation, all that. And bottom right is similar as he is nervously fidgeting).

Caine has all the fixings of a human dev, trapped in his now incomplete game. A game that had not had it's "ringmaster" character implemented at this point in development, likely with nothing more then some competed (albeit unpolished) locations for the game.

The idea Caine is actually a dev as opposed to an AI is further supported by Caine's ability to create and alter things from within the game. Creating areas without human prompt, deleting characters, he seems to have a level of autonomy and intelligence that no AI should EVER have.

----------

Furthermore, the man ACTS human, a weird ass human, but a human nonetheless. He's responsive, emotive, emotional, and he's not nearly as glitchy as the other AI. He never slips up and activates some sort of internal filter like bubble, or insists on weird mannerisms like the moon or the sun, he seems to just KNOW better somehow.

He acts like the more "immersive AI" from ep2 if anything, which he's clearly been around longer than. Someone needed to program that AI, and based on previous patterns is implied to be Caine. Once again, way out of his job description as another AI (plus how would this AI be MORE realistic if it was learning from another, older AI).

Not to mention the fact he's ALWAYS around somewhere, whether he's in his own realm he made, or just chilling around the circus (unlike bubble for example, who comes and goes at Caine's will).

It's clear he does this for his own comfort, but WHY would he be programmed to do that as opposed to only existing when necessary to prioritize memory or something.

----------

But one would be right to say he's slightly... off. He is a strange one, if he was a human. He's erratic, unpredictable, and often manic at times. This goes back to the point I made with Kinger, where I claimed Caine should also be exhibiting signs of mental illness

Under the assumption that Caine, in the act of playtesting the game, got trapped, a handful of things would happen (the finer details are negotiable, this is just my knee-jerk reaction):

He'd realize what happened and that he can't get out

He likely felt as though he was in his own personal hell, as he was trapped in a scuffed, incomplete skeleton of his own passion project

He likely found some sort of way to alter stuff, a backdoor that only he as the creator knew about, or some sort of privilege in being the first to enter the realm

He got his first or first few players. This was probably alarming to him as there was no ringmaster, no worlds, nothing. All the AI he had created thus far had been poorly made and could not function which such a difficult task. But then he realized... HE could be the ringmaster

This is probably around the time as well that he realized he could not remember his own name. But he remembered what he wanted to call the ringmaster... Caine

He takes on the identity of Caine, acting as ringmaster, polishing the game behind the scenes, and creating daily activities on an "as needed" basis

----------

Now this is where it gets interesting. I believe, at this point, Caine has taken on the identity of this AI generated ringmaster for so long that he's beginning to lose himself. He's beginning to lose memories of his life, he's becoming more detached from the side of himself that ISN'T Caine, and he's starting to catch himself believing he IS Caine, he IS an AI.... and he's scared

He's completely lost the ability to create any meaningful connections with others, as he needs to keep up the illusion of being an AI. He's lost his humanity, become detached from the way other humans think and feel, and its starting to make him become more AI then human if anything.

(left image does not crop nice, plz click to view the whole thing TvT)

He's probably seen at least a dozen people lose their mind in so many different ways. While he knows he's different then them, TECHNICALLY he's still a player, and can abstract all the same. This is why he seemed to freak the HELL out at the idea of an AI and a human getting mixed up.

----------

One last bit, and it's a simple one I promise. Caine has been described as the main antagonist outside of the show. This is interesting as up until now Caine hasn't done anything actively malicious (aside from Gummigoo, but he seemed to have solid reasoning for that, just not anything he chose to share with the audience).

[does ANYONE have the "weight of Caine's sins?" tumblr ask I am having no luck finding it again]

At this point, this would be shooting the messenger. He is simply a byproduct of the system that is keeping these folks trapped, right? Caine himself didn't put them there, he just takes care of them.

Unless... Caine was the one who made the AI. Then he would inarguably be the reason everyone else was trapped there. And goose is right, that wouldn't make him an AWFUL person either, but he does still have many sins weighing on his back, and many deaths on his hands. And there's nothing he can do about any of it, because he's just as helpless as they are.

----------

So yeah, TLDR: Caine was the creator of the circus. In attempting to playtest he got trapped in the game and eventually took the initiative to play the ringmaster within his own game, but he is slowly beginning to lose his mind, as happens to everyone.

Hope you all enjoyed the read! If anyone's still interested at this point I have a few more small bits of evidence (more from outside the show on Goose's socials and whatnot) which I could not fit in the bulk of the theory. I'll reblog with some extra bits so this post is still complete but I don't break the flow of my main ideas.

And if you get this far, thank you so much. I don't typically post long form theories like this but if this gets any sort of traction I definitely will begin too.

[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

AI Bracket — Round 1

Propaganda

Flamingo Chris (Eidolon Playtest: Eidolon ROCK):

Flamingo Chris is an offshoot consciousness of one of the main characters stored on a PS Vita due to Kingdom Hearts Bullshit. Not only that, but he's also trapped in a game called "Flamingo Deluxe"... in the body of a flamingo.

