cher

The night was cold. Cold enough to bite through the walls and creep under the window panes, cold enough to make your breath come out in thin, ghostly wisps. But you didn’t mind. The chill was grounding, something real to latch onto. Something to remind you that you felt at all.

The world had shown you its darkest corners. Shadows painted in streaks of crimson, horrors etched into your mind like carvings on stone. You’d seen too much, felt too much, and the weight of it all made your own existence feel strangely fragile. There was a sense of detachment in those moments, as if you were staring at your reflection through fractured glass. And sometimes, the only way to break through that haze was to feel something sharp. Something undeniable.

The cool edge of the blade pressed against your skin. It wasn’t about punishment, not really. You didn’t think you deserved pain. You just… wanted it. A visceral reminder that you could still feel in a world that often felt numb and twisted.

But before you could press down, a flicker of light caught your eye. A soft glow, like the distant shimmer of a star. You froze, hand trembling.

“Y/N?”

The voice was gentle, tinged with confusion and worry. Silver.

You barely had time to process his presence before he was there, his white fur illuminated by the dim light of your room, his teal eyes wide with something like fear. His gaze flicked down to the blade in your hand, then back up to your face. His brows furrowed.

“I… I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said softly, his voice careful, as if afraid to shatter you. “But I felt something was wrong. And I couldn’t just ignore it.”

You swallowed hard, shame curling in your stomach. You turned away, gripping the blade tighter. “Silver, you shouldn’t be here.”

He took a cautious step forward. “But I am here.”

The room was silent, heavy with unspoken words. The tension wrapped around you like a vice. You could feel his eyes on you, searching, trying to understand. He wasn’t like other people. He didn’t rush forward with empty reassurances. He didn’t fill the silence with meaningless words. He just… stood there, waiting, his presence a steady pulse in the darkness.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” you muttered, your voice brittle. “I just… need this.”

Silver’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Need... what?” he asked, his voice low, hesitant. “The pain?”

You closed your eyes, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Not the pain. The feeling. The reminder that I’m still here. That I’m not just a spectator to all the horrors I’ve seen.”

Silver was silent for a moment, his breathing steady. Then, he took another step forward, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I know what it’s like,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “To feel like the world is too much. To see so much darkness that it stains your thoughts. To wonder if you’re just… a shadow of yourself.”

You opened your eyes, surprised by the raw honesty in his words. He looked down at you, his eyes shimmering with something deep and unspoken.

“But I also know that pain isn’t the only thing that can remind you you’re alive,” he continued. “You don’t have to hurt to feel. Sometimes, the simplest things can anchor you. The sound of the wind. The way the stars look on a clear night. The warmth of someone who cares.”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “It’s not that easy..”

He nodded. “I know... I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.” His hand lifted slowly, hovering near yours, not quite touching. “Will you let me show you? Just… try something different?”

You hesitated, the weight of the blade still heavy in your hand. The urge to press down was still there, a familiar pull. But so was Silver—steady, unwavering, his presence a beacon of quiet hope.

With a shaky breath, you loosened your grip. The blade clattered to the floor, the sound sharp and final. Silver exhaled, relief softening his features. He gently took your hand in his, his touch warm and real.

“I’m not going to pretend to have all the answers,” he said softly. “I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry.

A tear slipped down your cheek, but this time, it didn’t feel like defeat. "It's okay, Silver. Thank you."

"What is this?" Shadow muttered, his brow furrowing as his eyes scanned the glowing screen in front of him.

He had never considered himself a tech-savvy hedgehog, but recently, he had become curious about something you had mentioned in passing—your involvement in 4chan. At first, it seemed harmless enough, just another strange part of the world he didn't quite understand. But after hearing you talk about it with a strange mix of excitement and amusement, he figured he'd give it a shot.

"I’m sure it’s just a place for people to talk and share ideas," he'd told himself confidently. "It’ll be easy to understand. I’ll know more about her. We’ll bond."

The moment he typed “4chan” into the search bar, he realized that things weren’t going to be as simple as he’d hoped. The first thing he clicked on was a post about Taylor Swift almost being sent to a deaf school. He blinked, rereading it. Did they really do that?

Curiosity gnawed at him. He clicked deeper.

Then there was the one about Justin Bieber almost being sent to North Korea. Shadow's face twisted into a scowl. "What is wrong with these people?"

And then there were the pictures. The ones with Rainbow Dash. In a jar. Shadow leaned forward, squinting at the screen as his mind struggled to process what he was looking at.

His thoughts grew more complicated as he kept scrolling, he found posts about hacking, pranks, and more absurdities. The chaos of it all was overwhelming. He was beginning to feel like he had made a grave mistake, thinking he could understand the appeal of this “4chan.”

"How does this have anything to do with her?" he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of it. "This is pure madness."

Later that evening, you walked into the room, your eyes lighting up when you saw Shadow at the desk.

“Hey, Shadow! What’s up?” you asked, casually flopping onto the couch.

Shadow looked at you, a little uncomfortable. “I… I did what you said. I looked at 4chan. I thought I might understand you better.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And?”

Shadow hesitated, trying to collect his thoughts. “I… I don’t think I understand anything anymore.” He ran a hand through his quills in frustration. “Why would people… Why do they even do these things?”

You blinked, your lips twitching into a smile as you tried to hold back laughter. “Oh, you found that stuff, huh?”

