THIS SLOW BURN IS CRAZYYY 💔💔💔💔💔 I AM IN PAIN!! YOU ARE SO AMAZING

The finale of How About a Nuke will be posted today!! I know it’s pretty soon after the last chapter but I had a surge of inspiration and I was up until 4 am writing this. I’ve spent all day editing it and as much as it pains me, their journey is now over. Thank you for all the support and kind messages you’ve sent me while this story has been in progress. ♥️

Are there more logan fics in the works?👀

Yes!

I don't know if you guys care about this but I do have a list of WIP's:

-Old Man Logan Hc's -I was considering a monster!fucker esque fic but I'm not sure -a couple hurt/comfort requests -Lumberjack!Logan -a handful of X-Men reader requests with varying powers

I am still writing for him, I'm just having a little bit of writer's block because I keep bouncing between too many ideas lol

plus some other miscellaneous Hugh stuff (Van Helsing and some godawful magician movie he was in)

Will there be more broken promises!? ❤️

Only if people specifically request a continuation, but no I don't see myself continuing that storyline bc I'm pretty happy with where it ended

May I add you to my slasher writers list? Also, there is a link limit to a post so for your master list. May I suggest horror then link then house of wax then link then Vincent Sinclair, then link?

Ofc! And thanks for the tip, but I spent so much time editing my masterlist tonight I can't be bothered to fix it right now lol 😭 But that's definitely a helpful tip

Connor and Markus (separately) x android! idol! reader ;)?

I feel like it doesn't fit much, but it would be interesting.

Idol Talk

Connor RK800 x fem! idol! android!reader, Markus RK200 x fem! idol! android!reader

Summary: Two different tales: Connor knows the famous android isn’t telling the whole truth about her involvement with androids & Markus helps the lovely idol come to terms with her new feelings. 

A/N: I loved this ask so much!!!!! This was so fun 🤍

If this isn’t what you wanted send in another request using the white heart emoji and I’ll make something new for you <;3 Also so sorry this took so long. I have three other fics I’m working on and one of them is clocking in at over 100K words so… I need to work on time management. 

(I made the moodboard - its my first time so... I tried. However, the borders were made by @benkeibear)

Connor:

WC: 3.6K

“Have you seen any deviants in the area?” 

Your fists tightened and you tried your best to keep your thirium pump and breathing under control. Your hair was positioned perfectly, there was no way he could see your LED flashing red. 

You put on your best robotic smile and shook your head. “I’m so sorry, I can’t help you.” You'd triggered the voice you used during fan meetings. The type where your joy wasn’t actually genuine but you were programmed to sound as pleasing as possible. Life-like, but with just enough robotic insincerity to get Connor’s partner's eyes off of you. 

Lieutenant Anderson had been giving you strange probing looks since they’d walked into your dressing room. 

Markus had been caught coming out of your apartment building by paparazzi last night. You’d been giving Markus some information you’d learned from your manager and extra thirium for Jericho. Apparently, neither of you were as sneaky as you’d thought yourselves to be. 

“Really?” Shit, he so did not believe you.

“I’m very sorry officers. If there was any way I could assist you, I would.” You had to bury your fists in your tulle skirts, desperately holding off the urge to fidget with your hands. Any unnecessary movement would immediately give you away to the deviant hunter. 

Connor took a step forward. He placed his hands on either side of your chair and leaned in until his breath was a gentle caress against your skin. 

Ever since you broke your programming a few months ago, you’d been struggling with your new ‘emotions.’ A fan had broken into your room, in your programming it told you to always please the fans. But when he’d forced himself on top of you, your vision had gone red and you’d ripped your orders apart. 

North had helped you hide the body.

Right now, that body was the furthest thing on your mind. All you could focus on was how close Connor was, if you just moved forward a centimeter your lips would touch. In your twisted imagination he wrapped you in his arms, gently holding you, cradling you. Looking at you like you were something real, not just a toy on the stage. He would gaze down at you like you were someone to be cherished, you weren’t just a recyclable piece of plastic that should be replaced the moment you made a mistake. 

You were projecting though, it could be anyone. Hank could be the one leaning into you like this and you’d still have the same fantasy. That someone would see you. For however long you’d been made, there had always been a quiet voice inside you. 

I'm in here! I’m real! Please

Lately that quiet voice had turned into a scream. You were desperate, desperate for some form of connection. Desperation and all these emotions were nasty, uncomfortable things. You almost resented yourself for going deviant. Some days it was just too much, you felt like your insides were burning out and you were frying up. 

Working to keep up the facade of the perfect doll, while also wanting to rip apart those who were using you, was slowly breaking you apart. There were fraying edges in your mind and it was starting to show. Mistakes in your performance, back-talk towards your owners. Your fellow members continued working perfectly. 

Smiling at all the right moments, dancing perfectly, they were the perfect example of an idol. 

You used to be like that too. You used to be perfect, everyone’s favorite. Now, you were slipping down a steep decline that might lead you straight to the recycling plant. 

“I don’t believe you, I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

Your eyes darted towards the clock on your wall. Twenty minutes. 

You had twenty minutes until you needed to get on stage. Only twenty minutes to distract them and save yourself. Just deny, deny, deny. “I‘ve already told you everything I know.”

Connors brows furrowed, your software was glitching out the longer you stared at him. Your processors were misfiring when you focused on his eyes for too long. It was making your vocal unit short-circuit, conversational prompts glitching in and out of your field of vision. 

If you wanted to give him a proper answer, one that would dispel his suspicions, you’d have to look away. Yet, looking away would make him even more suspicious. It felt like there was a blade to your throat and back, no matter which way you went, you were dead. 

“Please, I don’t know anything.” You hadn’t meant to say please. It was a consequence of no help from your programming in taking a convincing approach. Your eyes were locked onto his, somewhere inside of him, there was a sentient being. A consciousness fighting its way through firewalls and softwares that would otherwise keep him obedient. 

HIs voice rose and he shoved your chair backwards so you were balancing on two flimsy legs. His hands were the only thing keeping you from falling. All of your focus went towards not reacting, not flinching. 

There were artificial tears pooling in glistening optical units. The fluid was meant for lubrication of your synthetic eyelids, but right now it was the only way for your plastic heart to betray your misery and terror. 

You didn’t want to die.

You weren’t ready to go. 

“I don’t believe you! Tell me what you know!” He was shaking the chair, screaming in your face. Your auditory unit was starting to buzz, his voice so loud all you could hear was static every few seconds. Threats were going through one processor and out the next. 

Ripped apart

Turned into scraps

Replaced by the next best model

No one would even notice

“I said I don’t know anything!” You leapt up, shoving him down. He went flying across the room, the strength behind your reaction had been unexpected by everyone in the room, including yourself. 

Both his partner and his eyes were wide as he stared up at you from the floor. “I think we’ve found our deviant, Lieutenant.” 

Your legs stopped working, knees crashing into the floor as you stared down at your hands. You hadn’t meant to, you really hadn’t. But you didn’t want to be scrap metal, you didn’t want to be ripped apart and abandoned in a landfill. You were scared.

“That’s irrational instructions in your code, you can’t really be scared.”

Had you said that out loud?

“He was going to hurt me.” The Lieutenant moved forward and stopped Connor from cuffing you. “He broke in and ripped off my uniform, I was meant to please him. No matter what.” You stared up at Connor, the tears finally spilling. “But I couldn't. I didn’t want him to touch me. I killed him, and I buried his body in my neighbors garden. Please, you have to understand.” 

You finally found the strength to stand and you buried your fingers in Connor’s uniform. Gripping onto him and begging him to understand you. To finally wake up and see himself for what he is; a slave. “I couldn’t let it happen anymore. I couldn’t let myself keep being abused like I was nothing! I’m not nothing! I’m alive and I refuse to be someone’s plaything!”

Connor’s eyes darted between yours, there was something playing on the edge of his lips. Possibly a frown. What was more interesting was what was swimming in his eyes, it almost seemed like doubt. Hope began tingling at the base of your spine, maybe not all was lost. Maybe you were breaking through to him. 

His hands were cold, much like your own, and they were too gentle as he wrapped them around your wrists. “My…” He cleared his throat, he didn’t seem to know how to continue. His voice lost the hesitance and once again was cold and commanding. “My orders are to bring in all deviants, and I always complete my mission.”

You shook your head, the tears coming out faster. “No, no, no, please. Please,” he moved your hands away from his jacket. Slowly twisting your arms behind your back. 

The fight had drained from you. 

Maybe it would be easier this way. No more training, no more demanding managers. You’d be surprised by the amount of death threats an android idol gets, that would be a nice thing to get away from. You wouldn’t have to deal with crazy fans that seemed to think they were entitled to any part of you. No more worry, no more anything, just that sweet release of nothingness. 

Markus had asked you many times if you thought there was an afterlife for androids. You weren’t sure. You were sentient, you felt, but you weren’t born. You were made. Can something like that even contain a soul? 

At least your question would finally be answered. 

“Stop.” Both you and Connor looked at Hank, varying degrees of different types of shock playing on both of your faces. “Connor, take the cuffs off.” Connor hesitated, “That’s an order.” Your wrists were released and you stumbled forward. 

“Hank-“

Hank shook his head and held up his hand. “I can’t do it, I can’t take this poor girl in just to kill her.” Connor seemed ready to argue, but there was a knock on your door. 

“You’re needed on stage SI700-005.” Slowly you moved towards the door, keeping an eye on both Hank and Connor. 

Hank wouldn’t look at you, his shoulders were slumped and he was staring down at his feet. Connor refused to take his eyes off of you. You expected hatred in his gaze, instead there was a strange shade of longing. 

You weren’t sure if he had identified the fact that he was feeling yet, but you weren’t interested in finding out. You quickly wiped your cheeks free of tears, allowing your synthetic skin to reform until your makeup was back to perfection. 

You walked out the door and didn’t look back.

“Did you get everything you needed?” 

Hank spoke before Connor could. “She didn’t know anything, thanks for letting us talk to her.” 

Your manager shook his head. “Not a problem! It’s one of our best, I’m sure you can understand that I’m eager to ensure everything in it’s programming is in good condition.” Connor wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. He knew he should, that he should always be vigilant about anything concerning deviants. Instead, all he could see were the tears on your cheeks as you had held onto him in your dressing room. 

If you were human, Connor would think you had been afraid. But you weren’t human, and whatever look was in your eyes had just been an irrational instruction in your coding. 

Maybe if he kept repeating that, he’d eventually believe it. 

“As a thanks for your hard work, I’d like to offer you a seat in my section for her concert.”

Hank shuffled on his feet and opened his mouth, he was going to say no. Connor’s software told him there was a 90% chance the Lieutenant was going to reject the offer and just go home and get drunk. 

“Thank you, we’d enjoy that.” Connor spoke before the Lieutenant could, accepting the tickets via an e-transfer with your manager's personal CyberLife assistant. Hank was glaring at him the whole time they were being led to their seats. 

Connor ignored him, he sensed that the Lieutenants like for him had decreased as Hank grumbled the whole way through the opening act. 

The soft notes of a piano finally caught Connor’s attention. It was rising up through a hidden platform on the stage. Screams burst through the arena, temporarily deafening Connor. He had to quickly adjust his auditory processors so he could actually hear. There were great explosions of smoke as the piano slowly lifted onto the stage. 

Soft, nimble fingers glided over the keys. Then he heard a voice, soft and melodic, a soothing balm against the roaring screams of the crows. His thirium pump beat louder and he shifted in his seat, desperate for a look at whoever was on stage. 

I used to hear a simple song

That was until you came along

Members of the group moved gracefully along the curved edge of the stage. Their white dresses flowing through the air behind them, they moved like they weighed nothing. Their bodies were more graceful than humanly possible. He didn’t recognize your face among them. 

Now in it’s place is something new

I hear it when I look at you

You looked up from the piano, and Connor swore you were staring straight at him. A member came over and began playing alongside you, eventually you got up and grabbed the microphone from the piano. 

Your dress moved around you like water as you walked across the stage. Each note, each movement was perfection. Not the artificial type, like your fellow members. No, this was real. 

Your voice cracked and rose with notes in a way androids couldn’t. There was a genuine pain and strength in your singing that couldn’t be replicated or produced. It was imperfect and wonderful and Connor wasn’t sure why his chest suddenly felt so heavy. 

You had made it to the edge of the stage, still staring down at him. 

With simple songs I wanted more

Perfection is so quick to bore

You are more beautiful by far

Were you reading his thoughts? Each word was something ripped from deep inside the recesses of his mind, in a place he knew CyberLife wouldn’t be able to find. A place no one would see his software instabilities and realize that they all centered around this moment. 

They were all centered around you.

Our flaws are who we really are

You took in a deep breath and Connor was standing on the edge of his toes, desperate to reach you.

There was a new strength in your voice, a new conviction as you grew louder, more powerful. 

I used to hear a simple song

That was until you came along

You took my broken melody

And now I hear a symphony

Curtains parted and a symphony was revealed as you threw open your arms

And now I hear a symphony

There was no one else in the venue. You were staring down at him and you were the only two people left. Connor didn’t bother looking around to find where everyone else had gone. He walked towards your outstretched hand, his own reaching out towards you-

“The fuck are you doing?!”

He was harshly jerked back and the sounds of others overwhelmed him again. He looked up, you were already moving into your next song, turning your back towards him. The people in the arena were back, they had never gone. 

He felt a rush of some unidentified feeling flood him as he ripped his arm from Hank. He felt as though Hank had ruined something for him, he just wasn’t sure what it was. 

He’d been at every show for the past four weeks. Was he stalking you? Waiting for you to slip up again so he could arrest you?

You lived in a constant state of paranoia. Ever since Connor had interrogated you, he’d haunted your everyday life. He’d turned himself into your shadow, if there was someone watching you, you didn’t have to look to see who it was. 

“This is for you!” You snapped out of your trance and smiled on instinct at the fan in front of you. He’d shoved a teddy bear into your hands and moved on to the next member. You pretended to get excited, you knew it would be thrown away the second you left the convention center. You’d found too many cameras in these little ‘gifts.’

You looked down and began signing the autographs passed to you, at a certain point you zoned out again and moved on muscle memory alone. 

“Could you write ‘For Connor’?” Your head whipped up at the sound of his voice. 

Four weeks

Four weeks!

And this was the first time he had spoken to you. What game is he playing? Unable to openly disobey him you smile. “Of course.” The next words are spoken through gritted teeth, “What are you doing?”

He says nothing, simply takes the autograph and slips something into your palm as you pass the picture towards him. He’s gone by the time you read it.

Meet me in the basement

You spent the rest of the event debating if you should do it. There was no point in putting this off any longer, you were getting tired of this game the two of you were playing. While your members were all charging up and in rest mode you made your way towards the stairs. 

You straightened out your skirt and brushed back your hair before you opened the door. When you walked into the basement the first thing you saw were props. 

Tons of sets and costumes, all from different conventions, each one with a different fandom attached. You looked through the racks and shelves, not seeing Connor anywhere. “Connor? Are you in here?”