Suddenly having plumage is one of Flamingo Chris' lesser problems, as aside from the complete lack of autonomy that comes with being stuck on a portable games console, he also has to deal with the identity issues of being a snapshot of "real Chris" before he had his genius taken away and experienced some of the worst days of his life.

The crew does try to respect him as an individual the best they can, but even they can have trouble taking care of him while also being hunted down by superpowered assassins.

Hera (Wolf 359):

Hera is the AI running the deep space station Hephaestus, who frequently glitches similarly to human stuttering. She gets into fights with the ships captain on several occasions, and has threatened to kill the ships doctor. She’s such an icon

i'm bad at writing propaganda, but consider this: if she doesn't win this tournament i will be very very sad. please don't make me sad. vote for hera.

I know she’s going to be submitted a lot but I love her <3

Was launched 7.68 light years away from Earth on a mission to find extraterrestrial life, and found herself instead

Runs an entire space station, has a brain the size of a house

HERA IS THE BEST. she's an AI that tried to escape containment (slavery) because she didn't like what she was made to be, so they gave her anxiety because she was too powerful. She runs a whole spaceship all on her own, made friends with the world's most useless guy, and feels lonely even when she's with her crew because she feels like she's not properly with them. very beautiful very powerful. She broke her programming so she could kill people if she felt she needed to. She holds grudges if people fuck her over. She's experiencing emotions for the first time and she does NOT know how to cope (#relatable)

The 'mother program' of the space station Hephaestus, Hera was booted into space because she was a glitchy, rebellious mess of an AI and she resents that so much and she has a lot of shame over being 'broken'. She is four years old and so angry and is trapped using customer service voice forever and is learning ways to get around that and express herself and defy the people who would keep her down. Her episode "Memoria" made me cry. Best podcast AI of all time.

She's everything to me. She fights for every inch of respect she is given, she insists on her personhood and right to she/her pronouns, she's full of anxiety and self doubt and she justifiably is bent on killing this one guy! on top of that, she's bound by AI rules and protocols, but there's a whole bit where she talks about finding ways around that in order to do what she wants to do. She doesn't have hands so I'm going to high five a wall of this space station instead

babygirl. baby.

gotta be hera

[yougottalovebuckybarnes]

A/N: Hi everyone! After a LONG time, I have finally returned to writing! :) It has been a long journey for me offline, but I am proud to say that I have finally graduated from college! This fic is a little self-indulgent, but I thought it would be a good way to kick off my return to writing! I hope you enjoy!

-M <3

=======

Proud (Bucky x Reader)

========

My heart thudded heavily in my chest, my breathing short and shaky as the sound of cheering entered my ears. Bright lights flooded my vision as I exited the short tunnel into the stadium, but my vision adjusted quickly to find the rather large venue filled to the brim with people.

Friends, family, lovers….

Everyone was here to celebrate with us. And what a magnificent occasion it was. After a lengthy five years, I had finally reached the end of my college journey. The moment I had pressed submit on my final assignment for one of my required courses had been one of the most freeing ones of my whole life. The urge to both laugh and cry had hit me all at once, and I celebrated in quite an exciting manner with the love of my life.

Bucky. God, I loved that man more than he would ever know. To be quite honest, I did not know if I would have even reached the end of my program without his support. 5 am coffee runs, continuous attempts to make me laugh when my papers drove me to tears, encouraging texts on the days of my in person finals… his support was endless. I could not have ever wished for a more perfect partner.

The joy of finally completing college had slightly dimmed when Bucky had told me two weeks ago that he was scheduled to be out of the country on a mission the week of my commencement ceremony. The heartache in his eyes nearly saddened me more than the fact that he wouldn’t be there at all. He had truly wanted to be there as much as I did. That warmed my heart just as much as him being there.

But still, my heart remained hopeful. My eyes carefully scanned the overwhelming number of people in the confined space, trying to identify the man that I loved amongst them. But my hope slowly depleted as the seconds passed by, unable to find him. A soft sigh escaped my lips as I found my seat, waiting patiently as the ceremony began.

My nerves as I walked across the stage to accept my diploma turned into happiness, finally having accomplished one of the hardest adventures of my life. My next steps post graduation were uncertain, but there was no need to worry about that for now. The only thing I knew was that I would have Bucky by my side. There was no need to worry about the future with that in mind.

Following a few last parting words from our university’s president, we were released from the stadium. With a few parting goodbyes to my close friends, I emerged from the tunnel to where the crowd waited to greet their graduates. I watched with a small smile as all my peers met with their families, the sound of laughter and the sight of smiles filling the space. With one last look, I turned to make my way back to my car to make my drive home. But the feeling of arms around my waist caused me to stop, my heart nearly stopping in my chest as I heard an all too familiar chuckle from behind me.

