I HIT A 1000 FOLLOWERS OHMYGOD SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 - 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝙻𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚍

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: Ah, we've finally arrived. The last stop on this journey. I honestly thought I would feel more relieved saying goodbye to these two but it's a little bittersweet. Arthur is such an important character to me and one I've always held close to my heart. Being able to write this series for him is definitely one of my prouder moments as a fanfiction author. Thank you all for staying along for the ride and all of the love and support you've given me 🫶

Hell Hath No Fury Series (complete)

Summary: The past is behind you, all you have to do now is choose which path you'll follow.

The door before you is covered in a fresh coat of paint. An attempt at erasing the past that almost makes you laugh. There’s no amount of polish that can scrub away the memories and lives embedded in its frame. This estate, once pristine, holds no warmth for you, only the echoes of a childhood so distant you struggle to remember it. 

Still, you know there were moments, brief fleeting moments of happiness before you knew better. Before you understood that love only had a place when it was currency, when it was useful, before you learned that you were just another debt to be collected. 

The door creaks open, and a pair of green eyes scrutinizes you from within. “Mrs. Rowe?” The maid’s timid voice asks hesitantly. 

You don’t know her name, after a while, they all blurred together. Each of them became the same spineless, faceless shadows that bent to your mother’s every whim. You consider correcting her, telling her to call you by your maiden name, but the thought goes sour in your mouth. That name was your father’s, and he had owned you just as much as your husband. 

“Please,” you lift your chin, eyes narrowing at her, “I’m not Mrs. Rowe any longer,” you tell her curtly. 

The maid frowns and the door opens a tad wider. Her nose wrinkles in distaste, but she says nothing, not bold enough to speak out against you. Instead, she bows her head and steps aside, holding the door open to you. 

The scent of overpriced cigars and aged whiskey is thick in the air. Breathing in is like being thrown right back to days of racing through these halls, avoiding your mother’s scoldings and your father’s plotting. You almost feel the twitch of a smile as you peer up the banister of the stairs, where you know your old room is. 

The house remains unchanged, the same ornate rugs swallow your footsteps as you follow the maid down the hall. Chandeliers drip with excess in a way that you always thought was gaudy but your mother claimed show class. 

The maid stops in front of a familiar oak door, bowing her head once more before rushing off like a frightened mouse. Behind it, he’s waiting for you. 

You push the knob down and step inside, your father sits at his desk, posture relaxed as if he were expecting you. A half-empty glass of bourbon rests in his hand, swirling it lazily as he watches you approach. You notice grays in his hair that you’d never seen before, signs of age, and the truth that even money can’t stop the relentless passage of time. 

The lines around his face are deeper than you remember, but his eyes, still sharp and calculating, assessing you for your worth, haven’t changed at all. 

“When I received word from my daughter after nearly a year of believing her to be dead, I certainly hadn’t thought you would have become an outlaw.” You don’t take a seat and don’t say a word. Standing a few feet back from his desk, you keep your face carefully blank. “Van der Linde gang, wasn’t it?”

You don’t bite and ask how he knows, demand for him to tell you how he’s keeping track of you. It’s better to know less about your father’s reach and influence. Besides, little tricks like this haven’t scared you since you were a child. 

He waits for you to speak, huffing out a forced laugh when you don’t. “Finally returned back to me. I can only assume you want something.” He sets his glass down on his desk and leans back in his ornate leather chair. “I presume it has something to do with that outlaw lover of yours?”

Hands clenching reflexively around your purse and the revolver inside, your jaw clenches, the first tell you’ve given him. His lips curl, something cruel dancing behind his eyes. “If you hadn’t already been tainted by that useless husband of yours, I might just keep you here. Sell you to the next highest bidder.”

You don’t flinch and give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But you know he means every word. If you actually still held value or standing in society, he wouldn’t hesitate to put you back under lock and key, using any means necessary to cage you. 

“You can try,” you say smoothly, tilting your head ever so slightly. “But that worthless husband you picked out for me has left me as quite the undesirable.”

Something flickers across his face, amusement, maybe even appreciation for the bite in your tone. That’s the game he plays. He has no tolerance for disobedience and no respect for someone who doesn’t fight back. Perpetually dissatisfied. 

He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking over you. “What do you want, little bird?”

You take your time answering, stepping closer to the desk, glancing over the neatly stacked ledgers and letters. An old pen rests beside his arm, but he doesn’t seem to notice the black ink staining his shirt sleeve. 

“I want Arthur Morgan and the others who escaped with him left alone,” you say, voice even. “The Pinkertons, Cornwall. Every last hunter that’s sniffing after them. I want them called off.”

He raises a brow, lips curling slightly at the corners. “What makes you think I have that sort of influence?”

Your lashes flutter innocently and a demure smile flits across your face. “I know about the deal you made last spring,” you tell him, watching as his face tightens with recognition. “The one that ended with all of those men floating face down in the bayou. You’re the one who taught me to be seen and not heard, father. I just learned to listen.” You let the weight of your words sink in, watching as something like a warning crosses his face. You lean against the edge of the desk, voice dropping to a whisper, “You’ll find the power, and you’ll get me what I want.”

A slow smirk tugs at his lips and you draw back. “I always knew you were observant, listening in when I should have stopped you. Call it fatherly indulgence, but I didn’t think it would turn you into someone so conniving. I could almost say I’m proud if you weren’t such a disgrace to the family.”

Fists clenching by your side, you bite your lip and keep yourself quiet. It’s a waiting game, drawing the prey in to get what you want. 

He drums his fingers against the wood, considering. Then, finally, he sighs, reaching for his bourbon. “Fine. The Pinkertons and Cornwall will lose interest in what's left of your little gang.” He takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his glass. “But Dutch Van der Linde? The ones who followed him? I’m not lifting a finger for them.”

“Good, I wasn’t asking you to.”

That earns you a short, sharp laugh. “Cutthroat, I suppose becoming an outlaw finally gave you a spine. If only you discovered it sooner, it would have been much more entertaining to break you as a child.” 

You swallow hard, taking another step back from him before you feel the urge to put a bullet between his eyes. “What else?” He presses, setting his drink down. “I assume you didn’t come all this way just for that.”

“I need a few high-profile bounty hunting jobs- on paper.”

He arches a brow, “For Morgan?”

You shrug, not willing to give away more than you have to. “For a friend.”

Understanding dawns over his face, followed quickly by an all too familiar smirk. “The sheriffs won’t let a woman collect their bounties, is that it?” You don’t dignify him with a response and he hums, tapping his fingers against the desk as he thinks. “Done.”

Relief unfurls in your chest but you don’t give it away. Nodding, you turn away, but his voice stops you at the door. “You’re a fool for choosing this life,” he tells you, tone light but laced with something darker. “You could have had everything.”

You look over your shoulder, barely meeting his eye. “We have different definitions of what that means,” you tell him simply, “I’d rather be free than a miserable miser like you.” His jaw snaps shut, eyes going cold, and you walk out the door, leaving him behind. 

Arthur leaves Diablo to roam in the valley beside the cabin. When he’d gotten up this morning you were already gone, Lady nowhere to be found. He tried not to worry, he knows by now you’re smart enough to handle yourself. But there’s a lot of people who want to hurt you both right now. Not just the bounty hunters and the Pinkertons, but this land is infested with the Murfree brood. 

Coming back from his hunt now, he can already see Lady trotting up to Diablo, and there on the porch, you sit. Your back is to him as he approaches, fingers tight around a letter in your hand. He vaguely recognizes the handwriting, but not enough to identify the author. 

“Hey,” he mutters, taking a seat on the stoop beside you. You glance up at him, folding the letter away and smiling. “What’s that?” He asks, nodding toward the papers now tucked away. 

Your smile shifts into something a little sadder and you glance out toward the water. “Charles finally wrote me back,” there’s a tone to your voice he can’t recognize, it’s bittersweet. “I think it might be the last letter I receive from him. He has plans to move to Canada. To start,” you hesitate before smiling fondly, “he’s going to start a family.”

Sucking in a deep breath you shrug and look toward him. “How was your ride?”

“Fine,” he dismisses quickly. “Where’d you go this mornin’?”

Your face morphs into something careful, guarded. “I had some business in the city,” he knows you don’t want him to press you further. It’s clear that whatever you were dealing with was something personal. As much as he worries about you, he won’t press, even if the curiosity is gnawing at him.

“You know it’s risky to go out on your own right now.”

You smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, “Trust me, I won’t be taking any more risks.” 

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of your breathing beside him. Arthur lays on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling as his fingers drum a restless beat against his stomach. Moonlight spills through the window, illuminating the cabin with a soft silver glow. 

Sleep has been harder and harder to find. It’s never come easy before, but he’d hoped it might be different now. He’s spent too many years with one eye open, waiting for a knife in the dark or gunfire to crack through the night. Even now, with no enemies nearby, no barking orders, and no campfire flickering just out of reach, his body refuses to believe he’s safe. 

He supposes he isn’t. The Pinkertons will still be after him, he figures he’s probably got a hefty bounty on his head. Large enough for the more reckless hunters to go after him. Sometimes he thinks Dutch might even be out there, seething over Arthur’s betrayal, waiting to find him again. 

Arthur sits up in bed, scrubbing a hand down his tired face. He reaches for the sketchbook resting on the nightstand beside him and flips it open. A piece of charcoal is already wedged between the worn pages and falls into his open palm as he settles against the headboard. Idly, he lets his hand start drawing a far too familiar form. 

The curve of your jaw, the way your hair spills across your pillow, he barely has to look at you to draw it now. Still, he finds his eyes drawn toward your sleeping form, taking in the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. You shift, mumbling something incoherent, and sling your arm over his waist. 

Arthur huffs out a quiet laugh, the warmth of your touch grounding in a way. He runs his hand along your arm, lacing your fingers together as you shift even closer to him. There’s not long to savor the moment before a loud whooping laugh shatters the silence outside. 

His hand stills its idle sketching, body going rigid like a hunting dog who’s found his mark. He sits up straighter, ears straining to hear the night outside the cabin walls. The grating laughter moves closer, faster, and louder than he’s comfortable with. 

He hears the distant sound of a bottle shattering and a sharp crack echoing through the night. Arthur swings his legs over the side of the bed, muscles tense, and catches the flickering glow of fire through the window. It almost sounds as if the horses are screaming in their pen. 

He’s on his feet in an instant, rushing to the door and grabbing the rifle resting along the wall. You shoot up in bed, blinking the sleep out of your eyes, and watch him throw the door open. “Arthur?” You call out, voice thick with sleep but growing more alert. 

“Stay low,” he warns you briefly, already moving through the door. 

Heat licks at his skin as he steps outside. Wildflowers near the fence are ablaze, the flames stretching dangerously close to the horses’ pen. Lady and Diablo run around wildly, bucking at nothing as the fire stretches closer. 

A group of men holler in the distance, growing closer as they circle around the property like wolves. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, aiming the rifle at the closest one. Murfree boys, he should have known. 

“Should’ve never come on our land!” One of them shouts, lifting another fire bottle, his match dangerously close to the fabric inside. Arthur doesn’t hesitate as he pulls the trigger, the boy and the bottle falling harmlessly to the ground as he slides off his saddle. 

You rush past him, paying no heed to the men with their guns pointed at you. He tries to snatch your arm, but you’ve got a bucket of water in your hands and you’re trying to put the fire out. He sees the way you glance worriedly toward Lady as the flames consume more of the dry grass around you. 

There’s a moment of stillness, the men stop moving and simply stare at Arthur. “He killed Mitch!” One of them shouts, the rest shouting something incomprehensible in rage. Gunfire erupts and Arthur curses, grabbing you and ducking behind the wall of the cabin. Arthur peers around the side and takes another shot before he ducks back into cover, reloading the rifle. 

There aren’t many of them, and they aren’t good shots. But he’s worried about the fire, not the fools shooting at him. The fight doesn’t last long, a few more well-placed bullets and the last of the Murfree boys fall. The only sounds left are the frantic whinnies of the horses and the sound of water sizzling against flames. 

He grabs another bucket and dips it into the lake, stomping out dying embers and putting to rest the remaining fire. When it’s finally out, you slump against him, chest heaving. His heart is still pounding in his ears, adrenaline thrumming in his veins. 

“They’ll come back,” you mutter against his chest, voice quiet but sure. 

Arthur swallows, watching the darkened tree line. They’re not known for letting go of grudges or forgiving the killing of one of their own. “I know,” he tells you, arm wrapping around you and pulling you close. His mind is already made up, he’s taking you somewhere else. And soon. 

The wagon rocks slightly to the side as Arthur directs the horses over a small rock and you reach eagerly for the reigns. “Let me drive,” you demand, the same way he’s been listening to you do the whole ride. 

Arthur snorts, shaking his head and tightening his grip. “Not a chance.”

You lean back on the bench, crossing your arms with a slightly amused tilt to your lips. “Oh, come on,” you admonish, “you act like I’m a bad driver.”

He gives you a flat look, thinking back to the cougar that nearly had you running the wagon off the side of a mountain. “You are a bad driver.”

“Yeah?” You taunt, something challenging in the way you narrow your eyes at him. “Who was it that broke the wheel clean off the last wagon?”

Arthur refuses to make eye contact with you, steering the horses around a rut in the dirt path. He shrugs, “That was different.”

You scoff incredulously, shoving at his shoulder. “How?”  

Arthur shrugs, “That was Dutch’s wagon.”

You bark out a laugh, shaking your head and leaning against his shoulder. “So? That makes it a bad wagon?”

“I ain’t sayin’ it makes it bad, I’m just sayin’ it don’t count.” You roll your eyes but he sees the fondness in your expression as you sit back. He knows you’re letting him win, you could argue with him for hours, running circles around him. Even though you are a bad driver. 

The thick line of trees lining the road slowly thins and opens up. A field of purple wildflowers stretching toward the horizon lay before you. A small stream glimmers under the light of the late afternoon sun and winds its way through. In the distance, at the end of the small trail, he can see John, Abigail, and Jack waiting for the both of you. 

Arthur makes his way up the rest of the off-road trail, nose already wrinkling in distaste at the spot John has chosen for him. He pulls the wagon to a stop and rounds the side, offering you his hand. You roll your eyes at the gesture, smiling playfully and letting him help you down even though you both know it’s unnecessary. 

Arthur adjusts his hat, leveling John with a skeptical look. “You sure this is gonna work?”

John exhales sharply, leveling Arthur with a flat look. He steps forward, holding out Arthur’s cut from what he stole from Dutch. “Why’re you always doubtin’ me?”

Arthur takes the money and crosses his arms, shrugging, “‘Cause most of the time, you’re doin’ somethin’ worth doubtin’.” Abigail makes a noise of agreement, cutting John a sharp glare. You shift uncomfortably beside him and he lets out a sigh. 

He’s never more grateful for you than when he watches John and Abigail interact. That woman wouldn’t be happy with him if he did do everything she asked him to, although he most definitely does not. She’s never going to trust that he can fully integrate into a normal life or make something of himself. Having someone behind you, always doubting you, always judging you, it would drive Arthur insane. 

As much as you’ve gotten angry with him over the stupid choices he makes, you’ve always trusted him. He’s given you plenty of reason to doubt him, and still, you stand beside him. Even when he told you he had some half-baked plan to start a ranch on some cheap land Marston found for him, you followed him. And you trusted him when he told you he could take care of you. There’s no constant scrutinization of the man he used to be. 

He lets Abigail and John bicker, looping his arm over your shoulder and leading you around them so you can get a good look at the land you’re about to be living on. You squeeze his hand, smiling up at him, and Arthur feels some of the weight on his shoulders ease. 

The fire crackles softly outside the tent, casting a flickering light against the canvas walls. This tent is bigger than the one he’d had in camp, more spacious, and with wooden poles to hold it up. It has to be better until the actual house can be built, it’s what you’ll be living in for a long while. 

You sit beside him on the cot, sewing up a hole in one of your pants while he looks through the plans for the house. The scent of lavender and honeysuckle drifts through the open flap along with the sound of the creatures in the forest beyond. 

“I went to St. Denis,” you tell him, and somehow, he knows you mean the morning you disappeared. 

Arthur’s expression pinches, he looks up from the paper, taking in the way your face is illuminated by the dim light. “Why?” He demands, frustration creeping around the edges of his tone. It’s one thing to have gone out on your own, it’s even worse that you went to a place swarming with Pinkertons and cops. 

 “I went to see my father,” you tell him, voice calm despite his tension. You place your sewing to the side and shift closer to him. “The Pinkertons, the bounty hunters,” you pause, eyes roaming over his face to gauge his reaction. “They’ll be leaving us alone now, all of them.”

Arthur rubs a hand down his face, biting back the urge to say something smart. It’s not as simple as that. Whatever you’ve done, whatever favor you’ve called on, men like your father don’t just let things go. He feels like he should be angry. Hell, a part of him is mad that you put yourself at risk. 

But he sees the quiet determination on your face. You reached into your past, took the pieces that could be used against you, and turned it into something that could finally give you both a true clean slate. Arthur exhales, shaking his head. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he reaches forward, tugging you closer to him. “A whole new life, huh?”

You smile at him, leaning in until your lips are nearly brushing against his. “Yeah,” you whisper, “A whole new life.” Arthur leans forward, lips catching yours as he tugs you onto his lap. Maybe you acted a bit like a fool, but he can’t blame you. He would have done the same thing if it meant another chance with you. 

A few years later

The morning air is crisp, as always it carries with it the distant scent of the animals around the ranch, and poppies and lilies. Boots creak softly against the wooden planks of the porch as you step outside, pausing for a moment to take in the sight before you. 

