#like it was cool and not horrific and terrifying

[morganbritton132]

so I am primarily an Eddie x Chrissy shipper but I ADORE the Eddie Munson TikTok saga with my entire heart

can we get some more insight into how Eddie was affected by Chrissy in your universe?

Thank you for asking this!

I’ve wanted to talk about Chrissy in this AU since the beginning, but I just don’t realistically see Eddie talking about her on his TikTok. Anytime Eddie has so much as alluded to Chrissy over the years, it has stirred up all this drama about that spring break and it always gets back to her family. And he doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t want to remind her remaining relatives of her death. He doesn’t want the accusations that some people still have that he killed her. He doesn’t want to attach all that pain and suffering onto the memory of Chrissy.

She was more than that one awful week in 1986. She was so much more and every time the Hawkins Murders get brought up she becomes less and less a real human person and more just a footnote in a bigger tragedy.

So, he doesn’t talk about her publicly.

So, Eddie honors her in the quiet ways that he can.

He honors her in the tattoo over his heart and in the initials engraved on the inside of the ring he never takes off. He honors her in the silence before every live performance and in all the songs so filled with grief that they’re never performed to an audience.

He honors her in the life he lives.

He tries to at least, because Chrissy is not a ghost that haunts him.

She is a presence that sits beside him. She is the sun warm on his face and tea made just a little too sweet. She is the skip-beat of his heart, the stroke of a guitar, the sadness that seeps behind his eyes. She is an empty house built inside him, and she is the windows he made in those walls, and she is beautiful still. And he misses her. Still

So, he honors her in silent ways when she deserves so much more.

She deserved a life, so he lives his thankful and fully. She deserved the same love that she put into the world, so Eddie never misses an opportunity to show his. She deserved adventure, and travel, and to see a world so much brighter than Hawkins, so when Eddie got the chance. It didn’t feel like running away. It felt like honor.

Eddie knows that he was not always kind.

He knows that he has a capacity for cruelty, that Wayne raised him right but he has shades of his father in him. He knows that for as much as the world othered him, as much as Hawkins ostracized him, he played into it. He othered himself. He grew bristles and thorns young, and he bared them to anybody that got close. He was mean.

He could be so mean, but Chrissy.

She didn’t remember him that day in the woods, but Eddie has always noticed her because she was kind. She was so effortlessly kind to everybody, even to him. She apologized in the hall for bumping his locker. She stopped when he dropped his dice instead of kicking them across the floor.

She smiled at him like he wasn’t a freak, the same smile she smiled at everybody.

She was so kind. It was for everybody. She was kind to him the way that she was kind to everybody else, and it was just… It was never fair. It was never going to be fair.

[whereismyhat5678]

I haven’t drawn Fake Peppino in AGES

For any Fake Peppino lovers out there that I’ve disappointed I’m so sorry- 💀🙇‍♀️

And for anyone WHO HASN’T EVER SEEN me actually draw him I’M EVEN MORE SORRY 🙏🙇‍♀️🙏🙇‍♀️🙏🙇‍♀️

Now I personally don’t want newer viewers seeing my cringe ass Fake pep art but if anyone who does wanna see it- (HEADS UP FOR INTENSE BODY HORROR-) take these few links (I’m sorry I can’t scroll through my entire blog again just take some examples- 🥲):

Here, here, here, here and here.

The first one is my first ever drawing of him, I did not draw him normal- 💀

Anyways….this means have I changed how I draw him? Yes!

Look at the silly goober!! I may draw him just like this for now however…It was fun drawing him like the slimy disaster he was but it’s fine-…It always took a bit of time to draw those 🤷‍♀️

But just for the fun of it, and for old times sake, take a body horror Fake Peppino: (Warning, it looks kinda bad- 💀)

[galaxygermdraws]

so instead of get back into art after the basic recovery of my surgery, I instead replayed Mario and Luigi Partners in Time…and why does nobody talk about this game?? Hardly ever see it in the Super Mario tag. Like. It’s actually insane how dark it gets. People die. Like actually die. Not as dark as SPM but like we see the dead spirits of Toads get siphoned through tubes. They had their life force sucked out of them via genetically modified trees. Yoshis were eaten by a larger alien Yoshi and were gonna be turned into more alien Yoshis via a factory IN THE GIANT ALIEN YOSHI. We see a town that’s literally just “Christmas is Cancelled” the city. Their mayor probably died. We never see these places restored because there are no survivors to restore them. The citizens of Hollijolli village probably all died by the time the bros shut down the Vim factory. And also there’s the entire scene with the Star Gate. Like. Hello??

maybe I’ll stream or let’s play this game and share it here because I think. More ppl should talk about Partners in Time. I’ll say it too: I like it more than Bowser’s Inside Story. By like a LOT. That’s my ramble for the night. Ttyd day tomorrow. Yippee

[steakout-05]

been drawing a sorta reference thingy for Salesman Barry in the timeloop au i've been rotating around in my brain for a while recently :] it isn't as much a character design reference as it is more of a reference for how Barry's mental state begins to deteriorate as he starts having intense deja vu and nightmares every time his timeline gets reset upon death and he tries to piece together what is going on out of pure desperation and instincts (he is being experimented on and doesn't know it yet). i want to throw him at a wall (affectionate)

it is still a WIP as i haven't drawn all the details yet and i want to change the colours as they look too dull on my pc,,, also here is the original sketch :D

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

I wanted to ask what's your favorite and least favorite bug?

favorite: honey bee

least favorite: mosquito

[userblaney]

!!!!!

[not-neverland06]

paranormal love

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s James?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t me, I swear-”

“Not this ghost shit again, seriously-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6 PM

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“James?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky grins, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Martha.”

“Thanks for seeing me, Bette.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bette,” you warn, voice low. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did you bury him?”

5 PM

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

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

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

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

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

Rest In Peace

Husband, Brother, Friend

James Buchanan Barnes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[l0vergirlsw0rld]

day four: teratophilia (the attraction to monsters) | NSFW MDNI 18+

You were raised in an anti-mutant household, which meant you were constantly exposed to the kind of negative rhetoric that painted their kind as dangerous, lesser, or unnatural. Every family dinner or news segment seemed to include some passing comment about the threat they posed, how they didn’t belong, and how the world would simply be better off without them. It was almost inevitable that those opinions seeped into your mindset, shaping the way you viewed mutants, even before you had the chance to really understand who they were.

You're entire life, you were told that they were monsters, and you believed it.

But now, here you were, living next door to one, and it turned your entire world upside down. Logan was everything you had been warned about and yet somehow, despite your life-long terror, he drew you in like a moth to a flame.

At first, you kept as much distance as possible, only peeking through the curtains of your window, observing him as he moved about in the outdoor world. You'd lock your doors when he'd be home, barricading yourself from any potential contact with him. A few times you had been caught peering at him from your bedroom above, he'd stare holes into your glass trying to decipher your surveillance. There was an intensity in his gaze that sent a thrill racing through you, a raw power that naturally made your heart pound. He had a rugged handsomeness that felt almost primal; the scruff on his jaw accentuated his strong features, while the glimmer in his piercing eyes hinted at wisdom and untamed desires.

When he moved, it was with animalistic intention, every motion deliberate and prowl-like. You noticed how his muscles flexed beneath his fitted shirts, how the tension in his body oozed strength and danger. It made you feel alive in a way you’d never experienced before. It was wrong, but felt so good.

As time went by, you grew slightly more comfortable with the fact that you coexisted on the same plot of land with someone of his kind. Logan was handsome, and if you didn't know what he truly was underneath that attractive exterior you would also find him quite charming as well. When you'd cross paths he'd give you a simple wave of a hand or a smile, and once in a blue moon, you would receive the "How ya' doing?" or even the "Nice day today, huh?"