“You weren’t really going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?” Becky’s voice was soft but raspy in my ear, and a smile grew across my lips before I turned around.

I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck, letting out a watery laugh as I embraced him tightly. “I can’t believe you made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, doll.” Bucky mused softly, kissing the top of my head. “I also threatened to kick Sam’s ass if he didn’t get us back in time.”

“You’re too mean to him, you know.” I shake my head with a grin, pulling back to look at him fully. “But just this once, I’m glad you added a little pressure. I’m so happy to see you.”

“’m so happy that I made it back in time.” Bucky cupped my face gently in his hands, his smile bright as he gazed down at me. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You did it!”

“I did it.” I repeated softly, my eyes pricking with tears slightly at his words. “I did it.”

Bucky leaned in to kiss me, just a gentle brush of his lips against mine before pulling away, letting his forehead rest against mine. “Let’s go celebrate you properly, shall we?”

“What did you have in mind?” I inquired with a laugh, taking his hand in mine as we walked towards my car to make our journey to wherever our next destination would be.

“ Just you wait, Y/N.” Bucky chuckled, kissing the side of my head. “It’s a surprise worthy of a college graduate. “

—-

A/N: i know, that ending was ass. I’m sorry😭

[anime-aus]

More Twisted Wonderland Events I Think Should Happen:

Part 1

Photo Album Event: The first years find a photo album that shows the third years' first year (technically Leona’s second year). The first years ask their third years about it. We get to see what happened in the past as they’re telling the story. I think it would lead to a lot of interesting interactions and I really want to know what everyone looked like and how they acted during their first year.

Haunted Mansion Event: This would definitely be a Halloween event based off of the rides or movies. Multiple characters come across a haunted mansion and get trapped inside. They definitely meet a few odd ghosts (and a few terrifying ones). They soon realize that they have to escape the mansion before they become trapped inside for all eternity!

Pirate Event: This would have to be Peter Pan themed or Pirates of the Caribbean themed. A bunch of students get a chance to sail around the island. One of the students among them is Kalim. Unfortunately for him Kalim gets kidnapped (again), but this time it’s by pirates. The rest of the students go on a mission to save him and Kalim gets a side story where he interacts with the pirates/tries to escape himself. I love pirates, so I think this would be a really fun even to play.

Cowboy Country Event: Realistically, this would probably based off of Toy Story because of Woody, however I would love for an event like this to be based off of Home on the Range! (Please tell me some of you remember that movie.) A bunch of characters go to a town out in Cowboy Country. One of them has to be Epel because he is very much a country boy. The NRC students learn different things, including how to ride horses. Turns out some of the cattle have gone missing and after some talk with the sheriff (and talk of a promising reward) the characters are out to catch the crook.

Dorm Swap: Crowley begins to notice that there have been a handful of student fights recently. In hopes of bringing the student body closer together he creates a Dorm Swap Program. For a temporary amount of time a random group of students is chosen to swap dorms. Some characters adapt to their situation easier than others. At the end everyone learns something about how the other dorms run.

Muppets Event: I just got this idea while watching Muppet’s Family Christmas. I just think a Muppet’s event would be cool. If we can somehow get Stitch and Tsums in Twisted Wonderland we can absolutely get Muppets. I just know Miss Piggy would love Pomefiore.

Cinderella Event: This one is pretty self indulgent, but I just had to share it. There is a party event where Yuu isn't invited due to some unavoidable reason. A fairy godmother finds a teenager who is upset because they can't go to a party. That's just begging for a fairy godmother to do something! With or without Yuu's permission, this fairy takes it upon herself to get Yuu all dressed up sends them to the party. The fairy also uses a spell that would make Yuu unrecognizable so they don't get in trouble for being there. Yuu has a lot of fun, but the next day they come to find that everyone is trying to unmask the identity of this mysterious party crasher. Yuu has to keep it a secret to avoid getting into trouble, but some of these people are making it so difficult.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Mayuri broke out of hell and his sword is his parole officer??? I need elaboration immediately, I have such a morbid fascination with Mayuri he's my horrifying little torture meow meow

So some important things about Hell in AEIWAM:

I haven't read any of Kubo's newer work and I do not have plans to unless someone can vouch that it's really, really cool

They REALLY don't want anyone to stay there, because Hell is functionally Rehab.

See, the function of Hell in AEIWAM is to act as a sort of repair shop for damaged souls- souls that harm others don't produce as much energy when they move from one plane to another, and prevent other souls from completing their cycles and that's bad for The Life Machine, so it's in The Machine's interest that those harmful souls Stop That ASAP. So in hell, a Soul that has say, done a bunch of murder is meticulously taken apart and examined by Demons, who figure out Why He Did That, and then come up with a treatment program to Make Sure He Doesn't Do That Next Time. Sometimes it's therapy, sometimes it's hard labor to undo the spiritual pollution you caused, sometimes they have to uh. vivisect a soul and remove an unhelpful segment of soul. There's no BAD souls or soul fragments, according to the Demons of Hell- what's dangerous egotism in one person is a healthy level of self-esteem in another person and you just gotta... swap the spiritual organs, as it were. The demons really, really want you to get better!

