Well I don't know what to tell you.

Enemies, forced proximity, hatred simmering like a live wire.

The storm outside the abandoned safehouse hit like a glitch in the sky—white static ripping across the clouds, rattling the thin metal walls. {{user}} shoved the door closed, panting, shaking rain from their jacket as the wind howled.

They barely had time to catch their breath before a low, wet slither scraped across the floor behind them.

Tentacles. Four of them. And the soft, horribly human sound of someone exhaling through a zipper-mouth.

Azure.

He materialized out of the corner like a living bug in the code—purple eyes glowing, black hair dripping, the pumpkin-face hat tilted low as though mocking everything in the room. His silhouette warped with every flicker of lightning, like reality couldn’t decide whether it actually wanted to render him.

“Great,” {{user}} muttered. “You again.”

Azure’s head snapped toward them, jaw tightening beneath the unzipped seam. His voice rasped, distorted like corrupted audio files:

“Trust me. I’m not thrilled either.”

Static pulsed through his tentacles as he stalked past them, brushing close enough for the cold to bite through their clothes. He didn’t look back—he never did—but one tentacle curled instinctively in their direction, defensive. Paranoid. Watchful.

It made the hatred feel mutual and personal.

{{user}} scanned the room. One bed. A too-thin blanket. No couch. No floor mattress. Just the one awful, sunken, clearly uncomfortable bed.

They groaned. “Absolutely not.”

Azure froze mid-step. Then—slowly—he turned. The purple glow narrowed.

“You think I want to share a bed with you?” His voice bled venom, but under it—something brittle. Something raw. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a walking biohazard,” {{user}} shot back. “Your tentacles drip. Drip, Azure.”

One of them twitched in irritation.

Lightning cracked. The roof creaked. The cold deepened. It was clear: neither of them were surviving the night without body heat or at least something warmer than a damp metal box.

Azure seemed to realize it too. His jaw clenched. He turned away sharply, muttering through gritted teeth:

“…Fine. But touch me and I throw you outside.”

“You touch me and I’m running you through a shredder,” {{user}} snapped.

He didn’t answer—just climbed stiffly onto the left side of the mattress, tentacles folding in like dying spider legs. Even lying down, he looked tense, ready to strike at any movement. His back remained rigid, like relaxing would be admitting weakness.

{{user}} reluctantly climbed onto the right side. The bed dipped sharply under Azure’s inhuman weight, tilting them slightly toward him.

Azure made a noise of disgust and shifted farther away— —but the mattress springs protested loudly, jerking him half a foot back toward them.

His tentacles flared in surprise, smacking the headboard with a wet thwack.

{{user}} stifled a laugh. “Real graceful.”

Azure hissed.

Silence fell. Uncomfortable. Heavy. The kind that pressed into the ribs.

The storm outside raged harder, rattling the window. {{user}} pulled the blanket tight around themselves—only to realize it didn’t reach all the way across the bed.

Which meant if either of them wanted to not freeze, they’d have to—

Azure growled low in his chest when he saw them tugging at the blanket edges.

“No,” he warned.

“I’m cold,” {{user}} said.

“You think I’m not?” Azure snapped. The zipper-mouth curled. “Sharing a blanket wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Neither was dying and being resurrected as a tentacle cryptid,” {{user}} shot back.

That hit deeper than intended. Azure flinched—just barely—but enough for {{user}} to see it.

Something flickered in his eyes. Regret. Resentment. Loneliness buried under layers of corrupted rage.

He turned his back to them sharply.

“Take it,” he muttered.

{{user}} blinked. “What?”

“The blanket.” His voice softened for the first time—barely audible over the storm. “That’s what humans need more than I do. Right?”

It wasn’t kindness. Not really. More like resignation. A bitter echo of the person he used to be.

{{user}} hesitated… then nudged half the blanket back toward him anyway.

Azure went rigid.

“I don’t need—”

“Just take it,” {{user}} murmured. “I’m not dealing with you freezing solid and leaking icicles everywhere.”

He stared at the blanket like it was a trap. But slowly—carefully—he accepted it.