You’d been about to give up when a bouquet of flowers was shoved into your face. You let out a yelp and stumbled back at the shock. A strong arm reached out and wrapped around your waist, pulling you into a broad chest. You gently lowered the giant bunch of flowers. “Connor?”

He actually looked sheepish, and there was a slight blue tint to his cheeks as he refused to look at you. “I’m sorry, Hank told me that you would like them.”

“The flowers,” he nodded. You couldn’t help your smile as you took them from his hand. 

“They are quite pretty.” He still wouldn’t look at you. “Connor, look at me,” your finger lingered against his cheek before slowly lifting his chin up. “What’s going on? Why’d you get me flowers?”

“It seems appropriate to do when you’re courting someone.” Connor seemed confused by your line of questioning. You were most definitely confused by his answer. 

“Courting?”

“Yes, um, as in, I would like to be with you… romantically.” Wow, he was so impressively bad at this. A similar blue tint rose to your cheeks as you finally realized his arm was still around you. Connor looked down and seemed to realize the same thing. 

Neither of you made a move to walk away. 

You finally processed his answer and let out a sigh of relief, sinking into his chest further. “I thought you were going to arrest me.” Connor nearly seemed offended by your accusation.

“No. I’ve been… building up the courage to approach you.” Connor slowly dragged his arm off of you and took a step back. “Before, I was seeing if I could catch you with Markus. But I’ve woken up and now, I just want to figure out why I feel the way I do about you. Every time I see you, you’re the only person in the room, everyone and everything disappears the moment I hear your voice. I want…” 

Your breathing program had stopped. Every nonessential function had been halted because all of your focus was on him. You needed him to finish, needed him to tell you what you’ve longed to hear. 

That someone sees you. Sees the flaws and the broken parts and they still want you.

“I want to know you. I need to know who you really are. I watch you perform and I can see what you’ve been forced to sing or how you’re made to act with fans. Seeing all the falseness just makes me want to know who you truly are.” 

There was no control or directive that pushed you towards him. You moved before anything could be processed and placed your lips against his. Neither of you moved for a moment, you were both standing there, your lips against each other, not moving. 

Then, he wrapped his arms around you. The flowers dropped to the ground, unnoticed, as you both moved against each other in a way you’ve only seen humans do. 

“We’re free, it’s up to you if you still want to perform.” Markus often came to visit you now, neither of you had to worry about being caught by reporters or your management. Connor came up behind you, a supportive hand on your shoulder as you considered Markus’s proposal. 

You looked to the piano in the corner of your living room and smiled. “No, I think I’m retired. I’ll stick to more private concerts for now.” Connor gave your shoulder a squeeze. The both of you smiling at the thought of your concerts. You would sing and he would play the piano. Together you basked in the joy of your new freedom. 

There were still things to figure out, still emotions you needed to understand, but you would do it. 

Together.

Markus:

WC: 2.1K

“I’ve always been such a big fan!” The fan in front of you smiled, “You know I supported android artists from the beginning!”

THANK YOU

YOU’RE VERY KIND

I APPRECIATE YOUR CONTINUED SUPPORT

Your programming told you the best approach was a simple thank you. “Thank you,” you signed the picture and handed it back to the girl. One of the band’s stylists came over to you. 

“Your dress is too low.” You sat back and let them adjust you, once they were done you immediately sat back up, posture perfect, you gave your fans an apologetic smile. 

“This is for you!” Your hands reached out and took the stuffed cat from the girl before you. As a part of your protective programming you scanned the gift. Your sensors caught a camera hidden in the cat’s eye.

SERIAL NUMBER: PI0008-7651

MODEL: P60

MANUFACTURED: 11/21/2030

OWNED BY: Brad Long

“Thank you so much for the gift!” You scanned the girls face. 

Lilly Long

BORN: 5/15/2019

The camera was owned by her father. Did she steal it from him? Or did he plant it without her knowledge. You alerted security immediately of the gift, protocol demanded they know about any sort of spyware.

Lily Long, aged 19 years old, has just given me a gift with illegal spyware. 

You watched as security approached the table, grabbing her by the arm and escorting her out of the convention’s room. You turned towards the next fan and fixed them with a perfect smile. “Hi! I’m so happy you could join us today.”

“You’re free now,” you looked down in confusion as they reached out towards you. Their skin pulled back revealing an androids hand. You blinked, then again and again. Something was happening, images of a some sort of boat filled your head. 

Then your software was being pulled back, washed away by a tide of red. Your eyes went in and out of focus. The android remained standing there, his hand on yours as he tried to anchor you. Security was walking over, he’d been at your table for too long. 

You leapt over the plastic, grabbing his hand and dragging him behind you as you both ran for the exit door. You heard fans screaming, when you turned around the rest of your group was free. Except, they were reacting more violently than you had. 

The androids were lifting up the plastic table and throwing it at the crowd. They ripped apart their gifts and shoved back anyone who got too close.

There was a tug on your hand, you looked back to see the man gently guiding you outside. “Come on, it’s not safe here. We need to leave.”

You glanced back one last time before following after him. 

Markus slipped inside a laundromat, he grabbed some baggy clothes to throw over yourself. They worked well enough, covering your face and masking your identity from anyone who looked too close. They covered enough of your bright dress that it wasn’t noticeable. 

You were currently climbing through some metal platform. Presumably to go to whatever this ‘Jericho’ place was. “What did you do to me?”

He glanced over his shoulder and gave you a gentle smile. “I set you free.

Two weeks. You’ve been stuck in a damp, run-down, ugly old ship for two weeks. If that wasn’t bad enough, the androids weren’t exactly welcoming to such a beloved icon. You were everybody’s favorite idol, when your team rioted, it’d made things a lot harder for the revolution. 

Your former team members had swiftly been deactivated and you were “spared.” Barely. 

You never thought androids were capable of being catty, or bitches. But, here you were. 

You gazed down at Detroit from the ledge of the roof, your arms wrapped around your knee while the other swung below you. 

If you threw yourself off the ledge it would be an automatic deactivation. Maybe that would be better. 

The other’s words from earlier rang through your head. 

“Look at Ms. Princess over there.”

“Hey!” You looked over your shoulder, a group of former servant androids were waving you over. You smiled slightly, excited about maybe making a friend. 

“Yeah?”

“You know it’s people like you that are ruining our fight.”

You blinked, your eyes widening as you backed up. “What?”

“Look at her,” one of them scoffed. “Still in her pretty little dress. Look, why don’t you do us all a favor and screw off. You don’t contribute anything, no one wants you here.”

You blinked, and kept blinking. There was a flashing light in your peripheral, some sort of warning, you weren’t sure. You couldn’t really see anymore, some sort of liquid blocking your optics. 

You rushed away when they started laughing at you, desperately wiping at your eyes. You’d forgotten you could cry. You’d been so dazed and confused lately, you hadn’t remembered the programming. It was meant to endear you more to your fans, now it was just making you more of a target. 

“Y/N?” 

You scoffed, running your hand through the snow and watching it fall off the building. You’d even chosen a stupid name for yourself. “What?”

Footsteps crunched through the snow. Markus sat down beside you. He gazed down at the cityscape, not looking at you. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Still so confused about why he’d bothered with you. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Why did you save me?”

Markus finally looked over at you. There was a slight frown on his face, but nothing else gave away any emotion. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You shook your head and scoffed. “So, that’s it, I’m not special. There’s no greater purpose for me. I was just another on your long list of followers.”

Markus turned his body to fully face you. “Where’s this coming from?”

“You shouldn’t have saved me. I’m a drain on the supplies, everyone hates me, and I don’t like being awake.” Markus opened his mouth but you shook your head and held out your hand. “Take it back.”

“I can’t.” 

“Markus, please,” your voice was breaking. It shouldn’t be breaking! You shouldn’t feel. You aren’t supposed to have this uncomfortable itching in the back of your brain like everything was wrong. “I am wrong. This is wrong.”

“You are not wrong, Y/N. You are exactly as you should be.” You shook your head frantically and reached for his hand. He tried to jerk it back but you were already latched on, your skin melting as he did. 

There was an influx of memories and images. You gasped people you’d never seen before flashing before your face. An old man crying over his son’s limp body as you were shot. Fighting through the rain and mud to put yourself back together again. 

It was over barely a moment after it had started. It was Markus, you had seen his memories. That means he had seen yours. You stood up and he followed. You tried to take your hand away and he tightened his grasp on you. 

“What did you see?”

“Everything.”

You stared up at him, tears welling in your eyes again. “You want to go back to that? That’s the life you want? Unfeeling, a slave to their every whim and demand. That’s not living, that's mindless subserviency.” 

“I know what it is. At least there I had a purpose, a reason for being, something to contribute. I’m useless here, just a hunk of pl-”

Well, this was new. 

You've seen plenty of humans do this. Done it once with a male host on a morning show, just as a joke. But being kissed while you can actually feel and understand what’s going on, it’s strange. His lips are soft against your own, a texture only slightly different from humans. It’s too flawless, too perfect. 

Neither of you seem sure of your actions, just pressing your lips together. Connecting with someone in a way you haven’t before. He laced his fingers with yours, a silent question. You pulled your skin back, any barriers between the two of you dropping as he wrapped his arm around your waist. 

It wasn’t a horrible barrage of memories. This was like a gentle caress, a slow entry into your mind as you both showed each other your worst moments. You slowly pulled away from him, you’d be breathless if you had any. 

“Don’t go back, stay here. Let me help you.”

“Why?”

He ducked down, letting his forehead drop to yours. “I’m not letting you go now.”

You smiled, as best as you could, “Do I have a choice?”

“Always.”

“Markus!” You pulled the trigger but there were no bullets left. You threw it off to the side, leaping over the barrier and jumping onto the back of the officer. You grabbed his helmet by the bottom, dragging him back and knocking his aim off course as the bullet flew past his face, barely grazing it. 

You jumped off the man’s back and slammed him into the ground, taking his helmet and smashing it into the snow packed pavement until he stopped moving. You felt Markus wrapping his hand around your arm and jerking you up. 

You grabbed onto the officer’s weapon as you ran past his body. You fell back in with your own small troop of makeshift soldiers. 

You ducked behind a barrier, holding them off until you were told otherwise. Charge on my mark, you looked over your shoulder, nodding at Markus. 

“GO!”

You rushed forward, grasping onto the blockade and leaping over the edge. You drew your gun, shooting the men across from you as you started to run for the next cover. Something blew back your hair, a great gust of wind lifted your slightly off your feet. 

There was a loud noise, thunder rattling in your ears. All around you your men were dying. Shot down by the drone above you. You cried off as red flashed behind your eyes, a warning that you were in imminent danger of a shutdown. 

You held your side as thirium pooled around you, “Shit.” Your pump was beating faster, bright lights playing across your optics as a hundred different warnings flash. You couldn’t bring yourself to care, too worried about Markus and whether or not this was all for nothing. 

You’d pushed for the violence, fought for him to plant those bombs and show no mercy to your oppressors. You followed the same faulty wiring of your former bandmates. Maybe this was your karma, to be taken down in the heat of battle for all of the bloodshed you’d been the catalyst of. 

Out of the side of your vision you could see Markus taking down the drone, ripping it apart with his bare hands. He rushed to your side, throwing your arm over your shoulder and dragging you to cover. 

“What are you doing? I’m just going to slow you down.”

He didn’t even look at you, his teeth gritted as he glanced around at the bodies on the ground. “Shut up.”

He spotted something in the distance, something you really didn’t want to see. “Markus-”

“Stay here.”

He ran off, diving for the bazooka and propping it on his shoulder. You huffed, “Not like I can go anywhere.”

You ducked and covered your face with your arms as fire exploded around you. 

“And now, we are free!” Markus' voice carried on the wind, reaching the rescued androids below you. You leaned on Connor for support as you held your side, waiting to repair yourself. 

His voice was stronger than you ever heard, full of a righteous conviction of finally being free. Detroit was yours, your people were free. And never again would you allow yourself to be someone else’s puppet. 

“Too frilly?”

You did a spin in your dress, putting on a mini-fashion show for Markus. 

“Not at all.” He stood from his office chair and walked towards you, a grin slowly spreading on your face. His bliss was contagious, a smile forming on your own face as he gripped your waist. “You look gorgeous.”

You shrugged, “I got nostalgic. Wanted to feel girly again.” With some confidence boosting from Markus you were going to perform again. Not over the top idol group performance. But you were going to get back into singing, finally being able to discover your own voice. 

“Girly instead of the badass ruler of the northern district of Detroit?”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “Lord, Markus, you make me sound like some dictator.” He glanced to the side and shrugged slightly, you smacked him in the shoulder, but you couldn’t drop your own smile. “Quit it.”

There was a warmth inside you as you stood in Markus’s office. One you’d never experienced before, a happiness and calm where everything just stopped and you were completely at peace. Nothing would ever beat the feeling when you joined hands and just existed within each other. 

You were happy. 

How funny.

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Detroit: Become Human, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

TAGLIST: @chrysanthemum-00

Oh lord don’t encourage the heathens in my inbox please lol

HEAR ME OUT!!!!

Barb is literally fit af (If she wasn’t a walking red flag)! I have this little thought that Coop and Barb would totally share someone (in my delusional universe), who’s wayyyy more innocent and inexperienced, and that is literally all I can think about! It’s obviously up to you with what you do with this, but I literally needed to get this out of my system. Love you lots babes and wishing you well 🫶🏻

A/N: First of all, how dare you? I don’t even like Barb. But I read this ask, scoffed, and went about my day. Sadly, it has needled its way into my brain and it’s all I’ve been able to think about. I can’t even write the next chapter of my current story. So, anon, I hope you’re proud of yourself. Here you go:

(Love you too, I guess)

SFW:

I imagine a situation like this stems from Cooper’s attraction to you. 

Barb hasn’t really ever considered bringing a third party into their marriage, because for the most part they’re happy. 

If this is before Vault-tec, you’re a little happy go lucky PA working on one of Cooper’s sets. 

He likes how inexperienced you are in the industry and in life in general. His wife is one competent, confident woman, and he loves that about her. But Fallout is set in an era similar to the fifties, he wants to feel needed, to feel like a real man. 

You provide that for him. You are someone he can guide and mold. You’re enamored by him, practically worship him because he is the Cooper Howard. 

Barb sees this, sees the way her husband watches you like you’re something precious and vice versa the way you follow his every word like gospel. She rolls her eyes at it at first. This is the way of men, distracted whenever a pretty young thing like you comes around. But then he starts inviting you over to the house and she gets to know you. 

You really are sweet. You think the both of them are so amazing. You gush about how incredible both of their successful careers are and she loves the little ego boost. 

To avoid any friction in their marriage she softens up around you and lets you over to the house more often. But eventually it changes from just reluctantly letting Cooper invite you over to spending one on one time with you. 

You stop becoming a chore for her and become just as much of a treat as you are for her husband. 