Arthur sits in his rocking chair, the slow, steady rhythm of its movements in time with his easy breaths. His gaze remains fixed on the pasture, watching as the horses move lazily through the field, the cattle grazing beyond them. The sun is already high in the sky, warming the porch under your feet. Its golden light spills across the land, lighting up the stream beyond. Every morning, he watches it rise. 

You move toward your chair beside him, settling into the familiar seat. He doesn’t look away from the horizon, but his hand finds yours, calloused fingers warm against your skin. His thumb drags slow circles over the back of your hand, a quiet steady reassurance. 

Neither of you speak as there’s nothing to be said. No threats hang over your heads. No weight presses against your shoulders. 

There is only this. The soft rustle of the grass in the breeze, the warmth of the sun on your skin, the gentle creaking of the rocking chair. And the two of you, the outlaw and the lady. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00 @warmsideofthepillow03

@whimsiwitchy @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @martinys-world

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.

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴅᴏᴏʀ

͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝖲𝗍𝗎 𝖬𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 x fem!reader

╔═ A/N ═╗ Based on this request. I apologize if I got the characterization wrong. I just feel like the darker side to his character is never properly explored. As goofy as he was, he was also a serial killer lmao

✬ Summary ✬ Stu's your best friend, you know him as well as you know yourself. At least you thought so. A snoop through his closet leads to a terrifying discovery. Now, everywhere you turn, that haunting mask is right there waiting.

“God,” you toss the remote on the cushion beside you. It bounces off the oversized couch and flops to the floor. “There’s nothing on TV,” you lament, draping yourself dramatically over the cushions. 

Stu snickers and kicks his legs over the arms of his chair, shrugging with a smug look. “I told you we should have stopped by the video store.” His gaze drifts back toward the TV, grimacing at the obnoxiously loud MTV episode you stopped on. 

“Hell no, Randy’s working tonight,” you scold, sharp gaze snapping toward him. He’s got a stupid grin on his face, clearly having decided that his form of entertainment tonight is going to be pissing you off. “I don’t feel like having him critique me for an hour on my poor taste in movies.”

He snorts and reaches to take a large handful out of the popcorn on the coffee table between you. “Maybe if you didn’t just rent stupid chick flicks all the time, he wouldn’t.” 

Stu doesn’t have time to duck as you chuck one of his mom’s overpriced throw pillows at him. “Don’t act like you don’t love Pretty in Pink.” The pillow knocks the popcorn out of his hand, scattering it across the ornate rug Mrs. Macher bought last week. If she saw the state you’d gotten the house in this weekend, that ever-pulsing vein in her head would burst. As it is, they’re never actually at the house, it’s an oasis for practically half the school during the weekends Stu decides to throw a party. 

For the first time in a while, though, it’s just you and Stu. No one else is here to rile him up or force him to put on a show. He’s at his calmest when it’s just the two of you. Which, honestly, doesn’t mean much for him, but still. 

“I do not,” he objects, stretching out his lanky body and getting to his feet. 

You roll your head lazily to face him, giving him a knowing smirk. “Billy isn’t here, Stu. You don’t have to lie,” you assure him, holding out your arms as he stops in front of you. You already know what he wants, he’s got that specific gleam in his eye as he smiles down at you. 

“I mean,” he shrugs, “it’s not bad,” he concedes. Without another word, he throws himself on top of you, even prepared for it, you still feel the breath rush out in one hefty wheeze. Another thing you don’t see as much when others are around, just how goddamn clingy he is. 

Sure, with his multitude of girlfriends, he’s touchy. But this is something different entirely. He clings to you like he would burrow into your skin if he could. He’s been that way since you guys were kids. While the feeling of others touching you might set you on edge, Stu fits against you like your missing piece. 

Hands drifting up to play with his hair, you settle yourself against the cushions while he goes back to channel surfing, pleased to have you as his pillow. 

The TV drones on, a dull buzz in the background now that Stu has the volume down. With his head practically buried between your boobs and your legs wrapped around his waist, you snicker. 

Frowning, he props his chin on your chest, staring up at you. “What?” He demands, hating to be left out of a joke. 

“Nothing,” you shrug as much as you can with him steadily pancaking you. “Just wondering what your girlfriend would think of us like this.”

“Oh,” he sets his head back down and places your hands back on his head to continue playing with his hair. “We broke up,” he tells you, like it means absolutely nothing. 

“Stu!” You slap his shoulder, and he winces dramatically. As if you could ever do real damage to him. 

“Ow!” He whines, bracketing himself up on his elbows so he can look down at you. “What’s your problem tonight?”

His hips are still lazily pressed against you, pressure increasing the longer he hovers above you. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore the flush spreading through you. “You didn’t tell me you guys broke up.”

He rolls his eyes, glaring down at you. “I just did,” he points out sarcastically. You swat at his shoulder again, but this time, he catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together with a smug grin as he keeps you trapped. 

“You’re collecting these girls like they’re trading cards.” Despite his tight grip, you manage to slip out slightly from under him and prop yourself against the arm of the couch. “I don’t even remember the last one’s name.”

His face goes slack, lips parting as you see the cogs in his brain turning. He laughs and glances back at you with a dismissive shrug. “Neither do I. I just remember the tits.”

“Ugh,” you yank your hand out of his, ignoring his petulant frown. “You’re absolutely disgusting. What’s the point of even dating them?”

He slinks back against the other end of the couch. “I just said why,” he points to your chest with a grin, and you reflexively cross your arms. Stu tips his head back, dangling it over the edge as he stares up at the ceiling with a forlorn sigh. “I don’t get it,” he tosses his hands up, and you already know where this is going. 

Head tipped back up, he narrows his eyes at you, “I don’t know why we don’t just date.”

You give him a deadpan look, arms still tight around your chest. “Dude,” you chide, “after what you just told me. Seriously?” When you were younger, him saying this used to set you alight. You’d get all dreamy-eyed, imagining what it would be like to be Stu’s girlfriend. Of course, you’d taken too long thinking about it, and by then, he’d already found a different girl to set his sights on. It had broken your heart, and their relationship had barely even lasted a week. 

By now, you know better than to take anything he says seriously. Everything’s just one big joke to him. He’s so fickle you can’t trust that he would actually put effort into anything more blooming between you. You seem to be the only girl in his life that he actually thinks of as a person, going on a few dates with him isn’t worth screwing that up. Besides that, you’re not going to ruin the only friendship you’ve ever had that’s lasted more than two months. 

Stu opens his mouth like he wants to say anything, but it snaps shut a moment later. His face sets into a glower, and you worry for a moment that you might have actually hurt his feelings. You’ve always thought the suggestion was just a sort of inside joke between the two of you. Though, he has been bringing it up more and more lately. 

Your stomach flips unpleasantly, heart aching with guilt. It doesn’t last long, the feeling always remains fleeting. You’ve conditioned yourself for years to dismiss anything that might actually encourage you to pursue something with Stu. You love him, but you two would just be a spark waiting to light up. 

“You’re staying the night, right?” Stu changes the subject, picking up the remote once more and not meeting your eye. Your lips part, and he cuts a glare toward you, “No girlfriend,” he stops you before you can even say anything. Your brows furrow, and he looks back to the TV. “No sleepovers if I’m dating,” he mocks the pitch of your voice, reminding you of the rule you'd enforced so long ago. Your lips fall in a flat, irritated line at his imitation of you. 

“No girlfriend,” he reminds you, feigning indifference even though you can see right through him. Your plan was to go home, but you know him well enough by now. The set of his jaw, the stubborn way he won’t look at you, there’s no actual choice. You’re staying.

“Yeah,” you acquiesce with a low huff. “I’ll need to borrow some clothes.”

“You know where they are,” he tells you, still not meeting your eye. He’s never been this sensitive after you’ve rejected him before. What’s his problem? Eyes narrowed, you get to your feet, glaring at him the whole way up the stairs. He never loses the indifferent look, passive-aggressively turning the TV up. 

Usually, you just grab some pants from the guest room. But with Autumn descending, it’s been getting colder, especially in Stu’s drafty old house. There’s a soft yellow sweater that you’ve always tried to steal from him, and he’s never let you get away with it. 

Nabbing it would probably ease up the weird tension. He is a freak, he does love seeing you in his clothes. You figure it’s a solid plan and slip across the hallway, quietly opening his bedroom door. 

As always, his room is a hot damn mess. The bed’s unmade, sheets completely untucked, and half of them sprawled across the floor. There’s a clearly well-loved nudie mag lying open on his nightstand, boobs bared boldly to the world. Rolling your eyes, you shake your head and turn toward his closet. 

Your brows furrow, head tilting at the closed door. As odd as it is, Stu never closes his closet. It’s just another tedious task to him. Besides, he likes to just ball all his clothes up and toss them in wildly. You know his family’s old maid threatened to quit if she had to clean his room ever again. But you wouldn’t believe that looking into the closet now. 

It’s not just clean, it’s pristine. Clothes hung up, sorted by color and sleeve length. Jeans all neatly folded away. The box of old books and junk he had just lying about are tucked up on the top shelf. “What the hell?” You whisper, looking around like you just stepped into Narnia. 

Hell, maybe it’s a portal to a bizarro dimension, it would make more sense than him cleaning up after himself. Whatever, you don’t have time to dwell on Stu’s oddities, you’d just be standing here forever if you did. 

You start in the yellow section of his closet, then drift toward the sweaters. And, of course, the only one you want isn’t anywhere to be found. It has to be buried somewhere in here, and you’re not giving up until that sweater is yours. You dig through his folded pile of jeans recklessly, hoping for a bright spot of yellow to be buried somewhere within them. 

Tugging a little too hard on one of the stacks, something hard clatters against the wooden floor of his closet. “Ah, shit,” you hiss, shoving the jeans back and kneeling to try and spot whatever fell. Lowering your head to the ground, you peer under the hems of his shirts on the lower rack and squint into the shadows. 

There’s a vague shape of something, and you reach toward it. Head tilted the other way, your arm stretches under the sweaters, blindly groping for whatever you sent tumbling. Your fingers snag on fabric, and you grin, thinking it’s the sweater you’ve been coveting. 

Pulling it out, your smile stills, heart rapidly increasing speed until it feels like it’s going to beat out of your ribs. There’s a twisting pain in your stomach, anguish and immediate denial flooding through you as you stare down at the mask in your hands. 

It’s just a cheap drugstore mask. Around Halloween, you could find it anywhere. You could easily dismiss it as something Stu bought as a fucked up joke. Were it not for the flaking copper on the chin of the howling mask. Your fingers tighten around it until you think it might crack. 

Slowly, you tilt your head back toward the shirts. This wasn’t what fell. A part of you screams to just chuck the mask back and pretend you never saw it. You could go downstairs, continue your movie night with Stu, and pass out beside him on the couch. Lying to yourself would be so damn easy. It’s just a mask, half the guys in school bought one because they thought it was a fucking joke. 

But your body isn’t interested in weak excuses. Bowing over, your hand swipes across the wood once more, wrapping around the object that fell. Before you even drag it out, you already know what you’re going to see. A pulsing pain spreads through your chest, eyes watering as you stare down at the knife in your hand. 

A serrated hunting knife, to be exact. The same one Dewey said was used to kill Casey only a week ago. God, how had you not seen this? How could you have been so blind?

Stu had been the number one suspect, but Billy had been his alibi, no one could place him at the scene of the crime.

There has always been something twisted about Billy. It only got worse when his mom left. Maybe this was all his idea, maybe Stu was just dragged into this, but he doesn’t really want-

Your thoughts fade into a dull silence in the back of your mind. There’s no excuse. Stu has always been different, just slightly off. His jokes nearing the wrong side of dark. But you never would have thought him capable of something so brutal. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs, and your brain shocks itself awake. Quickly, you toss the mask back under the clothes and shove the knife into the jeans. Wiping your eyes, you leap to your feet and rush out of the closet just as Stu barrels into his room. 

The both of you pause, staring blankly at each other. You, a deer caught in a hunter’s snare. He, the drooling wolf, waiting to pounce. 

Slowly, his eyes drift toward the closet, the light you left on, and the door you hadn’t had time to close. He turns back to you, and something twisted curls at the edges of his lips. Adrenaline shoots so fast through you it nearly knocks you off your feet. 

“Looking for something?” His tone is light, barely audible, as he takes a step closer. It takes every ounce of self-control not to back away from him. 

Something too strained to be a smile curls your lips up. “Um,” you lick your lips, swallowing down the dryness coating your tongue. You laugh nervously and take a step toward his bed. “Just that sweater I love. 

He stalks towards you, and your eyes widen, heart fluttering in your chest. Just when you think he might run you over, he steps around you and heads toward his dresser. You turn, afraid to take your eyes off of him. 

Peeking above the corner of a drawer is a yellow sleeve. He slips it out easily, holding it out to you with a grin that shows off all his teeth. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking around the words as you snatch the sweater out of his hands. 

“I made more popcorn,” he tells you, eyes wild as he stares down at you. “Halloween’s on.” It’s a simple invitation to a movie, but it feels like there’s a knife to your back. You have no choice but to step out of the room and head down the stairs. Every bit of you screams to act natural, to pretend that there’s nothing wrong. 

How could you be? Your best friend, the boy you’re practically in love with, is slaughtering your friends. He’s running rampant through your town and killing girls just because they broke up with him. 

Risking a glance over your shoulder, you see him already looking at you. The smile is gone, now he’s just watching you with this bemused expression, like he’s waiting for you to break and make a run for it. 

You take a seat on the couch, lean against the pillows, and glue your eyes to the screen. Suddenly, Jamie Lee Curtis babysitting is the most interesting thing in the world to you. Stu takes his seat beside you, sinking into your side and wrapping his arms around your waist. Stiff as a board, you can’t find it in you to return the touch, too petrified by the thought of all the blood on his hands. 

He doesn’t care for your trepidation, taking your arms and wrapping them around himself. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing against the sensitive skin as he speaks. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

Avoiding Stu has been easier than you thought it would. Usually, he’s more persistent in making you hang out with him. Especially when your parents are both out of town at the same time. But he’s been suspiciously quiet since you prematurely ended your weekend stay last week. 

You managed to make it through the night. Though, while Stu dozed on top of you, you had been wide awake. Limbs stiff, eyes unblinking, the whole night had been spent on high alert. You’re not sure if he knows you know, or just suspects it. Either way, you should have turned him in by now. 

The second you left his house, you should have gone straight to the sheriff. You know who's behind the Woodsboro murders. You know who the infamous Ghostface is, and have a suspicion who his other half might be. You could have stopped all this. 

Casey and Steve would be avenged. If you had something, another person wouldn’t have been killed two days ago. You didn’t know him personally, you’d never even seen Stu or Billy interact with him. But this felt less like an attack on him and more like a threat for you. 

Keep quiet, or you’ll be strung up by your intestines. 

Triple checking all your doors and windows are locked, you head upstairs to your room. Prepared to camp out for another sleepless night. If you turned him in, you wouldn’t have to live with this paranoia anymore. Every corner you turn wouldn’t be prefaced with the idea that he might be waiting behind it. No matter how hard you try, you can’t pick up the phone and call the cops. 

You lay back on your bed, listening to the radio in the hopes it might lull you to sleep. It never works, but you hold out hope. The shrill ring of your home phone echoes throughout your empty home. Sitting up on your elbows, you glare at your closed door like it might shut the damn thing up. 

Abruptly, it cuts off. The empty halls of your home fall silent once more, the low droning of your radio barely audible above the blood rushing through your head. You hold your breath, eyes peeled on the door in front of you, waiting for… something. 

The phone goes off again, and you jump, shooting off your bed and grabbing the bat by your nightstand. Slowly, you open your door, peeking your head out before you attempt to cross the hall to your parent’s room. There’s a phone in there, and you’re more comfortable up here than you are beside your glass patio doors downstairs. 

You practically kick the door open, jumping inside the room like you’re prepared to bludgeon someone with your bat. The shadows are thick inside, but you don’t see a cloaked figure waiting for you within one. Feeling confident enough, you run toward your parent’s nightstand and grab the phone. Running back to your room as fast as you can and slamming the door closed behind you, you sink to the floor. 

Thumb hovering over the button, you let out a shaky breath and answer. “Hello?” You try and instill confidence in your voice, but you can’t hide the tremor. 

“Hey,” Billy’s voice croons on the other end, he says your name, and a shudder rolls down your spine. 

“Billy?” His name is a hoarse croak as you feel your heart thud dully inside your chest. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to tell you something.” He pauses, and you bite your lip, nails digging into your palms as you wait for him to speak. “I’ve always wondered,” there’s a click, and then a raspier, unfamiliar voice speaks, “what do your insides look like?”

Something slams against your front door, and you drop the phone with a shrill scream, jumping to your feet and whirling around. You hear Billy’s distorted cackle echo through the speaker before abruptly cutting off. On the floor, three low beeps sound out. Bending down, you pick up the bulky phone and press it to your ear. Nothing but white noise. You toss the phone on your bed and swallow down another scream. No service. 

You’re all alone. 

The startling realization of silence rushes over you, gooseflesh rises along your arms, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The banging downstairs has quieted and your house is once more silent. But it’s no longer the same vacant stillness it was before. There’s someone here, it’s an instinctive feeling. Long buried prey instincts warning you of a predator sniffing you out.  

Creeping quietly across the floor, you avoid the creaky wood that would give your movements away and once more open the door. It seems foolish to put yourself so boldly out in the open. Being cornered in that room is no better. No matter what, it’s just you and him all alone out here. 