“Found it? I was bombarded by it.” Shadow slumped into the chair, exasperated. “How can you enjoy a place like this?"

You chuckled, sitting up and giving him a playful look. “Yeah, it’s definitely weird. But that’s kind of the fun of it. It’s like... the internet's version of a circus. Weird stuff happens, and we just roll with it.”

Shadow sighed, rubbing his temples. “I feel like I’ve entered an alternate dimension. How is this supposed to help me understand you more?”

You smiled warmly, moving over to sit beside him. "Psh, who cares! Just appreciate it."

Shadow raised an eyebrow. “Appreciating chaos…” He took another look at the screen. “I suppose I did learn that I can’t understand a single thing that happens here. But... I’m still willing to try.”

Your grin softened, and you gently took his hand. "Hey, if you find yourself getting lost, at least you know now why I laugh so hard at this stuff.”

The studio was silent, except for the scratch of your pencil against paper. You were deep in concentration, eyes narrowed as you worked on a sketch—a skeletal figure cradling a wilted rose, the petals dripping into a pool of ink-black shadows. To anyone else, it might seem morbid. To you, it was therapy.

Your hands moved with practiced grace, each line deliberate. These drawings, these sculptures, these pieces of darkness—they were your way of making sense of the chaos in your mind. You'd seen things that clung to your thoughts like cobwebs: tragedies that replayed in endless loops when you closed your eyes. If you could capture those horrors, render them into art, maybe you could take away their power. Maybe you could breathe again.

But you never told anyone why. Not even Shadow.

You weren’t sure he’d understand. Shadow was someone who carried his own grief quietly, wrapped in layers of stoicism. You admired his strength, his quiet resilience. But he rarely spoke of his pain. And if he didn’t share his darkness with you, why burden him with yours?

You didn’t notice him standing in the doorway until you felt his eyes on you—a heavy presence, like storm clouds rolling in. You startled, dropping your pencil.

“Shadow!” You quickly turned your sketchpad over, heart hammering in your chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He didn’t respond immediately. His crimson eyes flicked from you to the scattered pages around the room: sketches of decayed flowers, statues of distorted figures, paintings of other extremely gorey things. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t realize you were working on… this.” His voice was low, controlled.

You swallowed hard, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just art,” you said, trying to sound casual. “It helps me clear my head.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “This isn’t just art. These… depictions of death and suffering—what are you trying to clear your head of?”

You looked away, fingers curling into your palms. You hadn’t expected him to find out like this. He was always respectful of your space, your privacy. But now the walls were down, and there was no hiding the truth.

“It’s complicated,” you whispered.

Shadow stepped into the room, his footsteps nearly silent. He crouched down in front of you, his gaze softening, though his intensity never waned. “Then help me understand.”

Your breath trembled in your chest. The vulnerability was like standing on a cliff’s edge, the wind threatening to pull you over. But the weight of keeping it all in was heavier still.

“I’ve seen things, Shadow,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like those memories are burned into my mind. So I create these… morbid pieces. It’s my way of trying to control it. To face it.”

His eyes searched yours, a flicker of understanding sparking in the crimson depths. “You’re trying to desensitize yourself,” he said slowly. “To make the nightmares less powerful.”

You nodded. “Yeah. And maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s too much. But it helps me.”

He was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. You braced for judgment, for the cold wall of misunderstanding. But then, Shadow reached out, his gloved hand gently brushing your cheek.

“It’s not too much,” he said softly.

Your eyes widened. “You mean that?”

He nodded. “I’ve faced my own darkness. And for a long time, I thought I had to carry it alone. But seeing you… how you process your pain—it’s not weakness. It’s strength.” He paused, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want you to drown in it.”

You felt a fresh wave of emotion swell in your chest. “I don’t want to drown, either. But sometimes it feels like the only way to stay afloat.”

Shadow’s grip on your hand tightened just slightly. “I may not understand everything, but I want to try.”

The words settled over you like a balm, soothing wounds you didn’t know were still open. You leaned into his touch, a shaky smile breaking through.

“Thank you, Shadow.”

MICHAEL MYERS

He knows your body better than anyone, and the moment he catches onto the fact that you faked it?

He goes completely still.

No breathing, no movement—just his blank mask staring at you like you’ve committed a cardinal sin.

He’s not mad, per se.

He’s disappointed.

But also? He takes it as a personal challenge.

You think you need to fake it? That you’d have to with him?

Oh, he’s going to prove you so wrong.

Expect him to be relentless.

He’ll have you pinned under his weight, utterly at his mercy, as he drags it out of you for real this time.

And you won’t be able to fake anything by the end of it—not with the way he watches you like a predator, soaking in every sound and twitch you make.

(And yeah, maybe he’s a little salty. He’ll take his time, make you beg, just to remind you who’s in charge here.)

JASON VOORHEES

He’s not exactly the most experienced in this department, but he tries so hard to please you.

When you fake it, he stops immediately.

He looks at you with confusion, maybe even a little bit of hurt.

Jason doesn’t understand why you’d fake something like this.

Did he hurt you? Did you not want to be with him? Were you bored? His mind spirals into self-doubt.

He’ll sit back, his big hands resting on your thighs as he studies your face, searching for answers.

If you admit you were faking it, Jason might feel a little dejected, but he’ll try to do better.

He’s nothing if not attentive, and he’ll take your cues more seriously from now on.

Honestly, he’s so focused on making you happy that the whole situation ends up being more of a learning experience than anything else.