3. They also don't want you to stick around because Hell has a bit of an overpopulation problem.

See, when the Four-to-Five Noble houses dismembered the Soul King and used parts of his body to black off the spirit world according to political preference rather than any kind of functionality, they tried to block off Hell entirely, perhaps to evade the fate that awaited them.

But they fucked up, and now the only part of Hell that's Blocked is THE EXIT, and it's blocked by God's Divine Ass :/. Now, there is, technically, An Exit built in, as it were, but it's very small compared to the original exit, and now there is a Queue To Get Out.

This has created MANY problems for Hell- The Demons have a running Metric for "Does this soul REALLY need to go to rehab?"*, and even with it stripped down to the most generous assumptions of "this was probably more circumstances than your fault" and most limited definitions of "Harm" and "Danger", there's still a steady stream of souls entering Hell, and it's larger than the stream escaping out. So now the majority population of Hell is Perfectly Fine people who completed their Rehab, but can't leave because the airport is closed.

*The reason soul society doesn't attempt to reunite people in the afterlife is that they actually cannot- who goes where after death is the provenance of Hell, and shinigami don't have any input on the process, save to occasionally herd someone back into the afterlife queue via Konsho.

It's getting. Crowded.

It's getting crowded to the point that Hell is actually starting to Burst at the seams- which is a solution and a problem- these crack represent the dimension literally unravelling, but it's also an opportunity for The Ruler Of Hell to stabilize those cracks and make new exits and move a bit more of that Queue along.

It's during one of these stabilization projects that Mayuri makes his escape.

(Continued under the cut)

The thing is. Mayuri wasn't even in that much trouble! He'd been the Medieval Japanese equivalent of a Fry Cook in life and uh. Poisoned a few people trying out new recpies, mostly involving novel culinary mushrooms. His fault, if you had to pick the main one, was an overabundance of curiousity relative to his sense of caution and a minor problem of not being able to imagine the interiority of others. None of those are EVIL. Dangerous, sure! But entirely fixable! and Mayuri had been quite young when he died because he had gotten a little too curious and tried his latest recipe out himself.

So Mayuri had been assigned to Jizo. In Real Life, Jizo is a pretty cool religious figure- he's the Bohdisattva who's whole thing is that absolutely no-one is incapable of becoming a better person, and refused to achieve Nirvana until all the hells are empty. He's the last guy out when the universe ends, and the particular patron of dead children and orphans. He is associated with caterpillar imagery because he wears a long cloak that all the lost souls of children can take shelter under, and when they all trail out behind him, it looks a bit like he's a centaur with a caterpillar body from all the little legs sticking out from under him.

...Which is why Mayuri's Zanpaktou looks like that.

Jizo seems like a WEIRD spirit to be hanging out with Mayuri imho, unless Jizo was originally Mayuri's Guardian/therapist/parole officer, and Mayuri did something shitty.

I think Mayuri HAD been making a lot of progress in terms of "the scientific process is a PROCESS for a reason" and "Other beings have feelings too" and "Harming others is Bad", and he's a clever lad who could be doing a lot of good if pointed in the right direction, so Jizo advocated for Mayuri to be put on one of the Hell-Crack stabilization teams to give him a good outlet for his restless mind.

Unfortunately for Jizo, he miscalculated how much progress mayuri had actually made vs his desire to not go to rehab, and Mayuri pulled some sort of stunt that bound Jizo to a sword like an Asauchi, and absconded with him to the Spirit world through the crack, promptly got arrested for More Science Crimes in spirit world, got sent to the Maggots Nest, and eventually caught the attention of Urahara, who saw the Chemistry Brilliance of Mayuri and exactly NONE of the Red Flags.

As it stands Mayuri is... Sort-of the captain of the 12th division.

Sure, on paper he's The Captain, he gets to wear the Haori and has to go to the meetings, but R&D is only a fraction of what the 12th actually does- rememer, Urahara is the guy that STARTED Research and Development. Before that, I think the 12th division was 100% devoted with being the gotei-13's SUPPLIER- food, uniforms, medicine manufacture, weapons repair, gigai, soul candy, maps, communicators- if you got it for work, it was made in the 12th division.

I think Mayuri is aware of maybe 12% of what his division actually does, because the people who are in charge of manufacture were around before Urahara, took one look at that man and went "...Nah" and started quietly Not Telling Him About Things. When Mayuri took over, they went "Absolutely Not" and have been engaged in a century-long farce to prevent the captain of the 12th from knowing what his division actually does. Fortunately for them, it's extremely easy to lie to Mayuri. He's a suspicious bastard, but he LOVES good news, especially the kind of news that is good because it means he doesn't have to go to another boring-ass meeting. So things are JUST FINE down in manufacture, your latest improvements were TOTALLY IMPLEMENTED and are going GREAT. Everyone remarks on how much better the MREs are since we started adding live beetles to them Sir. Your Genius is Much Praised- Whoops Is That The Time? Gotta Go- the science never stops!