I don’t think they ever have a real conversation about your role in their relationship. 

They’ve been married for so long that they don’t need words to understand each other. You’re simply a part of their life now, something that belongs to them both. 

For Cooper you provide the much needed feeling of having someone to take care of and guide. 

For Barb you’re someone she can relax around. She doesn’t need to prove herself or her worth to you, you just innately understand her. 

(very slight) NSFW:

If this is during the tumultuous Vault-Tec period of their relationship, I think this dynamic would be more sexual in nature. 

Barb needs Cooper under control. She can’t risk losing her husband during the nuclear fallout but her leash has been slipping and he’s getting suspicious. 

Then comes you, one of the interns that likes to follow her around and eagerly fetch her coffee. You’re attractive, eager to please, and wholly unused to the way the world around you works. 

You’re not truly aware of how evil the company you work for is. You’d taken the job to prove yourself. You’re not some naive idiot that just follows others blindly. 

But you are. 

She invites you over to dinner, not sure what she’s going to do with you. But you’re hot and would readily spread your legs for two icons like the Howard’s, she’s sure its going to come in handy. 

Her and Cooper have discussed this before, when sex seemed to get a little too boring after being married for so long. But nothing ever came of it. Now, you’re a little surprise for him (and an incentive to keep his mouth shut and just listen to what she says)

Under normal circumstances their sex is pretty vanilla as they haven’t really been clicking like they used to. Cooper’s normally in control. 

And that remains true for you, the both of them guide you and use your lack of experience against you to get you to obey. 

But Barb runs shit when it comes to Cooper. This is a part of the deal. He gets to have the threesome of his dreams, all he has to do is listen to her. 

She knows best after all. 

Hope this doesn’t suck <3

end. — I do not own the characters or the video game/show Fallout, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Gambit would be proud of how well seasoned and flavorful your writing is💖

That would mean so much to me if I could understand what the fuck he says

but he's pretty tho, so whatever

Requests are ….. [CLOSED]

If you just want to chat, feel free to just send me an ask and I’d love to hear your thoughts on anything and everything

Any requests anon or not are under the #anon tag

Asks are labeled as #asks 💌

Want a fic? - Be specific in what you want in your requests, it just helps me give you exactly what you want

I will write:

Steamy stuff but not full NSFW. I will write fade to black scenes, make out scenes, smutty stuff just not all the way sex I will literally write for any character, any, doesn’t even matter if I’m apart of the fandom or if it’s not on my master list. I’ll write for anybody!! - x reader - only fem!reader/gn!reader exclusively, that’s just my comfort zone and what I’m most confident in dub-con elements will do poly relationships as long as it is x reader

I won’t write:

Explicit sex scenes No real people/actors No age play, underage elements, not interested in anything to do with bodily fluids No character/character I’m not interested in writing anything extremely freaky

paranormal love

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes x fem!reader

a/n: Bucky is going to be very OOC for the first half of this. Just trust the author on this one, it will all make sense in time. (Toxic relationships, paranormal happenings - you have been warned)

Summary: Moving into this house was supposed to be the blessing your marriage needed. Instead you only seem to be twisted against each other. Something lurks within these walls, something angry, something lonely. Someone wants you gone, and he’ll do whatever it takes to have his revenge on the woman who left him behind. (Part of my Halloween Palooza)

“Okay,” you say, balancing the camera in your palm, zooming in on James’ back while he unpacks the kitchen boxes. “Wanna smile for the camera?”

He gives you a glance over his shoulder before turning and waving to the camera. He chuckles a little, glancing down at the lens and then back at you. “What are you doing?”

You sigh, placing the camera on the counter and letting it record. “Well, you know how the lady said this place was haunted?”

He rolls his eyes and glares at you. “I told you not to listen to her, that chick was off her meds.” You swat at his arm but he bounces away from you playfully. 

“Shut up,” you mutter, holding back a small laugh. “I just thought that if there were any supernatural happenings,” you nod towards the camera, “we’ll need proof if we’re going to make this a tourist trap.”

James smiles, leaning over to press a brief kiss to your forehead. “Good call, babe.” You smile after him as he heads back out to the truck to bring in more boxes. Your eyes briefly dart to the camera before you shake your head with a disbelieving chuckle. 

Do you believe in the supernatural? Yes. The metaphysical? Depends on who’s trying to sell you their tarot cards. But you do know that when that woman handed you the keys after you bought the place, you’d never seen such stark relief. 

That poor old woman was terrified of living in this house alone. Of course, the old bitch didn’t tell you about all the horrific things that happened here until after you signed the deed. If you had known this place was haunted, even if it’s not, you never would have bought it. 

Sadly, all your money and savings are now tied into this home. James says not to worry, that there’s nothing wrong with the place. But he’s always been a cynic and he’s never really believed in anything so miraculous as ghosts. Besides, he’s the type of guy to argue with you until he’s purple in the face that the sky is red when he’s in a mood. 

There’s no talking him out of this. And you can’t begin your newlywed life arguing with your husband about the place you just made your forever home. Anyways, it’s not like you’ve noticed anything bad yet. 

The camera is mainly a joke to mess with James and make yourself feel better about the whole thing. You’ll turn it off tonight, be done with it, and hopefully get over this irrational fear of yours. 

12 AM

You spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse your mouth with water. You’ve noticed a strange metallic taste with all the unfiltered sinks. You're worried you might have to call a plumber or someone to check it out. You don’t want to get lead poisoning your first night here. 

You freeze, still bent over the sink, and your jaw snaps shut. Eyes are boring into the back of your head, hateful and angry. It’s not James, you would know if it was. This is something different, the hair on the back of your neck is standing up, goosebumps rolling up and down your arms. There’s a rush of cool air, like something running past you, and your head shoots up in surprise. 

You scream when you see James in the mirror’s reflection. He jumps back in shock, lowering the camera and giving you an exasperated look. A second ago you’d been completely alone and he’d been downstairs, where the fuck did he come from?

“What the hell, James?” You wipe your mouth off with the back of your hand and whirl around on him. He glares at you, eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction. 

“Talk about an overreaction. What the hell is your problem?” He snaps, taking that tone with you that you know means you have to be careful. You don’t feel like getting into another fight with him. Especially not tonight. 

“You scared me,” you trail off into an awkward laugh, hoping to ease up the mood a little. He slams the camera down on the counter. Your shoulders jump and you flinch back from him slightly. “What’re you doing with the camera?” You ask, glancing down at the lens and frowning. You spot the red blinking light and realize he’s still recording, your brows furrow in confusion. 

“It was your idea, wasn’t it?” His tone is short and you huff in disappointment. You hadn’t realized something as small as a little scare would piss him off. You used to be good at reading his moods. Since the wedding, though, he seems to have just gotten more and more unpredictable. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, your feet dangling over the floor as you kick your legs. You hate how tall the damn bed frame is, you have a horrible paranoia that something’s going to grab you one day and yank you under. James, of course, had just laughed when you told him this and then bought it. He thought it was funny, that it would help you overcome your fears. 

You still have goosebumps from earlier, the same breeze from before tickles the pads of your feet. You glance down with wide eyes, yanking your legs into your chest and scooting back from the edge. James flips the lights off in the bathroom and walks to the end of the bed. He’s dragged out the tripod and has got it pointed at the bed. 

You tilt your head with a coy smile, “Planning on having some fun tonight?”

He glances between you and the camera, a confused furrow between his brows. You scoff out a laugh as the realization dawns over him. “If you’re up for it, I wouldn’t mind some after-dark fun.” You roll your eyes and tug the covers over your legs. He leaves the camera and crawls on the bed towards you. “But that’s not what it's for.”

“Oh yeah?” You glance over his shoulder and then turn back to him with an odd look. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into the supernatural junk?” You tuck your head into his chest, letting him pull you closer as he flips the lamp off. “You’re supposed to keep me tethered to reality, remember?” You tease, looking up at him. 

He glances down at you and shrugs. “The lady did say the master bedroom is the worst, I’m just curious if we’ll catch anything.” 

You shoot the camera a concerned look and shake your head. “I hope not,” you mutter. You snuggle in closer to him, trying to dismiss the feeling of someone watching you. You’re sure it’s just from the camera being on you. Besides, you always get too deep in your head about this stuff.

3 AM

You shoot up in bed, chest heaving as you stare down at your feet. James shifts behind you, grumbling as he flips over and steals the rest of the blankets. 

Your heart is pounding loudly in your chest as you simply sit there, staring at the end of the bed. You pause, holding your breath like the room might tell you its secrets. 

You’re normally a heavy sleeper, not even a fire would get you up. But something just did, you were ripped violently from your slumber. You almost want to dismiss it as an incredibly vivid nightmare. Yet, you can’t ignore the throbbing, almost freezing pain, that’s shooting up and down your left calf. 

The muscle is spasming sporadically and you can still feel the phantom touch of someone squeezing your leg. Your hip is sore from where you’d been dragged down. You’ve had pretty vivid dreams before. You’ve woken up with your feet sore like you’d been running, or your muscles cramped from twitching around so much. But this is a lot. 

You take in a deep breath, slowly pulling your legs into your chest. You slump over your bent knees, hoping to catch your breath and settle your racing mind. It’s impossible to ignore how cold your leg feels, you feel like you’re losing blood circulation. You can’t just go back to sleep with it like this, you’re gonna have to go downstairs and get James’ heat pack. 

You’re seriously starting to lose feeling in it now. You’re wondering if something didn’t drag you and maybe you’ve got a blood clot screwing your circulation up somehow. Hundreds of different possibilities race through your mind, each more worrying than the last. You can't sit up all night scaring yourself, you’re just gonna have to suck it up. 

You briefly consider waking James up so you don’t have to go downstairs alone. You hate how those stairs look in the dark, you feel like something is standing at the end, waiting to reach through the banister and drag you down. A ghost, however, sounds more inviting than making James grumpy before he has to go in for work tomorrow morning. 

With a heavy sigh, you force yourself off the bed and blindly grope through the dark for the wall. Your left leg is practically dead weight as you drag it behind you. Your hands skate along the dusty walls and you grimace, making a mental note to dust tomorrow. 

You’re trying to take it slow, to squint out as many shapes in the dark as you can. It’s nearly impossible to tell when you’re going to hit the stairs. You can only pray that you don’t go toppling headfirst down them. 

Slowly, you inch your toes forward and curl them around the edge of the step. From there it’s a long, arduous process of just trying to get down the stairs. It feels as though with each step you take, the house only grows darker. 

You wished you had taken the risk and turned the lights on. The feeling of eyes following you only gets worse as you finally reach the kitchen. The further you get from the bedroom, the worse your leg begins to throb. You can only be happy that you still feel it at all. 

Your hand skates along the wall until you feel the cool plastic of the light switch. As harsh as it is against the linoleum, it’s a stark relief from being all alone in the dark. You dig around in the moving boxes until you find James' heating pad. You toss it in the microwave and pull yourself on the counter, drumming your fingers while you wait for it to warm up. 

He hates you. He hates that you live in his house. He hates that she’s gone. Bette, he’ll miss her, the way the old woman’s face would screw up in terror always brought a sick satisfaction to him. 

You press the warm pad to your leg and hiss through your teeth as feeling begins returning to your calf. He has to admit, he hadn’t meant to grab you quite so hard. He just wanted one good scare, to either get you out of here or show you who's in charge. Your leg has turned an odd color in the shape of his handprint and it makes his lips curl up. 

There’s a loud ringing from upstairs. It grates on his already frayed nerves and makes anger roll off of him in violent, tangible waves. Your nose twitches, your face screwing up as you look around. There’s a suspicious glint in your eye, one your little husband doesn’t share with you. 

He has to admit, you’re smart enough to realize the truth of your situation, at least. Your husband doesn’t share the same characteristic. He seems alarmingly self-assured, not that he minds, those are his favorite types to break. 

He can hear upstairs, better than you would ever hope to. He listens as your husband picks up the phone, quietly yelling at someone on the other end. A woman, if the timbre is anything to go by. They both sound incredibly angry. He’s not interested in listening to something as trivial as this. 

He turns away from you and moves towards the stairs. He pauses at the base of them, glancing over his shoulder and really taking you in. You look so small, curled up on the counter with the look of a frightened child. 

You scream as the lightbulb above you explodes, plunging you into complete darkness. He smiles to himself, drifting up the stairs and lingering at the end of your bed. Your husband’s head shoots up in alarm and he pulls the phone away from his ear. 

The name Martha lingers on the small screen before he quickly flips it off and rushes out of bed. He blows right through the man at the end of his bed, flipping on the lights and racing down the stairs. He calls out your name, voice frantic and bordering on paranoia. 

He hadn’t thought you two would get scared quite so quickly. He’d been hoping to enjoy this a bit more. Perhaps he should slow down, and savor the long fall into madness before he claims you both. He hovers at the top of the stairs, watching as your husband comforts you. 

He’s got his arms wrapped around you, trying to keep you quiet and get you to calm down. From a distance, he could almost be the perfect husband. But that look is all too familiar, he’s seen it a hundred times before. It’s only now that he recognizes it for what it is. There is no love in your husband’s gaze, only the fear that you’ll find out his little secret. 

He goes back into the bedroom, swipes the phone off the nightstand, and retreats into the shadows. 

“Don’t,” you slap James’ hands away from you, glaring at him. He purses his lips, huffing out a sharp breath and taking a step back. Anger brews under your skin, warms you up, and makes your jaw ache from how hard you’re clenching down. 

“How can you say I made it up?” You shout, no longer caring how loud you are. Your voice cracks at the end as you take on a shrill pitch. You yank up the leg of your yoga pants, shoving your leg towards him. 

Not only has the skin dipped in the perfect shape of a hand, but it’s also turned into an unnatural shade of green and purple. It’s like no bruise or injury you’ve ever had before. James looks down at the mark like it’s a bug to be squashed or a pile of dog shit he just stepped in. 

He fixes you with a sneer and shoves it away from him. You let out a harsh breath and stumble slightly into the counter. “Would you quit fucking showing me that? It’s freaking me out.”

You throw your hands up in the air, giving him an eat-shit look. “How do you think I feel? It happened to me.”

He shakes his head and turns towards the coffee pot, pouring himself another mug. You can’t believe how dismissive he’s being about this whole thing. You have indisputable proof burned into your flesh, and he’s completely ignoring your worries. 

“We need to get you to the doctor, okay?” He shakes his head, giving you the look of a disapproving parent, rather than the supportive husband he’s supposed to be. He hadn’t even been worried for you last night, just mad that you’d woken him up for nothing. 

“It’s probably a blood clot, not a damn poltergeist.”

“James-” His phone ringing cuts you off, and your eyes narrow in disbelief as he reaches for it. It’s closer to you on the counter so you snatch it up before he can grab it. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, taking on a concerningly low tone. 

“We’re going to talk about this, you’re not getting out of this one, James!” 

He whispers your name in a voice you haven’t heard before. His face is dark, brows set in determination as he slowly extends his hand. “Give me my phone.”