Jason just wants to be a good partner.

BILLY LOOMIS

Oh, you’re gonna regret this one, babe.

Billy is petty as hell.

The second he catches on, he stops everything.

Completely.

Pulls back, smirking down at you with that cocky, condescending expression.

What follows is absolute hell—the good kind, though.

Billy edges you mercilessly, taking you right to the brink over and over again until you’re begging him to let you finish.

When he finally lets you come undone, it’s explosive.

Billy makes sure you won’t even think about faking it again.

The Arizona sun slashed the horizon into jagged golds and bloody reds. It baked the cracked pavement underfoot, curling the heat up in shimmering waves. Paradise City—a joke in name and reality—choked on its own dust. The streets were mostly empty now, save for the flicker of lives barely lived: a junkie rooting through garbage bins, a mutt with a limp nosing at an old burger wrapper. You walked, as you often did, letting the desolation wrap itself around you like an old, threadbare coat.

Some ginger guy crossed your path in this haze of a city that refused to die. You didn’t know him yet, of course—not more than anyone here was known, faces passing like blurs in a bad dream.

But he walked differently than the others: stiff-legged, shoulders hunched, his head dipped as if some invisible weight bore down on him. His thrift-store collar shirt was loose and wrinkled.

His hair glinted like copper wire in the dying sunlight. Something about him caught your eye. Maybe it was the way he muttered under his breath, hands stuffed into his pockets like they might keep the world at bay, or maybe it was just the sheer lack of pretense. He wasn’t trying to be something he wasn’t—because he’d clearly stopped trying at all.

"Hi," you said, because you were reckless like that.

His head jerked up, surprise written into every sharp line of his face. His expression—brows up, eyes wide, lips parted—was almost cartoonish, like he couldn’t quite believe someone was speaking to him. "Oh," he stammered. "Uh. Hi."

Your lips quirked. "Rough day?"

He barked out a laugh, bitter and abrupt. It sounded like something he hadn’t done in a while. "Yeah, you could say that. Just got out of an interview. Didn’t go well."

His voice had a certain twang, not quite local, though you couldn’t place it. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, his hand smudged with the faint residue of grease and ink—probably from some pitiful résumé he’d scrawled out on his last ten bucks' worth of paper.

"Job hunting?" you asked.

"More like job dodging me," he replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Can’t really get rid of this curse of being ‘not what we’re looking for.’ Which is so weird, since I’m desperate enough to be anything."

There was something about his honesty—raw and unpolished, no mask to hide behind—that made you keep the conversation going. Maybe it was that same loneliness you recognized, like catching sight of your own shadow in a stranger’s posture.

"You look like you could use a break," you offered. "How about I buy you a coffee? If we’re both stuck like this, might as well be miserable together."

His gaze softened, the weight on his shoulders lifting just enough for you to catch a glimpse of something else beneath it. Hope, maybe. Or just gratitude.

"Yeah," he said, his voice quieter now, almost shy. "totally, that'd be nice."

The café wasn’t much to look at—faded linoleum tiles, a bell over the door that didn’t ring anymore, and a menu board missing half its letters. But it was quiet, and the coffee smelled more or less like coffee.

He hesitated when you gestured to a booth near the window, his hand gripping the strap of his pants like he was ready to bolt. Then he slid into the seat across from you, his movements stiff and uncertain, as if he’d forgotten how to sit comfortably in someone else’s company.

“So,” you started, breaking the silence as the waitress brought over two chipped mugs and a pot of coffee. “What kind of job were you interviewing for?”

He chuckled darkly, stirring a sugar packet into his cup. “Oh, you know. The usual. Something soul-crushing, minimum wage, probably involves wearing a name tag and pretending to care.”

Your lips twitched. “And they didn’t think you were qualified for that?”

“They said I lacked enthusiasm,” he said, deadpan. “Like that’s a requirement for stacking shelves or flipping burgers! Who the hell gets enthusiastic about stacking shelves?”

You snorted, nearly choking on your coffee. It wasn’t that funny, really, but the way he said it—with that faint edge of incredulous bitterness—had you laughing anyway. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment, his expression softened.

“You’ve got a nice laugh,” he said, almost absently. Then, as if realizing he’d spoken aloud, he ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. That was—uh—random.”

“It’s fine,” you said, smiling. “It’s not every day someone compliments my laugh.”

“Well, I’m not every day, I guess,” he muttered, his voice tinged with self-deprecation.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand. “What’s your name?”

He hesitated, as if the question had caught him off guard. “Uh, Dude.”

“Dude?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged.

You tilted your head, studying him. There was something endearing about the way he deflected, like he didn’t quite know how to handle being the focus of someone’s attention. “Well, Dude, I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, as if testing how it felt on his tongue. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The conversation drifted into easier territory after that. You learned he’d lived in Paradise for a while, though he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say why. He talked about his bitch of a wife, odd jobs he’d had over the years, each one more short-lived than the last, and you shared a few anecdotes of your own.

Despite his self-proclaimed lack of enthusiasm, he had a knack for making you laugh. His observations about the absurdities of life in Paradise were sharp and strangely charming, and you found yourself forgetting, if only briefly, the weight of the city pressing down on you.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the café in dusky shadows, he glanced at his watch—a cheap, battered thing that looked like it had survived more than its fair share of disasters. “I should probably get going,” he said, though he didn’t move to stand.

“Where to?” you asked, and he gave a half-shrug.