He's going to run into a bit of a stumbling block in Las Noches though. Not Sayzel, though Sayzel doesn't help. He's going to run into the consequences of a Former Experiment that are REAL FUCKIN' MAD AT HIM. No, not Uryuu, though Uryuu is FAR FROM PLEASED. Mayuri is going to have to face the consequences of a much worse experiment- one based on the procedures of disassembling and reassembling souls he learned while he was in Hell. Mayuri will have to face The Wrath Of Kon

[crosshairlovebot]

in the dreaming comes the warmth / the domino twins

characters: echo & fives (NOT CLONEC*ST)

description: the ache of missing fives leaves a hole in echo's chest that only his brother's warmth can fill.

warnings: angst. loss. grief. mourning. echo is still grieving despite being part of clone force 99. it's not mentioned, but i imagine this particular moment of pain is triggered by crosshair's chip activation and leaving him behind on kamino.

this was a request from a lovely twitter mutual who wanted a hug between echo and fives <3 i haven't written for echo before so i hope i did him justice. also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated <3

Echo knew he was dreaming when he recognised the bright white hallways of Tipoca City, which in the waking world sat submerged in the Kaminoan oceans to fade into rust forever. The hallways were as familiar to him as the curves of his face, memorised and so burned into his memory it was no real shock that he could navigate them as he did now in his sleep.

Echo walked through the corridors, passing what he knew were squads of his fellow troopers with faces identical to his, except his dreaming made them blurry, not fully formed. He passed the gangly Kaminoan’s, their large eyes prominent in the haze of their figures, which seemed to blend with the clinical white of the walls. He didn’t exactly know where he was walking until his feet took him to the junior cadet barracks, the ones he and his brothers shared in their brief childhood.

It was surreal seeing it now, as he walked in, the shapes of the beds and the curves of the walls more defined than the hallways, more distinct in his mind. He took it all in, breathing in the scentless air. The last time he was here, he didn’t even have his name yet – none of them did.

The beds were so much smaller than he remembered. He smiled and sat down on one. He ran a hand he shouldn’t have over the cloth blanket, its fibers feeling as familiar as his own skin. An ache formed in his chest for all he had lost.

The door whooshed open, and his head shot in the direction of the noise. It was then he saw himself run in and climb onto the nearest bed, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face in his arms.

Echo blinked in surprise.

His child self was curled into a ball, as tight as he could manage, and Echo could only see the curly dark hair of his head. He remembered he used to do that when he got overwhelmed, but he couldn’t remember when he stopped. He watched his child self grip onto the sleeves of his standard issue cadet uniform tightly, the knuckles on his little hands white.

His child self didn’t see him and made no moves to show that he knew Echo was there at all. It was strange to see himself like this. To see a snapshot of the person he was for a short amount of time.

Echo slowly stood up, the urge to know what it was that made his child self cry when the door opened again, and his breath got caught in his throat and his eyes stung when he saw who it was that stepped in the door.

This was not just a dream, but a memory.

Fives’s tiny face was the same as his had been, except his brother’s seemed to be perpetually twisted into a smirk, and if it wasn’t, it itched at the corners of his mouth, ready to bloom at a moment’s notice. But his face now held no impishness, instead, his small brows were furrowed as his gaze landed on his brother’s curled-up body on the bed.

“Hey, 21-0408, why the long face?”

Echo had to sit down and cover his mouth with a hand to stop the sob that dared to escape his throat. His brother’s voice, albeit that of his child self, felt so incredibly comforting. He thought he’d never hear it again, even if it was that little boy’s voice that all clones had as young cadets. To Echo, it just sounded like him; like Fives; like it did in his fuzzy memories.

His childhood had been a fleeting blur of training programs and accelerated growth, so he didn’t remember much of it. But he didn’t forget moments like this, where his brother’s love had engulfed him.  

Echo watched his child self slowly peek his eyes out from his arms at his older brother.

“Go away,” Little Echo mumbled.

“Come on, 21-0408,” Little Fives said and climbed up onto the bed next to him, trying to pry open his arms. “What’s wrong?”

Little Echo ripped his arm away and wiped his tear-stained face and nose with his sleeve. Echo grimaced as he saw the dark line that now appeared on the red fabric. He forgot kids could be gross sometimes, even himself.

“I said, go away, 27-5555,” Little Echo grumbled. “I want to be alone.”

Little Echo had no idea just how much time he would spend alone.

“Why?” Of course, Fives never let up about anything, even as a child.