You wonder, as you peek your head around the banister, if this is just Stu stalking you. Is Billy getting rid of a liability? Is it both of them?

One, you could handle on your own. But if it was the both of them, the only thing you could do was go down swinging. If you were going to die tonight, you weren’t going to let it be easy for either of them. 

Your front door is wide open, an easy escape. There was no point in running. Either one of them is waiting outside for you, or they’ve cut the brakes on your car. You crouch, peering through the railings and silently making your way down the stairs. Try as you might, you don’t see signs that anyone has come inside. 

Besides the door, there are no clues to give away where they might have gone. You don’t want to play the role of the bimbo in their sick fantasy. Despite the instinct to call out for someone, you swallow it down and continue through your home. 

Beyond the stark terror of facing your own mortality, there is also the pain of being so thoroughly betrayed by Stu. You know the truth of what he is, of what Billy is. And you kept it quiet. You buried his dark secret like it was your own, protected him. This is how he repays you?

This is his answer after years of you loving him. How could he?

You stand in the middle of your living room, bat hanging limp by your side. The aching pain of grief and fear stills your body. The fight wanes inside you, debating whether or not prolonging this is worth it. The others all fought back, and they died bloody. Maybe if you just gave in, it would be quick, painless. Stu could at least grant you that. 

There’s a brief flash of movement in the reflection of your patio door. It’s slight, like a shifting shadow. Only one thing gives him away, the white, howling mask. Instinct overrides sensitivities, you whip around, bat flying. There’s a low groan as it smashes over his head. 

Reaching up, he snatches it in his hand, using it to jerk you forward. You’re quick to let it go. Instead, you aim for his throat. Hands outstretched as you reach up, gripping his neck as tight as you can. There’s shock in his stuttered breaths, like he hadn’t thought you would fight back. You were beginning to doubt yourself, too. 

Turns out you’re too stubborn to die. 

The bat clacks loudly against the wood as he stumbles back into your mother’s glass coffee table. His legs kick up, tripping you and sending you stumbling into his chest. The both of you go plummeting backward, glass shattering around him and the wood crumpling like a tower of cards. 

Jagged shards cut at your arms and bare legs, but you know he takes the brunt of it. Your grip on his throat is unrelenting, you pick his head up and slam it against the wood. He lets out a dazed groan, and you would laugh were you not trying to stop your best friend from killing you. He seems ridiculous, wearing this stupid cheap mask and moaning like a cartoon character with a bump on their head. 

He bucks under you, hips pressing up against yours as he flips you both over. Pain rips through your back as the glass digs into your skin. Letting out a low whine, your hands slack on him for just a moment. It’s still long enough for him to get the upper hand. 

He straddles your waist, pinning you below him with his weight as he kneels on your swinging arms. You’re utterly paralyzed, with no other choice but to stare up at him as tears stream, hot and slick, down your cheeks. 

Stu rips his mask off, eyes wild as he grins down at you. “Damn, sweetheart,” he laughs, and it only makes you fight harder against him. Screaming through your teeth as you try to buck him off of you. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

He tosses the mask to the side and motions to the knife in his hand, “Surprise,” he practically sings the word, watching for your reaction. You bite your tongue, hiccuping on a sob as you stare up at him through blurry eyes. “Right,” he concedes, tilting his head, “you already knew.”

You can feel the blood pooling beneath you, the glass digging further into your shredded skin. It only makes this all the more unbearable. “Stop,” you beg, voice breaking as you struggle to hold back the tears. “I didn’t tell,” you shout at him. “Why are you doing this?” The tears break around the rage slipping through your voice as you glare up at him. 

“What are you talking about?” He snaps, his amusement waning the harder you cry. 

“Billy!” you shout the name out, just barely managing to wiggle one wrist free. He snatches it up instantly, the knife falling beside you as he leans over you, digging your hand into the glass above your head. “He said you wanted to see my insides,” there’s no controlling the sobs now. You don’t want to die. You don’t want Stu to be the one to kill you. Somehow, though, you think this would have hurt worse if it was Billy holding the knife. 

Stu’s face falls before quickly twisting up into something angry. He backs off, easing his weight just enough for the press of glass to sting a little less. “No,” he utters, shaking his head. “No, that’s not the plan.” 

Stu looks nearly manic as he stares down at you. Something unfurls inside you, years of friendship have you reaching up with your free hand. You don’t know what your plan is until he’s leaning into your touch, eyes never leaving yours. 

His hand grips your waist, easing you into a sitting position. You want to curl up into a ball and go hide in a dark corner. You want to shove glass down his throat and run. The knife looks particularly appealing beside you. 

But you do none of that. You let him tug you closer, hand tightening to the point of pain around your waist, but you don’t think he realizes, and you’re too afraid to point it out. “You’re our final girl, baby,” he practically fucking giggles, and you struggle not to flinch from the sound. “He was just fucking with you.”

“Yeah?” You snap, fingers trailing toward his hair and yanking until his face crinkles with pain. “Then what the fuck,” venom coats your tongue, voice low and deadly, “are you doing right now?”

He smiles, leaning into the way you rip at his hair. “Screwing around,” he laughs, and he sounds like a goddamn idiot. Scoffing, you release him, jerking out of his grip and ignoring the way it pulls at the wounds on your back. 

“God,” you crumple into yourself, shoulders hunching forward as you hide your face behind your hands. “I can’t believe I ever thought you could love me. You’re sick, Stu,” you snap, holding back more tears. 

Blood and glass surround you both, the shattered fragments of your friendship. Stu looks more hurt than when you strangled him. He reaches for you, and you jump back, shaking your head. ‘I was never going to kill you,” he swears. But what does the promise of a murderer mean to you?

“I don’t believe you,” voice a whisper, the tears spill over once more. He looks between you and the knife like he can’t decide what to do. You wait for it, for the snap before he just plunges the knife into your gut. Twisting it and dragging your death on. 

Instead, he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around yours and forcing you into his embrace. “Stop,” you claw weakly at his shoulders, snagging your nails in the cheap cloak. You shake your head, but the fight is over before it even begins. Your arms curl around his neck, and you sink into his familiar embrace. 

His gloved hand skates over the wounds on your back, and you whine, arching away from his touch. He offers a whispered apology, but you don’t believe it. “Billy’s not going to touch you,” he swears. “I’m never going to hurt you.”

“You already have.”

His arms only tighten around you, pulling you into his lap as you cry. You might not believe him, but he knows the truth of it. You’re his best friend. The only person besides Billy he’s ever actually cared about. 

You are his perfect final girl, and he’s never going to let you go. 

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.

I’ve offically reached the bitter stage of being single. Standing behind couples in line at a fear farm will do that to you tho.

These bitches were literally WALTZING in line and then complaining about people not giving them enough space. And THEN when I’m screaming my ass off because a clown (the creepy ass MF from AHS) is literally cornering me, I hear a cunty “wow. You could be in a horror movie.”

I hate couples in line in front of you. They are a different breed that just makes you happy to be single.

ANYWAY- one of the scare actors called me beautiful so inspiration has struck me once more for my Halloween fics (and possibly a Wolverine one too).

I have an Ao3 account but I really just wanted to say thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me, or how encouraging it is. I think when I write I try to hard to make everyone happy, instead of asking myself if I’m even enjoying what I’m writing.

This is exactly what I needed to see. Thank you so much!!

Is the Detroit: Become Human fandom dead? Because I really want to write something about RK800 and I haven’t seen a lot of recent posts surrounding DBH lately, would anyone be interested?

the newlyweds

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Logan Howlett x fem!reader (Flux)

a/n: I wrote this at 3 AM and I'm also pretty sure I'm sick, so bare with me. Based on this: ask

You know Logan can't stand you, but it doesn't stop the way you feel about him. Your mind recognizes the hate in his eyes whenever you're in the same room, but your heart can't. Finally, you come to terms with the truth: it's never gonna happen. However, your newfound resolve is flipped on its head when you're forced to go undercover with him as newlyweds. Your new wedding ring is a noose and you don't know how you'll survive it or him.

You stumble forward as someone knocks into you from behind. Their shoulder jams painfully into your ribcage and you trip into the wall in front of you. “Shit,” you hiss, rubbing your back and turning around to glare at whoever it was. You figure it's a kid skipping class, imagine your surprise when it’s a fully grown man practically growling at you. 

“Where the hell am I?” He darts forward, grabbing you by the arms and jerking you towards him. “Who are you people?” You’re stunned into silence, eyes wide with shock as he pushes your spine into the wall behind you. 

You recognize him now. This is the man who was with Rogue in the truck you, Ororo, and Summers rescued. The only reason you don’t toss him across the room and rip his spine out through his throat is because you know how disoriented he is. Though, with the way his claws threaten to pierce your skin, you are tempted to. 

“Ah,” a familiar and welcomed voice sounds out from beside you both. “I see you’ve met Flux.” Charles rarely ever uses your actual name, mainly introducing you through your X-Men persona. It’s a preference of yours. 

The man’s eyes dart between you and Charles, and your own turn into slits the longer he keeps his tight grip on you. “Wanna let me go now?” You demand voice practically a growl. Your patience has never been wonderful, but he’s really working on your last nerve. 

He blinks, seemingly coming back to himself. With an almost regretful look, he lets you go. You sigh in irritation, straightening your shirt out and shoving past the corner he’s pushed you into. “Who the hell is this?” You snap, moving to stand behind Charles. 

He gives you an apologetic look, “I’m not sure. He hasn’t introduced himself yet.” He gives the man an expectant look. Instead of answering he glances around, and scoffs. 

“What is this, summer camp? You people don’t need to know me, I don’t need to know you. Just show me how to get the fuck out, alright?” Finding Charles’ school had been heaven on earth. He’d provided you with a home and a haven you never thought you would have the privilege of. You’d never shown anger in the face of his guidance or generosity. But many have. 

You can tell, as much as the man in front of you might believe otherwise, he’s going to be enjoying the comfort of Charles’ protection soon. You move to the side, leaving them to their conversation. Instead, you focus on keeping the kids away from the newest form of entertainment. You usher them towards their classes, despite their reluctance. 

The other members of the team soon join you all, introducing themselves. “Storm, Cyclops,” he scoffs a little at Scott’s name and you feel a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. He turns towards you, brows furrowed inquisitively, “Flux?”

“Matter manipulation,” you explain bluntly. He shrugs his shoulders giving you a blank look. Sighing you hold out your hand and gesture to Charles’ desk. With a flick of your wrist, it melts into an unnatural form of liquid wood. Logan’s eyes widen and you can’t help but finally let the full smile form on your lips. “Flux was just what fourteen-year-old me thought fit best.”

He nods, turning back towards Charles with a smarmy grin. “And what do they call you, wheels?” Your eyes widen with shock and an unbidden laugh surges forth. Charles sends you a playful glare and you have to turn around to keep from laughing more. 

You’d thought you wouldn’t like this one. It’s always bad when there’s a member on the team you don’t get along with. It’s not common, but it has happened. They simply keep you separated if they can. The school is wonderful, but it’s not perfect. Not everyone will like each other. You think you and Logan will get along just fine, though.

It started slow, barely noticeable at first. You didn’t know him well enough to understand that the way he treats you is completely different from how he treats everyone else. Where your greetings are brushed off with cold shoulders or the occasional glare, others at the very least get a brief mumble of hello. When you speak, you can practically feel the irritation wafting off of him in waves. You taste his hatred in every interaction. 

There’s no exact moment you can pinpoint where you went wrong. Sure, your introduction to one another was rocky at best. But he’d nearly thrown Jean across the room when they first met and they got along just fine. 

You’ve thought about it, for far too long, about what makes you different than the others. Is it your smile? The pitch of your voice? Of course, you understand that sometimes there are just people that you meet and something inside you hates them. There’s never a true explanation behind the feeling, just instinct. 

But you can’t place what about you would make someone so guarded, so mean. It feels like such a childish word, like too simple of a way to explain Logan. The very least you know about him is that he can never be summed up with the word simple. There are secrets buried deep within him, some he knows, others he doesn’t. You can’t just slap a label on him and walk away. 

More often than not, though, you feel like you’re talking to one of your childhood bullies and not a team member. Because, despite your own feelings towards him, at the end of the day you are team members. There’s no getting around it. From that connection comes, what should be, a base level of respect. 

You’re both in charge of protecting one another and looking out for each other on the field. That means when you put on the suit, you’re putting aside petty grievances. But he seems incapable of that as well. 

You’ve spent mornings practicing your greetings, trying to tone down your cheeriness or inflect your voice with a more welcoming timbre. You’ve changed how you dress, how you do your hair, even your makeup. And at the end of it all, you still got the same miserable look and distinct feeling of worthlessness. All of the change has been temporary, you are a creature of habit. Inevitably, you slide back into the same habits and styles that make you, you. 

You feel stupid, trying to change yourself to better fit someone else's tastes. Especially when it’s someone who so clearly despises you. It’s not how you carry yourself, how you look, it’s the mere fact you exist that bothers him. At least, that’s the conclusion you’ve come to in all your months of experimenting. 

It truly shouldn’t bother you so much. There’s always going to be people who don’t like you. There’s nothing you can do about it. And you’ve never had that desire to change other's opinions on you. But something about Logan has dug its claws under your skin and has refused to let go. You can’t get him out of your head, even when you feel like you hate him, he’s all you think about. You’ve considered asking Jean to use her abilities to somehow dig him out of your brain and keep him out. But you don’t think that would work either. 

You step into the kitchen and nearly freeze in the doorway. Logan sits at the island, back to you as he reads the newspaper. You find yourself lightening your steps, quieting your breath. You make yourself as inconspicuous and convenient as possible. Every time you catch yourself doing something like this, you hate yourself just a little bit more. 

You shouldn’t have to alter parts of yourself to better fit someone else’s needs. You slip along the tiles, your socked feet slamming into the corner of the counter as you pass it. “Shit!” You shout, doubling over as you clutch your throbbing toes. 

So much for being inconspicuous. 

Logan’s head shoots up in shock as he glares over his paper at you. You let out a strained whimper, reluctantly releasing your foot and hobbling towards the coffee pot. You’ve taken more bullets than you count, and somehow that still hurt worse. 

You can’t just ignore him, you feel his stare burning into your back, and it feels too dickish-too much like him, to not say anything. “Morning,” you mutter over your shoulder, barely looking at him. You pour your coffee, trying to ignore how daunting the silence seems. You might as well be alone in the room for all the attention he’ll grant you. 

You feel like a beggar, on hands and knees just for a simple hello. Ever since his first night here, he’s been so aloof with you. It’s only devolved since then. You sigh, slamming the mug onto the counter. Something in you has snapped this morning and it’s not just the bones in your foot. You’re sick of this. 

You shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around him. He’s not a toddler, he doesn’t deserve to be coddled and catered to. He’s a grown man, an X-Men for fuck’s sake. What he needs, is to learn a little emotional regulation. 

You turn, mouth open and sucking in a deep breath as you prepare your speech. The island is empty as you face it, his stool in the same place it had been while he was on it. The paper lies abandoned, even his nearly full mug is still on the granite. 

You scoff, snapping your jaw shut and rolling your eyes. “Jesus,” you mutter to yourself. Wonderful, even the same room is too much for him now. Something bitter has been forming in your mind. A rage building from weeks of unprompted cruel behavior. 

Yet, somehow, the thing that pushes you over the edge from interest to resentment is the fact that he didn’t say good morning back. 

You teach history at the school, but the majority of your role at the mansion is to train children with powers similar to yours. You’ve never met a mutant who had such a broad scope with their abilities as you do. Some can turn water to ice, control the blood running through someone’s veins, or make the air around them a solid block. But you’ve yet to meet one who manipulates anything with matter the way you do. 

Still, for training, you deal with the unreliable, untameable, and generally more dangerous abilities. And sometimes for training, you work with other teachers and let your kids practice on each other. It’s a rotating schedule, and unfortunately, the week you’ve decided you hate him, you’re partnered with Logan for training. 

You’ve got the entirety of Charles’ backyard, which is essentially the size of a football field. It’s a lot of room for accidents and accidental misfires. You stand in front of the pond, admittedly a risky choice with these kids, and direct them all to their partners. 

“Remember, the goal of this isn’t to maim each other,” you give a particularly pointed glare towards Billy. He’s caused a lot of problems lately with his fires. “It’s just to learn how to wield your abilities to your advantage, to protect yourself and your team.”

You look to Logan, seeing if he wants to add anything or contribute to the class in some way. He just keeps his arms crossed, glowering at all the children like he’s imagining skewering them on his claws. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to the kids. “Let's start with the hand-to-hand maneuvers we went over yesterday before we practice with our abilities.”

“Why don’t you show us?” Your head whips towards Billy and you can’t help the sneer on your lips. He’s sat on the ground, legs crossed leisurely over each other. He doesn’t have a care in the world as he taunts you. 

“What?” You grit out, glaring at him.

“Show us what a balanced fight should look like between mutants. You and Logan,” he nods to the aforementioned man. Logan just quirks a brow, glancing at you before turning back to Billy. 

“I don’t think-”

“Fine.” You gape at Logan as he tugs his jacket off. He shrugs as he looks at you, moving towards the middle of the field. Of course, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to try and pummel you. You’re sure that he’s just been waiting for an excuse to fight you. 

“If that’s what you want,” you mutter bitterly. You pull off your sweatshirt and start walking towards him. 

“Your cuffs,” Billy calls out from behind you. The other students all watch the interaction with rapt attention. They’re practically salivating at the chance to see you two fight each other. Meanwhile, Billy just seems like he wants to see someone bleed. 