“Nowhere in particular. Just… home.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside the window seemed quieter than before, the streets bathed in the faint glow of neon signs flickering to life.

“You know,” you said finally, “if you ever want to grab coffee again… or just talk… I wouldn’t mind.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, genuine smile crept across his face.

“Yeah.. sure, okay,” he said softly.

And with that, Dude stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He hesitated at the door, glancing back at you one last time.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

And then he was gone, swallowed up by the night and the city’s endless sprawl. But for the first time in a long time, you felt a spark of something—hope, maybe—that you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

P1 DUDE

Dude isn’t used to acts of kindness, so when you offer to patch up his coat or knit him something, he’s taken aback.

He might act like it’s no big deal, but deep down, it means the world to him.

He doesn’t say much, but the way he watches you work—quietly, almost reverently—says it all.

If you knit him something, like a scarf or gloves, he’ll wear them every day, no matter how scrappy they might look.

It’s not about perfection; it’s about the fact that you made it for him.

“This is… warm. Thanks.”

He tries to return the favor in his own way, fixing things around the house or bringing you little things he thinks you’ll like (even if they’re…questionably acquired).

P2 DUDE

Dude is all about the practical side of things, so when you offer to sew up his coat, he’s thrilled.

“Oh, hell yeah. Do you know how much money I’ve saved not having to replace this thing?”

He’ll dramatically thank you as if you’ve just saved his life.

He’s fascinated by the knitting process and might even ask you to teach him, though he’s terrible at it.

Expect him to get tangled in yarn at least twice.

“This is harder than it looks. How do you do this?”

If you make him something, he’s overly proud of it and brags to everyone he sees.

P3 DUDE

He immediately starts teasing you, but it’s all in good fun.

“Aww, look at you, all domestic. What’s next, baking me cookies?”

Despite the jokes, he’s incredibly appreciative.

He doesn’t say it outright, but the way he hands you his coat without a second thought shows how much he trusts you.

He loves to sit with you while you work, throwing out silly commentary or asking if you can make him something ridiculous, like a sweater with his face on it.

“Hear me out: matching sweaters. We’d look awesome.”

If you actually knit him something, he’ll wear it proudly, even if it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever made.

He doesn’t care—it’s from you.

P4 DUDE

He is absolutely delighted when you offer to patch up his coat.

He’s been walking around with holes in it for way too long and never thought to ask for help.

“You’d really do that for me? Man, you’re the best.”

He’s endlessly fascinated by your sewing and knitting skills, often sitting nearby and watching you work with wide-eyed admiration.

If you knit him something, like a beanie or a pair of socks, he’s over the moon and wears them constantly.

“This is so comfy. Seriously, you should sell these or something.”

He’s not the best at showing gratitude with words, but he makes up for it with lots of hugs and little surprises to show how much he appreciates you.

BD DUDE

He's too tired to argue when you take his coat and tell him you’re fixing it.

He just nods and grunts, “Thanks,” before collapsing onto the couch.

He’s low-key amazed by your skill and watches you work in quiet fascination.

It’s one of the few things that can actually make him sit still and relax for a while.

"You’re good at that. Where’d you learn?”

If you knit him something, he’s incredibly touched, though he doesn’t make a big show of it.

He just starts wearing it without a word, and the small, genuine smile on his face says it all.

MOVIE DUDE

He's adorable about it.

When you offer to patch his coat, he gets all bashful and grins like a dork.

“Really? You’d do that? You’re too good to me.”

He loves to sit with you while you work, asking a million questions about what you’re doing and marveling at your skill.

If you knit him something, he’s beyond touched and can’t stop gushing about it.

It was late afternoon when Shadow approached the house tucked away at the edge of the city, a small bag of medicine clutched in his gloved hand. The only reason he was here, he reminded himself, was because Sonic had all but begged him to.

“Come on, Shadow,” Sonic had said earlier, exasperated but hopeful. “They’re too sick to go anywhere, and I’m tied up with something. Just drop it off and say hi. You might even like them!”

Shadow had scoffed at that. “Highly unlikely.”

Yet here he was, standing at your door. He knocked, sharp and deliberate, and waited.

A muffled voice from inside called, “Coming!”

The door creaked open, revealing you. Despite the exhaustion evident in your eyes and the pallor of your complexion, you greeted him with a weak but genuine smile.

“Oh, you must be… Shadow?” you asked hesitantly.

He nodded curtly, holding out the medicine. “Sonic sent me. He thought you might need this.”

You accepted the bag with a quiet “thank you,” looking up at him with an expression so open, so trusting, that it stopped him in his tracks. For a fleeting moment, he was no longer standing at your doorstep but aboard the ARK, looking into the kind eyes of someone he thought he’d lost forever.

Maria.

The resemblance wasn’t physical, but there was something about your demeanor—gentle, unassuming, and kind despite the pain you were clearly in—that tugged at a memory buried deep in his chest.

“You okay?” you asked, noticing his prolonged silence.

He blinked, snapping himself out of the moment. “Fine. Just… don’t forget to take the medicine.”

You chuckled lightly, the sound hoarse but pleasant. “I won’t. Thanks again, Shadow.”

He nodded again, turning on his heel and disappearing into the fading daylight.

To Shadow’s own surprise, he returned the next morning.

It had been a restless night. Thoughts of Maria swirled in his mind, but they mingled with the image of your weary yet kind face. He told himself he was simply being thorough, ensuring you were following the instructions for the medication.