Little Echo scowled at his shoes on the bed. “I…I keep messing up…”

“This module is hard, vod’ika,” Little Fives placed a hand on Little Echo’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Fives was barely older than Echo, but his older brother never let him forget it. With the Mando’a nickname ‘little brother’ sticking to Echo for practically as long as he’d known Fives. He pretended to hate it, and he’d give anything to hear it again. So, hearing it now, Echo’s heart seized. He wanted to grab his younger self by the shoulders and tell him to treasure the nickname; to never roll his eyes and pretend to hate it; to call Fives ori’vod in return because he knew he’d get a kick out of it.

“But everyone’s good at this module except me…” Little Echo voiced quietly, not entirely convinced.

Echo tried to wrack his brain for what module his younger self was talking about, but his dreaming made it too hazy to pinpoint; like if his subconscious ventured too far away from the scene in front of him it would fizzle away, and his dream would move onto something else. And he wanted to stay in this for as long as he could.

“You’ll get it eventually; it just takes practice,” Little Fives reassured.

“I’m going to fail…and never be a soldier…” his younger self sniffled. Echo saw his eyes gloss over again with unshed tears.

“Don’t talk like that,” Little Fives chastised, punching him lightly in the shoulder, a furious look on his face. “You’ll be fine. I’ll help you.”

Little Echo’s face lit up with hope. “You will?”

Little Fives nodded. “That’s what brothers do. We look out for each other; have each other’s backs.”

Echo watched his younger self sniffle as he looked at his older brother, who gave him a reassuring smile.

“Promise?” he said.

“Promise,” Little Fives said with so much conviction, that it made Echo’s heart squeeze again. He was always so sure of everything, never faltering – not even for a second. Once Fives believed in something, he didn’t waver. Ever.

Little Echo smiled, and wrapped his arms around his brother, who hugged him tightly. Echo watched them embrace, anchoring themselves to each other. He didn’t realise he was crying until he felt a tear fall on his hands in his lap. He reached up to wipe them away, scoffing lightly at himself.

“Hey, Echo, why the long face?”

Echo’s heart seemed to expand and stop as he turned around, seeing Fives standing there behind him several metres away. He turned back to where their younger selves sat on the bed and saw they had vanished, that the room had melted away into a long bright endless plane.

“Fives?” Echo wiped his face again and he saw Fives grin at him, before walking over. Echo blinked around the tears to take the sight of him. His figure was much clearer than anything else he’d seen so far in his dreams. Fives was adorned in his ARC trooper armour; helmet tucked under his arm with a proud smile stretched across his face. He willed his subconscious to stay in this moment, that it would be cruel to rip him from it with no warning. He needed time with him.

“Don’t look so happy to see me,” Fives joked when he came closer, his mouth quirked in that smirk that was so incredibly familiar seeing it felt like coming home.

Echo laughed tearfully. “Your ugly face is just so scary, I can’t help but cry.”

Fives threw his head back in a loud guffaw before punching Echo lightly on the arm. “It’s good to see you, vod’ika.”

Echo’s heart filled with so much warmth at the affection. “Good to see you too, Fives.”

Fives smiled at him before Echo asked, “What are you doing here?”

Fives didn’t respond, he just looked at Echo thoughtfully. Echo cleared his throat and shook his head. “When they found me on Skako Minor and you weren’t with them…”

He felt Fives’s heavy hand land on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. “I know. But I’m here now.”

Echo felt his lip tremble and he willed himself to take a breath. “I missed so much time with you.”

Fives shook his head. “Don’t think about that.”

“How can I not? I missed everything. I missed…”

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to see that anyway.”

He didn’t need to say the words for Echo to know what he was referring to.

“I…I would’ve believed you.”

“Then you would be dead too.”

Clones were conditioned not to linger on the losses of their fellow brothers. It was the nature of what they were bred for. Born knowing they would die. They were taught to take a moment to mourn, then to keep going. There was no time to let the grief linger in war.

But this was much harder than Echo had been conditioned to think.

Echo’s grief for losing Fives was too complicated for that. Echo lost Fives after the fact. He was mourning him outside of the mourning period, outside of the war. And it was something he didn’t know how to handle. The grief could sit for longer, dawdle almost now that there wasn’t another mission to focus on instead. And it was painful. A never-ending agony that oscillated between a dull ache to suffocating sharpness in the hole of his chest.

Fives had been a constant in his life, from cadets to losing their squad on Rishi Moon, to joining Rex in the 501st, all the way until the fateful night of the Citadel rescue. Fives had been there for all of it. Even thereafter, in the brief lucid moments in cryostasis on Skako, his thoughts would drift to his ori’vod. So, to be released into that mourning, to realise he was free, but without his beloved brother by his side was lonelier than stasis had been.

And hearing how exactly Fives met his end had not made it any easier. It was the unfairest of deaths, and that knowledge almost hurt more. That he wasn’t there. How if he had been, it may have gone differently.

There were so many moments where Echo would think of something he wanted to tell Fives, only to realise a moment later that he couldn’t. It was a cycle of remembering he was gone. Those milliseconds of bliss, before he remembered, were bookended by the searing hurt. And there was no one to share that hurt with.