The metal cuffs around your wrists are the only thing that stops you from leveling the entire school. Your abilities are so tightly entwined with your emotions that one unlucky bout of anger can lead you to vaporizing everyone around you. They dull your abilities just enough to still be useful but not deadly. You haven’t taken them off in years. And perhaps it’s wrong to lean so heavily on them for protection, but you have. That’s your cross to bear. You don’t even want to picture what will happen if you open that dam. 

“What?” Billy shrugs, sending you a sharp smirk. “How are we supposed to trust you, if you can’t even use your own damn abilities?” He snorts and narrows his eyes at you, “How the hell did you even become an X-Men, Flux?” His name rolls off your tongue with a sharpened venom. 

He oozes hatred and a burning resentment that catches you off guard. It’s too much to process the insults he’s hurling at you and the sudden one-eighty in his personality. You don’t even hear Logan coming until his fist is wrapped in Billy’s collar and he’s yanking him off his feet. 

He dangles him, just a couple of inches, off the ground, teeth practically bared at the kid. “Wanna keep talking, mouth?” 

“Log-” You’re cut off as a fireball shoots out of Billy’s palm and explodes against Logan’s gut. You gasp, throwing up a wall in front of the other kids so it can’t hurt them. “All right,” you call out sternly. “Everyone inside,” you demand, pointing the other kids back towards the manor. 

You linger with Logan, who still has Billy dangling from his fist, only he looks even more pissed off now. Anyone else, and they’d be dust at Billy’s feet. But Logan isn’t anyone else and the only collateral seems to be his shirt. 

Not that you mind the view. 

Billy hasn’t been here long enough to know what Logan’s abilities are, though. You don’t think he actually knew he could heal. The thought alone is worrying enough that you don’t force Logan to let him go. “We need to get him to Charles,” when Logan doesn’t move you put more force behind your voice, “now.”

Logan lets out a low huff before placing Billy back on his own two feet. He doesn’t let him go far, though, keeping his hand around the back of his neck and dragging him forward. You follow behind them, making sure he doesn’t rip him to pieces before Charles can speak with him. 

You sit outside Charles’ office, fingers tapping restlessly against your thigh as you stare at the mahogany walls in front of you. The red velvet of the seat is too soft and you find yourself slipping to the edge every few seconds. It’s too soft, too luxurious, your back aches the longer you wait. 

Charles had instructed both you and Logan to wait for him to finish up with Billy. It’s been nearly an hour, though, and you’re growing restless. You can tell Logan feels the same way. He’s pacing the hall like a caged lion about to rip the arm off its keeper. 

“How are you?” You blurt out, desperate for something to fill the silence. He stops abruptly, whipping around to face you. You flinch back slightly at the intense glare he’s sporting. “Your stomach, I mean,” you gesture towards the scorch marks on his shirt, the soot on his abs. 

It’s been a practice in self-control to not just be staring at his wonderfully sculpted muscles flexing this whole time. You’re pleasantly surprised with how well you’ve been doing so far. Though, now with him facing you, you’re finding it incredibly hard to meet his eye. He’s such an imposing figure, especially when he’s standing over you like this. 

“Fine,” he barks out, turning back around and effectively ending the conversation. Your eyes narrow and you scoff, god, why do you try?

The door swings open and you expect Billy to come running out crying with his tail tucked between his legs. Instead, you hear the familiar whirl of Charles wheels as he rolls into the hall. He faces you and Logan, a strained smile on his face. 

“Where’s Billy?” You slowly get to your feet, peering into his office. Your confusion only grows when you find it empty. 

“He’s away from the other children for now. He’ll need private lessons before we allow him near them again. And if that doesn’t work, we have no choice but to expel him.” You can tell it hurts Charles to say that. 

He does genuinely want the best for these kids. He wants mutants to have a home, a place where they can be themselves without fear of retaliation. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t work out. There’s nothing wrong with that, you all try your best to help the kids. But some of them have been so twisted by the world around them that there’s no undoing the damage. When they pose a risk the way Billy does, the other kids come first. 

Logan scoffs with distaste, stalking closer to Charles. “He tried to kill me, fucking tried to get Flux to take her cuffs off.” He gestures towards you, for once, though, you don’t feel like you’re being attacked. Even he can understand the dangers of that demand is idiotic. It’s clear Billy only wanted to watch everyone around him get hurt, he didn’t care about the consequences. 

Charles holds up a pacifying hand, nodding his head and dismissing Logan’s concerns. “I’m quite aware of what happened, Logan. But Billy is my responsibility and he’s not the reason I needed to talk to you both.”

He rolls back into his office, expecting you both to follow him. You fall in line behind him, taking a seat at his desk. Logan takes another minute to join you both, a reluctant scowl on his face as he sits beside you. Charles waves his hand, the door closing and providing you all with a little bit more privacy. 

He reaches into a drawer on his desk, pulling out a thin manilla folder. He pushes it towards both you and Logan. You share a confused look with Logan before flipping the file open. There are a few pictures of a stereotypical suburban neighborhood. Bright green laws, uniform driveways, each house looks the same as the last. 

There are a few more pictures, all of them taken from an awkward distance that makes it hard to determine what you’re looking at. You pass the pictures to Logan and shake your head at Charles. “I don’t understand, what is all this?”

“Your next mission,” he informs you both with a strained smile. 

Logan’s head shoots up, eyes narrowing in on Charles. “Excuse me?” He demands, his voice a growl more than anything. 

“There have been some disturbing rumors about this neighborhood. Mentions of a possible mutant trafficking ring being conducted behind closed doors. Normally, I would dismiss such claims. Oftentimes these are just ways to bait and snatch mutants. However, my own attempts at telepathic investigation have been thwarted. Even with Cerebro, I can’t seem to breach the neighborhood.”

“Something’s blocking you?” You ask, snatching the pictures back from Logan to get a better look. He tosses the folder back on the desk, muttering something you can’t hear. 

“Or someone. I’m worried there might be some truth to these rumors. And since I can’t find a safe way in, I need your help. You only need to do some reconnaissance. The only problem is how gated the community is. They’re not going to let anyone in unless they live there.”

Charles gives you both a cheekily expectant look. The truth is so hard to swallow that you almost can’t process it. “No,” you mutter, shaking your head and smiling, waiting for the punchline. When one doesn’t come you get up from your seat and give him a disbelieving look. “You want us undercover?”

Charles pulls out a key and smiles widely, “Congratulations on your new home, newlyweds.”

Logan shoots up from his seat, it wobbles precariously, nearly toppling to the ground.  “You want me to move into a house with her?” He spits out the sentence like it pains him to even have it in his mouth. A disbelieving smile spread across your cheeks, sardonic laughter slipping through parted lips. “Why can’t I do it with Jean? Or better yet you just get some other asshole to play her husband?”

Your heart stutters to a stop and you quickly rip your eyes off the pair. The stung worse than you think it should. Your heart aches, each beat painful. You feel like someone’s punched through your chest and ripped at all the tender bits. 

“I have chosen you,” Charles loses all humor from his voice. He is stern, like a father scolding his child, as he speaks to Logan. “And that’s the end of it. Besides, I don’t suppose that Jean’s fiance would appreciate her playing house with another man.” He places heavy emphasis on fiance, enough to get Logan to purse his lips and look away from him.

You speak up, your voice a surprise to them both. You claw through the lump in your throat, ignoring the hot burn behind your eyes. “I’m not doing this. Especially not with him,” you force the words out, wiping roughly at your cheeks. “Shit,” you hiss, looking down and trying to hide the tears that have slowly trickled down. 

You don’t allow either of them to argue, running out of the door and ignoring the calls of your name behind you. You can’t do this. Can’t pretend to be in love with Logan, not when he hates you. Not when it’s so close to the truth. 

Evidently, Charles didn't feel like giving either of you a choice.

You drum your fingers along the door handle. The cab of the truck rattles as the trailer drags along behind you. The trees have begun to thin out on the road, and more shopping centers pop up than you’ve seen this whole trip. It’s the how you know you’re getting closer, that and the map on Logan’s thigh. You steal glances at it because he refused to let you help him navigate. 

Besides the occasional ask for a bathroom break and refuted offer of switching drivers, the four-hour road trip has been quiet. You tried to turn the radio on earlier but he’d shut it off nearly immediately. He claimed that the pop shit they play makes his ears ring. 

You were almost tempted to turn it up to full volume if only to torture him a little bit. 

Logan’s rough voice jars you out of your head, “I’m going to need to know your real name.”

You frown, brows furrowed in confusion. Had you still not given him your actual name? He’s always referred to you as Flux, but you just assumed that’s because he didn’t want you to be an actual person in his eyes. It’s easier to hate someone if you can distance yourself from the idea of them having actual feelings. Still, you can’t believe he never asked someone for it. 

It just shows you how little he cares for you. Reluctantly, you give it to him. He hums, something pensive pinching at his face. “What?” You snap, waiting for him to insult you. 

He just shrugs, “It’s pretty,” he mutters, so quiet you almost don’t hear him. You don’t even know how to respond to that, so caught off guard by a genuine compliment that you just choose to ignore it. You doubt he meant it, anyway. He might think the name is pretty, but he doesn’t hold the same opinion of the person connected to it. 

You sink back into the silence, finding it more comforting than jarring now. You’d prefer the familiar feeling of him ignoring you than the abrupt turn in character. He glances over at you, something like regret on his face as he sighs. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, in what feels like an extension of an olive branch, he turns the radio back on. He keeps the volume low, so it doesn’t bother him so much. But at least there’s something to listen to besides your breathing. 

You turn back towards the window, a white sign surrounded by daises coming up as Logan slows the truck down. He flicks on his turn signal, pulling up to Storybrook Walk. He stops in front of a large wrought iron gate and jumps out of the truck. He runs up to a black metal box, flipping the lid open and typing in the code Charles gave you both. As he gets back in the truck, the gate swings open widely. 

You pull your rings out of your pocket and slip yours on. “Here,” you urge, holding Logan’s ring out to him. He huffs, glaring down at it before snatching it out of your hand. He balances his hands atop the wheel, slipping the ring on his left hand. 

The neighborhood is picture-perfect suburbia. The lawns are bright green and manicured to perfection. You can hear children laughing as they play in their backyards and draw out a hopscotch grid on the sidewalk. Women and men who look like they’re straight from the fifties stop on the sidewalk and wave as you drive through the gated community. 

You mouth the numbers on the mailboxes to yourself, sitting up straighter when you’re one house away from your new home for the next few weeks. “Hey,” you frown, noticing a large congregation of people in the driveway of 1220. “This is our house isn’t it?”

Logan frowns, stopping the truck just before pulling in so he doesn’t hit anyway. “Supposed to be.” He glares at the people suspiciously, “Stay here, alright?”

You nod, watching him as he jumps out and rounds the front of the truck. You roll your window down, fingers dancing along the metal of your cuffs. There’s no way you’ve been found out before you’ve even gotten a chance to investigate. 

“Hey!” Logan’s voice is scary on a good day, but when he feels threatened, it’s enough to frighten a grown man. You can see the people flinch slightly away from him. That’s when you spot the wrapped cookies in a blonde woman’s hand and see children hiding with balloons on the porch. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter. You throw the door open, racing after Logan before he does something stupid. “Howdy neighbors!” You shout, speaking over him before he gets a chance to say anything else. You rush up to Logan’s side, nearly out of breath in your haste to get to him. “Is this our welcoming committee?”

You glare up at him and his eyes narrow as he sees the same thing you did. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Smile and wave,” you whisper through gritted teeth. His lips peel up into something terrifying and it takes everything in you not to flinch back. “What the fuck is that?” You mutter.

“A smile,” he hisses, glaring down at you in irritation. 

A blonde woman steps forward before you can continue your hushed argument. “Welcome!” She calls out in a heavy southern accent, throwing her arms open with a bright smile. She walks as fast as she can in her tight skirt and kitten heels, coming over to embrace you, the casserole in her hand balancing precariously behind you. 

She tugs Logan down into a hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek and staining the skin red. “Surprise!” The kids on the porch jump out with balloons and flowers and she winces. 

“A bit late on the delivery,” she waves it off with a faux chuckle. “But we don’t mind ‘cause they’re so darn cute.” She is very… loud. There’s something about her that is meant to be charming but puts you on edge. She’s got all the familiar characteristics of a woman you’d love to be around, but she’s executing it like someone playing a character. “Shiela,” she holds out her hand, perfectly manicured nails shining bright red. 

You take her hand introducing yourself, “And this is my husband, Logan. Forgive him for his tone, we had an accident on the highway earlier. We’re still a little on edge.”

“Oh no,” she gasps, pressing her nails to her chest and even that seems plastic. “What happened?”

Years of bullshitting your way through school presentations are finally coming in handy.  You think quickly on your feet, something these people would despise. You need something that endears you to them, “Tire blew out and someone tried to raid the trailer while we were fixing it.”

She lets out a disapproving hum and the throng of people behind her echoes it with disturbing harmony.  You find yourself leaning closer towards Logan, feeling like you need to defend yourself against them. You know they’re only an overzealous HOA committee, but there is something uncanny about them. 

Sensing your discomfort, Logan wraps his arm around your shoulder, tugging you into his side. You have to school your features into one of neutrality. You’re supposed to be newlyweds, this is normal behavior for you. His touch feels like ice water being tossed over you, though. His willing embrace makes your head swim with distaste and skepticism. 

“Well,” a man steps forward. He’s conventionally handsome, with brown hair cropped short, slight stubble on his cheeks, slacks, and a button-up that he fills out nicely. His smile, however, stretches too wide and shows too many teeth. A shiver crawls up your spine as he places his hand on Shiela’s shoulder. “You won’t have to worry about people like that here, that’s for sure. John,” he offers his hand to Logan, bypassing you completely. “Head of the HOA here at Storybrook.”

“Nice to meet you, John” Logan falls just short of sincere. He towers slightly over John and you can see that he’s squeezing his hand just a bit too tight by the wince of Jouhn’s face. You dig your elbow into his side and he drops his hand immediately. 

Your gaze drifts over their shoulders and your stomach drops. The people behind them all hold dishes full of food and gift baskets. Their smiles are pinned to their faces, never once flinching out of place. There’s no joy in their eyes, though. They’re glazed over like they’re a million miles away. You would think they were mannequins before you even considered them human. 

“Long drive?” Shiela asks, your eyes dart back to hers only to find her intense stare already wholly focused on you. 

“Yeah,” you answer, clearing your throat of the panic rising in it. “We’re gonna have a fun time unloading this,” you laugh humorlessly, motioning towards the trailer.

She waves her hands in dismissal. “Don’t you worry about that, hun. That’s what neighbors are for after all.” She looks behind her, snapping her fingers a few times. The other’s start going towards the trailer and you feel Logan tense under your touch. 

A kid reaches it first, they manage to unlock it before you shout, “No!” It’s too loud, echoing through the street and making you clench your eyes shut in embarrassment. You turn back towards Shiela and John, both of them wearing shocked expressions. You chuckle awkwardly, “There’s just a lot of family heirlooms. I don’t want to risk them being damaged.” There are no heirlooms, just empty boxes and surveillance equipment that you'll have no chance of explaining away.

Shiela purses her lips into a tight smile, eyes turned to slits as she nods. “Of course,” you know she doesn’t believe you for a second. “Well then, we’ll just take all this inside.” She snaps and the others take their casseroles and gifts and begin flooding towards your front door. Shiela and John walk behind them, herding them all into a straight line. 

You let go of Logan immediately, glaring at the door of your home. Shiela holds a key in her hand, unlocking it and letting everyone inside. You scoff and shake your head in disbelief. “What the actual fuck?” You hiss. 

Logan just shakes his head. “Fucking bizarre, what the hell is wrong with these people?” He starts back towards the truck and you follow him. “I almost prefer the welcoming committee at the manor.”

You roll your eyes, “I was your welcoming committee,” you grouse. 

He shrugs, “I know.” You swat lightly at his shoulder and relatch the trailer’s lock. You linger by the mailbox as Logan pulls the truck into the driveway. He’s getting out just as the others finally leave your house. 

Shiela walks back towards you and you gesture towards the keyring in her hand. “Got a key to my house?” You play it off as a joke but it’s incredibly disturbing to know she could walk in at any minute. 

“Of course,” she smiles and shrugs it off like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “For the safety of everyone here.” Her smile drops and she takes an imposing step towards you, “Inspections are every Wednesday at noon.” Your jaw drops in astonishment and you choke on your words. She cackles loudly, face breaking out into a smile once more. “I’m just kidding, honey! God, your face, you’re too gullible, sweetheart.”

You force out a chuckle, smiling as much as you can force. “Of course, silly me,” you barely make it sound believable. This is going to be much harder than you thought. 

“Well,” John comes up behind her, guiding her away from you. “We’ll get out of your hair now. Welcome, neighbors!” The others around them all call out a Welcome as they drift across your lawn and head back to their own homes. 

Logan walks up to your side, the both of you keeping stilted smiles on your faces, waiting for them to just go away. But they pause at their doors, in almost perfect synchronization they turn and wave at you both. You back further into Logan’s chest and his grip on you tightens. 

“What. The. Fuck.” They step through their homes at the same moment and you feel sick to your stomach. There is something seriously wrong here, you’re not sure you want to find out the truth of it. 

You leave Logan to unload the trailer while you unpack the boxes. You’re forced to do it all by hand while the front door is open. You can’t risk someone stopping by for a visit and seeing you float the couch through the middle of the living room. You’re stumped on how to set up the surveillance equipment. Shiela doesn’t seem like the type to understand boundaries when it comes to popping by for a visit. 