When you opened the door again, wrapped in a blanket and looking just as surprised as you were grateful, Shadow felt the smallest pang of relief.

“You’re back,” you said, stepping aside to let him in.

“You didn’t seem capable of taking care of yourself yesterday,” he replied bluntly, though there was no malice in his tone.

You laughed softly. “Fair enough.”

It became a routine. Every morning, Shadow arrived with something—soup, tea, a fresh supply of tissues—and checked on you. At first, his visits were brief and businesslike. He would make sure you had what you needed and leave with little more than a nod. But as the days passed, the conversations grew longer.

You learned to expect his dry wit and sharp observations, and he found himself oddly drawn to your quiet resilience. Despite how miserable you felt, you always thanked him sincerely, your gratitude genuine and unassuming.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” you said one morning as he set a cup of tea on your bedside table.

“I know,” he replied simply, sitting in the chair he’d claimed as his own.

“Then why?”

He hesitated, his crimson eyes flicking to the floor. “You…” he paused, looking back at you with a sigh. “I don’t know.”

You didn’t press him, sensing the weight of his words, but your soft “Okay, thank you.” carried more meaning than either of you acknowledged.

By the time you were well enough to venture outside again, the bond between you and Shadow was undeniable.

“You don’t have to come by anymore,” you said one evening as he walked you back to your door after a short outing. “But… I’d miss you if you didn’t.”

He paused, his gaze meeting yours. There was something unspoken in his eyes, something vulnerable.

“I’d miss you too,” he admitted, the words slow but sincere.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. His eyes widened, and for the first time since you’d met him, Shadow looked genuinely flustered.

“Thank you, Shadow,” you whispered. “For everything.”

His lips quirked into the smallest of smiles, a rare and precious sight. “I... You’re welcome.”

When you told Dude you were pregnant, his first reaction was just shock.

"You’re joking, right? I mean, me? A dad?”

He needed a solid five minutes to process before muttering,

“Well, shit. I guess I better stock up on diapers and dog food.”

Despite his outwardly casual reaction, there’s a small, genuine smile he can’t suppress whenever he thinks about it.

Dude’s version of “baby-proofing” includes nailing questionable items to the ceiling and attaching “Keep Out” signs on anything sharp, flammable, or radioactive.

He 100% tries to haggle for baby gear at the pawn shop.

You catch him swapping a flamethrower for a car seat and have to remind him that’s… probably illegal.

You find him reading a parenting book one night. “Just checking to see if the kid’s gonna inherit my good looks,” he quips.

You have to veto names like “Postal Junior,” “Boomstick,” and “Doom Slayer” before finally settling on something normal… mostly because you refused to sign the birth certificate otherwise.

Dude insists he’s not scared, but the second you get Braxton Hicks contractions, he’s sprinting in circles with the hospital bag, shouting, “WHAT DO I DO?!”

He has a mini existential crisis over whether he can be a good dad.

But after some quiet reflection (and a stiff drink), he promises he’ll at least try.

He’s surprisingly gentle with the baby.

Sure, he’s awkward and terrified of breaking them, but the moment he holds them, something softens.

“Hey, kid. You’re not crying, so I guess we’re doing okay, huh?”

Baby’s first laugh happens when Dude trips over Champ’s toy and faceplants into the couch.

P1 DUDE

When he first finds out about your profession, he’s suspicious.

He doesn’t trust anyone, and the thought of others looking at you like that makes him spiral a bit.

Despite his paranoia, he doesn’t shame you for it.

Deep down, he respects that you’re doing your thing and earning a living in a way he probably never could.

Obsessive? Oh, absolutely.

He watches your work like a hawk, not for enjoyment but to monitor comments, interactions, and anything that might seem like a “threat.”

He becomes weirdly protective of you in public.

If someone even hints at recognizing you, he gets very tense.

You’ll have to remind him to relax before he scares someone off.

That said, he adores you in his own unhinged way.

Sometimes he’ll talk about running off to some remote cabin with you where “no one can find us.”

It’s endearing in a slightly alarming way.

P2 DUDE

His reaction?

A shrug... and a smirk.

“Well, I guess somebody’s gotta do it, right?”

He’s supportive but snarky as hell.

Expect constant things like, “So, when’s my big debut?”

He’s surprisingly laid-back about your profession.

In his mind, people are gonna do what they want, so why stress?

Pretty much just brags about dating you.

“Yeah, my partner? You’ve probably seen their work. Pretty hot, right?” Cue his smug grin.

If anyone gives you trouble, though, he flips like a switch.

He’s not above shoving someone into a trash can if they step out of line.

He loves you for who you are, but definitely also for what you do, and makes sure you know that.

P3 DUDE

At first, he teases you endlessly.

“Wow, dating a star? I must be living the dream, huh?”

He makes everything into a joke.

If you’re filming, he’s in the background making faces or trying to photobomb just to mess with you.

Secretly, though, he’s impressed.

He thinks it’s cool that you’ve got this level of confidence and independence.

He’ll egg people on if they recognize you in public, just to see their reactions, but if anyone crosses a line, he’s quick to shut it down.

“Babe, what do I gotta do to get a cameo? I could totally pull off the clueless plumber trope.”

As much as he jokes, he respects you deeply and has your back no matter what.

P4 DUDE

Honestly? He’s a little shocked at first.

“Wait, you do what for a living?”