Some of his attributes were stereotypical monster-like traits that both terrified and fascinated you: the sharpness of his teeth that peeked out when he smirked, his canines ground into finer tips at the ends. Hair covered his limbs from head to toe in thick dark curls. His sharp adamantium claws that protruded from his knuckles when he was angry. When he was, it wasn’t just a simple outburst; it was a full-blown rage that sent shivers down your spine. You’d watch in awe from your window as he sliced through miscellaneous objects outside in fits of anger, showcasing the lethal power hidden inside of his human exterior. The way he seemed to tap into that primal fury was horrifically mesmerizing, drawing you in even further to the glass as you found yourself wrestling with an undeniable attraction to the very characteristics that were drilled to repulse you.

It was maddening how someone you were taught to fear could also make you blush and fantasize at night. Your attraction bubbled beneath the surface, fueled by a mixture of desire and confusion. With each simple encounter, you felt your walls beginning to crumble, leaving you exposed to feelings you hadn’t anticipated. How could someone so captivating, so fierce, also be the very monster you were told to fear?

The night was thick with silence when a sudden roar shattered your stillness, yanking you from the depths of sleep. Heart racing, you threw off your covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the coolness of the wood hitting the soles of your feet like a jolt. You padded to the window, pulling your curtains to the side.

You squinted as illumination from the streetlight poured into your room. After your eyes adjusted slightly, you identified Logan in his yard, dressed in only a white tank top and pyjama bottoms. His primal rage echoed through the darkness, throaty screams that sent your stomach whirling into a knot. You could almost feel the tension crackling in the air as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess.

You didn't know what it was, but something inside of you was bringing you out to him. You slid on your silk robe, crept out of your room and made your way outside mechanically. Your legs moved on their own, not processing the danger you were about to confront. As you stepped out, the cool night air bit at your skin.

You followed the shrieking sounds and found him in the backyard, surrounded by scattered debris, his metal claws gleaming under the moonlight as he sliced through anything and everything in his path. Blood dripped from his knuckles, painting the dried grass beneath him red.

“Logan!” it came out before you could knew it. His rabid attention snapped onto you, and for a moment, the wildness in his eyes made the hair on the back of your neck stand. He didn't speak, the only sound coming from him was the exhorted breaths that escaped his flared nostrils. You kept your eyes locked on his not wanting to let your guard down for a second. You stepped into the beast's lair and there was no longer a simple way out. You approached him apprehensively, your voice stayed strong despite the turmoil around you. “What’s going on?

"Go back inside." He rasped sharply, scanning your concerned features.

"Why are you destroying your yard in the middle night?" Your voice hitched in a mixture of genuine care and nervousness.

As you spoke, your eyes traced the outlines of his massive form. The seams of his tanktop barely hold in his muscles. His metal claws glinted menacingly, still extended and glistening with blood as he began shredding through branches again like they were nothing but paper. It was an entirely different experience to witness it up close, you could feel the heat radiating off of him as his strength coursed through him. Blood flew in the air as swung mindlessly, and a drop landed on the tip of your white shoe.

“Logan, please,” you pressed, stepping closer despite the urge to retreat and lock yourself back in your house. “You’re hurting yourself. You need to calm down.”

He turned his head slightly, the tension in his jaw stark as he fought to retract his claws, but they remained locked in place. The frustration in his eyes flickered with something deeper, something raw and untamed. “I can’t,” he growled, the deep rumble vibrating in his chest.

Your heart raced as you took another step forward, drawn to his intensity, yet cautious of the storm that surrounded him. “What’s got you so worked up?” you asked, your voice softer now, trying to break through.

“Just… stay back,” he warned, his voice strained, a desperate attempt to keep you at a distance, but you could see the frustration etched across his face. The claws seemed to pulse with his agitation, and you felt a mixture of fear and empathy tugging at your heart.

"Logan," you said, your tone steady and firm, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. "Let me help you."

His gaze flickered to you, conflicted, as if he were teetering on the edge of control. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, but there was a softness in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability that you couldn’t ignore.

“You need to talk about it,” you insisted, your resolve strengthening. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

As the words left your mouth, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his thick arm, a tentative gesture of support. The contact seemed to snap something within him, and he let out a deep, frustrated sigh, the tension in his body wavering just enough for you to see the man beneath the beast.

"They won't go back in. Can't go out like this, I look like a fucking monster." He snarled, looking down at his claws.

His words hung in the air, heavy with self-loathing. The muscles in his jaw clenched tightly. It was as if he were battling an internal war, torn between the primal instincts that coursed through him and the desire to keep you safe from the chaos within.

“Logan, you’re not a monster,” you replied softly, your heart aching for him. “You’re just… different. And I kind of like different.” You could feel the rhythmic thumping of your heartbeat in your throat.

His brow furrowed as he studied you, equally in disbelief of your boldness as you were flickering in his eyes. “You say that now, but—”

“Seriously,” you interrupted, stepping closer. At first, you hesitated to reach out and cradle his face in your hands, but with a deep breath, your fingertips dug into his facial hair. “Those claws? They’re just part of who you are. They don’t define you.”

A flicker of vulnerability passed over his face, and you felt the tension in his body begin to ease, just a fraction. “You’re playing with fire,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, laced with something that felt dangerously close to desire.

“Maybe I want to get burned,” you teased, a playful smile creeping onto your lips. “Monsters can be sexy, you know. I've been watching you.”

He snorted at that, a half-hearted chuckle escaping him, but the weight of the moment shifted as his gaze grew more intense. “You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all,” you replied, your heart racing as you leaned closer, emboldened by the growing chemistry between you. “There’s something powerful about owning who you are, even if it means embracing the monster inside. Besides, I don’t think I mind a little danger.”

“Dangerous is an understatement,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes darkened with something primal. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Try me,” you challenged, biting your lip as you stepped even closer, daring him to meet you halfway. The air crackled with an electric tension, and for a moment, the world around you faded into a blur.

Logan took a step back. “The claws,” He began to warn you.

“I don't care” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

The tension between you grew palpable, a charged current that ignited the space around you. He hesitated for a moment, but you could see the walls he had built slowly crumbling as he fought against the primal instincts urging him to take you right there.

With a sudden movement, you closed the distance, your lips crashing against his in a fervent kiss that felt like the collision of two worlds. Your hands tangled in his hair and you knew in that moment you were both stepping into uncharted territory.

You pulled him to the tree he was slicing before your kiss, your back hitting the bark. His tongue glided against yours skillfully making you moan into his mouth. He dug his claws deep into either side of the trunk caging you in between his arms. You looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Gotta make sure I don't accidentally slit your throat while I fuck you." He let out with a smirk.

@back2thebasics @spookyfunhottub, @lanassmarty, @hypermarvellove @kbear8863 @squishyfruitloop, @v3rdee @instantpersonawombat, @a-leg-without-fear, @cherrypieyourface

If you'd like to join my tagged list and be notified whenever I post new content, click ->-> HERE<-<-, instructions will follow.

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[willalove75]

Alcina fic idea/request, it’s totally cool if you don’t wanna do this one, I’ve never requested a fic before

Y/N is her shy personal maiden scared of overstepping, Alcina likes making her react/embarrassed. Alcina’s in a bath with Y/N there to fetch anything she’d need and Alcina pulls her in?

I love this idea!!!! I'm honored that I'm the first person you've requested a fic from!🥺💕 I hope you enjoy it!!

Warnings: Smut, a dash of praise kink, a splash of mommy kink, uh, I think that's it lolll

18+ Only Minors DNI

As the day winded down in Castle Dimitrescu you stood by the Countess during dinner with a wine bottle in you hands, ready to refill her glass whenever it was empty. You're been her handmaiden for a few months now so you're used to the Lady's routine and are privy of the things she prefer. Such as her favorite flavor tea, which soaps and oils she likes to use in the bath when she's stressed, which dresses are her favorite, etc..