You’re just going to have to keep most of it upstairs and set up some cameras on the porch. You don’t doubt that she’ll abuse that key of hers as she sees fit. You can’t imagine how anyone could stand living in this neighborhood. Having no privacy seems like a nightmare. Especially when the commander of the HOA is John and Shiela. They seem like the type to fine you over a rosebush. 

Logan grunts, dragging in the couch. He pushes it through the doorway and kicks the door closed behind him. The second it’s closed he drops the act and picks the couch up with one hand. “Where do you want it?” 

You point towards the back wall of the living room and he drops it with a small groan. “We’re going to need to put cameras out on the porch,” you inform him, still digging through the box. He walks behind you, heading for the fridge and digging around in it. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. You look up, watching as he tosses aside casserole after casserole. “They didn’t bring any beer?”

You laugh a little and get up, heading towards the cooler you’d packed. “They don’t seem the type.” You lean over, digging around through the melted ice until your fingers brush against cool glass. You straighten up, sending him a coquettish smile. “Want a beer after all that hard work, darling?” You taunt, playing the perfect housewife. 

He scoffs and holds his hand out, snatching it from the air as you toss it at him. He pulls the cap off with his teeth, spitting it out into the sink. “And a sandwich while you’re at it,” he demands roughly. 

If you weren’t a connoisseur of dry humor, you wouldn’t have recognized the joke for what it was. Still, you’re almost too shocked he even bothered to play along with you to laugh. Almost, you can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out.  

He throws himself on the couch, taking a deep swig from the bottle, and the moment feels remarkably domestic. You suppose that it should. That is the whole reason you’re here after all. But you hadn’t expected even a singular pleasant moment with Logan. 

This, playful banter and a shared joke, that’s all you could ever want from him. You would settle for this if it was all he was willing to give you. But he can’t even grant you that. This is one outlier in a long list of rude remarks and dismissive behavior. You can’t let yourself be so easily swayed. 

“I might try and get some cameras on the other houses,” Logan remarks from the couch. He kicks his feet on the coffee table and you click your tongue at him, motioning towards his shoes. With an aggrieved sigh, he undoes the laces of his boots and kicks them off. You glare at the dirt that flings across the carpet but a quick wave of your hand makes it disappear. 

“Don’t bother with the cameras. They’ve all got security.” You turn away from the box you’re unpacking with a pensive frown. “They’re all covered by the same company, too. All of them. Isn’t that weird?”

He scoffs and shrugs. “Anywhere else, yeah. But I’m pretty sure they piss at the same time here.” Your nose wrinkles at his crude words and you roll your eyes. 

“Take this seriously.”

He huffs out a laugh, “I am. Didn’t you see them earlier? They only breathe because Shiela lets them.” You take a seat at the kitchen table, uncomfortable attempting to take a spot on the couch. He sighs when he sees the expression on your face, finally dropping the dismissive attitude. “I’ll just be smart about how I set up our cameras, alright?”

You just nod, reaching for the box of your essentials on the table. It’s strange to be sitting beside him, talking to him. You’ve never gotten more than two words out of him. This is so far out of your normal comfort zone that you feel like you’re crawling out of your skin trying to escape. 

“I’m going to go to bed,” you announce awkwardly, shooting up from your seat at the table. 

The beer pauses halfway to his lips and he gives you an odd look. “Okay?” He responds slowly, not sure why you’re telling him this. You open your mouth, and almost tell him to have a good night, but change your mind at the last second. 

You move towards the bedroom near the front door, “Flux,” you turn slightly and he shakes his head. “Take the one upstairs.”

Your brows furrow, “Why?” You demand, an attitude edging its way into your voice. 

“So if Shiela busts down our door I can protect us,” you know he’s teasing, but the sentiment is nice. “And so I don’t have to set up the surveillance shit upstairs,” your face drops and you roll your eyes. There it is. 

“Dick,” you mutter, storming towards the stairs, your boxes hovering along behind you. His laughter follows you up the stairs, even when you slam the door shut. Although, when you take in the room, you can’t find it in yourself to complain for a second about it. 

While Logan is screwed with the teeny guest room downstairs, you get the largest bedroom you’ve ever been in all to yourself. The closet could practically be another bedroom. The bath is more like a jacuzzi than it is a tub.

A four-poster bed sits against the wall, the fluffiest comforter ever becoming you forth like a siren. There’s even a table in the middle of the room, with a chair, perfect for setting up as your desk. 

You scoff in astonishment, “Oh, I could get used to this.” You place your boxes on the table and start pulling out your clothes. You toss yourself on the bed, bouncing against the sheets, and throw pillows go flying everywhere. You flick your wrist, all your essentials flying out of the boxes and sorting themselves out. 

After a luxurious soak in the tub, you’re spread out along the bed, the limited information from Charles's file spread out before you. There are only a few blurry pictures of the neighborhood and a typed-up page of everything he’s heard about Sotrybrook. There’s nothing even remotely useful here. 

You sigh, tossing the file to the floor and looking out the large window of your room. You’ve got a camera placed on the sill, programmed to take a picture anytime there’s movement. You doubt you’re going to get much from that. The secrets of this place seem to be buried deep. You’re gonna have to get real friendly with your neighbors if you want to get out of here fast. 

Logan is on the computer, trying to sync all of the cameras up. You clean up the dishes from breakfast and tidy up the kitchen. You’re trying to decide how you should start investigating when there’s a dainty knock on the door. 

Your brows furrow and you peer around the cupboards to look at the door. Logan’s head lifts and he shares an odd look with you. He gets up from the couch and glances through the peephole. 

You drop the towel on the counter and frown as his shoulders slump forward. Something pinched appears on his face and he sighs. “What?” You hiss at him.

He turns and glares at you, “You’ll see.” You shake your head in confusion as he throws the door open. 

His attitude makes a lot more sense when you hear a very happy, “Howdy!” Shiela stands in your doorframe, three women hovering behind her. At least they look awake, unlike the people from last night. A redhead with the most gorgeous waves you’ve ever seen holds beach towels in her arms. A brunette with flawless brown skin carries a jug of lemonade. And a woman with black hair and a perfect figure is carrying a plate of cookies. 

All of these women are wearing bathing suits that look like they’ve been snatched out of a fashion magazine from the sixties. Each of them is gorgeous, alarmingly so. They’re beautiful to the point of being flawless. As you walk out of the kitchen and take a step closer, Shiela welcomes herself into your home. 

You don’t even think you see pores on their faces. Each of them offers you the same practiced smile that you force yourself to return. “How are you settling in?” Shiela demands, not asks. 

“Um,” you look to Logan for help but he’s just as perplexed as you are. “Just fine, Shiela, thanks. What are you all doing?”

The redhead rolls her eyes playfully, “Tanning, sweetheart.” She glances at Logan expectantly and he grabs his duffel from by the couch. 

“I think that’s my cue,” he falls easily into the role of a playful husband. But you don’t need him to play along right now. You need him to stay where the fuck he is so you’re not alone with the barbies. 

“Ha ha, don’t go,” you whisper, trying to grab at his sleeve. “Logan,” you hiss, making sure the others can’t hear you as they look around your home. “Don’t do this.”

He dips his head down, and for one stupid moment, you think he might kiss you. “Good luck,” he whispers in your ear, backing off with a smug smirk and letting himself out of the house. 

Oh, you’re going to fucking kill him. 

“Finally,” the brunette breathes out a relieved breath, “I thought he’d never leave.”

Shiela chuckles, “You’re lucky honey. It took us a long while to have ours so well trained.” She motions to the other girls, “This is Madge,” the redhead smiles and gives a cute wave. She introduces the rest quickly and you file the information away for later when you’re writing your report. 

Madge- husband is the vendor consultant for the HOA. 

Sierra - brunette - husband is secretary of the HOA. 

Kimiko - black hair - no husband. 

Your brows furrow in confusion as Kimiko nods in greeting. You return it, suspicions running thick in your blood. It’s odd, that their husbands are in charge of the HOA, you figured they would be. Beyond that, the emphasis they put on it is astonishing. You really didn’t think the HOA was so important but it’s practically the government here. And the women only seem to hold importance if their husbands do. Shiela is essentially their leader, she’s the one you need to impress.

This whole thing seems incredibly backward and like a blast from the past. The way they style their hair, do their makeup, dress- it's all fashioned after the fifties and sixties. You feel incredibly out of place in your worn-down pajamas and frizzy braids. 

“We’re not really tanning,” Madge tells you. “This is just a way for us ladies to get to know the new kid in the neighborhood and tell you everything you need to know,” she leans in, smiling like she’s sharing a conspiratorial secret with you. 

“Don’t let Madge scare you,” Sierra shoots her a glare. “It’s not that big of a deal, it’s just a way for us to escape our husbands for an hour.”

“Well,” you chuckle awkwardly, crossing your arms over your chest as you grow uncomfortable under their tense stares. It feels like their eyes are peeling back your skin, exposing everything underneath as they judge every nook and cranny of your soul. “I haven’t reached that stage yet.”

Shiela’s smile loses some of its humor and she scoffs. “You will,” she assures you, acrid bitterness coating her words. “Give it a few years,” she gives you a bitchy and all-knowing smirk. Your hackles raise, the urge to defend your sham of a marriage rising quickly in you. You bite your tongue, swallowing down your smart retort before you say something you regret. 

You’re not even married to Logan, but you don’t like her butting her nose so far into your business. “Sadly, I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“Oh,” Kimiko gives you a blank smile, “We brought you one.” Madge moves the towels aside to reveal a two-piece that matches their own. In your size. 

Your cheeks ache with a forced smile as you take the bathing suit from them. “We’ll just set up out back,” Shiela lets you know. She turns to the others with a beaming smile, “Come on ladies.” They follow after her like ducklings, and when you look down you see each of their steps are in sync. 

You wait until the back door closes to rush to the front. You throw the door open and Logan jumps from where he’s drilling the camera into the side of the house. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” you warn.

He chuckles and smirks, “Don’t keep ‘em waiting too long, sweetheart,” he mocks and you slam the door closed with a loud scoff. He was enjoying your suffering far too much, but you shouldn’t be surprised. You’re sure he’s just been waiting for a moment like this. 

You change into the bathing suit and take a deep calming breath. You can do this. You can play pretend for a few hours. 

You wished you’d known being an actor was a part of the job description before you joined the X-Men.

You lay on your stomach along the soft beach towel that Madge brought. The sun isn’t too hot on you, but you also bent the tree behind you to provide a bit more shade when the others weren’t looking. So far, you’ve collected nothing but mindless gossip. 

Sam never takes in his trash cans on time. Alicia has been getting a little too cozy with the gardener. Some couple you didn’t pay attention to is expecting a kid. You’re struggling to pay attention to all the mindless drivel. 

Usually, you wouldn’t mind a little gossip, but none of this feels real. Their words are hollow, smiles empty. Everything they say sounds like they’re reading it from a script. The only person you actually believe cares about any of this bullshit is Shiela. The rest of them seem to just play along, not meaning a word they say. 

You’re gaining nothing useful from this. There’s no information you’ve gotten during this conversation that could remotely help you. All you want to do is go out front and strangle Logan for abandoning you. 

The only good thing about all this is the lemonade and cookies. Which, you admit, you may have indulged yourself a little too much. But at this point, you’re just eating to stay awake. You reach for another cookie and Shiela lets out a dainty huff. 

“I wish I could eat like you,” she laughs and you prepare yourself for the most backhanded insult you’ve ever heard. “But I have to be so careful about watching my figure. Wouldn’t want to lose my waist,” she titters and the other women giggle. 

You toss the cookie back on the plate, rolling your eyes. It feels like you’re right back in high school. You love this, this is great. At this point, you’re just trying to stop yourself from tossing them all out. 

The backdoor slides open and Logan peeks his head out. The women wave and Shiela calls out a sultry, “Hey, Lo.”

Your jaw drops and you can’t help but scoff as you tilt your head to give her an astonished stare. This woman has absolutely zero shame. She’s not even hiding the way she’s ogling him. She’s literally biting her lip. 

You clench your eyes shut, taking a deep breath. There it is, the end of your rope. “Sweetheart, you gonna be done soon?” Logan calls out and you can’t help but smile at the immense satisfaction you feel when Shiela’s face falls. You shouldn’t take so much joy in Logan ignoring her, you know that’s just how he is. But she doesn’t. 

“I think so, hon.” You sit up on your knees, clapping your hands and pretending to be upset. “Sorry, girls, I think I’m needed back in the house.” You get to your feet and pick your towel up. As you do, you flick your fingers, and the lemonade tumbles over, spilling all over Shiela’s pristine white bathing suit. 

She jumps up with a shrill scream, shaking her arms off at the ice-cold liquid and desperately trying to wipe off her bathing suit. Madge and Sierra flock to her and you roll your eyes at how dramatic she’s being. 

Out of the side of your eye, you see someone watching you. You turn slightly, startling when you see the intense glare Kimiko’s sporting. It’s the first genuine emotion you’ve seen from her, but even this seems cold. Her dark eyes are bottomless pits of frigid rage. You find that you can’t look away from her, swaying slightly as her eyes beckon you forward. 

You need to go to her, speak with her, be with her. You need-

Your mind falls short of what you need. But you know Kimko will give it to you. Sierra and Madge both straighten up, both blank-faced as you take a step forward. 

Logan hollers your name again and you jump, shaking your head and breaking whatever trance you’d fallen in. When you look back, all three of them are still fussing over Shiela. You glance to Logan, to see if he saw what had happened. 

His brows are furrowed, face pinched in concern as he looks at you. You think you might have just found Charles’ interference. 

“I think we should look into Kimiko,” you scroll through the list of residents you’d managed to hack into. You’ve been on the computer for hours, trying to find any information bout her at all. Even when you ran a background check, nothing came up. If that doesn’t scream mutant, you don’t know what does. 

Logan walks over to the table with a steaming pan in his hand. You tug your computer glasses off and slide the laptop to the side. He pours some pasta onto your plate and hands you a glass of water. “Thank you,” he gives you a tense almost-smile and nods. 

“Figure out where she lives?” He asks, bringing his own plate to the table. You shake your head and rub your temples, trying to fend off the headache you can already feel forming. You should have taken a break from the research. You can’t stand staring at screens for as long as you did. 

“She’s not even a registered resident.”

“Well,” he sighs and shrugs, “at least we know this wasn’t a waste of time.” You nod in acquiesce and take a bite of your food. Your eyes widen in shock and he laughs at the look on your face. “Didn’t think I could cook?”

You shake your head and smile. “I took you as the type to pour beer in your cereal. But this is,” you stumble over your word. You’re afraid of being too nice to him. You’ve reached a sort of impasse, where you’re not openly hostile, but you’re not exactly friendly. You feel like if you do too much, too fast, he’s gonna be closed off again. “It’s really good.”

He purses his lips and nods, dragging his fork along the porcelain plate. The noise grates on you and only further aggravates the growing headache but you don’t snap at him. You swallow down the frustration and just shovel more pasta into your mouth. 

“This, uh,” Logan takes in a deep breath and lets all out in one gravely exhale. You give him an expectant look and he shrugs. “It hasn’t been as bad as I thought.” He tells you flippantly. 

You narrow your eyes at him, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You demand with a firm tone, placing your fork down and leaning back in your chair. 

He lets out an annoyed sigh, “It was just an observation.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. He’s fucking ridiculous. “You know, maybe if you ever tried to get to know me, you wouldn’t have had such a horrible opinion about me.” You try and eat more but the food just tastes like ash in your mouth. You grow antsy, not wanting to sit near him anymore. 

You’re surprised that he’s the one who fucked up the peace. You really thought it would be you. But something about what he said is rubbing you the wrong way. Of course, it hasn’t been bad, you’re not a bad person. He just decided he hated you one day and he’s so goddamned stubborn he never considered anything else being the truth. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he defends, watching with a confused expression as you get up and drop your plate loudly in the sink. 

“You know,” you ignore his weak defense, leaning on the sink. You grip the rim of it tightly, sucking in a deep breath to try and keep yourself calm. “You didn’t even know my fucking name,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head to yourself. Why are you even bothering with him? You’ll never win and you don’t even know if you want him to change his opinion about you. 

He’s been a dick for so long that you’re not sure you’re even interested in being friends, let alone anything beyond that. 

“Well,” he takes an angered tone as you continue to deflect his attempts at restoring the peace. “It’s not like you told me. You just go by your X-Men name, how was I supposed to know better?”

“By fucking asking!” You shout, whirling around on him, nearly ramming into his chest. You hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten while you’d had your back to him. “If you had, ever, at any fucking point tried to get to know me, you wouldn’t be so surprised that I’m nice. I’m a nice person to be around, Logan. And for some reason I tried to change myself, to make you happy. And it never even worked!” You scoff, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat that you quickly swallow down. You shove past him, escaping the corner he’s backed you into. “Your head is so far up your ass that you didn’t even try to know me before you decided you hated me.”

“What?” He scoffs and glares at you. “I don’t fucking hate you. When have I ever said that? And I never wanted you to change.” He keeps focusing on the wrong things. How he feels about you doesn’t matter, it’s how he treated you. 

“Never, you’ve never said that because you’ve never said more than two words to me. This,” you motion between the two of you, “is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.” A sudden exhaustion settles over you, it weighs heavy on your bones and drapes across you like a blanket. 