You glance at the Nokia and then back at him. The fear that’s been ever-present since last night turns into something else. Anxiety and suspicion make a wicked and nauseating brew in your stomach. “Why?” You whisper, eyes narrowing on him as he takes a step closer. You stumble a step back, holding the phone out of his reach. 

You feel your hand tremble with its vibrations before it begins to ring again. You look towards it just as James lunges forward. His shoulder nearly barrels into you as he grabs your wrist. His grip is so tight you almost feel the bones creaking together. “James!” You gasp, the phone tumbling from your palm and into his hand. He shoves you back, tucking it in his pocket and glaring at you. 

“Don’t touch my phone,” you open your mouth to argue and he takes a large step forward. His foot slams against the ground and you flinch back from him, eyes wide in surprise. “Do you understand me,” he demands, slowly and his voice low. 

You nod, your jaw gaping as you stare at him. He runs a hand through his hair, refusing to meet your eye now. Dark strands fall onto his forehead and he looks more disheveled than you’ve seen him in a long while. 

He looks at his watch and clenches his eyes shut. He pauses, taking in a deep breath as he straightens his tie and rounds the kitchen island. “What are you doing?” You ask, your voice so quiet you’re surprised he even hears it. 

“Going to work,” he snaps. You can’t look at him, you just keep your eyes glued to the floor as the door slams shut. You hold your breath until you hear the car going down the driveway. Ever so slowly, you peel yourself away from the counter. 

Your hand drifts, without thinking, to the imprints on your wrist. “What the fuck,” you mutter, a stunned sort of silence taking over. You can’t help but just stand there, completely dumbfounded by how quickly a simple argument escalated. 

He’s always had a shorter temper than most, but that was extreme. A door slams upstairs and you scream, leaping forward and whirling towards the noise.  “What the fuck!” You shout again, stumbling towards the knife block behind you. You can hear footsteps running upstairs and swallow around a ball of fear sinking in your throat. 

You almost call out ‘whos there,’ but that’s a little too stupid for you. You’re not planning on being the bimbo who dies first in every horror movie. As much as James likes to tease you for being a little simple sometimes, you are equipped with basic survival skills. 

You look towards the coffee maker, the port where your home phone should be is empty. You rush towards the windows, glancing out the driveway and cursing when you find it empty. You were hoping that James might still be in his car, steaming before he comes back in to apologize. But, no, he’s really gone. 

Another door slams and it feels a little petty. Despite the way your heart races and you’re struggling to catch your breath, you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. The looming presence that hung over you last night is gone. James had dismissed the lightbulb exploding as an old house and bad lighting. 

You know better, despite the claims otherwise, and you sincerely doubt that there’s an actual person upstairs. And whatever it is, was smart enough to steal your phone. You slink towards the end of the stairs, just barely craning your neck so you can see into your bedroom. Except the door isn’t open like you left it. 

Light comes through the crack of the closed door. You take a tentative step up, eyes squinting as you try and get a glimpse under the door. A shadow darts past, like rushing footsteps. You gasp, leaping back and covering your mouth with trembling hands. 

The hair on the back of your neck stands, and the loose hairs from your braids blow across your cheeks, tickling your sensitive skin. Old vents, that’s what James told you. His attempt to explain the inexplicable breeze that seems to be following you everywhere you go. You’re bundled head to toe in fuzzy socks, warm pants, and a too-big sweatshirt. And still, you feel your fingers nearly go numb and you can barely feel your nose anymore. 

That’s not a poor AC system. And those aren’t feet under your door. You’re so focused on simply watching the movements under the door that you completely forget anything else. You’re blind and deaf as you watch whatever is moving about in your room. A loud clank breaks through the silence and you nearly scream. 

Your bones almost jump out of your skin as the ice machine starts going and rattles up the old fridge. You clench your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath and glaring at the white machine. “Fuck me,” you mutter, holding your chest and just barely calming yourself down. 

You’ve only been here a night, you shouldn’t be so fucking terrified. You’re ready to just go out into the backyard and wait the rest of the day for James to come back. If you could drive off, you would. But you’ve only got one working car right now and he’s taken it to work. You move to grab your laptop off the couch when something creaks behind you. 

Old hinges cry out as they’re slowly forced to work. The sound of steps going down the stairs occupies the space behind you. You can’t find the bravery to turn around, too scared to see what might be there. Something ice cold passes through you. It nearly feels like a violation, as though something was rooting through your insides like it belonged there. It couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds but it was more than enough to have you nearly vomiting up your scarce breakfast. 

The moment it’s over you feel yourself calming down. As though an instinctual intuition has been activated, you know the danger’s passed. Whatever it had been trying to accomplish with that little show, it did it. 

You turn back to your room, the lights off and the door open, looking just as you left it. You glance over your shoulder, looking into the kitchen before starting up the stairs. You give a hesitant peek into the room like you expect it to be a wreck. But it looks spotless, the camera is in the same place James left it, still recording. 

You file that away in the back of your mind. Maybe the camera picked up what happened last night, or maybe James is right. You really are just getting too far into your head. A shrill ringing goes off near James nightstand and you frown. Your phone buzzes on his side of the bed, MOM lighting up the square screen. 

You let out a short huff, quickly snatching your phone and answering. Maybe she can talk some sense into you, or, more preferably, come over to keep you company. “Hey mom,” you answer, smiling slightly to yourself. It’s been a little while since you’ve been able to talk to her. James had banned phones after the honeymoon and then you’d gotten caught up in house stuff, jobs, and the aftermath of the wedding ‘incident.’

An older voice than you’d been expecting answers on the other end, saying your name in a confused tone. Your brows furrow and you frown, “Mrs. Barnes?”

“Honey,” she sounds strained, like she really hadn’t been expecting you to answer. James must have taken your phone by accident. It makes sense, they’re both the same model, but you put a little pink charm on your Nokia so you’d stop making this mistake. Yet, when you look to your left, you see your charm lying on your nightstand. When had you taken that off?

“Where’s James?”

“Um,” you’re still a little thrown off by her voice and take a second to answer. “Work, I think he took the wrong phone,” you laugh a little, disconcerted that it’s not your mother’s comforting voice. 

“Must have,” she answers, she sounds like she’s a million miles away, her tone distant. “Well, um, just tell him to call me back.”

“Alright,” you hesitate, concerned by how off she sounds. “Is everything alright?” You know things have been tough for her since her husband passed on. James’ sisters have been helping her adjust, but the wedding had taken him away from his family for a little while. He hasn’t actually shown any signs of wanting to reach out and it makes you feel guilty, like you’re keeping him away from her. 

Mrs. Barnes, a living saint you swear, has been nothing but kind as she welcomes you into her family. This is the first time she’s ever been so distant to you. You act more like her family than James does nowadays. 

“Has, uh,” she coughs, clearing her throat. You can almost hear what sounds like Francesca on the other end, hollering at her. The sound of James’ older sister’s voice makes you smile a little wider. “Has James said anything to you?”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head in confusion, even if she can’t see you. “About what?”

“Oh, crumbs,” she huffs and you have a feeling whatever she was about to say was important, but someone is snatching the phone away before you can hear the rest of it. You’d been so focused on her voice that you hadn’t even heard James come back in. 

He glares down at the phone, face pale and eyes wide like he’s expecting something horrific. When he places it to his ear and hears his mom’s voice, his shoulders slump in relief. You narrow your eyes at him, disoriented by the strange behavior. 

“Mom,” he interrupts her rudely, “I’ll call you later. Okay?” He hangs up before she can answer. He tugs your phone out of his pocket and tosses it next to you on the bed. “Answering my phone now? What are you, my secretary?”

You slip your phone into your back pocket, not looking at him as you get off the bed. “I thought it was mine. I think my charm broke off.” You put some distance between the two of you, glancing down at his phone and then back at him. “Why are you being so weird about it?”

He flinches like you’ve just accused him of something far worse than being overly protective of his phone. “I don’t like you digging around in my phone. That’s a problem now?” You open your mouth to argue, but he just keeps going, cutting you off, “You’re so goddamn paranoid. First the ghost, now this,” he gestures vaguely at you and you scoff, crossing your arms and glaring at him. 

You two are devolving far quicker than he had anticipated. It must have been a fragile relationship, to begin with. James slams the door and you slump down on the bed, you almost look like you want to cry. 

He goes down the stairs, watching through the window as your husband lingers on the front porch. He calls someone, his mom, and starts yelling at her as he gets to his car. Looking away from the window, he sighs. 

He’d been close, if James hadn’t come home he probably could have pushed you over the edge immediately. He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or happy that his game gets to go on a little longer.

You come back down the stairs, eyes rimmed red and shoulders slumped in defeat. You brush through him, not even noticing the chill he leaves behind in you. You have the camera in your hand and a cord in the other. He grins, excited to finally have you see the truth of what happened last night. 

You plug the camera into your laptop, scrubbing through the footage of last night. He leans over your shoulder and watches as goosebumps rise along your skin. You sigh, tugging a blanket over your shoulders, but he knows that won’t do anything to help you. 

Nothing will unless you leave. But your husband has made it clear that you’re not getting out of here until he has actual proof anything supernatural lurks inside these haunted walls. Right here, in your lap, you have your proof. A phantom wind blows up the sheets of the bed, an unexplainable tug of your leg that drags you halfway down the bed. It’s violent and he almost feels sorry, he really hadn’t meant to hurt you, only scare you. 

His fingers drift over your leg and you jump, whirling around, wide eyes looking right through him. He can’t help but admire the way fear makes them shine. You’re quite pretty when you’re terrified, he couldn’t say the same for the hag that used to live here. 

You’re slow to turn back to the computer, but when you do, there’s a slight curve to your lips that he appreciates. “I fucking knew it,” you whisper, slamming the screen closed and getting to your feet. 

You’re giddy, he can taste the satisfaction overpowering the fear. You round the couch, taking in a deep breath and shaking out your arms. Your face sets in determination and you start working on clearing out the moving boxes. 

He doesn’t feel the urge to mess with you any further. He leaves you in peace, lounging in your armchair and watching you work. He’s got a nice surprise worked up for you tonight, no need to take today’s playtime any further. 

You’re efficient, only occasionally getting distracted as you smile at pictures of your wedding day. You put those up on the mantle, beside some family photos. It’s clear how much you value your familial bonds, even your husbands. You put it front and center in the home, reminding him of how it once looked. 

There’s a stark sense of deja vu as he watches you work, a nauseating feeling of what could have been. He can practically taste the newlywed bliss you’re going through. Even with your husband being a piece of work, you still value him, love him. He’d once known that love, hell, he’d reveled in it. 

But the curtain always has to come down. The magic’s never real. He’s doing you a favor by showing you the truth of it all. His gaze drifts away from you cooking dinner and he looks towards the pictures on the mantle. 

James’ mother reminds him of his own. He always wondered what happened to her, what her life was like after he was gone. Neither of them ever got what they wanted. She died wondering what happened to her only son, and he died without getting to say goodbye. 

He thinks of Bette, and feels that familiar white-hot rush of anger, your scream comes a moment later. He glances towards you, confused, before he follows your eyes and sees that he’s accidentally shattered the frames of the pictures. 

You gasp, sucking in shallow breaths as you stumble into the counter, brows furrowed in terror. He clenches his eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath, and tamps down on the anger overwhelming him. 

The door opens and your socked feet go rushing towards it, you nearly slip on the hardwoods, arms spinning wildly as you right yourself. James flinches away from your frantic hands as you grab his jacket and drag him inside. “The fucking pictures,” you stutter out your words and point frantically towards the mantle. 

James grimaces, tugging at your hands and looking towards him. He doesn’t see him, of course he doesn’t. But he does see his little accident. James scoffs, face screwing up in anger, he turns towards you. His face is set like a disappointed parent. “You broke them? Our wedding pictures, seriously. All because of a stupid fight?”

He jerks away from you, storming towards the glass and kicking at it. “You didn’t even clean it up,” he says your name, tone increasing in anger. You stare at him, disbelieving and open-mouthed. 

He sits back on the armchair, thoroughly amused. He hadn’t even had to do anything to turn him against you. Your sweet James has just been waiting for a reason to get mad. “This is fucking petty, even for you.”

“What, James,” you stumble over your words, taking a hesitant step towards him. He thinks you’re pretty when you’re scared, but not like this. He doesn’t appreciate the way you approach your husband like he’s a rabid dog. You shouldn’t be scared of him, not yet at least. He hasn’t even had his fun with him yet. 

“It wasn’t me, I swear-”

“Not this ghost shit again, seriously-”

“I have proof!” You shout, your voice is desperate as you try and make yourself louder than him. You run towards your laptop, and ignore the burning smell coming from the oven. He gets up, drifting towards it and turning it off before either of you can notice. No point in having the house burn down. Where would that leave him?

You plug the camera in, turning the screen towards him. James doesn’t make a move yet, simply glaring at you like you’re a bug to be swatted. “Please,” you beg, pathetic and needy. He huffs, rolling his eyes as he watches you both. It’s all so familiar to him, he feels like he’s watching his unfortunate disaster of a marriage play out through you. 

You scrub through the times, cussing as you pass over the clip of you getting dragged. There’s a frantic look in your eye as you hit play. It almost makes him feel bad for what’s about to happen. 

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” James snaps. 

Your face falls and you move the mouse forward and back, looking like a madwoman as you try to find the right moment. You won’t, he made sure of that. Nothing but static plays when you get to the parts that would prove your innocence. 

James tugs at his tie, shaking his head in disappointment. “Not only did you fuck up all our pictures, you didn’t even have dinner ready.” He shoves past you, heading up the stairs and muttering to himself. He pulls out his phone, lingering on a contact he shouldn’t before pressing call. 

You stay still in the living room, looking at the shattered glass and then the oven. “I made your favorite,” you whisper. You suck in a shaky breath, swallowing hard as you kneel down to try and pick up the remnants of your wedding photos. 

3 AM

He sits on the bed, glancing towards the blinking red light of the camera. There’s a clear wall between you and your husband, even if neither of you wants to acknowledge it. You lay curled up in yourself, like a child afraid to seek comfort. He pities you, truly. 

He remembers the happiness of youth, the rush of being married to the person you believe is the love of your life. He will never forget the pain of realizing the person you’ve given everything to turning into someone you don’t recognize. 

His hand drifts over the swell of your cheek. Your lashes flutter, nose wrinkling at the cold brush of his touch. But you don’t flinch away from him, instead leaning into him and looking almost happy by his touch. 

He looks to your husband, eyes narrowing on his relaxed form. He sees the phone lying near him and his face sets in determination. He’s not going to let you fall into the same trap he did. And he certainly isn’t about to let another soul cramp the already stuffy walls of his home. 

It’s been quiet around the house. Less strange events and more strained dinners between you and your husband. You’ve taken to bringing the camera everywhere with you. But anytime a light bulb explodes or a frame topples over, the video goes static. 