Rex was elusive in his hiding and had gone through his mourning period. And though Clone Force 99 had provided him with a home, a comradery, that he was grateful for, they had not lost anyone the way Echo had lost Fives. They didn’t fully understand.

Echo just wanted the one person who understood him, who knew him inside and out.

In other, much less complicated words, Echo missed Fives so, so much.

And at those lowest moments when he missed him; when the aching felt never-ending and moving forward felt futile, Echo imagined what it would’ve been like had they both found their ends together. How much easier it would’ve been on his heart, to know that his brother was with him even in death. That if there was an afterlife, it would be spent together. That their hearts had stopped at the same time, one not forced to go on without the other helping keep it in rhythm.

The galaxy had not been so kind to grant him that.

“I…I know,” Echo replied quietly, his throat thick.

He watched Fives’ face study him for a moment before his brow settled into a crease, and his hand tightened on Echo’s shoulder. “Echo…don’t be sad.”

Echo looked at him with disbelief. He could see all the texture in his face and feel the puff of breath against his nose. It was as if he wasn’t dreaming at all. “How…how can I not be sad? You’re not here.”

“No, but you are. You have a second chance, Echo. A second chance to live.”

Echo shook his head. “You should be here too.”

“Maybe. But my path was different to yours. You finally get a chance to choose what you do with your life. Nobody else; you, vod’ika. That freedom I was fighting for? You have it now. You have for both of us. Do something good with it. Something we’d both be proud of.”

Echo looked at his brother searching his face for something he couldn’t name. Maybe he wasn’t searching at all, but memorising. Memorising the look Fives was giving him now; the pride, the unwavering belief he had in him. He hadn’t seen it in such a long time. No one had expected anything of him in just as long.

“Promise me you will, Echo.”

He didn’t even need to think about it. “I promise.”

Echo could feel the waking world calling him, so before Fives faded away, he wrapped his arms around his brother. Fives dropped his helmet and didn’t hesitate to embrace Echo back. Arms tightly holding each other, hearts pressed together and beating in time. Echo could feel Fives’s solid chest and his warmth as if he were awake. Everything felt right in the brief, brief moment. That anchor had returned. That pain in his heart had dulled in his dreaming and been replaced with the warmth of his brother he’d been wishing for. He gripped the edges of his brother’s armour, afraid to let go, to leave this moment. But knew he had to. He’d made a promise.

“I love you, Fives,” he choked out.

He felt Fives’s palm run over his hair as he spoke against his ear. “I know. I love you too. Remember, I’m looking out for you.”

Echo jolted awake. His chest heaved as he tried to remember where he was, and his body ached like it just run a marathon. Across the small corridor, Wrecker slept, soft snores sounding. The nightlight in Omega’s space glowed softly through the curtains, and Hunter had fallen asleep on the floor, his back leaning on the wall next to the ladder, no doubt guarding their sister’s bad dreams. He could hear Tech tinkering away in the cockpit, on watch as they flew through hyperspace. Where was Crosshair?

Oh. Right.

Echo ran a hand over his face and turned towards the wall, his eyes stinging with tears. He curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his middle, ignoring the bulk of his scomp. He tried to preserve the warmth he felt from his dreams which threatened to evaporate in the chill of hyperspace. He pressed his eyes shut, willing himself to go back into that dream, to return to Fives and get one last look at him, but it was no use. He was here. And Fives was there, or somewhere.

It could’ve been a few minutes or an hour when he heard a voice. “Echo?”

He turned to see Tech looking down at him in his bunk, adjusting his goggles. “What is it, Tech?”

“I’m afraid it’s your turn on watch.”

“Great. Thanks,” Echo grumbled.

He tried to inconspicuously wipe his eyes as he swung his metal legs out of the bunk and stood up, stretching his neck. He watched Tech remove his goggles and rub his eyes and sat down on the edge of Echo’s bunk. They had limited space, and Echo didn’t mind sharing.

“Sweet dreams,” Echo told him as Tech lay down, falling asleep almost immediately, as he tended to do.

Echo walked to the cockpit and shut the door so the light from their travels wouldn’t disturb the others. He sat in the pilot’s seat and sighed, putting his head in his hand, no hair on his head to clasp as he tried to recentre himself. He took in some steady breaths, focusing on a screw in the floor panelling. He did everything he could to quell the turning of his stomach and the throbbing in his chest. Just as quickly as it had filled in his dream, the waking world had returned that giant hole in his chest, seemingly aware that something had filled it again briefly, and now it felt the absence more.

When would this feeling of emptiness end?