You don’t have the energy for this. For him. You don’t want to keep defending yourself to someone who couldn’t care less. There’s no winning with him. He will never listen to you, he’ll just offer half-assed excuses that he thinks absolve him of how horribly he’s treated you. 

He calls your name as you slump into the dining room chair. Your real name, not your X-Men name. “I never hated you,” he tells you, voice soft, but the conviction is strong. 

You stand up, unable to make eye contact with him. “Goodnight, Logan.” You walk up the stairs quietly, never once looking at him. You can’t stand to face him. As much as you’ve tried to bury how you feel about him, it’s still there. 

Being with him like this, having his ring on your finger, it’s a stab in the gut over and over and over. Someone’s taken your most ridiculous and romantic fantasies and turned them into a waking nightmare. You wake up to him every day, eat at the same table, share the same house, and you two couldn’t be further apart. 

You have to keep up appearances, Logan is sure that’s the only reason you’ve joined him this morning. He’s working on the truck while you kneel on a foam pad, planting a rose bush by the mailbox. But the way you’re stabbing the shovel into the ground it looks more like murder than it does gardening. You slam the little trowel into the dirt, lips pulled back like a wild animal as dirt flies up around your hair. 

Logan turns back to the truck, letting out a low whistle under his breath. Besides the insane display of shrubbery abuse, you blend into the neighborhood better than he ever could. You fit that perfect suburban aesthetic, sun hat, cat-eye sunglasses, and a pretty dress. 

You’re good at blending in, better than he ever was. He’s heard you joking about it before. Telling Jean your hidden mutant ability is learning to be a chameleon, fitting yourself wherever you are. He thinks it’s a cute idea, and not too far from the truth. 

He only wishes he were a little more like that. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his wifebeater, fraying jeans, and general countenance of misery. He can’t force a smile when John walks by with a shitty joke. He’s not like you. You stomach all of the women’s vapid nonsense with a smile and manage to seem so unaffected by it all. 

The only time he’s seen you break was last night. And that, of course, had been his fault. He wishes he was better with his words. He’s always been an action man, but clearly, he’s fucked that up with you too. He really did mean it as a compliment. 

He’s just incapable of talking without his foot in his mouth when it comes to you. It’s why he tends to just avoid you and stay quiet. He knows he’ll mess up with you eventually. In the rare chance you ever actually give him a second look, he’d be a shitty boyfriend. And even if you were just friends, he’d still fuck up somehow. He always does. 

He’s learned it’s better to just keep a distance between himself and others. Especially you. He’s always just wanted to keep you away from his bullshit. The haunted past he still knows so little about, all the mental baggage he carries, he never wanted to burden you with it. Even though it seems like he still managed to screw up somehow. 

Even when he’s trying to be good he’s still the bad guy. 

You let out a heavy sigh and his gaze drifts back towards you. The way it always seems to do. You’re his sun, bright, beaming, a golden beacon of hope. But he’s always just too far, eclipsing the light you might bring him with his own stupidity. 

You toss the trowel to the ground and stand up. You frown, brushing off all the dirt you’re absolutely caked in. When he peers around you and glances at the spot where the rose bush is supposed to be all he sees is a crater of earth and ripped up grass. He figures it's better not to mention it. 

You walk over to him, the same scowl you’ve had for the past few days ever-present on your face. “I’m going to take a shower,” you look at him expectantly and he shrugs. You let out a loud sigh and he can’t possibly imagine how he’s messed up now. “You need one too, the barbecues in an hour.”

He’d forgotten about the fucking barbecue. Some annual thing Shiela and John threw that the whole neighborhood went to. “It doesn’t take me an hour to get ready,” he tells you, intending a little bit of playfulness. 

Instead, you just let out an exasperated breath and storm back into the house. How did he keep fucking up with you so badly?

He’s gotten a taste of your personality, your company. He’s tried for so long to avoid getting to know you. He knows that if he truly did, he’d never get over you. He was right. Just one taste of you and he wants more, he wants to consume everything about you that he can. He’s screwed up in so many ways but he can’t just go back to normal after this and act like strangers. 

You smooth the wrinkles out of your cotton dress and let out a low breath. “You need another minute?” Logan grumps from beside you, his stare boring into the door. He didn’t want to come to this. Frankly, neither did you, but he needs to suck it up and be a big boy. You two are here for a purpose greater than yourselves. 

Maybe if you repeat that enough times you’ll start to believe it. 

Kimiko was everywhere that Shiela was. She was her shadow, her loyalist servant. And the only person in this neighborhood who’s shown a sliver of consciousness. You don’t know where she lives, or if she even owns a house here. But you do know she’ll be at this barbecue tonight. 

The only reason you’re bothering to bring Logan along is because you need him to distract Shiela. She drools every time she sees him, practically licking her maw at the sight of him in a tight t-shirt. You can’t really blame her, but she’s a married woman and he’s technically a married man. The lack of shame and compassion is genuinely astonishing to you. 

“No. Let’s just get this over with.” He needs no further prompting as he knocks heavily on the door. Each pound of his fist sounds like a bell tolling your doom. The intense feeling of nausea and eyes on the back of your head has developed and grown increasingly worse the longer you’re here. 

You feel like someone’s pressing against your mind, wiggling their fingers in and squeezing until mush slips through their knuckles. You keep a tight grip on Logan so you don’t tip over. Playing it off as the love-sick newlyweds you’re meant to be. 

Even though the feeling of his skin against yours makes you angrier than you can even begin to fathom. You’ve held onto built-up resentment and anger ever since your little tiff. You’ve heard that tumultuous times are common in the beginnings of marriages. Luckily, you’re getting a divorce the second this fucking mission is over. 

You resent Charles for ever sending you here. Any minuscule hopes you’ve had of finally building a relationship with Logan have been dashed across your front yard. There’s no hope for him. He’ll never change, and how he treats you will never change. 

The door swings open and the music from the backyard drifts through to the front. Shiela smiles widely, greeting you both with a drawn-out Hi! She reaches forward and grabs Logan, tugging him away from you and dragging him into a hug. 

You stumble forward as your support is ripped out from under you. She briefly glances over his shoulder at you and you offer her a sardonic smile. Every bit of you wants to dig your nails into her and rip until chunks of her start flying off. The post beside you warps slightly, bending like it’s melting. 

You dig your nails into your palm, swallowing down your anger, and force the post upright once more. Logan grabs Shiela by the waist, practically yanking her off of him. He steps back towards you, wrapping his arm around your waist. 

You can’t help the smug smile that lifts your lips as you face her. You almost want to rub her face in it. He chose you and he can’t stand you, that says a lot about how he feels about her. You stop yourself, though, it’d be beyond idiotic to let that be the reason your cover is blown. 

“Thanks for inviting us,” you tell Shiela, playing oblivious instead of walking into her trap. You pass her the casserole you half-assed and baked in her dish. “We’re so excited to finally have a home to call our own, and with such wonderful neighbors,” you gasp dreamily. “Oh, it’s just a dream come true.”

Shiela runs a manicured nail along the side of her lip, looking wholly unimpressed. “Mhm,” she hums, “I’m sure.” You share a look with Logan, both of you caught off guard by her sudden dip in personality. Her face is blank, devoid of the usual overwrought happiness and charm. It’s like something’s taken control and drained the life from her. 

Either Kimiko’s here and you’re right about her, or, Shiela is just a depressed housewife who can’t always control when she smiles. You’re hoping it’s Kimiko and you can just end this once and for all. 

“Alright,” she’s back in a second like nothing ever happened. The boom of her voice echoing through the foyer makes you jump. “Let’s get you two outside. And thank you so much for this,” she gestures to the casserole. “You’re just such a sweet little thing aren’t you?”

Everything she says to you feels just a tad patronizing. She’s incapable of complimenting you without minimizing you in some way. You dismiss it, shaking off the funk she always seems to put you in. 

Shiela leads you to the backdoor of her porch where the rest of the neighborhood is. She certainly got the best square footage, that’s for sure. She doesn’t just have the biggest house, she’s also got the biggest yard you’ve ever stepped foot on. 

People are milling about, John’s flipping hamburgers on the grill, and children are playing happily with one another. It feels like an advert for the Fourth of July.

You scan the yard for the only person you’re looking for. You spot her, pushed back towards the shadow of Shiela’s oak tree. Shiela follows your gaze with a frown and scoffs. “I know, hideous isn’t it?”

You jump, startled out of your stupor. “Sorry?”

She points towards the tree. “I wanted to get rid of it, but apparently it’s historic,” she throws up air quotes, inflecting her voice lazily, “or something stupid.”

“Oh, right,” you nod dismissively and she shrugs, hands slapping against her thighs as she nods to her yard. 

“Well, go on, socialize, make yourself at home y’all.” She walks back into the house and you glance back at the yard. 

“Shit,” you hiss, “Kimiko’s gone.” You move away from Logan and take a step down the stairs, he begins to follow you but you stop him with a firm hand to his chest. He frowns down at you and you nod towards Shiela. “I need you playing interception. Those two are attached at the hip. The only thing that’s going to distract her is the hunk of meat she’s been drooling over.” 

Logan frowns and takes a step back. He sets his face and crosses his arms and you sigh, knowing exactly what he’s about to say. “No.” He tells you firmly, not even bothering to hear you out. 

“Well,” you shrug. “Too bad, I need you to do this or we’re never getting out of here.”

He mocks your shrug and nods, “Alright. Fine.” He leans into your space and you feel like you’re being scolded, “I’m not leaving you on your own, okay? And I’m not letting you go after Kimiko alone.”

“I’m not going after her,” you glance around, making sure no one is listening to you talk about their neighbor like she’s on a hit list. “I just need one interrupted conversation with her. Just one,” you’re practically pleading with him at this point. 

You feel pathetic. You’re a grown woman and an X-Men. You shouldn’t have to be bartering with Logan. He should just have some faith in your abilities to not only protect yourself but conduct yourself appropriately on a mission. 

His face screws up in irritation and you know he’s about to really cause a scene. He’ll start arguing with you, and blow your spot up just to get you out of here. You give him a placating smile, a real one because he’s somehow learned to tell the difference. “Logan, it’s only for an hour. I’m sure you can fend Shiela off,” you joke to try and lighten the mood.

He sucks in a deep breath and you know you’ve got him when his shoulders sink in defeat. “Fine. I’m only agreeing to this because you’re practically a chameleon with this shit,” he gestures vaguely to the barbecue and your face pinches with confusion. 

“What?” 

“I heard you talking about it with Jean one day. How you’re a chameleon when it comes to blending in with people.”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly a brag. It’s a method of survival, a way to make people like me. It gives me a fighting chance when they find out I’m a mutant.” God, why are you even talking about this? Why had he even been listening to your conversation with Jean?

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something but you don’t have time for that. “Look, Logan, just go find Shiela.” You walk away from him before he can drudge up more uncomfortable memories of high school. 

You manage to slip through the party relatively unnoticed. You didn’t see where Kimiko had disappeared to. You’re hoping there might be some sort of hint left where she had been. You rush towards the oak tree, using it as a way to scan the party for her again. From here you can’t see anything except the kitchen.  

You’ve got a perfect view of Logan trudging towards Shiela. You can’t help but laugh when she wraps her hand around his bicep, eagerly telling him something. You smile and shake your head, the audacity of this woman is amazing. 

Something catches your eye, right by your foot. Glancing down you see something silver glinting through the grass. Frowning, you kneel and scoop it up. It’s an oblong device, small, and fits in the palm of your hand. It’s curved oddly, and the lights on it start flashing bright red as you hold it.

“What the hell?” You flip it over, a warped mirrored reflection on the back of it. You just barely spot Kimiko’s twisted face in the reflection before the world goes black. 

You groan, slowly blinking the fog of a forced sleep out of your eyes. You reach to swipe at your face, but something is holding your wrists down. You jerk your arms a few times, struggling against whatever restraints are wrapped around you. When nothing happens, you instead focus on the feeling of it against your wrist, trying to get it to dissolve. 

“Don’t bother,” a cool voice calls out from the shadows. There’s one bright light shining down on you, like the type you might see above an operating table. The entire room feels sterile. And it’s cold, you can barely feel the tips of your toes or fingers. 

“What’d you do?” You demand, trying to sound intimidating but your words come out as a slur. The back of your head radiates pain and it takes everything in you just to keep your eyes open. 

“I developed a gas,” the voice circles the room, echoing across the curved walls. You hear footsteps but you can’t tell where they’re coming from. “It halts the neurons in a mutant’s brain that fire when they use their abilities. Temporary, but quite handy when I’m dealing with a mentalist like you.”

Kimiko steps out of the shadows like a bad comic book villain. Her face is blank, no expression on it, somehow, it’s the realest she’s ever looked before. Here, you can see her humanity. Pores across her nose, frizz and oil along her hair, her nose just a little bit crooked. Whatever she’d been doing to herself has been wiped away. And the human woman lurking beneath is finally revealed. 

“There you are,” you mutter, your speech slowly coming back to you. “I knew that plastic face wasn’t real.”

“Everything was going just fine until you and Wolverine got here,” she gives you a sharp look, “Flux.”

You sarcastically gasp, “Wow, you know my X-Men name. It’s not like I haven’t been interviewed before. What’s the plan here, Kimiko? Where are the others?”

Her brows pinch, “Others?”

“The mutants you’re trafficking.”

“Oh,” she laughs and it’s so jarring you nearly jump. “Is that what people think?” Hesitantly, you nod, but you’re beginning to feel like you might have gotten something very wrong. “No, that’s not what we’re doing here.”

“We?”

“Shiela and I. We have much simpler plans, much more peaceful. You see, Shiela’s the only person to ever stand beside me after she found out I was a mutant. She gave me a home, a friend, and a sense of belonging.” There’s something devout in her words, like a humble follower kneeling at the feet of their god. “Everything I have, everything I am, I owe to her.”

You’ve seen Shiela’s manipulation firsthand. You have no doubt that she’s never actually done anything for Kimiko. She’s just made her think she had and instilled in her this sense of owing her something. 

Then again, Kimiko’s getting this look on her face. She’s like a rabid dog staring down the barrel of their owner’s shotgun. Perhaps she hadn’t needed much prompting to develop such an unhealthy attachment. “Shiela’s parents never loved her the way they should have. They never gave her the perfect life she deserved. So I created one for her.”

She rolls a tray of surgical tools over and a sense of panic finally starts to rouse within you. Yet, for the first time in years, your powers aren’t here to help you. You have nothing to rely on but yourself. But you’ve been trained so intensively in using your abilities as a protector rather than an inhibitor that you’re practically useless without them. 

“All these people,” you rush the words out as she picks up a syringe. You don’t know what the yellow liquid inside is, but from the look on her face, you don’t want to. “You’re controlling them?”

Kimiko nods and you’d be staggering if you weren’t strapped down. Not even Charles could control this many people at once. Not without Cerebro. “Kimiko, that’s,” you gasp, flinching away as she brings the needle towards your arms. “It’s incredible!” Your quick rise in volume makes her jolt and the syringe tumbles out of her hands. 

She grumbles to herself, leaning over to pick it up. “Does Shiela know?” She pauses at the mention of Shiela’s name, brushing her hair over her shoulder and glaring at you. 

“Yes. Of course she does, this is my greatest gift to her.”

“Really?” Your voice drips with contrived empathy. “Then I’m sure she’s done something incredible for you back.” You were hoping a simple manipulation tactic might work, that you could turn Kimiko against an ungrateful Shiela. But this type of obsession isn’t one that can’t be destabilized with a few jumbled words. 

No, you only make her angrier. “Back? Back?” she practically screams, her voice raw and feral as she leaps into your face. You flinch as far back as you can as her face hovers over yours, screaming right at you. “I owe her everything! I should thank her for letting me breathe the same air as hers!”

Your jaw drops, a silent scream tripping out of your mouth as you gasp for air. Something squeezes against your brain, the pulsing from before returns with a vengeance. You can feel your mind pulsing and swelling, pushing against your skull. 

“Don’t fucking say her name again,” Kimiko glares down at you, her eyes devoid of any remorse or compassion as she makes your brain swell until blood leaks down your ears. Whatever plan she had before has been abandoned, she’s going to just kill you now. 

You’re going to die in her basement, no one will ever see you again. Your eyes throb and you feel your brain push to its fullest limits. The pressure builds, builds, and builds until it explodes. 

“Then you just pour a little sugar in.” Logan watches as Shiela tips nearly an entire bag of cane sugar into her jug of sweet tea. His stomach shrivels at the sight and he fights down bile. A little bit of sugar drops over the edge. She catches it on her finger and looks over her shoulder, licking the sugar off and practically deepthroating her own finger. All while maintaining a disturbing amount of eye contact with Logan. 

“Well,” he knows that he promised you a while with Kimiko, but he can’t handle much more of this. “Thank you so much for this,” he struggles with the word, landing weakly on, “lesson.” He’s not even sure what the point of watching her prepare all this food was. 

He’s pretty sure she just wanted him to see her leave a rim of red lipstick at the bottom of her finger as many times as possible. The entire time he’s just wanted to go back to you. There’s a nasty feeling gnawing at him and he knows he needs to get back to you soon. 

“Oh,” she seems genuinely disappointed and Logan sighs awkwardly. “Leaving already, huh?”

He points to his ring pointedly reminding her of the reality of their situation. “Gotta get back to the wife.”

She doesn’t even try to hide her sneer as he mentions you. “Of course, just the perfect husband aren’t you?”