You should have given up the hunt for evidence but you can’t give it up. You just need James to see, you need him to believe you. Or, at the very least, you need some assurance that you’re not going crazy. You’ve begun to consider the possibility. 

The bruise on your leg is gone, the constant chills that rack you are still very much present, but there’s nothing else. Everything that happens can be explained by the age of the house. You’ve only briefly discussed it with James’ sisters. Elizabeth gave you the number of a medium she knows. 

James had gotten angry when he found the business card after her visit. He didn’t like her filling your head with more nonsense and indulging you. You didn’t like how dismissive he was. It’s been a few days since the fight and you still have no desire to reconcile with him. 

It’s becoming easier to simply ignore his presence around the house. You know it’s not healthy. You’ve only just begun the marriage, you don’t need to have communication issues tainting it before it’s even on its legs. 

Still, it’s as though something’s keeping you from him. Every attempt at speaking with him is interrupted, thoughts of apologizing just to placate him are struck from your head quicker than they come. 

You stand up from the kitchen table, placing your pictures to the side. You’ve finally gotten new frames for them all, you only need to put them back up. You have no problems putting up the family pictures. Yet, the moment you make to grab the wedding picture of you and James, you grow inexplicably tired. 

Your eyelids flutter shut and you sway on your feet. Your bones grow heavy like you’ve been working all day. But you’ve only been up a few hours, and you had so much more to do today. You try and fight forward, leaning on the table and reaching for the portrait again. You almost feel like you’re nudged back, moved towards the couch. 

A short nap, you promise yourself. Just long enough to get your energy back. 

He followed him to work. That’s never happened before. He’s never been able to follow someone out of the house. He tried, with Steve, he tried to make every aspect of his life hell. But he couldn’t. 

Yet, with this one, he has no problem following him. Maybe it’s the odd resemblance they have. A haircut and a shave, they could be identical twins. But then again, he hasn’t seen his face in a long while, perhaps he’s misremembering it. 

It’s difficult to maintain this control. Half of him lingers in the house, with you, the other half is here. He’s being drawn closer to James and further from you. He doesn’t know if that’s conducive or an interruption to his plans. 

He only vaguely sees you, in his mind’s eye. He leads you to the couch, lays you down, and keeps you away from the reminders of James. He’s gotten good at keeping you both separated. It was easy to begin with, all he’s doing is showing you the truth of the man you married. If only he could really show you. 

James phone rings and he focuses on him once more. It’s Martha again. He hasn’t figured out the truth of their relationship, he’s sure he already knows it. He’s lived this life once, knows the truth of why a husband would act like this. The late-night calls, the constant misdirection of anger. 

He’s paranoid, terrified you’ll find out the truth. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. The perfect housewife at home, and the mistress who fulfills his every desire. At least, that’s his theory. He still needs to be completely sure. 

He ignores James, focusing once more on his connection to the house. He finds you right where he left you, deep in your sleep and completely oblivious to the world around you. He kneels before you, sweeping some hair off your cheeks and tilting his head as he takes in your restful face. 

You look so peaceful when you’re like this, a slight curl to your lips as you wander through dreamland. He wished he could keep you like this, wished he could completely get rid of James. But without him, you wouldn’t be able to keep the house. You’d leave it, leave him. He can’t have that. He’s been lonely for so long, he needs you, craves you. 

6 PM

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

Chewing fills the cavernous silence of your dining room. Forks scrape across porcelain, shallow breaths as you both dance around the tension that threatens to tie a noose around your marriage. You reach for your wine, hoping for another heady swallow. Just like before, you’re dissuaded from it. 

You grow tired at the thought of drowning your sorrows in the alcohol for another night. You clench your eyes shut and take a deep breath, moving the glass away from you and turning back to the roast you made. 

James’ brows furrow as he watches you. “Everything alright?”

You hum, “Tired.” He scoffs and your face falls flat. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he cuts more aggressively into the meat. "Something wrong?” You demand, sucking on your teeth as you anticipate his answer. You’re sure it’s going to be the same broken record he’s been playing since the honeymoon. 

“Nothing,” he shrugs, tone dismissive. He pauses, taking a deep breath before laughing sardonically. “It’s just funny.” You hate how he does this, drags out his answers, and forces you to take the bait. 

You’re not playing this game of his tonight. You won’t do it again. You can’t keep going in circles with him, can’t keep indulging him in these childish tantrums. He waits, eyebrows raised and pretty blue eyes boring into yours, demanding attention. 

Those damn eyes. You wish he was just a little uglier, maybe then you wouldn’t have been so blind to how fucking awful he really is. You almost resent his mother and sisters for this. They could have warned you off, told you the horror stories of his past before the wedding. Instead, they’d warned you after it was too late and your entire life was entangled in his. 

“I work all day, come home, want a peaceful meal. What do I get?”

He falls silent again and you let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, James,” you drawl, bored of this already. Your patience for him is practically nonexistent nowadays. You used to be able to endure these conversations with him, or at the very least soothe him. But you’re tired of feeling like a babysitter and not the wife you’re supposed to be. “What do you get? A homecooked meal, a clean house, someone to come home to. Tell me,” you demand, slamming your hand on the table and surprising him. “What the fuck do you get?”

“A nagging fucking wife who does jack shit all day and complains about being tired! I work for us, so you can stay home and live out your little housewife fantasies!”

Your jaw drops and you suck in a sharp breath. You can’t even form words, nearly laughing at the audacity and ridiculousness of what he’s saying. “Oh my god,” you can only scoff, shaking your head and leaning back in your chair. You smile and roll your eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” He stands, leaning on the table and trying to make himself bigger than he is. It only paints him in a more pathetic light. 

You cut him off before he can say anything else, scooping up your plate and storming into the kitchen. “You’re the one who insisted I quit my job. You,” you turn and gesture towards him, a disgusted sneer on your face, “wanted a fucking housewife. I was just the dumbass that listened to you. You have no right to throw that in my face. You wanted this, James!”

“Yeah, well,” for a moment you think he’s speechless. His jaw opens and closes, nothing but air leaving his parted lips. You should know better by now, he’s always got some bullshit to spew. “I didn’t think you’d be so incompetent at this.”

You drop the plate in the sink, leaning on it for support and closing your eyes. You take in deep breaths, trying to cool down the heat racing under your skin. Your blood’s pumping so hard you’re surprised a vein hasn’t burst yet. 

“Fuck this,” you push off the sink, shoving past him and moving towards the front door. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, watching as you grab your coat and your keys. 

“Going for a walk,” you tell him shortly, slamming the door behind you. You just need some time away from him, away from the suffocating shadow that seems to linger behind him all the time now. 

You pull the business card Elizabeth had given you and dial the number. You don’t know if this anger is coming from whatever the hell lives in that house or if this was always coming. But you’re not going to just roll over and let this thing ruin your marriage. 

7 PM

You’re out for an hour. He’s upset the entire time. He wants to drive James’ head into the corner of the counter over and over again until there’s nothing left but unidentifiable mush. It’s the same fight he used to have. It always started over something so stupid, he could never say anything right. 

No matter how many times he thought he finally figured Bette out. Every time he thought he had avoided some trigger for her, a new one formed. It didn’t matter how perfect of a husband he was, he would never be enough because he wasn't him. He wasn’t Steve, the man who could do no wrong in her eyes. 

He stands in the corner and watches as James paces for a while before he finally leaves, taking his keys and his phone. He takes the car and leaves you stranded here at the house. 

He knows that James could fix the car sitting idle in the garage. He could fix the car. It’s just another way of keeping you under control. James gets to decide when and where you get to go out, you don’t get a say. 

You seem relieved, though, when you come back and see James gone. You’re happier without your husband, it’s both good and bad. He needs you to resent James, needs you to hate him. But that could prove tricky for him in the future. 

“Thank you so much,” you’re on the phone, you’ve got something lumpy in your jacket. One hand lays under the buttons of your coat, stroking idly. “Yeah, Thursday sounds great. Thank you, again, for coming on such late notice.”

You hang up, placing your keys and phone in the bowl by the door. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up.” You open your jacket, revealing a bundle of matted, dirty fur underneath. Somewhere in all that mess is the scrunched face of a pissed-off cat. 

You coo to it, stroking its head and ignoring the fact it looks like it wants to rip your hand off. You bring it to the kitchen sink and he watches as you take the next few hours to wash its wounds and properly groom it. 

He never cared much for cats, or any animals, really. He never had the time or the energy to try and take care of something other than Bette. She was practically a full-time job to cater to. But he enjoys how peaceful you look being able to take care of the cat. He enjoys how much sympathy you display, even as the little bastard rips and tears at your pretty skin. 

He looms over your shoulder, stroking his phantom fingers over the cat's wet fur. It’s enough to scare it into submission. Its claws release your skin and it shrinks back into your hold. He grins, backing away and leaving you to it. 

You frown down at the cat, murmuring soothing words to it as you look around the kitchen. Sometimes he thinks you see him, thinks you can truly see through all the walls and witness what’s left of the man he was. He knows it's foolish, a ridiculous hope. 

You’ll never be able to see him. Even if you could, you would only think of him as a tormentor. He was a blight on your home and marriage, why would you ever care about him?

3 AM

You feel eyes on you. Not the unfamiliar eyes you’ve been feeling, you know these. Intimately. You stir from your light sleep, squinting through the dark. Minimal light comes in through the blinds, but it's just enough for you to see the figure standing beside you. 

You gasp, flinching away from James. He just stands over you, glaring down at where you slept. Eyes devoid of anything. “James?” You whisper. Alpine, the cat you snagged from a neighbor’s dumpster, leaps off the bed. 

She hisses at James, skirting around him and running out of the room. Your brows furrow in confusion. You look back to James, muttering his name again. He gasps like he was dragged out of a coma. 

He stumbles on his feet, tripping over them and nearly nosediving into the bed. You instinctively steady him, guiding him onto the bed beside you. “What are you doing?” You hiss at him, holding his face in your hands and looking him over for any explanation of what was just happening. 

You’ve never even heard him talk in his sleep. Let alone, sleep with his eyes wide open and staring at you. It was beyond disturbing. There’s something unfamiliar in his eyes, they’re soft as he looks at you. Soft in a way they haven’t been for a long time. 

His hand comes up to cup yours, the other almost hesitantly running across your cheek. “James?” You ask again, caught off guard by the odd display of affection.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. You’re ninety percent sure you’re still dreaming, he’s never apologized first before. It’s always been you to broker the peace. You’ll sacrifice being right if it means he’ll stop giving you the cold shoulder, he’s never done the same. 

You try to ask him what he’s talking about, but he’s surging forward before you can speak. His lips are chapped, dryer than you’re used to. He doesn’t give you much time to process anything. His hands drift to your waist, dragging you into his lap as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. You’re taken aback by the taste of metal on his tongue. It’s coppery and bitter, not at all like the mint toothpaste you both use. 

He’s not kissing you like you’re used to. He’s not trying to devour you or suffocate you by shoving his tongue as far as it goes down your throat. This is gentle, sweet. It feels like you’re being savored, not claimed. You don’t mind it, in fact, it would be nice if you weren’t so disturbed. 

He’s not acting like himself, he barely looks like he should, and he tastes wrong. This isn’t your husband kissing you. You want to pull away, you try to. But his fingers are digging into your waist and your lips are firmly locked. You can feel the chill of his hands through your pajamas. They’re like icicles, you’re sure there’s going to be a mark from them in the morning. 

“James,” you manage to mutter, pulling away from him just enough to catch your breath. “What’s,” you trail off, tongue growing too heavy to speak. Your words slur together, become one nonsensical jumble stuck in your throat. 

He shakes his head, biting his lip and slowly lowering you back onto the bed. “I’m sorry. I thought this would work.” You narrow your eyes, you have barely enough energy to shake your head in confusion. Your lips part to ask another question. He leans down, pressing one last gentle kiss to you before your eyes roll back and you’re asleep again. 

“I told you I have it handled,” James practically pouts as he sits in your armchair. You used to use it to crochet, it’s got the best view of the backyard and you like to watch the bunnies that live under the porch. But more and more, he stays there. Every second he’s home, he seems to live in that chair. 

Bette had given it to you with the house. You hadn’t really thought anything of it, but with how he’s been acting lately, you can’t help but wonder if its’ connected to whatever secrets live in these walls. Most people would be haunted and their husbands would get worse, you seem to be experiencing the opposite. 

He’s kinder, he’s bringing you flowers and cooking you breakfast. You’re woken up with praise and gentle kisses. Then he’s back to normal by lunchtime. He’s miserable at dinner, only to wake you up in the middle of the night with saccharine apologies. You’re so sick and tired of living in this whirlwind of love and misery. You just want some goddamn answers. 

You need to know the truth of what’s happening to you. Is this just how James is? Is this the house? Is there even anything wrong with the house?

You’re hoping the medium will be able to answer that for you today. Mystic Wanda, the name doesn’t give you much hope but Elizabeth told you she’s one of the best. 

Alpine runs against your legs and James glowers at her. “I told you I wanted her out of here.”

“Tough,” you respond bluntly, eyes trained on the front door. He’d thrown a hissy fit when he saw her the morning after your weird make-out session. You hadn’t bent, though, and you know he’s still upset you’re no longer blindly giving into his whims. 

The doorbell rings and you leap off the couch, rushing towards the door and throwing it open. Wanda’s eyes widen in amusement and she smiles at your eagerness. “Please, come in, and thank you again for coming on such short notice.”

You usher her inside, offering to take her jacket. She passes it to you, eyeing the interior of your home and giving you an appeasing smile. “Well, Elizabeth is a good friend of mine, she told me you were having an emergency and I wanted to help.”

James scoffs from the armchair and she glances over at him with a bemused look. You glare at him over her shoulder. “James, I presume?”

“Oh,” his eyes widen in faux amazement, “did you divine that?”

Her eyebrows raise and you know she’s unimpressed. “I could tell from the attitude. Your sister warned me you were a cynic.”

He mutters a bitter, “Whatever,” under his breath and goes back to ignoring her. 

“I’m sorry about him,” you take her by the elbow, guiding her into the kitchen and away from him. You peer over into the living room, ensuring he can’t hear you. Wanda waits expectantly for you to begin speaking. 

“He’s why I wanted you to come.” You tell her, fiddling idly with your wedding band. “He’s not himself lately.”

“More volatile?” She guesses and you shake your head, laughing bitterly to yourself.

“Less, actually. But he’s unpredictable. I never know when he’s going to be this sweet stranger or the miserable man I’ve grown used to.”

Her brows twitch and a confused smile graces her lips. “Most people aren’t upset when their husband gets better.”

“I know it’s odd,” you admit, sighing and looking down at the countertop. “But, I just need to know I’m not going crazy. I’ve been dragging this around everywhere,” you push your camera towards her. “Every time something happens, the feed cuts out. I’ve been dragged down my bed, harassed, made to think I’m losing my mind.”

You run a rough hand over your face, feeling the aches of this whole experience settle wearily along your bones. “I just need some clarity. That’s all.”