Lady Dimitrescu has only had good things to say about your performance, something you're grateful for, but she's still the matriarch of the Castle, one slipup and you're in the dungeon. The dungeon terrified you more than anything else, more than the girls' sadistic antics and more than the Lady's massive claws. Even though you've never been down there before, you've heard screams echo through the castle when the door is open when the girls come in and out. Many of the maids who are sent there return with horrific wounds, if they return at all.

Even though you were grateful that Lady Dimitrescu picked you to be her personal maid, you couldn't help but feel like you were always walking on eggshells. You were always quiet, you kept to yourself and did your work and did it damn well. Now that you're the Lady's handmaid, you feel like you've shrunken into your shell even more.

For the first few weeks in your new position, weren't sure why you shrunk back so much. Yes, she could be terrifying, but there was something else, something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Until the first time you saw her undress, that was. She stood before you in all of her glory, her black lingerie contrasting perfectly against her porcelain skin. You drank in every inch of her, her massive breasts, her waist, her toned belly that still had a softness to it, her wide hips, her perfect ass, her legs that seemed to go on for miles. It was almost impossible to tear your eyes away from her, you were only able to do so when she pulled you out of your trance.

"Do you like what you see, pet?"

That's when it hit you like a ton of bricks. Sure, you were a little afraid of her, but more than that, you had the biggest crush on her. It's only gotten worse since that day. You're not sure if she's picked up on it by now, you've tried to be discreet, but ever since then she's tried to fluster you every chance she gets. It's like a game to her, she's the cat and you're the mouse.

The Countess holds out her wine glass in your direction and you walk up to her outstretched arm. She's currently involved in a conversation with her daughters and isn't paying any attention to you, which normally you'd be more than okay with. But since she's not paying attention, she doesn't realize that she's holding her empty glass over your head. Afraid of overstepping, the last thing you want to do is interrupt her conversation with her daughters to ask her to lower her hand so you look around to see if there's a stool or something you can climb on to to reach.

Bela sees you out of the corner of her eye and does a double take, watching you with amusement as you stare at the glass hovering over your head. She begins to snicker and you look over and make eye contact with her and quickly look down with a small squeak.

Lady Dimitrescu notices Bela giggling and follows her line of sight, leading directly to you. She notices that she's holding the glass too high she chuckles and you look up at her, a blush starting to dust your cheeks.

"My little pet, you could have asked me to lower my glass." She says with a faint laugh as she lowers her arm so you can pour the wine.

"I'm sorry my Lady, I didn't want to interrupt." You say, looking down at the floor after filling her cup.

She puts her glass on the table and puts her knuckle under your chin, lifting your face to look at her.

"Such a sweet, timid little mouse." She says, looking into your eyes.

You can see a hint of amusement in them, as well as something else. Adoration? No, the Countess could never look at you in such a way. You can't quite put your finger on it, but the look is soft and somehow makes you even more flustered than usual.

Once dinner was done Lady Dimitrescu asked you to accompany her to her chambers and assist her with her evening bath.

She sits down at her vanity and you climb onto the step stool behind her and begin removing the pins from her hair. She has the softest hair you've ever felt, which is a little strange given she isn't human, but you don't think about it too much. Her thick, raven curls fall just above her shoulder as you remove the pins. You coil a few of the pieces around your finger where the curls fell out, returning them to their natural shape as you go.

Lady Dimitrescu pauses taking off her makeup for a moment and stares at you through the mirror, watching you as you examine each curl as it falls, she admires the way your eyes shimmer and the little wrinkle that forms between your eyebrows when you're focused. Looking up for a moment, you catch her gaze in the mirror and you feel your face get warm, you immediately look back down and silently finish taking out the last of the hairpins.

She smirks at your reaction and after you take out the last pin and fix the final curl behind her ear, Lady Dimitrescu gently grabs your hand and holds it in hers. You freeze for a moment, staring at her hand wrapped around yours, the coolness of her skin is soothing, especially against your rapidly heating skin. Looking up you meet her gaze in the mirror once more and she looks at you with a kind, almost loving smile.

"I've never had a maiden take such care of my curls before. I hope you know your thoroughness and attention to detail doesn't go unnoticed."

"Th-thank you very much, my Lady."

"The face you make when you're focused is quite adorable, if I say so myself little mouse."

You let out a little squeak, a habit you picked up from your mom, and look back down to her hand over yours. The heat rises to your cheeks and you know they must be bright red.

Lady Dimitrescu turns in her seat to face you, when you look up, you're met with a gorgeous pair of golden eyes.

"Do you know why I call you 'little mouse'?"

You shake your head. "No, my Lady."

"Because of that little squeak you make when you're flustered, it's quite charming."

You try and hold back your squeak but fail, miserably. Lady Dimitrescu laughs and turns back around.

"You can go ahead and unbutton my dress now, little mouse." She says after she turns back around, smirking at you in the mirror.

After you unbutton the dress, Lady Dimitrescu pulls her arms out of the sleeves and stands up, the dress pooling at her feet. As you're about to get down from the step ladder to grab it, she sits again at her vanity.

"Be a dear and unclip my bra for me, pet." Her smirk is gone but she has a look in her eyes you've never seen before. You freeze for a moment, she's never asked you to do this before. With shaky hands, you delicately grab each side of the clip and unhook it. Looking up in the mirror, she holds your gaze as she slowly slides the straps off of her shoulders and pulls the bra away. Her breasts drop a bit from the lack of support and she tosses the bra away. It's taking everything in you to hold her stare, you get the feeling she wants you to look, but you could also just think that because that's what you want her to be thinking.

Lady Dimitrescu stands up and you release a small breath of relief as you climb off of the step ladder and head straight into the bathroom. You fill the massive tub up with warm water and add her favorite soaps and a few drops of her favorite oils. As you're finishing up Lady Dimitrescu walks in, stark naked. Never before have you seen her like this, usually she waits until you're out of the bathroom to take off the rest of her clothes. She's as gorgeous and as sexy as you imagined, honestly even more so. You quickly stare at the ground as she walks further into the bathroom.

"Your bath is ready, my Lady."

She gently cups under your chin and slowly, painfully slowly, raises your gaze up towards her. As your eyes move up, the first thing you notice is that your face is just inches away from her heat, you swear your heart stops for a second. She lifts your chin more and you take in the curves on her hips, her belly, looking up further you can see the underside of her breasts and finally, you lock eyes with her. You can feel your face burning up in her hand, you're sure she can feel it too.

Lady Dimitrescu stares at you for a moment and tucks a dark curl behind her ear before crouching down to your height. When she's at eye level with you, the look in her eyes changes, as if she's admiring a piece of artwork.

"Such a sweet little girl." She says softly, her thumb reaching up and slowly pulling your bottom lip down.

Your heart does a backflip and you squeeze your thighs together. She's been teasing you all night, but that intimate gesture is what really made you wet.

Her nostrils flare for a second and the look in her eyes shifts, her pupils dilate and she quirks an eyebrow softly. She leans in, her lips just barely brushing against the shell of your ear.

"So sweet." She whispers before placing a soft kiss on your cheek.

As she drops her hand and stands up you let out a small squeak and she smirks and steps into the tub. It takes everything in you to not melt into a puddle on her bathroom floor.

"I would like you to do my hair for me please, pet." She says as she lowers herself into the water.

"O-of course my Lady."

Walking around to the back of the tub, you climb onto the steps while Lady Dimitrescu leans back and dunks her hair into the water. She relaxes against the tub while you lather the shampoo into your hands and begin massaging it into her scalp. She gently hums as she closes her eyes, enjoying the soothing sensation. You rinse the shampoo out and add conditioner to the ends of her hair, gently combing it through with a brush, starting from the ends and working your way up. After you rise the conditioner out, you dip your hands into the water to wash the excess soap off.

"Is there anything else you need from me my Lady?" You ask as you pull your hands out of the water.