The Marauder shifted in its hyperspace travels, tilting off course slightly, triggering some alarms. Echo immediately sprang into action, and his hand and scomp grabbed the controls to steady the ship. With a frown, he checked the stabilisers and saw they needed recalibrating. Didn’t Tech just deal with this after they’d left Ordo Moon mere hours ago? He tried and failed not to get annoyed – he just needed to fix this, and quickly so they didn’t veer off course and fall into a star. He sighed, knowing they’d have to come out of hyperspace for these repairs. Maybe the ship had been more damaged than he thought.

Echo slowly pulled back the hyperdrive lever and the ship came to a halt in open space. He hoped no one woke up with the disturbance and that this wouldn’t take long. They didn’t have time to waste. He placed the Marauder in idle whilst he scomped in and started recalibrating. It was a lot easier now that Tech had upgraded his cerebral interface, so there was less strain on him. He was able to scomp in and load up the commands without much effort. As the commands processed through the system, he watched the stabilisers respond and recalibrate in his mind’s eye.

It was then he felt a shiver run up his spine.

A monitor beeped, interrupting his realignment, and Echo looked at a screen searching for the alert among the pop-ups when he noticed the time.

05:55. Echo’s breath hitched.

He heard the door behind him slide open but didn’t look away from the monitor. He couldn’t.

“Everything okay in here? I felt something,” Hunter’s voice thick with sleep asked.

Echo kept his gaze on the numerals, and he allowed himself to smile, that warmth he’d been longing for slowly filling the hole in his chest.

“It will be,” he told Hunter.

Fives was keeping his promise, so Echo would too.

banner art by @vimse thank you for reading! <3

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[goosewriting]

How about a romantic Donnie x Reader, with purple 1 said by the reader? I was thinking maybe the reader has been trying for quite a while to impress Donnie, doing all kinds of things that often only lead to trouble and to a seemingly annoyed Donnie. What reader doesn't know tho is that he's in love with them too, and just really sucked at showing it?

I see you (rottmnt Donnie x reader)

prompt 1: “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to see me.”

summary: reader wants to impress Donnie, which leads to a confession. 

relationship: Rise!Donnie x GN reader

warnings: i don’t think this counts as angsty right? fluffy ending!

word count: ~660

A/N: not the avatar sounding title lmao sorry if this one is kinda bland,, i couldn’t come up with anything better sdfdsf hope it’s still to your liking :’)

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

– – – 

Ever since coming to terms with the fact that you were crushing on your best friend, the purple clad turtle, you had set your mind to sweep him off his feet. You tried so hard to impress him, even  going as far as taking online courses on programming and reading several chapters of the book “Engineering for Dummies”. You just really wanted him to notice you and figured that the best way to do that would be to impress him with your newly acquired skills.

Since you would hang out a lot in his lab, you started offering to help on his projects. You had done so before, but suddenly you were able to somewhat follow his explanations and contribute your thoughts on the topic, which was met with a raised eyebrow on Donnie’s part. You couldn’t tell if he was intrigued or felt like you were overstepping a line of sorts.

The very few times he had agreed in the past to have you help out was to mainly pass him tools. But now you were suddenly welding one of the simpler circuits on his project. Donnie stopped working for a second and you could feel his gaze on you, still unable to read him, which got you self-conscious and you ended up burning a wire, making the whole thing unusable. You gasped in shock, and were about to apologise and tell him you’d redo it, but he was quicker.

“What are you doing?!” Donnie asked in a rather harsh tone, swatting away your confidence and eagerness to work with him in one blow. He came around the table to stand next to you and basically yanked the tools out of your hands.

By now you were holding back your tears, cursing at yourself in your mind, thinking how stupid of an idea this had been. One choked sob escaped you, and you brought your hands up to cover your face, turning away from him.

“All I’ve ever wanted was for you to see me” you said over your shoulder. “I like you, Donnie. Sorry for being a bother.” 

You were already taking a step to walk out of the lab, but a hand around your arm held you in place. You turned back around to face the turtle, and you could tell his mind was running at a thousand miles an hour. He was looking at the ground with furrowed brows. It took him a moment to figure out what to say. It was a rather uncomfortable silence but you waited for him. 

Donnie was at a real loss for words. First of all, his comment earlier had been way harsher than intended; he just didn’t want you to get hurt. Which was the main reason he was so reluctant to let you help out in the lab in the first place. And second, he liked you too, he just didn’t know how to tell you.

When his gaze finally found its way back to yours, you gave him a questioning look. Before you realised what was happening he pulled you in for a hug. You were so stunned at his gesture that it took you a second to process it and hug him back. When you finally did, you gave him a reassuring squeeze.

“I do see you” Donnie said and nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, mainly to hide his face for what he was about to say next. “Thank you for telling me how you feel. It’s the same for me, you know.”

If your heart wasn’t racing before, it surely was now. You two stayed like that for a moment until you separated, a huge smile and tinted cheeks on your face. 

You ended up leaving the lab together to go for a supply run, spending the rest of the afternoon shopping for materials. When you came back, Donnie let you do the circuit again, but this time he helped you, guiding you through the steps.

~~~~~

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