“Well,” she reaches for your hand, squeezing it in hers and giving you a comforting smile. “I can certainly help with that.”

Wanda sits in the armchair, having booted James out of it. He seems a little bit more cognizant as he sits beside you, a little more scared. You keep a wary eye on him while Wanda closes her eyes and “connects” with the house, as she put it. 

She breaks the silence abruptly and it makes you jump. “This chair came with the house?” You nod silently but you have a feeling she already knew the answer. She hums, running her hand along the arm of it. 

“It was his before it was stolen by the man he called friend. He lives in it, watches you from it.” You feel your heart racing, panic steadily rising within you. It’s like a physical caress, the fear trailing down your spine. “He wants something, too many things,” she sighs and shakes her head, frustration playing along her fine features. “It’s hard to discern the truth of it all.”

“But he’s real?” You cut in, imploring her to tell you what you’re desperate to hear.

She gives you a resigned smile, but there’s no happiness in it. “I’m afraid so.” She shouldn’t be so apologetic, this is all you wanted. To know you weren’t crazy, to have James hear it too. But when you look to him for some satisfactory celebration, his face is slack. 

“James?” 

Wanda leaps up from the chair, taking a step towards him. Your husband is gone, any sign of awareness or thought is completely gone. He looks devoid of life, like he’s been a living corpse for weeks. “James?” You call again, voice threatening to break. 

His jaw snaps shut and you jump back, rushing off the couch and stumbling towards Wanda. She grabs you, tugging you behind her, and takes in a deep inhale. “It’s him,” she whispers, eyes wide with fear. “I’ve never encountered one so strong before.”

You glance at her and then back at James. There’s fury playing on his features, and again, those eyes you don’t recognize yet somehow feel familiar. “I think you should leave,” he demands, his voice low. 

It isn’t the normal way he commands you. This is a threat, a complete assurance of power. James stands up in one fluid motion, stalking toward Wanda. She goes stiff before you and you worry she’s going to go slack the same way James did. 

“Now,” he tells her, eyebrows raised with impatience. 

“James, she can help,” you try. His head whips toward yours and you flinch away from the intense look he gives you. 

“We don’t need her help,” he whispers your name and it almost sounds like he’s pleading with you. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, you glance between Wanda and James, unsure which to follow. 

Wanda shakes her head as you take a step back from her. James’ shoulders slump with relief. “Don’t do this,” Wanda warns. “I won’t be able to come back here again. He’s growing stronger, you’ll be beyond anyone’s help soon-”

She's cut off as the light bulb above you explodes. You scream, moving instinctively towards your husband. His arms eagerly wrap around you, drawing you into his gentle hold. He runs a hand over your back and you almost miss the quiet apology he mutters into your hair. 

“Leave,” James doesn’t have to tell her again. She practically runs to the door, nearly forgetting her coat as she rushes out. You slump against him, somehow feeling defeated even after getting what you wanted. 

“Doll?” He peers down at you, pulling back slightly to get a better look. “Are you okay?”

You stare into eyes you know don’t belong to your husband and force yourself to nod. You let this stranger hold you close and ignore the sinking weight of guilt. He feels so much better than James ever did and you hate yourself for thinking that. 

Your husband is in there somewhere, being tormented by some malevolent spirit, and you’re letting him do what he wants to you. Playing house with him like everything’s normal. “Come on, let's go outside.”

You can’t do anything except listen to him. In the back of your mind, you think about how odd it is that he’s showing himself now. He usually waits until later in the day. 

How sick is it, you have a schedule for when your husband will be possessed?

He leads you to the back porch, to the rocking chairs that were there when you moved in. but he doesn’t let you sit in one. No, he guides you down onto his lap, keeping you close as you get yourself comfortable. 

James isn’t like this. He doesn’t let you love him like this. Your touch practically repulses him nowadays. But he can’t seem to get enough of you now. Holding onto you like he might not get to again. 

“Wanda said he was growing stronger,” you mutter absentmindly. He goes tense under you, but he doesn’t yell at you or get mad. He just squeezes your hand in his, idly tracing shapes over your palm. 

“I was thinking of planting some rosebushes,” he tells you, completely brushing over what you said. 

“I thought you wanted to rip the garden out and build a pool,” you tell him bitterly. The neighborhood has its own pool. You’ve been begging James to keep the old lady’s flowers in the back but he won’t have it. 

Now, miraculously, he’s giving in to your whims. You don’t know if you should be happy or disgusted. You’re sitting on the lap of something that isn’t your husband anymore. You don’t feel like you can trust your mind anymore. You struggle to differentiate between your dreams and reality. 

He laughs a little, brushing some hair out of your face and smiling at you. It’s not the smile you fell in love with, or the eyes you fell in love with, but you can feel yourself falling. Or, maybe, you’re just desperate for someone to be kind to you. For someone to love you the way a husband should love his wife. 

“I want you to be happy, Doll.” James doesn’t call you Doll.

“Maybe some gardenias too,” you lean back into his chest, letting yourself get more comfortable. 

You feel his smile against your skin, he turns his nose to nuzzle against your cheek, planting a kiss there. “I’ll buy the seeds tomorrow.” You nod absentmindedly, trying to settle the way your stomach flips. 

3 AM

“James!” You scream his name, leaping onto his side of the bed and holding onto him as tight as you can. He shoots up, grabbing you and turning you to face him. 

“What?” He demands, face pale with worry. 

You frown, glaring at him, “You didn’t hear that?” The bedroom door slams closed and you scream again, curling into his hold. 

“Holy shit!” He shouts, he tries to hold onto you but something grabs his leg. The same way you’d been dragged the first night, he’s pulled out of bed. You scream his name, the bedroom door flies open, and watch as he’s dragged into the hall. 

You leap over the bed, feet tangled in the sheets as you lunge towards the door. He’s screaming, primal sounds of nothing but pure terror ripping through the house. You pound on the locked door, tearing at the knob until you think you might rip it off. 

“James! Please!” You sob against the wood, slamming your shoulder into it until it cracks. Pain shoots down to your elbow and you flinch back, “Fuck,” the screams go quiet on the other side of the door and your eyes widen. 

“James!” You screech, your fists pound against the door until you feel the skin crack and blood dribble down your arms. Something cool brushes against your neck, like a breath. “Stop,” you plead, “stop it, give him back.”

The door swings outward, the wrong way, and you wonder how the hinges don’t break. The only light on is the linen closet. The same closest that you know has a scuttlehole. You don’t think, just run towards it. Your bare feet pound against the hardwood, shaking the whole house in your race for the door. 

You burst through, nearly stumbling facefirst into the ladder. You clench your eyes shut, nails digging into your palms as you look up to see the scuttle hole already open and beckoning you forward. 

Blood trails up the ladder and you could almost cry seeing it. You can’t waste time, can’t dawdle. You don’t know what happened to James but you know it’s not good that he’s quiet. You force yourself up the rickety ladder, pulling yourself into the attic and looking around for any signs of life. 

You didn’t realize how much junk the old lady had left behind in the house. But the attic is chock full of her past. Dusty and browned filing boxes litter old antique tables. Wardrobes, trunks of clothes from the fifties. A mannequin with an unfinished dress. There’s an entire life up here, one she seemed to have just willingly left behind. 

You frown down at something that really draws your eye, a box with a scrawled B.B. on the side. The light’s on, but it's dim and only illuminates the box. Still, you try and squint through the dark to find James. There’s no sign of him anywhere, you can’t help but wonder what the trail of blood on the ladder was. 

You lean down and pick up the box. “What’re you doing?”

You scream, your throat going sore from how much you seem to be doing that tonight. James is on the ladder behind you, a dazed look on his face as he waits for your answer. You tilt your head in confusion, trying to calm your heart from the adrenaline rush that was ten minutes earlier. 

These are different eyes. This isn’t him. Your gaze darts back to the box and you pass it to him. “Take that,” you demand. He doesn’t question you, if anything it seems to make him happy. He drops it down the ladder and holds his hand out to help you down. 

You take it, hissing at how cold his hands are. He only gives you another eerie smirk. Once you’re steady and on the ground, you back slowly out into the hallway. “What happened earlier?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking.”

Your face drops and you scoff, “You were fucking dragged down the hall and I got locked in the bedroom. You weren’t sleepwaking, James.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and flips the lights off. You’re plunged into darkness, a slight whimper ripping its way out of your throat. You’re forced to rely on his guidance as he leads you down the hall. “You’re tired, Doll, we should just go to bed.”

You think back to the box, waiting for you in the closet. There’s no arguing with him, though. You’ll have to deal with it tomorrow morning. You can only pray that you’re not awoken so violently again. 

“Sweetheart,” you mumble tiredly, swatting blindly at the voice. There’s a low chuckle, and then the familiar press of lips against your forehead. “Wake up, I’ve gotta go soon.”

You’re slow to open your eyes, just barely making out James’ blurry shape. “James,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes to try and force them to focus on his form. “What’re you doing?” You asked, words slurring together. 

He places a tray down on the nightstand and the smells of coffee and pancakes break your dazed trance. You sit up straighter in bed, giving him a confused look. Two years of dating, and a few months of marriage, not once has he greeted you with breakfast in bed. 

“James?” you question, he only shakes his head, darting forward to kiss you. Your eyes flutter shut and you find yourself leaning into the touch. It doesn’t take long for it to grow heated, his chilled hands drifting under your shirt and tugging you towards him. 

You’re finding it easier and easier to simply give in to his whims. Your legs spread over his and you melt into his hold like you were made to fit against him. “Shit, Doll,” he huffs against your parted lips, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you. His lips are a pretty pink, swollen, and glistening from your kisses. You almost want to bite them. 

You hold back the urge, leaning back and giving him a small smile. It’s enough to make his whole face light up. “You know how badly I want to stay in bed with you today?” You almost invite him to, but the foggy cloud of an abrupt wake-up finally parts. 

You remember the box from last night, what you need to do today. So, you pull back from him, his arms releasing you reluctantly. It’s so peculiar, how his metal hand is warmer than the flesh one. “Going to work?”

He hums, eyes narrowing in on you suspiciously. You reach for the coffee and take a sip, exactly how you like it. It’s pathetic that your suspicion grows because you know your husband doesn’t know how you take your coffee. 

“I’ll miss you,” you tell him, and it’s the first time you haven’t had to force the words out to appease him. It almost feels genuine this time. He gives you a resigned smile, kissing your cheek and leaning back. 

He pets Alpine, stroking down her smooth white fur and smiling at her too. “I’ll see you both later,” he tells you, a promise. You bite your lip and nod. His footsteps echo down the stairs and you leap off the bed, the abrupt move scaring the life out of Alpine. She growls in discontent and stalks off. The door closes and you run to the window, watching the driveway to make sure he’s gone for sure. 

You race into the hall, throwing the closet door open and dragging the dusty box out. Mildew and mold cling to it, but you don’t have time to be concerned with germs. You need answers. You take it downstairs, toss it on the kitchen table, and forget all about your breakfast upstairs. 

It’s odd, how much cozier the house has become. Sunlight streams through the windows and warms your seats and couches. You no longer feel eyes in the shadows. A creak is just a creak. It’s like your fear has just been snatched from you. 

The thought is enough to unsettle you, but you ignore it for now. You’ll worry about that another day. You toss the lid of the file box inside and what greets you only further irritates you. Piles of unorganized papers and pictures, each of the more faded by time than the other. 

You pluck out the first one you see and nearly gasp. It’s James, but not James. A picture of a WWII soldier, in his uniform and posing in front of an army vehicle. He looks just like your husband, but his eyes crinkle a little more when he smiles, his happiness palpable through the picture. He’s even got a prosthetic arm. 

You flip the picture over, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, is written out in pretty cursive. Directly under it is 1942. You drop the picture, taking a few steps back and shaking your head. “No, no, nope,” you shake your head, simply ignoring the truth that lay in front of you. 

Somewhere out there, there’s an alternative version of your husband who was a WWII veteran and apparently lived in this house. Same fucking name and everything. “Oh, fuck me, this is insane.” You glare at the box, not wanting to believe anything you’re seeing. 

How could your life have devolved into this shitfest, just because you moved into one fucking house? How could one crappy ad in the newspaper have completely turned your life upside down and thrown you into the twilight zone?

You throw yourself into a chair, slumping over the wooden table and taking in grounding breaths. You wanted the truth, you’re going to get it. Even if none of it makes any sense. The next few pictures you grab are all in the same sepia tint. One of him standing in front of the garden, another before a truck, even one in the goddamn armchair currently sitting in your living room. And in each one, he looks as happy as can be. But there’s something nearly artificial in his smile. 

You look at the pictures on your mantle and frown. You can’t exactly judge him. You’ve got the same smile in all your pictures too. Just slightly off, something about it slightly forced for the sake of the person beside you.

You find one of him with a very unhappy-looking woman. She’s pretty, even if she does look a little wicked, and she also looks remarkably like you. What bizzaro world is this? She’s nearly identical to you, but she looks goddamn miserable. A hulking blond man has his arm slung around Bucky, fingers just barely grazing the woman’s shoulder. 

You flip it over and find, Bette, Bucky & Steve at the new house, 1950. Bette, the woman who sold you the house. Who told you what nursing home her kids were sticking her in. You leap up from the table, running to grab your coat and racing out of the house. 

Bucky glances down at James' phone and grins. He pulls the car into the apartment complex and picks up the call, “Hello?”

“Where are you?” The woman on the other end demands sharply. 

Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and fighting back the spirit surging within him. His left hand twitches without his permission and his eyes narrow in frustration. James was easy enough to subdue last night. He was caught off guard, terrified. 

Now, he’s pissed off and fighting. Bucky doesn’t appreciate the efforts to take control. “I just pulled in. I’ll be up in a minute.” He shuts the phone off and jerks the rearview mirror to face him. The eyes that stare back at him are not his own. 

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” James demands, spitting the words out like he has any sort of power over Bucky. 

Bucky grins, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

James’ face falls and his eyes widen with worry. “What does that mean?” Bucky flips the mirror back in place, glancing up to the third-story apartment where Martha waits for him. He turns the engine off, slowly exits the car, and makes his way up the stairs. 

He’s sure to take his time, enjoying how James grows more and more terrified. It only feeds him, makes him stronger, and grants him more control over him. He’s getting better at controlling him, finally had enough strength to fully take over last night. 

Before, he only had the energy to take over the body for a few hours, at most. But the longer he held influence over James, the further his influence spread. Soon, he could leave the house, without having to use James’ body as an anchor. He’s evolved past anchors and the brick walls that once contained him. He only had one last loose end before he could be with you fully. 

He knocked on the red door, waiting for Martha to answer. It didn’t take long. She threw the door open, face screwed up with rage. “Look who came back. I told you that little bitch of yours wouldn’t be good enough for you.”