Lady Dimitrescu grabs one of your wrists and holds you there, bent over the edge of the tub. She turns her shoulders towards you and looks into your eyes for a moment.

"Actually pet, I believe there is something you can assist me with."

"Um, what is it, my Lady?"

"I would like for you to join me, little mouse."

You let out a squeak and stare at her wide-eyed. Did you hear her right? She wants you to bathe with her? Lady Dimitrescu senses your shock and chuckles.

"I know your feelings towards me are, deeper, than just being my handmaid, little mouse." You feel your face turn beet red. "I was quite surprised, but pleasantly so. Since you've been doing such a wonderful job, I want to reward you." She leans in and whispers in your ear. "I also find myself very attracted to you, pet. So, what do you say?"

She gently nibbles your earlobe before she pulls away and instead of a squeak, a small moan escapes from your lips. Lady Dimitrescu practically purrs when she hears you moan and leans back in, placing open mouth kisses on your neck. Your eyes roll back and you let out a few more moans.

"Care to join me?" She whispers in your ear.

"Yes." You breathe.

Lady Dimitrescu turns more in the tub and grabs you by your waist and pulls you into the tub and places you in her lap. You squeak as she pulls you in, maids uniform and all and your heart almost beats out of your chest when she has you straddle her, her breasts practically in your face.

She cradles the back of your head and pulls you into her, her lips are just barely brushing against yours. She holds your there for a moment before placing a soft, tender kiss on your lips. Her lips are softer than you ever imagined them to be, you feel like you're floating as she kisses you.

Pulling away just enough to ghost your lips once more, Lady Dimitrescu looks into your eyes.

"Would you like me to continue, pet?" You nod your head. "Use your words sweet mouse." She coos.

"Yes, please." You breathe.

Her pupils dilate so much her eyes nearly turn black, she pulls you into her and kisses you hard. You feel her tongue caress your bottom lip and you open your mouth more, letting her in. As she's exploring the inside of your mouth with her tongue, you feel a bit of a pull on the back of your uniform and then hear a tearing sound. Lady Dimitrescu extended one of her claws just enough to rip through your clothes. When she's done cutting through them, she pulls them off of you and tosses them away. You can hear the splat of the wet cloth hitting the floor somewhere in the bathroom.

She quickly pulls off your bra and claws through your underwear, leaving you just as naked as she is, your body pressed up against hers. Her lips travel down your jaw to your neck where she continues to kiss and suck up and down it. The hand that's tangled in your hair slowly slides down your body, she palms each of your breasts, taking your nipples between her fingers pinching them and rolling them until they're hardened. Sliding further down your body, her fingers dance across your sternum and head towards you belly, she gently drags her nails down your skin until she reaches your core.

There was a part of you that thought she was going to tease you, but to your surprise she immediately cups your heat, the pads of her fingers making contact with your clit right away. You can't help but throw your head back and do your best to swallow a moan as she rubs circles over it. Her other hand grabs the back of your head as she continues making up your neck.

"Good girl, let me hear those pretty noises you make." She says before picking up the pace.

Her lips travel down a bit to your collarbones and chest and she nips and sucks on your skin, riddling you with love bites. Without realizing it, you start to grind down onto her fingers and she smirks.

"Such an eager little pet." She purrs. "Do you want more?"

"Yes," you moan, "please."

Not a second after the words leave your mouth, she slides her middle finger deep into your core. You cry out in pleasure and you grab onto her shoulders. She thrusts her finger in and out of you a few times before curling it inside of you, making you cry out again. After doing that a few times you begin to buck your hips against her.

"More," you beg. "please, I need more."

Lady Dimitrescu tightens her hold on the back of your hair and slides her finger out of you. Just as you're about to whine from the loss she shoves two fingers into you, causing your eyes to roll to the back of your head as you let out a filthy moan. A growl rumbles in her chest when she hears you and thrusts into you harder.

"What a good girl you are, taking my fingers so perfectly, letting me stretch you out so nicely." She says as she sucks on your neck more.

The only thing you can do in response to her praise is moan more and dig your nails a little harder into her. After thrusting in and out of you for a few minutes, her free hand moves down to your hip and she lowers you further onto her lap. Stilling her fingers, she pulls your hips up and back down, picking up the hint, you start to bounce on them. On each reentry she curls them into you hitting all of the right spots that make you see stars.

The harder you slam yourself down onto her fingers, the harder she curls into you and the higher you climb, getting closer and closer to your climax. Slamming down onto them once more, you start grinding your hips into her, bringing yourself closer and closer.

"You're so close my little pet, I can feel you clenching around my fingers." She says. "Do you want mommy to take you over the edge? To make you feel so good?" She coos, which only brings you closer.

"Yes, please!" You cry out. "Fuck me, please fuck me!"

"So vulgar." She teases before sucking on your pulse point for a moment, making you whine.

When she pulls away from your neck, her free hand steadies your hips while you straddle her and she works her fingers in and out of you. Staring off at a bit of a slower pace, she quickly picks it up and in no time she's slamming her fingers in and out of you. Your cries get louder and louder and if you weren't in such a state of bliss right now, you'd be sure that the entire castle can hear you.

The bath water begins to splash over the edge onto the marble floor as she fucks you harder and harder. Your lower abdomen begins to tense up and you feel yourself clenching harder around her fingers.

"Fuck! I'm so close." You cry.

Lady Dimitrescu responds only by going faster and harder. Your climax hits you like a train, ecstasy explodes inside of your body and your eyes roll into the back of your head as you cry out in pleasure. She drags your orgasm out for as long as she possibly can before you practically go limp and fall into her.

She pulls her fingers out of you and holds you close, gently rubbing your back and whispering praises into your ear as the aftershocks rock your body. Each time an aftershock causes you to whimper she places a soft kiss into your hair.

"You did so wonderful little mouse. You looked so beautiful cumming all over my fingers. You did such a good job." She whispers as your heartbeat begins to slow and your breaths even out.

"Thank you, my Lady." You say softly, placing an open mouthed kiss on her neck as your head rests in the crook of it.

Exhaustion begins to take over and you can't seem to fight it. Lady Dimitrescu picks up on it and grabs her soap and washes you and herself. When she's finished, she gets out of the tub with you in her arms and dries the both of you off, carrying you to her bed. Laying you down, she curls up next to you and pulls the covers over the two of you. Her arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer.

She places a kiss on your forehead and you fight to open your eyes for a moment. Lady Dimitrescu gazes into your tired eyes and you notice that look again, this time you're certain she's looking at you with admiration.

"Go to sleep little mouse." She says, kissing your forehead once more.

Your eyes flutter closed and you think to yourself "I love you."

Lady Dimitrescu watches as you lose the battle to keep your eyes open. Just as you're falling asleep you say "I love you." It was so soft she wouldn't have heard it if she didn't have supersonic hearing. She gently kisses the corner of your mouth and cuddles you into her.

"Goodnight my sweet girl." She whispers before falling fast asleep.

[heyaheiya]

hi sweetie, I love your work (◍•ᴗ•◍)

here's my request: pro hero katsuki x influencer quirkless reader. like how started the relationship and maybe some headcanon like hand placement, if there's pda in some events or awards, what he would answer if some1 ask him about his relationship, etc.

I hope you like my request, thank u and have a great day 💗

Omg I love the idea of katsuki with a famous non pro hero partner.

You were surprisingly popular for what you did. Makeup tutorials, reviews, grwms, ootd, vlogs. A part of your popularity was how it seemed you lived the dream life, inspiring teens all across Japan to strive for your aesthetic. (Wonyoungism lmfao).

You officially met Katsuki when you were asked to be the main interviewer on this year's annual Pro Hero Billboard Chart red carpet. When you read the email offering you this once in a lifetime opportunity, you slammed your laptop closed and sped walked laps around your bedroom. You were just a random person who posted silly footage of themselves. But now you were going to be on national TV, being on screen with the most famous faces of Japan. You were shitting yourself.