But he’s completely supportive.

He LOVES your job. More than you.

He’s so sweet and genuine that you can’t help but love him for it.

If anyone says anything negative about you, he’s baffled.

“What’s their problem? You’re just doing your thing!”

Will shoot them down after and throw dog shit at their house

He brings you little gifts after your shoots—flowers, snacks, or random knickknacks he thought you’d like.

"Figured you might need a pick-me-up after a long day!”

BD DUDE

FUCK YEAH

Anyway , that said, he’s got a dry sense of humor about it.

“Guess I should’ve been one too. Maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit.”

He’s deeply protective in a subtle way.

He won’t make a scene, but if anyone disrespects you, they’ll regret it.

He knows how to handle himself without making a fuss.

“You’re tougher than most people I know. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Despite his rough edges, he’s incredibly loyal and makes sure you know you’re loved.

MOVIE DUDE

His initial reaction is pure excitement.

He’s surprisingly wholesome about it.

He supports you completely and is thrilled to see you doing what you love.

That said, he has his shady moments.

If someone tries to mess with you, he’s way too good at finding out things about them.

“Oh, they don’t like you? Funny, I found their Facebook… wanna see their embarrassing prom photos?”

He’s oddly charming in public.

If someone recognizes you, he turns it into a lighthearted conversation, but... it does have some darkness behind it.

But! Behind closed doors, he’s your biggest cheerleader!

Shadow had always known you were relentless. Determined. Obsessively driven. You were like him in that way, and in a twisted sense, that’s why he felt at ease with you. You understood each other’s silences, the unspoken expectation to always be better.

Your career as a football player on the national stage was more than a goal—it was your entire existence. Every match was a war you had to win. Shadow admired that intensity, but he also feared it. Because he knew the cost of ambition unchecked. He’d seen it before. He lived it every day.

So, when he found you late at night, training under the cold moon behind your sprawling, luxury home, sweat-soaked and exhausted, he’d say the same thing:

“Enough, (Y/N). You’re overworking yourself.”

You’d never listen. You’d just flash a cold, determined look and say, “I can’t stop now, Shadow.”

And, in that quiet way of his, he’d stand by you, never saying more, but always watching. Because that’s what big brothers did.

The day of the auditions arrived like a storm. You were laser-focused, the crowd’s roar white noise in your ears. Everything hinged on this. But so did your enemy’s hopes.

Rouge—the smug, calculating cheerleader who’d copied your every move, not out of admiration, but to beat you at your own game. Shadow couldn’t stand her, but he trusted you to handle it. You always did.

But fate, or perhaps jealousy, had other plans.

One moment you were going past defenders, swift and deadly as a blade. The next, pain exploded in your knee. Rouge’s outstretched foot, an intentional trip disguised as an accident, sent you crashing to the turf. Agony radiated through your leg. You barely registered the gasps from the crowd.

Shadow’s eyes narrowed from the stands. His fingers curled into fists. He knew.

When you failed to get up, his chest tightened. Trainers rushed to your side, but you already knew. The dream was slipping away.

Your injury was severe. You weren’t selected. And just like that, everything you’d worked for unraveled.

The months after were bleak. The fire in you dimmed, but never fully extinguished. Shadow kept close, trying to shield you from your own despair. He reminded you of your worth, of your strength, but his words felt hollow against your silence.

Then, the news came.

A rematch. The same team. The same enemy. Fate had handed you another chance, and this time, Shadow would be there, watching your back.

The match was brutal. Every kick, every pass was filled with rage and precision. You were back, stronger, faster—unbreakable. Shadow’s eyes followed your every move, pride and worry fighting for dominance in his heart.

When the final whistle blew, victory was yours.

But victory was fleeting.

The objections started immediately. Rouge’s side refused to accept defeat. Words turned to shouts. Shouts turned to shoving. The air crackled with hostility.

Shadow’s instincts flared. He moved to the edge of the field, ready to intervene.

And then—

A scream.

A splash of red.

Time froze. Shadow’s eyes locked on the scene: you and Rouge, hands clenched around each other’s collars, faces twisted in rage and pain. Blood dripped from both of you, staining the green grass. The glint of a knife—two knives—slipped from your grips and clattered to the ground.

You staggered, eyes wide, hands trembling as blood bloomed across your side. Rouge crumpled too, clutching her shoulder.

And then you fell.

Shadow’s world shattered.

“(Y/N)!”

He was at your side in an instant, his hands hovering over you, unsure where to touch without making it worse. Blood soaked into your jersey, pooling beneath you. Your breaths were shallow, your eyelids fluttering.

“No, no, no—stay with me!” His voice cracked, fear slicing through his usual stoic demeanor.

You tried to speak, but only a weak gasp escaped.

Shadow’s teeth clenched. His hands shook with helpless rage. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to protect you. And now—

Paramedics swarmed, pulling him back. He resisted, his red eyes blazing with fury. “Let me go!”

“Sir, we need space—”

“I said let me go!”

But even the Ultimate Lifeform couldn’t stop this.

They lifted you onto a stretcher, your body limp. Rouge was carried away too, but Shadow barely registered her. His entire universe narrowed to you.

The hours in the hospital were endless. Shadow paced the sterile hallways, his mind a storm of guilt and rage. Your stubborn determination, your refusal to rest—it had led you here. And he hadn’t stopped it.

Finally, a doctor emerged. “She’s stable, but it was close. She’ll need time to recover.”