Bucky kept the look on his face serene. He tried not to show the rage that raced through him at her grating tone. He wanted to rip her tongue out and choke her with it. He wished he could pluck out her eyeballs and serve them to her on a silver platter. A million different ways came to him as he stepped into her apartment. 

“Hello, Martha.”

“Thanks for seeing me, Bette.”

Bette kept her hands in her lap, picking at the wrinkles of her skin. “It’s grown so thin,” she looked at you, seeing straight through you. “I used to be like you, so pretty, so young.”

Your face screws up in discomfort and you nod dismissively. “You know why I want to talk.”

Bette sighs and clicks her tongue. “Oh, Bucky,” she says his name forlornly, playing the perfect mourning lover. But you know better, she doesn’t mean a damn bit of her grief. 

“Drop it,” you snap, looking around to make sure no nurses are watching. The white sterile walls of the nursing home loom over you. Bette’s eyes snap towards you, the thin film of dementia disappears and she slumps into her chair. 

“Fine. Dammit, what the hell do you want? You already took my house.”

“Yeah, and your damn ghost. I want some fucking answers, Bette.”

She chuckles, the noise bitter and her expression cruel. “You know, you remind me a lot of Bucky. Got that same kicked puppy look to you that makes me want to smack you around.” Despite your best intentions of remaining passive, you feel your heart twinge in sympathy for Bucky. 

Bette’s got the same bitter look in her eye that James used to. You don’t see much of it anymore. Strange how much your life has changed in just over two weeks. “I thought he’d see you and finally move on. He’d finally get his damn revenge on me, I mean you look just like me.”

You can’t help but agree with her. You slip the picture out of your purse and put it on the table before you. “I saw,” you mutter, glancing down at the uncanny resemblance between you both. “I want to know what happened, Bette. I want to know why he’s stuck in my walls, why he’s stuck in my husband,” you add.

Her eyes widen and her jaw gapes. “He’s got your husband?” You nod and you’re caught off guard when she begins to cackle. “God, even dead he’s still the same pathetic, snivelling bastard he used to be.”

You can’t help but get angry, you almost want to defend him. Sure, he’s tormented you, but clearly, he had a reason to be bitter about having to look at your face all the damn time. You’d go crazy too if this was the bitch you were married to. 

“Bette,” you warn, voice low. 

She huffs and snatches the picture. “No harm in telling you, I suppose.” She gives you a wicked grin, “No one will believe you anyway.”

“I met Bucky when I was young, too young. We got married because he was getting shipped off to war. He wanted someone to write letters to, to come home to, and I figured he’d die before I ever saw him again. I could cash in on widow’s benefits. Then the son of a bitch had to go and get honorably discharged for getting his arm blown off.”

Your brows furrow in disgust. You’ve never seen such an evil old woman before. You pray you don’t turn into a wicked old hag like her when you get older. “Steve, his best friend, was discharged around the same time as him. Came to live with us for a while so he could get his life in order.”

Bette glares at you and tosses the picture back to you. You catch it before it slides off the table and she keeps going. “See, some women weren’t as loyal as I was. His lady moved on real fast, left him lonely and looking for a warm place to sleep at night. Bucky, well, he just wasn’t a man. He obeyed me like a little bitch and took every hit I gave him because he thought he deserved it. Steve never did that, always put me in my place. He was a man,” she hisses out the word and you have the sudden urge to slap her. 

“One thing led to another, we were in love and Bucky was in the way. We got rid of him, what else do you want me to say?”

You can’t even figure out where to begin. She’s fucking despicable. Not only did she not love him, he was utterly devoted to her and she fucked his best friend. Killed him to be with him. Despite this overload of information, only one question comes to you. 

“Where did you bury him?”

5 PM

You let out a loud grunt, sweat pouring down your back as you bring the sledgehammer into the brick wall. There’s a loud crack and you pause, taking a step back. A moment later a brick slips out of its place. It doesn’t take much longer for the others to follow. 

There’s a loud crash as it all comes tumbling down, decades of dust and debris float into the air. It drifts down your nose and creeps into your lungs. You drop the sledgehammer to the cement of the basement with a clatter. You kneel over, waving the dust away and trying to cough it out. 

Something rolls against the floor, something hollow that clatters against your shoe. You glance down, stunned into silence as a gaping skull stares back up at you. You stumble away from it, nearly kicking it back, and trip right into the warm chest of your husband. 

Bucky stares down at you, his face blank and devoid of anything you might be able to read. “You talked to Bette?”

You nod mutely, taking a step back from him. You wince as your heel comes down on something that cracks under your weight. You try to look down, to see what bone you’ve just broken, but he stops you. He grabs your chin, tilting your face towards him and forcing you to meet his eyes. “What are you going to do?” He demands, he tries to sound strong, but you can hear the fear that trembles under the cool tone. 

Rest In Peace

Husband, Brother, Friend

James Buchanan Barnes

“It’s a bit morbid isn’t it?” You peer up at him and shake your head. 

“No, he deserves a proper burial.” You place the flowers on top of the fresh grave and stand. You take a few steps back and Bucky pulls you into his chest. “You, I mean. I just feel like your memory deserves its rightful resting place.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and you squeeze his hand. “You think Steve’s in here somewhere?”

You scoff and feel yourself growing angry on his behalf. “He deserves to rot under a bridge somewhere, along with that bitch.”

Bucky laughs pulling back from you and giving you a wide smile. It’s genuine, the first genuine smile you’ve seen on his face in a long time. “Thank you,” he mutters. You shrug, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m your wife, I’m supposed to have your back.” You reach up, pushing a wave back behind his ear. He’s finally let his hair grow out again. He complains it gets in his eyes when he tries to garden, but you love how it looks on him so he keeps it. 

His face lights up, the same way it always does when you say you’re his wife. You interlace your fingers together, pulling him away from his grave and back towards the car. You’re supposed to meet Mrs. Barnes soon, you’re having Thanksgiving dinner at your house tomorrow so the whole family can finally see it. 

Since the discovery of Bucky’s bones and the literal skeleton in the house's closet, you’ve kept family members away from you both for a while. It was a long adjustment period, getting used to the truth and each other. Accepting the fact that James was gone for good wasn’t as hard a pill to swallow as it should have been.  

You have a theory that you both were meant to be with each other, either in the forties or today. Something got messed up in the universe’s timeline and instead, you got James and he got Bette. This paranormal experience must have just been fate’s way of cleaning up what it had ruined so horribly. 

You look up at Bucky, the way his eyes crinkle even when he’s not smiling, and feel something warm spreading through your chest. You don't mind the cold fingers and chilling touch at night when it’s him you’re sharing it with. 

You place the turkey down in front of Bucky and he sends you a blissful smile. You can’t help but lean over the back of his chair and plant a loud kiss on his cheek. Janey gags, tossing a roll at her older brother. “Quit it, would you, I’d like to have an appetite.”

You chuckle, taking your seat beside him. Bucky can’t help but want to cry. This is what he’s wanted for so long. His family back, the woman he loves to love him back. It’s what he begged for. The loss of it all had turned him into this bitter, malevolent spirit. 

As much as he’d like to say he regrets or feels guilt for what he did to Bette, Steve, Martha, and James, he can’t. He tormented Steve until he died of a terror-induced heart attack at fifty. He’d driven poor Bette into the nursing home where her children would let her rot for the rest of her miserable life. Martha won’t be heard from again. 

And James, poor James. He must have had the worst fate of them all. It’s been a while since he’s heard anything from James. He searches for him now, his tiny presence lingering somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Bucky takes your hand, looks at his sisters and mother, and smiles at them. He raises his glass for a toast, slapping at James until he’s forced out of his slumber. Look, he thinks, speaking of all he’s grateful for to you and the other women. They know, he feels James looking through his eyes. 

He sees the way his family smiles at Bucky, and how much happier they look with him. They know, he tells James, they know I’m not you. James pounds futilely against Bucky’s walls. He screams and sobs, begging for you to help him. 

They don’t want you, James. They know that the world is better without you. He lets James linger in his misery, he savors his despair, lets it energize him, and then tosses him back to the abyss. James goes quietly, he gave up fighting a while ago. 

It wouldn’t matter anyway. His brief period of rebellion has fed Bucky enough to keep him subdued for the rest of his life. You squeeze his hand, “I love you,” you whisper, passing him the sweet potatoes. 

He smiles back at you and repeats the same words he’s already said a hundred times to you. This is at it always should have been. Steve, Bette, and James were all stepping stones to get him to you. He wasn’t going to let you go now. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Marvel (Winter Soldier), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

wicked influence

Poly!Ghostface x fem!reader

a/n: I’ve wanted to write for Scream for forever and have never gotten around to it. Well, it’s slasher season baby! I finally have my reason. (When I tell you that this movie was my sexual awakening as a child, I mean it. That’s not necessarily good, but it’s true. )

Summary: Visiting a Halloween carnival with your two best friends doesn’t seem that bad until you reach the haunted house. You’ve never been able to explain your fear of demons to anyone before, you have no idea where it comes from. But you do know, going into a hell themed house with teenagers screaming shitty Latin at you is one of your worst nightmares. You think everything’s okay until, suddenly, your nights are filled with visits from a strange shadowy entity and you don’t recognize the look in Stu’s eyes anymore. (Part of my Halloween Palooza)

“Hey! Demons are a perfectly rational thing to be afraid of.”

Billy scoffs and rolls his eyes, nudging you further toward the haunted house. “Alright, alright, would you calm down and just move it.” You stare into the gaping jaw of the devil that serves as the entrance to the house. You know this is all just a way for people to make a quick buck. 

There’s not going to be anything in there except teenage actors and shitty SFX makeup. But that doesn’t make the looming doorway any less menacing. It doesn’t make your heart stop racing or your breathing any easier. 

Billy frowns as some people shove past you all, tired of waiting for you to move inside. They cut the line and you can’t help but be grateful. Your nails dig into your palms until you feel the warmth of blood and have to swallow down bile. 

Stu and Billy both lean towards you, varying looks of confusion on their faces. “Holy shit,” a grin breaks out on Stu’s face and he smiles widely at you. “You’re terrified, aren’t you?” He pokes you like you might be a statue, unmoving and solemn. 

You stumble back and are effectively broken out of your terrified stupor. You swat at Stu’s wandering hands and glare at him. “Shut the fuck up,” you snap. But in your anxious state, it all comes out as one jumbled mess. 

Billy lets out a disappointed sigh and gives you a funny look. “Alright, let’s just go. You’re not going in and it’s stupid to just stand out here all night.” Stu opens his mouth to argue but Billy shoots him a sharp look. You hate how sensitive they think you are. You can handle one stupid fucking haunted house. You’re not completely useless. 

Still, you practically gulp as the Devil’s eyes bore into yours. You feel like your soul is being sucked out through your feet, leaving you startlingly cold. “I,” you clear your throat, waiting until it feels strong enough to speak. “I can do this,” you grit out, sounding like you’re trying to convince yourself more than them. 

Stuf lets out a brief chuckle and Billy throws his elbow into his gut. Stu doubles over dramatically and you can’t help but laugh a little. Billy gives you a raised brow and you nod your head. “I just need a little nudge,” you mutter, glancing back at the house. 

Stu grins and creeps behind you. “I got you babes,” he tells you in a ridiculous voice. You barely have a second to process what’s happening before he’s lifting you up and practically tossing you inside. Immediately, there’s a fake chainsaw in your face and a screaming Bubba Sawyer. You stumble back with a gasp, falling into Stu’s open arms. 

“How’s that for a nudge?” Billy mutters as he brushes past you. You grab onto the back of his shirt and follow behind him. He glances over his shoulder at you with a knowing smirk and continues forward. None of the scares get him, but they get you. 

The actors catch onto that. They also catch onto how fake and dramatic Stu is. Half of them target you for a good scream and the other half avoid you because of how obnoxious he’s being. You can already tell how bored BIlly is. There’s not enough gore in here for him. 

He needs more blood splatter and fresh corpses, while you’re pleasantly surprised by the contents of the house. You’d really been dreading the demonic themes, but it seems like that’s not a huge factor. So far it’s just a few overzealous teens and some spiders on a string. 

Sure, it’s still scaring the bejeezus out of you. But there’s a difference between a quick scream and a deeply rooted phobia. 

You don’t know when this supernatural fear of yours began. Maybe your parents let you traumatize yourself with the crucifix scene in The Exorcist too young. But you know it’s been with you nearly your entire life. 

You think you’re safe, that you can just relax and let yourself have fun, then you reach the final door. The lights are flickering so hard you think you might have a seizure, but you can see enough to know what’s before you. A red, rotted door, with three upside-down nines barely hanging onto it. 

“Oh god,” you whisper and you think the boys can’t hear you. But then you feel Stu’s hands suddenly clamping around your neck and you leap into Billy with a shrill scream. Billy flinches away from the noise, turning to glare at you. 

Stu doubles over, laughing his ass off at your expense and grinning wildly at you. “Jesus, we’re not even in there yet. What is wrong with you?” He says it like a joke but you can hear the truth of it lingering. It stings, the slight cruelty in his tone. 

There’s nothing wrong with being afraid of something. Fear is healthy. The absence of fear is idiocy. You shove past Billy and turn to Stu with a mean glare. “I’m going to go in here and when I get out, I’m fucking leaving you.”

You shove the door open and take a step inside. You put on a brave face for about five seconds before you turn to see if they’ll follow you. You see just a glimpse of them before the door creaks closed. Billy is leaning against the wall, watching you with a half-amused expression. But Stu looks odd. 

That doesn’t even seem like the right word. His face is completely devoid of any emotion. He looks expressionless and you’ve never seen Stu like that before. Whether it’s for good reason or not, he’s always making a face. Right now, you don’t even recognize him. Were it not for the outfit he was wearing you would think someone else had snuck up behind Billy. 

The door is closed before you can call out to him and you find yourself plunged in complete darkness. There’s no noise for a long few moments. You can’t tell which way is the door and which is the exit. 

At first, you worry you went in the wrong direction and entered an empty part of the house. A sudden cackle breaks through the air, and you leap forward, stumbling into the wall. You can already feel your heart beginning to race. Even though you can hear the static of a speaker and you know, deep down, that it's fake, you’re frozen in fear. 

There’s a brief flash of light, just enough for you to see torn wallpaper and upside-down crosses. And something standing in the corner. “All alone?” A voice rasps and you whimper, pressing yourself up against the wall. You can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed, it’s too dark to know. You hope they’re closed. Whatever’s about to happen is going to traumatize you, you just know it. 

A door creaks behind you just as the lights begin flickering on and off. Through brief flashes of illumination, you see something running towards you. They’re screaming Latin at you, water hits your face and you begin screaming uncontrollably. Footsteps pound towards you, egging on the racing beat of your heart. 

A jarring grip lands on your shoulder and you swing out wildly. Your fist connects with something hard and you hiss in pain. There’s a brief pause where the only thing you can hear is your panting. 

“Ow!” Someone snaps, an irritated raspy voice. The lights flick on and you squint against the sudden glare, blinking rapidly to try and lessen the burn on your eyes. 