The company in charge of everything didn't really give you anything to prepare, not terrifying at all!! You spent days researching the heroes, trying to dig deep to find actually interesting things, rather than the repetitive "What made you want to be a hero?". A part of you really wanted to find embarrassing and creepily personal things to entertain the audience, but you quickly found there was a reason why you weren't a detective. 3 days straight, you attempted to stalk the heroes, and nothing. NOTHING!

The event was coming up quickly, and you had absolutely nothing. Your thick stack of cards, all decorated with the iconic design, were blank. You cried for 7 hours.

Eventually, you wrote down some questions, but rereading them, they were the most pathetic excuses for questions ever. You were spiralling. The next day, you were probably going to bomb, have no chemistry with any of the heroes, broadcasting hours upon hours of awkward tension, ruining your reputation and career, destroying the image you had spent years creating for yourself. You cried. A lot.

With a blink of the eye, you were at the red carpet, all dolled up, with less confidence than ever before. Great. The first hero you were stuck with was Deku. You assumed production noticed your panic and decided to throw you a bone.

"So, Deku, if you had to describe your pre-hero days with one word, what would it be?"

"Hmm," he took a second to think, "Bad."

Huh. No, Deku, No!! You were supposed to be the easy one! You cried internally.

"What? A nice, handsome boy like you? I bet you were popular in middle school!"

"I was bullied horrifically."

Damn.

Eventually, you'd managed to get past Deku, Red Riot, Sun Eater, and more. And it was awful. Just one more until your break. Just one more.

Praying to get an easy one, out walks Dynamight. Why do you hate me, God????

He was tall, brooding, and bad with interviews. You were hoping he'd just kill you so you wouldn't have to live with the memory of fucking up infront of the country.

"So- Dynamight. What inspired that name?" Fake it till you make it ig. You grit your teeth in discomfort.

There's a long pause before:

"Dynamite."

"Yeah, what inspired it?"

"Dynamite."

"Dude I just wanna go home, please don't make this harder."

"FUCK! DYNAMIGHT COMES FROM THE ENGLISH WORD DYNAMITE! I JUST CHANGED THE SPELLING OF "MITE" TO "MIGHT" CAUSE ALL MIGHTS FUCKING COOL AS FUCK!"

"Don't yell at me! :("

Dynamight's PR team advised him to keep his answers short and to hold in his anger until he was off screen. You'd assumed he'd been holding in his sass for the past 5 hours, so it was only natural he'd blow up soon. (Like dynamite lol)

As soon as you got home from that shit show, you quickly noticed how your name was trending on twitter.

Welp, time to see how badly I ruined my career. Goodbye fame, it's not like I spent years on you..

You slowly scrolled through your tag, skimming the posts about you. However, the more you read, the more you realised people didn't hate you. In fact, the most popular video of the night was you and Dynamight's interview. And people were.. SHIPPING YOU???

You avoided anything and everything for around a week, not even opening your blinds to let in the light. The only contact you had through those 7 days was your ugly orange cat. That was until you got a knock at your door.

That's weird, I only ordered food 2 minutes ago.

You pulled the door open, saw Katsuki, and slammed it back closed, a tuft of his fluffy blond getting stuck between the door and the frame.

"FUCK ME DEAD!"

"Sorry!!"

You yanked the door back open and looked up at the man. The commotion made your cat, Miso, perk up in fear and scratch at the tall beast of a man.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! First you avoid me like the plague, then you assault the shit out of me!"

"I'm so so sorry (ToT)"

------

Headcanon time 😼😼:

This man has his hands around your waist 24/7.

However, in the privacy of your own homes, he'd be a massive cunt and keep you in a headlock, knowing you can't do anything about it. He'd stop in a second if you asked him to.

At first, he wasn't big on pda. He felt it ruined his tough guy reputation. But his PR team begged him to keep a hand on you at all times, noticing how it kept his hashtag trending. Although he makes a big fuss, he secretly likes showing you off to everyone, and showing how you're all his.

Whenever he's asked about you, he insults the shit out of you.

"Huh, y/n? Never heard of them."

"They're an influencer? Yeah, no I only keep up with actual relevant people."

He means it with love. And he makes sure you know it, smothering you with love when he gets home.

Despite him bullying you about your only real job being promoting brands in your videos, he constantly buys you stuff. You make sure to show them off in your vlogs too.

Hope you enjoyed <33333

[world0fmadness]

CHAOS HORRIFIC

george russell x death metal vocalist! fisher! reader

♡ general dating headcanons for george with a death metal vocalist partner!

୨୧ basically, you’re the first child of george fisher from cannibal corpse and have your own death metal band in which you’re the vocalist! i need to do more for my fellow metalhead fans <3

♡ view my formula 1 masterlist here

reading music recommendations: make them suffer by cannibal corpse - evisceration plague by cannibal corpse

♡ to say he was terrified to meet your father would be a huge understatement…

୨୧ since you’re his first child, your father is extremely protective of you and soft on you

♡ his hands were shaking on the drive over despite him cracking jokes and trying his best to appear totally calm and confident

୨୧ you try to assure him that your father is literally the sweetest person you know ( aside from george ) and is actually a huge teddy bear ( no but really, he is, look it up )

♡ george just has some trouble believing it because how is a man with the stage name “ corpsegrinder ” and in a band like cannibal corpse supposed to be a teddy bear?

୨୧ the dinner went… well, it went as good as it could! george cracking jokes every now and again to help relieve the tension

♡ as you and george are leaving, your father asks to have a quick word in private with george…

୨୧ he simply tells him to look after you and treat you well <3

♡ if he didn’t… well, let’s just say he told george a list of things he’d do to him and walked him out of the room, george whiter than a sheet of paper

୨୧ it took him spending a christmas with you guys to fully realise that yeah, actually your father is just a teddy bear underneath all of the brutal shit

“ did he like the lego set i got him? i couldn’t tell, love… ” ( your father loved it, obviously… )

♡ when word got out that you two were dating… oh boy, twitter went insane

୨୧ two completely different communities colliding to ask the same question “ what the fuck? ” whilst people who were in both communities were having the time of their lives

♡ your father and your boyfriend having the same name is something you all poke fun at very often <3

୨୧ george is almost always at your concerts!

♡ usually with headphones on because he still isn’t completely used to how loud they are but he’s getting there :,)

୨୧ when you come off stage, you usually have a sore throat and a head rush from head banging, both of which george helps to relive in any way he can whilst praising your performance

♡ when you were 15, your father brought you on stage at one of his concerts to do the vocals for one of the songs, it’s one of your favourite memories from your childhood and luckily there’s a lot of video evidence of it happening

୨୧ when you showed george the videos, he was in shock… you were such a cool teenager… you would’ve absolutely been able to beat his teenage self up so bad…

“ bloody hell, look at you go! you had a deeper voice than me… ” ( you did, you still kind of do and you both find it so funny )

♡ maybe death metal isn’t something in his day to day playlist but he’s so supportive! whenever you’re practicing vocals in the house, he’ll pop into your soundproofed room to check if you need a drink or any ice to soothe your throat

୨୧ or even just coming to admire your for a bit…

♡ you get approval on how brutal a lyric is by showing it to george!

୨୧ if he makes a face whilst reading it then it’s decided to be brutal enough for your song <3 he’s just happy to help, even if it means reading things that make him feel a little sick

♡ you guys very quickly become a fan favourite couple just due to how different you are… a lot of jokes are made but people seriously just love you

୨୧ because you basically ONLY wear combat boots, more often than not, your feet hurt like hell after a day at the paddock with george…

♡ he tries to convince you to wear a different pair of shoes but you don’t budge <3

୨୧ so usually, when you’re home or in his drivers room, he’ll give you the best foot massage known to man

♡ i can see you getting along best with lewis! both of you are musical souls, even if you’re in very different genres…

୨୧ he definitely has major respect for the metal scene and he just thinks you’re such a talented person and always likes listening to you talk about a new project

♡ something you like to do for george is make him custom CDs! you’ll burn songs that you think he’ll like onto it

୨୧ he’s never gotten over it, he thinks it’s literally the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for him and always has at least two of them in his car and drivers room

♡ you probably did some voice work for metalocalypse alongside your father and every year for your birthday, deathklok sends you one of their infamous birthday cakes and a card!