Logan doesn’t dignify that with a response, too distracted by what’s happening outside the window. People have begun to wander around aimlessly, some of them stumbling into the fencing. They just keep walking forward, knocking into the wood repeatedly, not once stopping. John’s got a stuck smile on his face as he leans against the grill, Logan can see smoke rising from where the flesh of his palm is melting onto the metal. A few people all run into each other, collapsing on the ground and just lying there. 

They’re like robots, suddenly without command and unsure what to do. They’re following their programming without anyone putting a stop to it. Shiela follows his gaze and gasps. “Excuse me,” she mutters, practically running out of the room. 

Logan tries to find you amongst all the mess but you’re nowhere to be seen. “Fuck,” he growls out, looking back to where Shiela had run. He should have fucking known not to leave you on your own. 

He stalks after Shiela, listening to her racing heart and the slam of a downstairs door. He follows her down the steps leading to her basement. It looks the same as every other one he’s ever been in. Except, for the metal door hidden behind a few shelving units. The only reason he spots it is because Shiela knocked over a can of paint in her rush toward it. 

Anger brews hot and putrid in his gut. The claws come out unbidden, and the thought of you being locked away in that room pushes him forward. If you’re not in there, he’ll get an answer from Shiela one way or another. But he’s not going to let you get hurt because he didn’t have your back. 

“What the hell are you doing?” A shrill voice interrupts. Your head sinks back against the cool material of the table, brain surging back into place. Your teeth ache, white-hot pain rushing through your bones as Kimiko finally releases her grasp on you. 

Kimiko gives Shiela the look of a dog who just got in trouble. “She found my amplifying device. I have to get rid of her.” She holds the device you found earlier out to Shiela. 

So, she wasn’t as powerful as she pretended. She did need help. It explains why the entire neighborhood is always in the same area, she needs them close to keep control. “Whatever you’re doing is making my toys malfunction.”

Shiela hisses at Kimiko, she darts forward and slaps her hard across the back of the head. If you weren’t in excruciating and paralyzing pain, you’d flinch at the sound. Being as if your brain was just about to explode, though, you could give less of a shit if she beats her rabid dog up. 

These two crazy bitches deserve each other. You just want a Tylenol and a nap at this point. “Well, aren’t you two twisted sisters?” Logan slips through the door, his claws glinting under the light of the room. “Toys?” He demands, eyes roaming the room desperately. 

The second he sees you, strapped down and with blood pouring from your orifices, something slips over his face. It’s like a mask being ripped off. The man he pretends to be is ripped apart by the animal truly lurking within him. Neither women have time to even defend themselves. He goes for Kimiko first and all you see his claws plunging down before arterial blood sprays across your face. 

You groan, tilting your chin the other way and spitting the metallic liquid out of your mouth. There are a long few minutes of screaming, clothes shredding, and blood splashing against every surface of the room. By the time he’s completely calmed down, you’re drenched in it. 

You suck on your teeth, rolling your head limply and finally getting a good look at him. He’s panting, standing over their mutilated corpses with blood dripping down his claws. There’s a wrath on his face you’re happy to have never been on the other end of. But the second he looks at you, you see nothing but stark relief. 

He breathes out your name, your real one, and surges towards you. “Claws!” You shout, hurting your head again. But he was a second away from accidentally skewering you. They’re put away in an instant as he undoes the straps holding you down. 

You groan in relief as the pressure around your head and limbs is released. He perches himself on the edge of the table and scoops you into his chest.

You’re still loopy from Kimiko messing around in the grooves of your brain. The best you can manage is weakly draping your arms along his sides. He pulls you back and brushes the hair out of your face, laughing a little at the blood covering you. “They do anything to you?”

You shrug, “Besides turn my brain into a pressure cooker? No.”

The smile drops from his face and he glares down at the remains of the women. If you weren’t so tired, you’d think he wants to kill them again. “I should have been here.”

“Logan-” You want to tell him not to be ridiculous. You had insisted you could take care of yourself. Told him it would only be a conversation when you knew that was never going to be true. You’d gotten yourself into this, you were lucky he was there to get you out. But you don’t say anything because he interrupts you as he so often does. 

“I can’t keep acting like this is all okay. Like I’m happy with how we treat each other. I thought I was going to lose you, I’m not going to keep pretending I don’t care about you.”

Your face screws up in confusion and you’re not sure you want to hear where he’s going with this. You’ve been used to this dynamic between the two of you for so long. You’re used to him treating you like he can't stand to breathe the same air as you. If this is going where you think it is, you’re not sure you can handle it. 

“Logan,” you’re regaining some feeling in your limbs now. You use the returning strength to push away from him, shaking your head in disbelief. “No, you can’t do this. You can’t just change your-”

He’s incapable of letting you finish a single sentence. His hands wrap around your cheeks tugging you forward until your lips are brushing together. It’s enough of a shock to get you to stop talking. You don’t reciprocate, too stunned to even think about moving. 

He brushes his lips against yours again, firmer this time. Under the layers of blood coating you both, you’re wholly enveloped by him. His scent, his arms, everything about him drapes over you like a warm blanket. Against your better judgment, you find yourself returning the kiss. 

You move further into his lap, one hand holding his face and the other clutching at his hair, needing something to hold to keep you steady in this moment. Logan smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss without wasting another beat. His tongue moves gently across yours at first. A curious caress to see how well you two fit together. He groans when he gets a taste of you, pushing further in and kissing you like he wants to devour you.  

There’s warmth blooming in your stomach and spreading all along your body. You’re buzzing with adrenaline and pain and this unidentifiable feeling that Logan is evoking from you. It’s not the sweet mushy, romantic kiss you always imagined with him. 

This is desperate. Like a dying man’s last attempt at redemption. He’s tasting you like you’re rare, something to be savored. You feel like you’re the only thing left in existence. The only person left for him to admire. You forget the gore behind you, the tumultuous experiences you’ve had with him. 

You let yourself fall into the moment, a blind leap of faith into a pool of all your hopes and desires. He’s better than you ever could have imagined. More desperate than your wildest fantasies. He makes no move to stop, even as the air becomes scarce and you both have to part longer. He just grips you tighter, hands wrapped around you like he’s worried if he lets go he’ll lose you. 

He could, he could lose you. This kiss of his is putting you into a trance, distracting you from all he’s trying to make up for. Perhaps if he stops kissing you, you’ll remember it all and want nothing to do with him. But you don’t see that happening, you just see yourself craving more and more for him., You feel the addiction forming already. A deep-seated need in your bones is finally being sated, it will always need more from him. 

When you can no longer survive on the shared oxygen between you both, you’re forced to part. Your cheeks tingle from the stubble of his beard and you know your lips are pink and swollen because his are too. You’re both still coated in blood and you share a familiar glean in your eyes. 

“I never hated you,” he sounds breathless and you love that you’re the cause of it. “I just didn’t want to lose you.”

You scoff, but there are no cruel intentions behind it. “So you push me away before you ever get a chance to have me?”

He gives you a crooked smile, “I never said I was smart.” You can’t help but laugh at that. Slowly, he helps you to your feet, ignoring the puddles of blood and bits. “We'll have to call Charles. He needs to help the people out there.”

“We also need to let him know there’s no trafficking ring. Just one fucked psyche.” You shoot another glare at the pile that was Kimiko, still bitter about her experiment with your brain. As Logan helps you up the stairs of the basement, you stop him just before you reach the door. 

He gives you a concerned look, like he thinks you’ve hurt something somehow. “I want to talk to you. Really talk to you about everything.” Concern gives way to dread and you can’t help but smile at the regretful look on his face. “But first,” his head perks in interest at your tone, “maybe we can finally enjoy that master bed together?”

“You know,” he leans down, swiping his arms under your knees and lifting you. You gasp, through your arms around his neck and squeezing until you worry you might suffocate him. “You really are the smart one of us, aren’t you?”

“Clearly.”

You’re not sure how well this transition to married couple to tentatively something else is going to go. But you have hope and it's kept you going for all these years. What's wrong with letting it linger a little longer?

a/n: Guess who's back, back again? Hint, it's Flux. I missed writing for them, so I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. Although, I worry the ending was too cheesy.

Reblogs, comments, likes, and requests are always appreciated !!

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

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡ 

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte

@mrs-ephemeral  @wolviesgirl @insomniachox @izbelross @spktrlvr ♡

Broken Machinery

Pt. 6 (completed series)

Series masterlist

Connor RK800 x fem!reader

A/N: I’ve just got this weakness for one love interest calling the other baby while they’re injured. I can't help myself 

Content Warnings: Cussing (duh), shots fired, asshole government agents, me not knowing what android parts are called (everything’s getting called a bio component idc), nothing too bad honestly just one near death experience and existential crisis

Word Count: 3.3K

Series Summary: You and your grumpy partner Anderson gain a new addition to the team. He’s supposed to be CyberLife’s best, but there’s something not quite right with his programming, and the problems seem to revolve around you.

“You know, you really scared me up there.”

“How do you think I felt?” 

You might have gone a little crazy, back there, you nearly broke a few toes beating the shit out of Connor.

It was like you were so blinded by your rage you just went into a trance. There was thirium eveywhere, Hank and Chris both had to grab you to get you off him. One of the deputies had to take him to CyberLife for repairs. 

Serves him right. 

Hank had immediately driven you to the hospital afterwards. Despite your incoherent garbling that you were ‘in tip-top shape.’

He was sitting in your room with you and for the last forty minutes since the doctor left, he had been staring into the coffee he got at the vending machine. Not talking, not looking at you, you had almost begun to believe he had passed out. 

He was still staring at his coffee as he spoke. “I’m not talking about the roof. I knew I’d catch you.” There was an absolute certainty to his words, like there was no other possible outcome he would have accepted except your survival. 

You wanted to be happy, wanted to feel like you had a dad that loved you and would risk falling off a roof with you, rather than let you go. 

But you knew that he saved you out of a feeling of duty. He saved you because he couldn’t lose two kids. Not for any other reason. Sometimes you felt like he was more of an android than Connor. 

“Back there, what you did to Connor,” your shoulders stiffened in defense. You didn’t need to hear that you look like a rabid badger when you’d gone after him. You already knew that you went a little insane. Hank raised his hands in defense before you could go on another rant. “Hey, I’m not saying the fucker didn’t deserve it, I’m just saying I was…. I was scared, okay?”  

He finally looked at you now, and you almost wished he hadn’t. For years all you’ve seen was a vacant look or drunken rage. 

Now, there was something there. Something real, and it hurt. It physically hurt to see the pain in his eyes. The raw grief and loss. 

He seemed to lose track of what he was saying, caught up in one rare moment of actually allowing himself to feel instead of masking it with rage or drinking it away. “I feel like I lost you both.”

You didn’t know what to say. There were no words of comfort you could offer him. No white lies he would accept. 

And there were none you were willing to give, because he was right. 

He had lost you both in that car crash. 

Amanda was waiting for Connor in a boat. It was clear he was expected to row her, his resistance at the unspoken order was surprising. 

“I love this place, it’s all so calm and peaceful. Far from the noise of the world. Tell me, what have you discovered?”

Connor felt the need to keep the development in his relationship with you to himself. Amanda wouldn’t understand why he was living with you. She surely wouldn’t approve of his newly prioritized mission. 

PROTECT Y/N

“I found two deviants at the Eden Club, I had hoped to learn something but…” There had to be a way to phrase this that she wouldn’t know the truth behind his actions. “They managed to escape.”

“That’s too bad,” she saw right through him. “You seemed so close to stopping them.” Connor chose to row rather than speak. “You seem… lost Connor. Lost and perturbed.”

Connor debated being sincere with her. If anyone had advice or could tell him what to do about what he’s been going through, it would be Amanda. 

“I thought I knew what I had to do, but now I realize it’s not that simple.”

“You had your gun trained on those deviants at the Eden Club.” There was a forced replay of the footage at the club. It felt so invasive that they could reach through him and rip out what they wanted. 

“Why didn’t you shoot?” 

He chose to tell the truth, “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

He knew he made the wrong choice immediately after. At least he hasn’t told her about you.

But, his doubt was concerning. His main concern should be the mission, now, he’s not so sure. 

“If your investigation doesn’t make progress soon, I may have to replace you, Connor.”

He wasn’t sure how to feel about the idea of being replaced. If it was for the sake of the mission then he should be willing to do anything. Yet, the idea of being deactivated made him feel… wrong, almost angry. 

“I understand.”

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

“Something’s happening, something serious. Hurry, Connor. Time is running out.” The ominous warning left Connor with a feeling of pressure on his chest. 

Hank kept tapping his foot and staring at Connor as he flipped his coin. You smiled at his irritation. “How do you do that?” 

Connor stopped toying with the coin to give you his full attention. It was a bit intimidating when he stared at you full force. He’d seemed irritated this morning when you left the house to come to the news tower. 

The stormy look on his face was still present and now directed at you. It was an effort not to pick at your nails. 

You’d been trying to stop, everytime Connor would catch you he’d shoot you a warning glare before slapping your hands apart and taking them in his own. Although, sometimes you did it because he would interlace your fingers together. As pathetic as it was, the feeling of his skin against yours was soothing. 

He blinked a lot before the look on his face lightened and he tilted his head, “The coin trick?” Connor demonstrated again for you, flipping it between his fingers. You nodded and he flicked it back and forth between both hands before Hank finally snapped. 

He yanked it out of the air, “You’re starting to piss me off that coin, Connor.” 

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” he put the coin back in his pocket. “I’ll show you later,” he paused before finally adding, “at home.” Your cheeks felt warm as a smile slowly crept along your face. He’d never referred to your house like that, it brought you joy knowing that you could provide somewhere comforting for him. 

“The fuck did you just say?” Hank turned towards you, “Is he staying with you?”

You reached forward and clicked the button for the floor a couple times. How slow was this freaking elevator? 

“Were you not aware of that, Lieutenant?”

“No I wasn’t.” Hank shot you a disbelieving look, you slunked your way behind Connor, avoiding both of their gazes. 

“I found her passed out on her couch in a distressing condition. I’ve opted to stay with her and help her take care of herself while she heals.” 

Hank looked around Connor at you, “You didn’t tell me you needed help.”

“You didn’t ask.”

You were the first out of the elevator. “Hey, Y/N.”

You took in the multitude of SWAT and CSI agents. “Shit, what’s going on here? Was there a party and nobody told me?”

Chris scoffed, “That’s an understatement. It’s all over the news, so everybody’s been butting their nose in. Even the FBI wants a piece of the action.”

“Fuck me, that’s the last thing we need. Some FBI prick trying to take over.”

Hank walked up to the two of you, “Now we got the Feds on our back, I knew this was gonna be a shitty day. So what do we got?”

“A group of four androids. They knew the building, and they were all very well organized.”

You glanced back at Connor and gave him a narrowed eyed look. “Well if I know anything about androids,” you turned around again. “It’s that their real good at getting their hands on things they shouldn’t have. They probably managed to download the building schematics.”

“Building plans or not, I’m still trying to figure out how they got this far without being noticed.”

“Maybe they had some help,” Chris seemed a little surprised at your words. 

“What are you saying, they had someone on the inside?” You nodded absently at Hank's question as you took a look around the hallway where the deviants ambushed two guards. 

It’s definitely the least violent, hostile takeover you’ve ever seen. No casualties, only a few woozy guards and one technician in shock. 

Hank examined some bullet holes in the wall. “How many people were working here?”

“Just two employees and three androids.” You let Hank take over the rest of the briefing while you examined the evidence around the room. “The deviants took the humans hostage and broadcast their message live. They made their getaway from the roof.”

“The roof?”

“Yeah, they jumped with parachutes. We’re still trying to figure out where they landed,” do they know anything? “But the weather’s not helping. If you want to take a look at the video broadcast by the deviants, it’s on that screen over there.” 

You made your way over to the broadcasting room. Someone in a trench coat was standing in the middle of the room, blocking you from looking around. 

“Lieutenant, detective, this is Special Agent Perkins from the FBI. Lieutenant Anderson and Detective Y/L/N are in charge of investigating for Detroit Police.” Connor walked over the the group of you. 

SA Perkins nodded towards him, “What’s that?” You got immediate douchebag vibes from him. 

“My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

You wanted to face palm, did they not program him with any other greetings?

“Androids investigating androids, huh? You sure you want an android hanging around?” The irony wasn’t lost on you, but he didn’t have to be a dick and act like Connor wasn’t standing right in front of him. Hank scoffed, seemingly prepared to dismiss him, but SA Perkins wasn’t done yet. 

“After everything that happened…” The insinuation had your hands curling into fists. He didn’t even know the two of you, yet he thought he had the right to speak about something he knew jack shit about. You had taken a half a step forward before someone’s hand was on your wrist, stopping you. 

You looked down expecting to see Connor, instead Hank was gently holding your arm. He didn’t look at you, just kept staring at Perkins until the agent had made himself uncomfortable. You got a sickening amount of satisfaction at the way he crumpled under Hank's stare. 

“Whatever, soon the FBI will take over and you’ll be on another case.”

“Pleasure meeting you.” Hank was clearly done entertaining the rat faced asshole. 

“Have a nice day,” you gave him the fakest smile you could muster until he just scoffed

“Don’t fuck up my crime scene.” 

You watched him walk away, “I really wish you had let me just knock him down a peg.”

Hank gave you a long suffering look, “He would have had your badge faster than you could blink. God, what a fuckin’ prick.”

“I’d kill to see that asshole humbled.”

“Let’s have a look around,” Hank started towards the broadcasting desk. 

You made your way to the stairs, “I’ll check out the roof,” your foot was almost on the step, but then Connor appeared in front you out of nowhere. So close. 