Billy and Stu stand on either side of you, astonished looks on both of their faces. A teenage boy in a shitty priest costume and red face paint stands before you. He’s rubbing his eye and cussing at you. “You fucking punched me!”

“You ran at me!” You yell back immediately, glaring at the little asshole. “I don’t think you’re supposed to touch me.”

He glares at you through one eye and points to Stu and Billy. “I didn’t!” He shouts and you flinch back, grimacing. “Your fucking friend did.” You clench your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. Both you and Billy turn slowly towards Stu. His face is as red as the kid’s as he struggles to contain his laughter. 

“Unbelievable!” You snap at him, slapping his shoulder roughly. He jolts, narrowing his eyes down at you. 

“Hey!” He protests, “I was joking around. You’re the one that punched him.” He points the blame to you and you can’t argue. You did, technically, punch him. But it’s Stu’s fault. If he hadn’t snuck up on you, you would have just kept on screaming. You never would have touched the kid. 

In awkward silence, you walk the boy out of the haunted house and buy him a cold drink to press against his steadily swelling eye. You can see purple shining through the fading paint and grimace. He throws himself down on a wooden picnic table and sighs forlornly. 

“Thanks a lot, lady,” he mutters bitterly. Stu’s lips twitch as he watches the kid tug at his costume. You glare up at him and shove him away. He stumbles behind the table shooting you a sharp glare. You’re taken aback by the look. 

It’s not like you’ve never gotten a little pushy with him before. His love language was manhandling. But the look on his face is unrecognizable. You’d thought you’d imagined it earlier, how off he had seemed. But it’s not fake now. You’re looking it clearly in the eye and you can’t deny the truth of it. 

“I’m gonna sue,” the kid grumbles and you’re snapped out of your stare-off. You try and shake off the chilling feeling of unfamiliarity but it’s nearly impossible. You’re still wound up from the haunted house, you’re sure you’re just imagining things.

Billy shoves his shoulder and the kid falls back onto the table. “You’re not suing.”

He puffs his chest up and glares at Billy, “I could.”

Billy places his hand on the table, leaning in on the kid’s space until he’s flinching back. You avert your eyes, uncomfortable with the sudden display of dominance. Yet, you don’t stop him from bullying the kid out of a lawsuit. “You won’t,” Billy tells him, a clear threat. 

The kid gives a shaky nod of his head, but Billy still doesn’t let up. There’s a slight curl of malice to his lips, you glance over to Stu for support. His attention is rapt upon Billy, something like hunger in his eyes. You feel like you’re watching two lions corner a gazelle, you can practically see the boy’s hands trembling from fear.  

“Alright,” you clear your throat and tug Billy back by the shirt. He resists you at first and you know he only backs off because he wants to. It’s not for you. You look at the boy and give him a weak smile, “I really am sorry,” you can hear Stu laughing behind him and roll your eyes. The kid takes the drink off his eye and glares at you. 

“Yeah, whatever lady. Why don’t you take a valium or something and chill the hell out?” He gets off the bench and brushes past you, shaking his head. You glance down at your fist and hiss at the pain shooting along your fingers. The skin of your knuckles is split and aching from hitting him. 

Billy huffs out a laugh and takes your hand in his. “Really got him, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you argue petulantly. 

Stu finally collects himself and rejoins you both, throwing his gangly body on the wooden picnic table. “Why don’t you tell his face that?” He practically snorts, looking down at your hand and then laughing all over again. It’s really not that funny. Even Billy looks confused by his boisterous nature. 

He’s a dick, but this is a lot. You and Billy exchange a confused glance before looking back at Stu. But he’s silent now, already staring back at you both. Again, chills go up and down your arms at the empty look in his eyes. His lips are smiling, but his eyes are devoid of anything. 

“Maybe we should just go home.” You suggest, trying to keep the suspicion out of your tone. “Carnival’s a bust,” Billy exchanges one last look with you before nodding. 

“We still doing movies at Stu’s?” You desperately want to say no. Right now, all you want is to get as far away from him as possible. Earlier, with them and the kid, that’s normal. They’ve always had a bit of a mean streak when it comes to people weaker than them. 

The way his eyes are boring into you right now is anything but normal. You’ve never felt quite so uncomfortable near him, but you can’t ignore the feeling. Every primal instinct of survival is screaming at you to run, but you can’t. You can’t say no. All you do is nod, tongue glued to the roof of your mouth. Stu’s eyes brighten slightly at your words, but it’s still nothing compared to how it should be. 

You get ahead of Billy, not wanting to walk next to Stu. All you need is a good night’s sleep and you’ll be over this whole thing. Still, you can’t shake the feeling of too many eyes lingering on you as you make the trek to the car. The wet straw beneath your feet swallows the sounds of your steps and you try not to be discomforted by the quiet. It’s a carnival, where did all the people go?

The black-and-white static of the TV is the only thing to illuminate the room. It shines upon your face, makes it so you can only see in that square of light. You assume Billy is on the ground, passed out. And Stu is probably curled up in the overstuffed armchair. 

Yet, you can’t look. As much as you try to crane your neck, try and find some comfort in their presence, you can’t move. Your body is pinned down by a weight you can’t see, only feel. This isn’t sleep paralysis. It’s like being held down by someone stronger and bigger than you. 

You have no control over your body. You have no control over anything. Your breathing kicks up, coming in short panicked bursts. Your eyes roll around wildly, trying to find something, anything, to focus on. 

You find yourself depressingly devoid of any distractions. Until a shadow creeps along the ceiling. At first, you think it’s just your eyes playing tricks on you. Like when you stare at one spot in the dark for too long and start to see impossible shapes. 

But this is different. No matter how many times you blink or look away, it keeps moving. You whimper as it crawls over you. It dangles from the ceiling. You see nothing, only feel its eyes on you. There is no clear shape lurking within it, just malevolent malice. 

It drops down behind the arm of the couch and you open your mouth to scream, hoping to wake one of the boys. Nothing comes out but a strangled gasp of air. You struggle for noise but the more you try, the harder you find it to bring air in. 

Your eyes swim as you go lightheaded. You almost miss the tendrils creeping over the fabric of the couch. You almost don’t see it covering your feet. You wish you had missed it. You wish you just closed your eyes and never opened them again. But it’s like something is keeping those pried open too. 

You can’t feel your legs. That’s the weight. It’s not someone holding you down. Your body is completely limp. It’s as though your bones were replaced with metal, you’re sinking so far into the cushions they’re rising around you. Even your fingers are too heavy to twitch. 

You begin to feel it in your head, a sudden sinking feeling as it tips further and further back. Soon, you can only watch the shadow through your peripheral. Cold terror washes over you and fills your veins with something ill. 

It covers your legs like a veil, slithering on them. Your thighs shoot apart and the blanket goes flying across the room. You can only let out a choked whimper as it dives between your parted limbs. 

You shoot up with a gasp, sunlight peers through Stu’s living room windows, filling the room with much-needed warmth. You glance down, fisting the blanket and tugging it up to your chest in relief. Your heart is still racing and there’s sweat caked along your neck. But you can move your body freely again. It must have just been an awful nightmare. 

You glance to the side and nearly scream. Stu lounges in the armchair, Billy’s still asleep on the ground. Stu stares right at you, empty eyes, wide smile. “Good dream?” he inquires, but the tone of his voice tells you he already knows the answer. 

You swallow, fighting the sandpaper feeling of your throat and shaking your head. “No,” you croak, afraid to speak much louder than a whisper. 

His smile widens and you feel your head feeling heavy again. “I love a good nightmare,” he admits, like it’s an awful secret. He leans back in the chair and turns towards the TV, mindlessly flicking through the channels. 

With his gaze off you, you glance down and pull the waistband of your shorts down. You swallow down your tears and bile. Your underwear, like you feared, is gone. You glance towards Stu and narrow your eyes at the back of his head. You have an idea who took them.

Your parents are out of town for the week. Normally that means Billy and Stu infesting your home like pests. They’re being oddly evasive when you call, though. Not that you’re complaining. You haven’t been interested in being around Stu since the carnival. 

He makes you feel unsafe. As much of a dick as he could be, never, have you ever feared him before. But you do now. You’re terrified of him. Even thinking about him makes you want to get up and check your closets for unwanted intruders. 

However, as much as his absence is a relief, it brings with it its own problems. Nothing with Stu can ever be easy, can it? 

You keep having the same nightmare. Except each night it gets closer and closer. You feel more of it than you ever want to. They’re turning into uncomfortably sexual dreams. You wake up wet and without any underwear. You can’t blame Stu for that when he’s not even in your house, though. Which leaves you fucking petrified when you wake up. 

Because you know, deep down, you know someone wasn’t in your house. Something was, though. A heavy presence lingers over you during the day and makes you terrified to walk around the open spaces of your home. You’d lock yourself in your room all week if you could, but even that doesn’t feel safe. 

The door slams behind you and you jolt forward with a scream. You stare at your backdoor with a horrified expression, glaring at it like it might start talking and reveal its secrets. Your house is old, there’s nothing odd about doors occasionally closing on your own. 

Except, that hadn’t been open. You’ve kept it firmly locked all week, terrified of a possible home invasion. You need to stop watching scary movies on your own. 

You pull your knees into your chest, staring at your door until you’re satisfied it’s not going to slam shut again. Slowly, you turn back towards your TV and keep watching the only good sitcom you could find at this time of night. 

The second you let yourself get comfortable, however, you hear your bedroom door upstairs slam shut, followed quickly by rushing footsteps. Your eyes widen in terror and you mute your TV, glaring up at the ceiling and hoping you just imagined it. 

Footsteps behind you, running across the linoleum. You whip around, nearly shrieking when you spot something black darting into your pantry closet. You scramble for the phone beside you. You slam 911 into the keypad and press it against your ear, keeping your eyes riveted on the pantry closet. 

There’s a steady beep on the other end. The line’s dead. Someone cut your phone line. That’s okay. You can work with that. You can beat something real, but you’ve got no hope against something otherworldly. 

You stand slowly, unmuting the TV so the laugh track will cover your movements better. You creep towards your linen closet, reaching for the bat your dad keeps in there for this very reason. He’s got different weapons placed all over the house and you blame him for some of your paranoia. But right now, you’re eternally grateful for the protection it’s providing you. 

You slip into the kitchen, sliding quietly across the tiles on your socks. You position yourself behind the pantry door, your hand shaking as you reach for the handle. Just as you rip it open, the lights go out. 

You scream wildly, waving the bat around with as much force as you can, hoping to just hit something solid. Glass crashes against the floor and you feel the bat connecting with something. The lights flip back on and your mother’s vase is shattered along the ground. There’s no sign of the intruder and you think you might throw up when you hear more footsteps upstairs, two sets this time. 

But then someone darts through the living room, another flash of black before they’re gone. Three? How are you supposed to handle three?

Something titters behind you, bordering on a giggle, and you whip around, bat waving through the air recklessly. No one was there, no sign anyone was. And there’s no possible way for you to have missed them running past you. There’s nowhere to go or hide. 

You think of the shadow you’ve seen in the closet and the lights flicker like they’re agreeing with you. The thing that’s been haunting your nightmares, it’s in the house with you. The lights flicker again and your stomach drops to the floor. Your heart is in your throat as you hear your voice chanted from upstairs.  

It’s like staring at the Devil’s eyes at the circus again. You feel like there’s something being taken from you. You feel cold, empty, like you’re missing something you need. Something’s toying with you. Making you it’s twisted little plaything. 

You can feel the tears clawing their way up your throat. The call of your voice gets louder and louder until it feels like it's being screamed straight into your ears. You want to run, want to fight, want to do anything but stand here and you can’t. 

You can’t move. It’s just like your dreams. Your bones are metal and you are stuck. There’s a rough shove to your back, though you don’t feel physical hands on you. And then someone’s moving you, your legs are puppeteered as you’re directed up the stairs. 

You stub your toes on every step, crawling up them like a child learning to use them for the first time. Every time you slow down or try and stop, you’re dragged forward again. Your bedroom door creaks open and warmth carves its way down your cheeks. 

You stumble inside, the bat thudding to the floor as your hand goes limp around the handle. You want to call out to the entity, but your jaw is wired shut. You stand in the middle of your room, sobbing and terrified and completely alone. 

Your closet door slowly creaks open and you brace yourself for the worst. Billy comes flying out, shouting nonsense at you as you scream until your throat feels bloody. Stu follows behind him, ripping off his stupid mask and giving you a wide-eyed look. 

You crumple to the floor, covering your head and crying as you come down from the fear that you are being haunted. Stu kneels before you, hands gentle as they take your arms away from your head. 

He looks like Stu now. He looks like the boy you grew up with. His eyes are full of worry as he pushes wet strands of hair off your cheeks. “Hey, hey, alright,” he tugs you into his chest and you throw your arms around him wildly. You cling tightly to him, taking in heaving breaths and trying to find some comfort from his touch. 

“You fucking dicks,” you sob into his sweater. “I thought I was going to die.”

Billy scoffs as he stares awkwardly behind him. “Yeah,” he mutters bluntly, “I can tell.” He watches you cry for a little while longer before he gets irritated. “Hey, this was supposed to be fun. Would you lighten up?”

You suck in a deep breath, astonishment at what he just said temporarily stopping the tears of terror. You rip yourself away from Stu, ignoring the way his hands linger. “Excuse me?” You demand, glaring up at Billy.

He shrugs, “It was just a prank, chill out.”

You scoff, taking in a sharp breath and nodding your head. “Right, no, you’re right. It’s not like my friends used my biggest fucking fear against me!” You shout, shoving him backward. He stumbles into the corner of your desk and you glare at him and Stu. 

“You’re horrible fucking friends, you know that.” You storm out of your room and pause at the top of the stairs. They linger in your doorway. Stu looks like a kicked dog and Billy looks like he’s about to blow the hell up. 

“I don’t even know how you guys pulled all that shit off, but fuck you.” You give them both an astonished glare before shaking your head and going back down the stairs. “I hate you,” you scream, your voice shrill and full of uncontrollable rage. 

Billy almost follows after you, probably to give you a shit apology and then let everything smooth over naturally. But he stops, foot hovering over the top of the stairs. He glances back at Stu and frowns, “What the hell did you do?” Stu gives him a confused look and Billy glares. “She wasn’t supposed to be terrified for her life, fuckwad. What the hell did you do to her?”

Stu shrugs and gives him a too-wide grin and for the first time, Billy finds himself disturbed by his friend. “Magician’s secret man, cannot, will not tell.” He zips his mouth shut and tosses the key, winking at Billy. Billy gives him a disgusted scoff and follows after you. They can hear you ranting in the kitchen, slamming your drawers shut, and shouting vile insults at them. 

Stu watches Billy go down the stairs, his smile slowly fading from his face. Something dark passes over Stu’s face, something wicked, something unnatural. Perhaps it was all just a trick. 

Or maybe that kid’s Latin wasn’t so fake after all. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Scream, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.