୨୧ george thinks it’s the funniest thing ever and always demands to be the one to take a picture of you holding it up next to the card

“ oh! what card is it this time, love? is that hello kitty? bloody hell… right, let me take a picture ” ( it was my little pony the year before, that one was his favourite )

♡ literally no one can get over how george ended up with someone like you… he dresses so proper and you dress so boyish… his hair is always perfect and your hair is always messy… he’s so polite and you don’t hold back

୨୧ but it just works and you’re so happy with each other

♡ and you know you’ll be happy with each other for a long, long time…

[that-sunny-pup]

Hello! I'm the mod, you can call me Mod Duck! Please respect that this blog is both as canon as I can be, but mostly headcanons, so some stuff might not be accurate or in character! I only had a couple scenes to work off of, so cut me some slack here 🙏

DogDay is 14 years old, and big DogDay/Solar is like. 31

𖤓 WARNINGS:

This blog may contain cursing and heavy topics such as mental breakdowns, Violence, panic attacks, and stuff simular to that. Mod is a Minor, so sexual topics will be kept to a minimum 🫵

𖤓 Role-playing and symbols:

"This is the regular, small DogDay! Hiya friends!!!"

"And this is the big DogDay, AKA Solar: They took my fuckin legs.."

[This is actions and/or thoughts!]

and this is how I'll speak most of the time! sometimes the tags tho

𖤓 other SC blogs:

@the-cool-chicken

@the-crafty-unicorn

@bubba-bubbaphant

@picky-piggy

@hoppyhopscotch1

@acat-foryournap

@bobbybearhugs-blog

@bunny-go-hop-hop

@dogday-shines-bright

@bearhugs-from-bobby

@the-cat-that-naps

@bubbabubbaphant-blog

@baba-chops-emo-sheep

@simon-the-dragon

@rabie-baby-bat

GO FOLLOW THEM, THEY'RE ALL WONDERFUL!!! 🫵

Plus my other blog: @allister-the-procrastigator

𖤓 ART:

[all drawn by me!]

current status: REVIVING!! very soon

headcanons under the cut:

Dogday has Autism and ADHD!

Because of his big ol ears, he has bad sensory issues with specific sounds, especially since he can hear so well. Because of that, he carries around headphones with him everywhere, so if you see him sitting somewhere with them on, he is overwhelmed, do not bother him!!

He glows in the dark like a nightlight, but his pendant glows constantly.

When he stims, he does so with tail wagging, hand flapping, and leg stomps/shakes.

he howls at the sun instead of the moon!

He is TERRIFIED of sunflowers. they stare back, he swears they do.

he finds pop rock candy very fascinating! it's his favorite candy.

he likes basking in the sun! and though he may be busy with something almost all the time, he always has an eye out, and is always keeping his friends safe, no matter what!

He 100% puts others before himself, no doubt.

he also has bad memory. not HORRIFICALLY bad, but its not very good either.

his body temperature is warmer than everybody elses, meaning he overheats easily. In contrast to what most would think, he likes cold weather more than summer weather.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

IDK if you've watched the x-men movies- og or first-class stuff- but if you have I'm curious as to your opinion on Charles Xavier/Professor X. Specifically: how would he get on with Edward? What about Carlisle? How woul Magneto/Erik get on with them?

I've seen I think all three of the OG X-Men live action films but it's so long ago I only remember 3 very well (and it was... very not good). I saw X-Men First Class and I think a few of the other reboot X-Mens that were also... not good.

But honestly? Based on those I feel like I just don't have enough to get a grasp of Professor X and Magneto. It doesn't help that this is one of those domains where the comics are very old and people are really into them, so if I just do "well, based on the film" I'm told "ACTUALLY THEY'RE SUPER DIFFERENT IN THE COMICS AND HOW DARE YOU".

But I'll take my best guess.

Professor X and Edward

Charles deals with overemotional and overly powerful teens who cause problems all the fucking time. He's dealt with ones who have caused a lot of damage, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not, so I feel like to Charles Edward is another kid in need of help. Does he need help? Absolutely, this boy is clearly traumatized by being turned into a vampire/the nature of his existence and his temptation for blood among other things. However, he's not unique and certainly not more terrifying than dealing with a preteen Jean Gray.

I actually think Edward would really like Charles. Yes, it's annoying he's more powerful than Edward (being basically able to do what Aro does, but from a distance, and able to control people's thoughts) but he's the kind of guy Edward would really like. He has all the power in the world but rarely if ever chooses to use it and when he does it's with a lot of justification to himself of why he has to erase these memories or make someone do this thing, usually with the safety of others in mind. He's well-spoken, earnest, has dedicated his life to helping gifted children the world has shunned and is able to offer Edward advice.

For all Edward would argue he's older than Charles, I do think Charles could glide into that mentor-like position (especially since he has, canonically, for older characters such as Logan).

Charles in turn I imagine would be a good mentor for Edward who would both a) actually understand what he's thinking and going through because of the telepathy and b) being a voice of sanity Edward can choose to confide in.

Professor X and Carlisle

I imagine Charles... understands why Carlisle has turned these people, that Carlisle meant well, and that Carlisle was driven by a profound loneliness when he did so. He doesn't approve and Carlisle should absolutely stop, these people did not consent to become vampires and not all of them are happy being so, but he gets that Carlisle is ultimately human (humanoid) and can be expected to make mistakes/be driven by emotion.

Beyond that, I imagine the pair would get on great as, again, Charles is a person that actually reads your mind at the bone deep level and so you actually have to confront shit. And we know Carlisle was cool enough with Aro to stay in Volterra for twenty years, so he's fine with the general mind reading and I think would get on fairly well.

Unless Charles is in his bitchy heroin addicted phase he was in for that one movie.

Edward and Magneto

Nope.

See, the trouble is Edward gets Magneto's philosophy a little too much.

It's not the same at all, but Carlisle's philosophy is very in Professor X's line of thought: yes, even though there are bad humans who do bad, that does not justify our eating them or make us 'good' by doing so.

This is not entirely dissimilar to Charles's: yes, the humans often treat mutants and anyone with the label 'other', like complete dogshit, not limited to horrific murder, but that does not mean that we can target the general population of humans out of self-defense or kill them all and leave only 'pure' mutants.

Edward would see far too much of himself in Magneto's: we are absolutely justified in kicking the humans out of power/dismantling their entire system because they've done a shit job of everything for thousands of years and are always treating mutants and 'other' as shit.

Magneto's not eating humans, and Magneto often pumps the breaks when things get too spicy in X-Men land (from what I've seen he's never full "KILL THEM ALL" and usually ends up having to side with the X-Men with a pouty face when the other villain goes too far), and it's not really equivalent to Edward's self-justification for giving into desire but it'd be close enough that Edward would hate it because he hates what he himself did.

As for Magneto, he sees Edward as another overpowered self-righteous and seriously misled teen. Boy, he's seen a lot of those.

Magneto and Carlisle

It's like Charles the vampire but worse because he's turning these stupid kids into crystal death machines and then telling them not to give into natural instinct, starve themselves like monks, when they were by design made to feed off human blood.

"JUST EAT, YOU DUMB PEOPLE" I imagine Magneto screams at them in despair. The humans can handle it. Nobody's winning an award for these people nobly starving themselves and in Erik's humble opinion there's a lot of people who should kick the bucket.