Relief crashed over him, leaving him weak. He pushed into your room, his heart twisting at the sight of you—pale, fragile, but alive.

Your eyes opened slowly. “Shadow…?”

He took your hand, his grip firm, anchoring you. “I’m here.”

Tears welled up, spilling down your cheeks. “I’m sorry… I messed up.”

“No,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I should’ve protected you.”

You squeezed his hand, weak but determined. “We protect each other.”

Shadow’s throat tightened. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Then let me protect you better this time. No more pushing yourself past the edge.”

You nodded, tears mingling with his. In that quiet, fragile moment, you both understood: strength wasn’t just fighting alone. It was knowing when to let someone stand by your side.

Shadow wasn’t the sort to linger in hallways, but tonight, he paused outside the bedroom door. The sound of your coughs, dry and relentless, hit him hard—not because he was unaccustomed to hardship, but because he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

You were curled in on yourself when he finally stepped inside, the blanket pooled around your shaking shoulders. Your face was streaked with tears, a raw redness tracing your nose and cheeks. You didn’t seem to hear him at first.

He didn’t speak. Instead, Shadow crossed the room, the quiet scrape of his shoes announcing his approach, and settled in the chair by your bed. His movements were deliberate and soft, as if acknowledging the fragility of the moment. “You’re crying again,” he observed, his voice low, neutral but not unkind.

You nodded miserably, trying to clear your throat, though the effort left you wincing. “I feel awful,” you rasped. “It won’t stop—it just won’t stop. I hate this.”

He stayed still, gaze steady on you, and leaned forward slightly. “It’s going to stop,” he said firmly. “Not now, but it will. I’m here until it does.”

You broke into a fresh wave of tears, clutching at your blanket, frustration spilling out in heaving sobs that stung your already inflamed throat. Every intake of breath felt labored, each cough tearing at you. Shadow reached out then, his gloved hand brushing against your shoulder—not too firm, but enough to ground you. “Easy,” he murmured. “Slow breaths. Don’t force it.”

“I can’t,” you gasped, shaking your head, though you leaned into his touch instinctively. “It’s—it’s too much.”

“You can,” he countered, voice edged with quiet certainty. “Look at me.” His crimson eyes locked with yours, calm and resolute. “One breath at a time. In. Out. It doesn’t matter how long it takes—just keep trying.”

You tried to match his cadence as he demonstrated, drawing in exaggerated breaths and releasing them. It wasn’t perfect, but the rhythmic focus helped your panic wane, leaving only exhaustion behind.

Satisfied, Shadow stood briefly and returned with a glass of warm water he’d left on the nightstand earlier. “Drink,” he said, pressing it gently into your hands.

Your hands trembled as you took the glass. He stayed close, steadying it as you sipped. The cool water stung, but it soothed some of the burning in your throat.

He set the glass down once you were done, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders without a word. His movements were careful, his expression unreadable but distinctly present.

“Do you want anything else?” he asked after a pause.

You shook your head weakly. “Just… stay?”

His lips tugged into the faintest approximation of a smile—barely there, but it softened his sharp demeanor. “I wasn’t planning to leave.”

The hours passed in relative quiet, your coughs gradually less frequent, though the misery lingered. Shadow stayed close the entire time, his presence an anchor against the storm of your discomfort.

“Try to sleep,” he urged eventually, voice low but insistent. “Your body needs it to heal.”

You nodded, eyelids heavy as you sank deeper into the pillows. Just before sleep claimed you, his voice cut through the haze, calm and steady. “I’ll be here when you wake up. No matter how long it takes.”

Cell wasn’t used to being appreciated.

The world feared him, loathed him, painted him as a monster—and perhaps they were right. After all, he was there to dominate, destroy, and surpass all others.

But then there was you.

You, the oddball entomologist who had stumbled into his solitude one quiet afternoon, seemingly unfazed by the fact that he could crush you with a flick of his wrist. Instead of fear, your eyes had lit up with fascination.

“Amazing,” you’d said, as if he were some rare specimen rather than the culmination of humanity’s arrogance and terror.

At first, Cell had assumed you were a fool, blinded by naive curiosity. But as the days passed and you kept returning, your interest genuine and unwavering, he began to tolerate your presence. Then, to his surprise, he found himself… looking forward to it.

You weren’t like the others. You didn’t beg for mercy or seek to challenge him. You simply admired him—his design, his abilities, even his connection to the insect world.

It was strange. But not unpleasant.

That was why your absence didn’t go unnoticed.

Three days. Three whole days without your familiar figure appearing in the distance, waving enthusiastically as you approached. No chatter about beetles or butterflies. No insistent questions about his biology, his wings, his exoskeletal armor.

At first, he assumed you’d grown bored or frightened. Perhaps you’d finally realized the absurdity of visiting someone like him.

But by the fourth day, irritation crept in. And by the fifth, a strange unease took root.

He didn’t like it.

It wasn’t concern, he told himself. Merely curiosity. A desire for answers.

And so, with a burst of energy, he took to the skies, his keen senses scanning for any sign of you.

It didn’t take long for him to find you.

The sight stopped him cold.

You were lying at the base of a rocky cliff, half-buried in debris, your body battered and barely moving. Blood stained the ground around you, and your breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps.

For a moment, Cell simply stared.

This was… unexpected.

Something twisted in his chest, an unfamiliar sensation that made his grip on control falter. It was almost like—no, it couldn’t be concern. He wasn’t capable of such weakness.