“I think that’s unwise. You should stay somewhere both Hank and I can keep a watch over you, you’re still injured.” He made a pointed look towards your sling. You huffed out in frustration, his coddling was getting out of hand. 

“I’m a big girl, Connor, and you’re a detective bot. Not a caretaker, act like it.”

Connors head tilted and he squared his shoulders. Oh, this was about to be an argument. “You told me to prioritize my partners safety.”

Damn, that was really biting you in the ass. “Oh, well depriotize it.” Connor crossed his arms and stared you down, you really didn’t need him making a scene but shutting down on the stairwell to make a point. 

You threw your one good hand up in surrender, “Fine! Whatever,” you stood by the desk and sulked. He seemed way too smug as he walked off. 

“I’ve identified its model and serial number.”

Hank continued to stare at Connor, “Anything else I should know?”

“No. Nothing.” He didn’t know why he lied, but for some reason Connor didn’t want Hank or Y/N to know that the android leading the revolution was from the same line of androids he was. 

He was confused, he was RK800, a prototype and supposed to be the only one of his kind. Yet he was staring up at an RK200. He’s never thought about why he was 800, there was no reason to. But If he had, he would have assumed that his predecessors were just failed versions of himself  that couldn’t pass the Turing test. 

He would be wrong, because here in front of him was something completely different from himself.

What was CyberLife hiding? 

“You okay, Connor?” He was brought out of his stupor by the sound of your voice. He looked towards you, your arm was still in its sling, your hair still in the braids he had done for you and the jacket and jeans he had helped you dress in. Focusing on all these little things about you was helping him remember what he had to do. What he came to the tower for in the first place. 

He observed the slight tilt to your head and the suspicion on your face, “I’m fine. You?” 

Your eyes held the same untrusting gaze before you just nodded your head and moved to the other side of the room. Connor examined each piece of evidence, reconstructing the scene of the crime. SWAT came in through the hallway, shooting at the group of deviants and managing to hit one. They then made their escape towards the roof. 

He debated between the roof and investigating the androids in the break room. One of them was in charge of monitoring security, they would have seen the deviants making their way through the building and not have informed anyone. A deviant was somewhere in there. 

He knew that if he went up to the roof, inevitably you would follow, he didn’t want to run the risk of you getting further damaged. Connor made his way towards the break room. You lifted your head from the security footage you were examining to briefly glance at him as he passed by, before going back to reviewing the video. 

Three androids were lined up along the wall of the break room. One of them was deviant. 

LOOK FOR A REACTION TO SPOT THE DEVIANT

He turned towards the one on the far left, “What is your function?”

“I am a broadcast operator.” Connor’s eyes narrowed, its eyes were blinking continuously while answering. Connor didn’t recognize that behavior in any of the other androids standing before him. He continued questioning the one on the far left. 

“State your model.”

“Model JB300. Serial number 336 445 581.”

Connor turned to the android in the middle, still keeping one eye on the other one. “Were you present when the deviants broke in?”

“I do not remember.” The one on the left turned its head to face Connor before quickly looking away. 

He’d found the deviant.  

“Has anybody accessed your memory recently?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Deviants could lie, he wasn’t going to get any information out of it this way. He needed to switch to more aggressive tactics. 

“One of you saw the attack on the surveillance cameras and said nothing. Which means there is a deviant in this room… and I’m going to find out which one it is.” He hovered over the one on the left. 

“You’re going to be switched off. We’re gonna search your memory and tear you apart piece by piece for analysis. You’re going to be destroyed! Do you hear me? Destroyed!” It wouldn’t budge. 

Deviants could feel, perhaps if he used empathy against it, it would be more willing to provide information. 

“Why should all of you be destroyed, if only one is deviant? Turn yourself in, or two innocent androids will be shut down because of you. If you give yourself up, maybe I can convince my humans not to destroy you.” 

He switched tactics again, “The deviants have just been caught. They gave you up.” The one on the left’s LED was fully red now. “There’s no point in lying. We know everything.”

He was successful in revealing the deviant, but not in the way he wanted to. It lunged at him, taking him by the throat and slamming him into the counter. Connor struggled fighting off the androids hands and trying to shove him off. The android reach down and ripped Connors core component out, stabbing him in the hand with a knife and nailing him down to the counter. 

Connor had two minutes to shutdown, he kicked a chair nearby across the room, “Y/N, help! I need help…”

Connors optic units were failing, everything around him was going in and out of focus. He barely managed to tug the knife out of his hand before collapsing on the floor. 

He crawled as close as he could towards the component, instructing each arm to move one at a time, they gave out nearly a foot away from the device. 

Just as you came barreling into the room. “Connor!” You rushed over to him and dropped down to your knees, your hands were shaking as you rolled him over. “Connor, oh my god, oh god it’s okay. You’re okay.” Your hands were hovering over him, unsure where to touch before finally landing on his face. “It’s alright, you’re gonna be fine baby.”

Your eyes left his and you looked around for something. You let out a shuddering breath and moved away from him. His arm grabbed yours without prompting. 

He didn’t want….

Didn’t want what?

He couldn’t want or desire he was an android, yet deep inside he knew… 

He didn’t want to die. 

He didn’t want to die alone.

“Connor, I’ll be right back, it’s gonna be okay,” but it wouldn’t be. Shutdown was imminent and Connor knew that whatever progress he made would be erased. And whoever replaced him would prioritize the mission, they wouldn’t care if you were going to die. Your life would mean nothing to them. 

That was more terrifying than the thought of dying. 

You finally managed to rip your arm free and then you were shoving something in his hands. “Here!” When he made no move to look at what it was, you ripped it back out. “Fuck, Connor!” 

His body shot forward and you caught him by the shoulders before he could fall over. You had slammed the component back into his core. 

DIAGNOSTIC 

Memory…. 100%

Optics…. 100%

Auditory…. 100%

He dismissed the rest of the diagnostic check and rushed out of the room. He slipped and slammed into a wall on the way out, his body still calibrating. He ignored your shouts and continued after the deviant. 

It was nearly to the elevator by the time he caught up, “It’s a deviant stop it!” The android grabbed the rifle from the SWAT agent's hand. Connor processed the quickest possible options for him to take. 

BANG

The deviant was on the ground, deactivated by the gun Connor had swiped from the police officer next to him. 

“Nice shot, Connor,” Hank helped Chris back to his feet. He gave Connor an appreciative look just as you ran into the room. 

“I heard gunshots, are you okay?” You were looking at Connor, waiting for an answer, a frantic look about you. 

Was he okay?

He didn’t know anymore?  

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

“You saved human lives, you saved my life,” it was the warmest he’d ever seen Hank. 

Yet the only response he could give was, “I wanted it alive.”

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.

Please someone give me a request. I have the worst writers block known to man.

I loved your Bucky fic so much!!!

The concept was so interesting, it reminded me a lot of the movie paranormal activity. I was wondering if you take requests for him or know other good Bucky blogs?

Aw, thank you so much! I honestly didn’t think I would ever write for him on this blog but that idea got in my head and just stuck with me. It is actually based on that movie, mainly because I watched it a week before the idea came to me lol, good catch. Yes, I do take request for him.

@kinanabinks is my go to recommendation for Bucky fics. She’s what got me hooked on tumblr and the fandom, her writing is absolutely amazing and she’s one of my favorites.

big bad wolf

Logan Howlett x fem!reader

a/n: inspired by the fact that Hugh Jackman thought wolverines were just a type of wolf and no one corrected him. Rusty because I haven’t written smut in a while so you guys aren’t allowed to talk any shit. Plus, I’m too much of a wimp to be like extremely explicit, but these prompts ( one, two, three) together were too good to pass up. 

SMUT 18+ (my slight monsterfucker tendencies might shine through in this one)

Summary: Logan's told you a million times not to take the path through the woods. You never listen, of course. Now there's a monster on your tail and you're all alone. (part of my Halloween Palooza)

You never should have taken this path. You knew it was going to happen, Logan had warned you, and you still didn’t listen. Now, you’re in the middle of the woods, completely turned around and on the verge of tears. God, why do you never listen?

You put your groceries down and pull out your phone. Through the thick spread of leaves, you get minimal moonlight. You’re surrounded by shifting shadows and rustling undergrowth. Everywhere you turn is a monster waiting to leap out at you. 

When you were little you were petrified of the dark. You hated the shapes you saw lurking within it. You’d outgrown that as an adult, but now, you can barely breathe as your eyes dart all around. The childish fear is returned with a vengeance and you feel like you’re about to have a heart attack. 

You flip open your phone, squatting on the ground and trying to conserve your body's warmth. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees since you left the house. Of course, Logan had told you to bring a jacket too. Did you listen? No. 

You were only going out to get some chips and dip, you really didn’t think it would take so long. But then you’d got caught up talking to one of your friends and before you knew it, it was pitch black outside. You should have just called Logan at the store, asked him for a ride. Now, you’re staring down at the flickering screen of your flip phone and about to sob as you see the bars disappearing. 

“No fucking service, of course,” you hiss and shove the phone back in your pocket. The battery’s nearly dead anyway. You doubt it would have lasted long enough for a phone call. You run a stressed hand over your face, trying to calm your breathing down. 

You’re trying to trick yourself into thinking that everything’s okay. That the shadows are just shadows and you’re scared. Then you hear it. 

It’s a low noise, something out of your worst nightmares. There’s an immediate spike of adrenaline as an inhuman growl echoes through the night air. You swear you can feel it inside your chest. It rumbles through the animal, bursts through clenched fangs, and makes the hair on your neck stand on end. 

You glance over your shoulder, mouth parted in a silent scream. You don’t see anything, you can’t. You just barely make out the branches shifting nearby before you’re leaping to your feet. You almost call out, see whose there, but that feels like the last move every bimbo makes in a horror movie. 

So, you do something arguably worse. You abandon your groceries and purse and bolt. Immediately you can hear its pounding footsteps chasing after you. You do scream now, there’s no point in swallowing it down. It’s like the terror is ripping through you, making you stumble over every branch and rock in your path. 

You know it's faster than you. You can hear how easily its keeping up its stride behind you. This feels like a game to it. It's just teasing you, dangling freedom in front of its prey before it closes its drooling maw around your neck. 

You trip over an enlarged root and go flying forward. Rocks scrape across your arm and you let out a short shriek of pain. The flesh tears easily on the sharp points and the metallic scent of your blood fills the air. It comes to a sudden stop a few feet away from you. There are no thoughts in your head besides the voice screaming at you to RUN!

It tells you to keep running. If you stop it will catch you and it will kill you. This is no longer a product of your imagination. This is real and it is hungry for you. You scramble to your feet, boots slipping along the muddy forest floor. You dig your fingers into the earth, feel the dirt slide under your nails, and launch yourself forward. You nearly flip your feet over your head but you manage to keep yourself steady. 

You can’t hear the steps behind you. The beat of your heart pounds through your head, drives you forward, and discombobulates you all the same. Blood rushes so quickly beneath your skin that you can feel your vessels swelling with the warmth of your terror-fueled adrenaline. 

You’ve never felt so inferior before, like a rabbit desperately trying to escape the hungry jaws of a wolf. Your legs are moving faster than they ever have, you’re bounding, racing, leaping through the forest. You move through it like you were born in it, anything to escape whatever was following you. 

You no longer remember the way home or what home is. You can only focus on right now. You don’t notice the dark shape running alongside you, or how easily it keeps pace. Not until it’s barreling into your side and you go slamming into the ground again. Your head nearly bounces against a rock but something slides underneath it, stopping the impact at the last second. 

Something rough grips at your face. You’re still blind, blood rushing so hard beneath your skin, you’re practically blind with panic. You bite down, taste flesh, and hold on until blood rushes into your mouth. The metallic tang of it is like poison against your tongue but you don’t let go. 

“Release!” He orders you like a dog. His voice is so thick with anger and hunger that you barely recognize it. But something clicks in your head and you unlock your jaw from his palm. “The fuck have I told you about taking this path?” Again, his voice is so thick with volatile rage that you barely register it. 

“Sorry,” you sob out, shoving at his chest and scrambling to sit up. But he keeps you pinned to the ground, one hand clamped tightly around your neck and the other pushing down against your stomach. You can feel something hard against your thigh but you pay it no mind, still struggling to catch your breath. 

You take in deep, heaving, gasps of air and the moon shifts overhead. It gives you just enough light to see Logan clearly now. You nearly choke at the sight of his face. His lips are peeled back, sharpened points of teeth causing blood to bead along his lower lips. His beard seems scruffier than normal and there’s a golden glow to his eyes. 

“What the fuck?” You stutter out, glaring up at him. You’ve seen him angry before. But you’ve never seen him quite so animalistic. “Logan?” You whisper his name hesitantly and it only makes him look more pissed off. You shrink back, though there’s not far to go with him holding you like this. 

His hips shift down and you bite down on your lip so a pathetic whimper doesn’t escape you. His head tilts curiously, gaze raking over your heaving chest and then down to the too-short shorts you’d put on earlier. 

He gives you a look of astonished disbelief, “You fuckin’ kidding me?” 

The hand on your stomach drifts down to the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes widen when you realize what he’s trying to do. “Logan, wait-” Too late. He rips the shorts down your legs and his eyes widen. The sneer of his lips finally melts away as he sees the clear wet spot in the middle of your underwear. 

You don’t even get a chance to defend yourself before he’s gripping your hips and flipping you over. Your hands struggle for purchase on the slippery rock in front of you. You try and glance back at him, but he buries a hand in your hair, tugging harshly, and forcing your face forward. 

“Logan, please,” you whine, thoroughly humiliated as he sits behind you, silently examining your battered form. You’d tripped more than you thought while you’d been running from him. The adrenaline has just barely waned enough for you to feel the bruises forming. But he has no sympathy for your plight, if anything your tears seem to egg him on. 

“What have I told you about taking this path?” You bite your tongue, a sudden refusal to answer raging forth. He’s got you half-naked on your hands and knees after chasing you through the woods. You shouldn’t have to be scolded like an imbecile on top of that. 

He leans over you, the weight of his body pushing forward, your arms strain to keep you both up. You grit your teeth, still keeping your mouth clamped shut. He chuckles, the noise so low you feel it rattling through you rather than hear it. “I could hear you.”

His hand drifts down your bicep, wraps around your front, and rests over your breasts. “Could hear how fast your heart was beating. It’s still about to come out of your chest.” You suck in a sharp breath, keeping yourself from arching into his touch.

His nose lingers against the side of your head, dipping towards your neck and inhaling deeply. Your face wrinkles in confusion as he practically smells you. “I can smell how terrified you were.” His hand suddenly jerks your head back and you can’t help but yelp. There’s a smirk on his lips as he finally gets a noise from you. 

You can feel the desire practically dripping down your thighs at this point. All you can think about is how powerful he is. How hungry he is for you. You want him to devour you, completely wreck you. 

He releases you and without his support, you slump forward, neck bowing awkwardly. You try and right yourself but one of his hands grips your neck so tight you can feel the blood rushing up into your face. He pins you there and the only warning you have of what he’s about to do is the sound of his belt buckle coming undone. 

He thrusts into you and your jaw drops. You inhale the dirt beneath you and it tastes remarkably like blood. He pushes your cheek further into the ground and you grunt as tiny little pebbles have their taste of your flesh. 

Had you not been so wet, you doubt you would have enjoyed a second of this. But, because his chasing you down like something feral made you more aroused than you have been in months, you let out a pathetic moan beneath him. It borders on the thin line between pain and pleasure. But each rough thrust inside you blurs the line until they’re indiscernible from one another. 

Your fists curl up, mud sticking in the lines of your palm as he takes you like you’re nothing more than a toy. You shouldn’t like this, shouldn’t like how used you feel. But you relish it. Relish in how crazy you make him, to the point that he’d lose his mind and use you like this. 

He’s like a fucking animal. Taking what he wants from you with no concern or care to whether you like it or not. He’s panting and grunting behind you, you don’t understand the insults spewing from his mouth because there’s blood rushing in your ears and you feel like you might pass out. 

The adrenaline and residual terror from earlier are building into one explosive moment inside you. Your fingers tremble with it, your limbs burn from the volatile feeling and you can’t help the noises being forced out of you.  It doesn’t take much longer for you to combust. 

Pleasure rushes through you, makes you numb to the world around you. A dulled tickling feeling rushes through every part of you. Your arms go limp and he’s quick to wrap a hand around your waist, keeping you upright. He presses into your lower back, arching it until he’s hitting the spot inside you that causes aftershocks of painful pleasure. 

Your core throbs as you pulse around him. Sucking him deeper until his hips come to an erratic stop and he spills inside you. You keep your forehead pressed to the cool earth beneath you. You never actually managed to catch your breath before and now it just feels like you’re five seconds away from hyperventilating. 

A soothing hand runs up and down your spine, he curls around you and helps you to sit up. His voice is a low whisper, “You alright?”

You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath and giving him a shaky nod. He laughs and pulls you to stand up. Your legs were limp from running earlier, now they’re practically boneless. He keeps you propped against him and pulls your shorts back up. 

He buttons his jeans and straightens. His eyes narrow as he glares down at you. He cups your chin, tilting your head to examine the scratches on your cheeks and tutting at you. His fingers tighten to the point of pain and he jerks your face up to meet his eyes. “You gonna come down this path again?”

After that, yes. You completely would. He sees the look on your face and rolls his eyes. He leans down, tossing you over his shoulder and groaning. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“You like it,” you taunt, tugging at his shirt for balance. 

He shakes his head but you know he’s smiling. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Same time next week?” You tease as he goes back for your groceries and purse. 

“Don’t push it,” he snaps. 

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

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