It'd be stupid if Carlisle was doing it only to himself, but it's downright horrible that he's bringing these kids into it, and especially that none of them had any say in it.

Erik thinks this guy is a piece of shit.

[imagine-darksiders]

Mobsiders, chapter 2:

Malunion Fractures.

Summary: What? Is there something on your face?

Tw: Blood, violence, guns, threat, Strife being Strife.

---

There was a time when you thought you could use a bit of excitement in your life. Maybe even a little danger. Of course, that was when you were still living in a world in which humans were the dominant species, where angels and demons weren’t proven to exist yet and they stayed between the pages of storybooks where they belonged.

It was a world that didn’t have giant, mythical Horsemen in it, touting their weapons and sinking their claws into a freshly resurrected population, proclaiming that they were here to stay, all in the name of protecting Humanity.

What a crock of shit. None but the most hopeful, optimistic individuals bought that schtick.

Nobody who offers one hand in friendship while keeping a weapon in the other has noble intentions, and you all knew it.

Well… Most of you knew it.

You might have been naïve once, but then the world ended, and it was a stark lesson in mortality.

You could die.

You did die.

The world seemed a lot more dangerous after that…

And there are few things that remind you more of how dangerous the world can be than one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

You almost want to curse that young, bright-eyed version of yourself who asked for something exciting to happen to her. She should have been more specific.

This, you could definitely do without.

You can’t tear your eyes off that horrific, avian visor canting towards you, no matter how badly you’d love to screw them shut and pretend this is all just a vivid yet harmless nightmare.

But there’s just something about not seeing the monster that’s far more terrifying than being able to see it.

So, you stare, unblinking at the metal space below those incandescent, amber eyes, disinclined to find out if the rumours about meeting the gaze of a Horseman are true.

Broad as a train, standing taller than any human you’ve ever encountered, Strife still isn’t the largest of his ilk, as you’re only too aware of now that you’ve got an up-close and too-personal view of him.

Strife, in contrast, seems determined that you make eye contact with him. It’s hard not to when he’s keeping your chin pinned between a thumb and forefinger, deceptively gentle despite his size and his unyielding grasp.

“That’s better,” a low hum emerges from behind his silvery visor, sounding a little too pleased for your liking, “Shouldn’t hide eyes like yours under a-…”

You’re rather glad he doesn’t finish his sentence, instead trailing off into a stark, tangible silence.

Even from your peripheral vision, it’s hard to tell where he’s looking without any damn pupils to give you some indication.

Suddenly, your heart gives a lurch and you jolt, letting out a strangled squeak as the titanic brute leans down and pushes his visor right up to your face, eyes narrowed to slim, dangerous slats of light.

Alarmed, your hands clench into white-knuckled fists, and it takes everything in you not to lash out or try to push that leering mask away.

“What… the fuck… is this…?” Strife seethes through his teeth, all pretences of gentleness vanishing from his tone.

It’s impossible to repress the shudder that rolls through you from your toes to your fingertips.

In response to his question, the men to your left and right falter, their grips loosening by a fraction.

And then, you feel it; a ghost-like touch on the side of your face. The cool metal of Strife’s fingertip sweeps across your cheek and leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

Aghast, you start to throw your head back to escape his touch, but the Horseman is quick to adjust his hold, sliding the fingers that grip your chin up until they encompass your entire jaw, keeping your head locked rigidly in place.

Without taking his eyes off your cheek, he lowers his voice and repeats, “What the fuck is this?”

The men share a nervous glance over the top of your head.

All of a sudden, at a speed that leaves you reeling, Strife drops his hand from your jaw and spins on his heel, stalking away from you as he raises the same hand to his mouthpiece and drags it down the length of his chin, sighing roughly.

You barely have time to breathe a sigh of relief at having his hands off you.

“Boss?” the nasally man ventures.

Without warning, Strife does a complete about-face, wheeling towards you once again, only this time, his entire body seems to billow and puff up like a bristling wolf, and his eyes are wide open, ablaze with a hellish fire that sends you ducking into your jacket’s hood.

Shit… You don’t know what you just did to set him off, but with a look like that raging across what little you can see of his features, you’re fairly sure that this is the moment you finally die.

“Do either of you wanna tell me,” he starts, huffing like a runaway steam train, “What the Hell that is on her face?!”

Again, you jerk as he throws a hand up and gestures towards you.

‘My face?’ Instinctively, you attempt to lift your hand and touch your cheek, but find your arms still locked in position by the men at your flanks.

As if to remind you of its presence, the swelling on your cheekbone gives a dull, uncomfortable throb, and you’re momentarily thrown by the absurd notion that he might be asking what a bruise is…

Doesn’t he know? Don’t Nephilim get bruises? Surely he’s come across them in his line of work, why would yours be so antagonising?

The strength of the humans beside you wavers. You can feel it happening as they noticeably lean away from you, as though you’re the catalyst to Strife’s sudden hostility.

“I-it’s just like we said, Boss!” the man to your left stutters, shifting his weight from side to side. You get the impression he'd rather be anywhere but here. “She was givin’ us trouble! Wouldn’t get in the car! Dimitri had’ta do somethin’ to shut her up!”

The speed at which Strife’s helm whips towards the guilty party is astonishing. And petrifying. Molten eyes lock onto their target with all the gravitas of a man aiming down the sights of his gun.

Suddenly recognising that he might be in serious trouble here, Dimitri sheds the last of his bravado and rips his hands off your arm, stumbling backwards.

You aren’t granted a moment to even think about trying to break loose before his partner wrestles both of your hands behind your back and pulls you against his chest, holding you there with no choice but to watch Dimitri retreat across the room, away from a posturing Horseman.

“Now, just – hold on a second-!” In his haste, he catches his hip on a drinks table and almost upends several glasses and bottles that look like they’re worth more than you could make in a lifetime. They rattle and clink together precariously for a second before settling again as the man continues his retreat.

With a predatory grace, Strife turns his body towards the fleeing goon and begins to stalk after him, covering more distance in a single stride than Dimitri manages in three.

Swallowing your spit, you cringe when the nasally man behind you hisses a curse under his breath, wafting stale, smoky air across the back of your neck.

“Tell me, Dimitri,” Strife utters, shoulders hunched as he saunters forwards, “Which leg?”

Sweat trickles from the man’s temple, and his face goes a few shades short of translucent. “Wh-what?”

“I said,” the Horseman repeats slowly, taking another step that rattles the glasses on their table, “Which. Leg?”

Blurting out a nervous laugh, Dimitri finally backs up until his spine hits a bookcase on the far wall, cutting off his escape route. Shakily, he raises his hands, turning his palms towards the approaching Nephilim as if he means to placate a feral wolf. “Boss, c’mon, i-it’s just a bruise! Humans get bruises all the time, they ain’t so bad-!”

In the blink of an eye, Strife moves.

Too fast for you to track, he viciously tears Mercy from its holster and points all four of those dark, gaping barrels straight at the trembling man’s forehead, prompting you to let out a shriek of alarm which is swiftly drowned underneath the Horseman’s thunderous roar, “- I know what a bruise is, Dimitri! What I don't know is which fucking leg!?”

“Fuck! I-I don’t know!”

Eyes rolling in his skull like a spooked horse, Dimitri clutches at the bookshelf behind him, darting a helpless glance his partner still pinning you against his chest, and then, when he doesn’t find the solace he was evidently looking for, he even dares to dip a look in your direction.

The only thing you deign to offer him in return when his desperate gaze meets yours is your own wide-eyed stare of abject horror. For just a moment, he’s not the man who kidnapped you and gave you a smarting cheek. He’s human. You’re human. There’s some shared connection there, even if it’s buried deep under layers of animosity and hate and terror. And you can tell in that moment that for as tough as he’s been, this man is utterly and debilitatingly terrified of his own boss.