And yet, he was at your side in an instant, his movements uncharacteristically rushed.

“What have you done to yourself?” he muttered, his tone colder than he intended.

Your eyes fluttered open, barely focusing on him. A weak, broken laugh escaped your lips. “Hey… Cell…”

The sound made something tighten in his chest again, and he frowned. “This isn’t amusing.”

“Didn’t think… you’d notice…” you murmured, your voice faint. “Got a little… too close to the edge… I guess…”

Cell’s jaw clenched. Foolish. Reckless. Typical of a human.

But as he looked down at you—at the blood, the injuries, the fragile rise and fall of your chest—he felt something else beneath the frustration. Something he couldn’t quite name.

Carefully, almost hesitantly, he scooped you into his arms. Your weight was negligible to him, but the fragility of your form made him move with an unfamiliar gentleness.

“You’re fortunate I found you,” he said, his voice low. “Any longer, and you would’ve been…”

He trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.

You gave another weak laugh, your head resting against his chest. “Guess I owe you… huh?”

He didn’t respond, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he took off, the wind whipping past you both.

Cell didn’t stop until he found a safe, secluded spot where he could tend to your injuries. His knowledge of human anatomy wasn’t perfect, but he was efficient, his movements precise as he worked to stabilize you.

As he wrapped a makeshift bandage around your arm, you managed a small smile. “Didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t,” he said sharply, though the way his hands lingered betrayed his words.

“Liar,” you murmured, your smile widening despite the pain.

He didn’t dignify that with a response, but his silence spoke volumes.

Over the next few days, Cell stayed by your side, his presence both a comfort and a reminder of your own fragility. He didn’t ask why you visited him so often or why you saw something worth admiring in him.

But as he watched over you, ensuring your recovery, he realized something important.

You were a curiosity to him. An anomaly. A human who saw him not as a monster, but as something extraordinary.

Snow fell like a quiet exhale in the forests of Hanamura. The air was crisp, the scent of pine and cedar mingling with the soft crunch of boots against the frost-covered earth. Hanzo was no stranger to this place; its serenity provided a much-needed reprieve from his burdens, a space where he could meditate and momentarily lay down his guilt.

He had not, however, expected company.

At first, it was only the sensation of being watched—a prickling on the back of his neck, the sharpness of an unseen gaze. Hanzo paused mid-step, hand reflexively brushing the bow slung over his shoulder.

Then, a voice. Cold, musical, laced with venom.

“Another human,” it murmured, disdain rolling off each syllable. “What do you want in this place? Haven’t your kind taken enough from the world already?”

The figure who emerged was otherworldly, breathtaking in a way that defied mortal comprehension. A fae. Your sharp features glowed faintly in the dim light, your eyes alight with an unearthly hue. The frost seemed to gather around you as if bowing to your presence.

Hanzo’s breath hitched—not out of fear, but awe. “I did not come to take,” he replied, his voice steady but quiet. “I seek only solitude.”

You snorted, your wings flicking behind you in irritation. “Solitude? From what? The chaos you humans wreak upon each other?”

Your tone sliced deeper than intended, and Hanzo’s expression faltered. A flicker of something—pain, regret—flashed in his eyes before he lowered his head slightly, as if in apology.

“You are not wrong,” he admitted. “Humans have done terrible things. Myself included.”

You stiffened, clearly caught off-guard by his honesty. You tilted your head, at him with suspicion. “You admit it so easily,” you said, though your voice lacked its previous sharpness.

“I have little choice,” Hanzo replied, his gaze meeting yours. “To pretend otherwise would be a lie.”

It wasn’t the last time you met.

Despite your initial wariness, you found yourself drawn back to the forest again and again—if only to test the peculiar human with his quiet demeanor and self-loathing aura. Hanzo, for his part, never pushed. He would greet you with a solemn nod and continue his meditation or archery practice, leaving you to decide if and when you would speak.

Days turned into weeks, and your exchanges grew longer, more personal. You spoke of your disdain for humanity, recounting the horrors you had endured at mortal hands. Hanzo listened without interruption, his face unreadable but his eyes filled with a quiet understanding.

“I was tampered with,” you confessed one day, your voice trembling with anger and pain. “Humans tried to twist my power for their own gain, as if I were some tool to be bent to their will.”

Hanzo’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “That is… unforgivable,” he said softly, his voice tinged with anger—not at you, but for you. “No one deserves such cruelty.”

“And yet it happens,” you replied bitterly. “Why should I trust you, a human, when your kind has done nothing but take from me?”

“You shouldn’t,” Hanzo said simply. “But I will remain here, should you ever wish to try.”

Trust was not easily won, but over time, you found yourself lowering your guard. You began to notice the little things—the way Hanzo always left offerings of fruit or flowers in the clearing, how he never intruded on your space uninvited. He moved with care, his actions deliberate and respectful, as if he understood the fragility of the bond you were very slowly building.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the forest in hues of gold and amber, you approached him with something akin to hesitance.

“Why do you come here?” you asked, your voice softer than before.

Hanzo glanced up from his seated position, his bow resting beside him. “To atone,” he admitted. “For the lives I have taken, the pain I have caused. And perhaps… to find peace.”

You regarded him silently, your expression unreadable. “Peace,” you murmured. “Do you believe it is possible?”

“I do not know,” Hanzo replied honestly. “But I must try.”