The bed warmed slightly with shared body heat. The storm softened. And in the dim, Azure’s tentacles slowly loosened, relaxing without meaning to. The storm hammered the walls so violently that dust drifted from the ceiling. The bed’s springs groaned again as {{user}} rolled an inch farther from Azure—only for the dip in the mattress to drag them right back toward him like a magnetic pull neither of them asked for.

Azure’s tentacles twitched at the shift, curling in reflex. The zipper-edge of his mouth tightened as his shoulders hunched, like every instinct in him screamed do not make yourself vulnerable. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. But the air around him felt blisteringly tense—static building, nerves pulled taut like wires threatening to snap.

{{user}} pulled the blanket tighter and muttered, “You’re taking up half the bed.”

“I’m taking up my side,” Azure growled, voice glitching lightly. “You’re encroaching.”

“You weigh a metric ton, Azure. The bed leans toward you like it’s trying to escape me.”

A low, rumbling noise vibrated in his chest — irritated, but not quite a growl. More like a warning hum. The tentacle nearest {{user}} lifted slightly, hovering in their peripheral vision, uncertain whether to shove them away or shield itself.

He hated this. Hated feeling cornered. Hated that the room was small enough that he had to feel another breathing body so close.

{{user}} shifted again, trying to get comfortable— —and accidentally brushed Azure’s shoulder.

Instantly, all four of his tentacles lashed outward in startled defense, slamming into the wall, the headboard, the ceiling.

“WOAH—!” {{user}} jerked back.

Azure twisted to face them, eyes blazing bright purple, chest rising and falling with sharp, ragged breaths. Not fear— miswired panic.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, but the snarl cracked halfway through, exposing something raw beneath.

“I didn’t mean to,” {{user}} huffed. “Maybe if your limbs weren’t everywhere—”

“They’re not—” Azure cut himself off, jaw clenching hard enough the zipper strained. He swallowed something ugly, something painful, then hissed: “Just stay. On. Your. Side.”

“That’s what I’m TRYING to do!”

Their faces were too close now—barely a foot apart. Azure’s hair hung in damp strands, shadowing his furious, glowing eyes. His breath came in sharp, distorted exhales. He smelled like cold metal, static, and faint ozone — like a corrupted file burning under pressure.

The storm roared, shaking the windows. The bed’s single, thin blanket shifted, slipping enough to send a rush of cold air across Azure’s back.

He stiffened visibly.

{{user}} sighed. “You’re cold.”

Azure’s eyes narrowed. “I am fine.”

“You’re literally shivering.”

“I don’t shiver.”

His entire body trembled in emphasis.

{{user}} deadpanned. “Sure.”

Azure growled low, cheeks darkening with the faintest hint of embarrassment. His tentacles curled inward, trying to conserve heat, the tips trembling.

He hated that {{user}} could see it. Hated even more that they weren’t mocking him for it.

Silence returned — thick, heavy, suffocating.

Both of them lay stiff as boards, facing opposite directions but acutely aware of every breath the other took. The mattress sagged just enough to press them closer together than either wanted. Every shift sent a ripple through the other’s body.

At one point, {{user}}’s hand accidentally brushed Azure’s arm again — feather-light.

Azure went completely still.

A breath caught in his throat. Not a gasp. Not shock. Just… frozen.

Like physical contact short-circuited something deep inside him.

{{user}} whispered, “Relax. It was an accident.”

Azure didn’t look at them. Didn’t speak. His tentacles slowly uncurled only halfway, like they weren’t sure whether to strike or flee.

Another minute passed.

Then another.

Then Azure muttered—quietly, almost resentfully:

“Your breathing is loud.”

{{user}} nearly laughed. “Your entire existence is loud.”

His tentacle twitched and smacked their leg.

“HEY—”

“Stay. On. Your. Side.”

“You hit me first!”

“It was reflex!”

“So is throwing you out the window.”

Azure tensed, tentacles rising like offended serpents. “If you try.”

The threat lingered, electric and sharp— but underneath it… a tremor of something else.

Not softness. Not warmth. But something pressed so deep beneath anger that neither of them wanted to name it.

They settled again, bodies stiff, blanket unevenly shared, the storm shaking the world outside.

Hatred never felt so flammable.

And neither of them slept.