When faced with an immediate and undefeatable threat, it’s human nature to band together. A knee-jerk drive. You can’t help it any more than he can. You can see the apology written plain on his face now, though you’re sure it’s only there because he wants you to speak up and save his sorry hide.

If you were a better person, you might have said something to the Horseman, drawn his ire back towards you. You might have. Or maybe you want to believe you could.

But you can’t.

So, you look away, dropping your eyes to the floor and pretending for all the world that you’re smart enough to think of a way to save your own skin.

The man’s choked breath of despair cuts through you like a knife, damning and cold.

“Don’t be a coward now, Dimitri,” Strife admonishes, oblivious, “You gonna choose, or am I?”

“Shit – Fucken’, l-left!”

“Left?”

“Left!” Dimitri wails, “Goddammit, Left!”

“Left.” Nodding his helm once, Strife lowers his gun.

Then without warning, he raises his other arm and cocks it back, metal gauntlet curled into a fist. You don’t have time to wonder what he’s doing before he sends it forwards in a vicious jab, his knuckles colliding squarely with Dimitri’s already broken nose.

The nauseating ‘crack!’ threatens to make you lose your breakfast.

A howl of unquestionable agony tears itself from the man’s throat as he crumples to his knees and brings his hands up to cup gingerly over his nose, body wracked with uncontrollable spasms. Blood gushes from each nostril and spatters to the carpet below, some droplets even flying onto the metal boots of an absolutely livid Horseman.

“Not a fuckin’ scratch, I said!” Strife hollers between ragged breaths, towering over the whimpering human as he throws his gun back into its holster, “Not a goddamn hair on her head! You’re supposed to be professionals! The Hell’re we payin’ you for!?”

Shaking from head to toe, Dimitri hardly seems to be listening now, still hacking up breaths and coughs as his brain registers the excruciation.

Appalled, you sag weakly in the thug’s grasp, letting your mouth hang agape. If Strife is willing to do that to his own men… What chance do you have?

An already dangerous situation is getting wildly out of hand.

Heaving an enormous sigh, as if this is all one big, inconvenience to him, Strife wheels away from the man whimpering on his carpet and instead turns his attention back onto you, sending all the blood rushing to your head.

You hate that you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you or the nasally man holding you still.

Regardless, the Horseman peers in your direction for… far too long.

Squirming, you try to back up, but the man behind you seems to have locked his legs in position to become an immoveable wall, solid and ungiving at your spine. You can’t tell if the tremors running up and down your arms are from your own shaking, or his.

Gradually, as the titan of a Horseman continues to watch you, Strife’s shoulders start to slacken, and the raptorial tilt of his helm straightens out to something more human.

A stalemate ensues. You don’t say a word to him, he doesn’t say a word to you. The man behind you keeps letting out a string of almost inaudible swear words and huffs, his dress-shoes shuffling restlessly on the carpet.

You can hardly breathe for the ball of nerves clumped at the base of your throat, making every swallow ache and strain against the muscles of your neck.

Finally, with another, exaggerated exhale, Strife lays his hands on his hips and breaks the silence.

“Let her go,” he grumbles to the man behind you.

The grip on your arms relaxes, though only a little, not enough to pull yourself free. Not yet.

“Are you sure, Boss?” he swallows. There’s an air of feigned confidence in his tone, like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t just watch a Horseman of the Apoclypse destroy his partner’s face.

By the sound of Strife’s unamused chuckle, that was the wrong thing to ask.

Tipping his helm down, he puffs a breath at the floor before slowly raising his head to give the man a glower so dark, it seems to suck the light from the chandelier hanging overhead. “Question my orders again, and I really will shoot you. Maybe feed what’s left of you to my horse,” he utters, lifting his chin at you indicatively, “Let her go and get Dimitri outta here…”

When the man still hesitates, Strife jabs his hand sharply towards a door at the side of the room - different from the one you entered through - and shouts, “Go on! Get the fuck outta my sight. Both of you!”

Apparently deciding he’s pushed his luck as far as it’ll go, the man all but shoves you away from him, sending you stumbling a few feet towards the Horseman before you dig your heels in and come to a jarring halt, frantic eyes darting up to see the giant is still looking your way.

Hurrying past you, he gives Strife a wide berth until he reaches Dimitri and bends down, gathering the wretched man off the floor and slinging an arm across his shoulders as he hauls him upright.

With his blubbering, bleeding partner in tow, he shuffles towards the door, never once sparing you another, fleeting glance on his way.

Desperate, you shift your gaze to him and attempt to catch his eye, pleading in silence for him to take you along too, anything to get you out of this room with a Nephilim who has proven he has no qualms about hurting humans.

But it’s all for naught.

Neither of the men acknowledge you. So far as they’re aware, you’re just a dead woman walking. They’ve done their job – albeit badly – and they’d brought you before their boss. Now, they’re off to nurse their wounds and their pride, thinking nothing of the trembling woman they’ve left behind.

With his free hand, the man knocks on the wooden door, and a moment later, it swings open, revealing a long, well-lit hallway beyond. Grunting a hurried word of thanks, he drags the still whinging Dimitri over its threshold, and you’re given a brief glimpse of two more, suited people standing on either side of the doorway before it slams shut once more, sealing you inside with the inhuman equivalent of an unpredictable bear.

There goes that escape route…

“Idiots…”

Sucking in a wobbly breath, you toss your head back in Strife’s direction, fiercely admonishing yourself for taking your eyes off him, even for a moment.

‘Don’t lose focus,’ you remind yourself firmly, keeping your damp eyes glued to the Horseman’s armoured chest, ‘If you lose focus, you die…’

You may very well die even if you don't lose focus, but you’re clinging to any semblance of control you can maintain.

Strife’s posture, you can’t help but notice, has changed drastically in the few seconds you weren’t looking his way.

One of his massive hands sits draped across his hip, while his other arm has dropped to dangle lazily at his side. Those vivid, sweltering eyes seem brighter as they peer down at you, though nowhere near as charged.

In all, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks downright, unapologetically relaxed.

‘Of course he’s relaxed,’ you nearly scoff aloud, ‘He does this sort of thing all the time, and I’m not exactly a huge threat.’

Not a threat at all, in fact.

You’re torn from your harried thoughts when the Horseman lifts his boot to take a step towards you, a move that sends you tensing up tighter than a coiled spring, muscles bunched beneath your clothes in preparation to flee.

To your shock, he seems to take note of your visceral stiffness and… hesitates.

Curious, his silver helm cocks to one side like a bird, and then in a slow, deliberate display, he places his boot back down in the same spot as before.

To say you’re thrown would be an understatement. Hesitation from a beast like him is… Well, it’s just unheard of.

Tentatively, you narrow your eyes at him, trying to see the face beneath that visor and guess as to what he’s thinking. He has a reason for bringing you here, of that you’re certain. But what that reason is, you need to find out. And fast.

[merriclo]

I want to know your LU headcanons!

ohHO i will absolutely tell you tysm for asking!! i’ve been wanting to talk abt them for ages but just never got around to it ig ahjdkcka

Time’s actually like 32 and is just really committed to the bit of being ancient

Sky is horrific at making new friends. he grew up with the same small group of people, so he never learned how to make friends with complete strangers because there simply wasn’t the need to. so, when he first starts traveling with the chain, he makes little wooden charms for them because he isn’t entirely sure how else to get close with them. Zelda always enjoyed his woodcarvings, so maybe they will too??

as a result, the entire chain has little trinkets made by Sky. on Legend’s bag there’s charms hanging off the straps, and Twilight wears his as necklaces (both because it looks cool as fuck and it helps the shadow crystal stand out less). yes Wind has specifically commissioned him to make something for Aryll

yeah yeah bunny Legend but consider: the mermaid suit (which I like to think is more of a curse bc get fished pink man <3) giving him some marine animal qualities as well. no matter what tho that bitch is an Ariel kinnie, they’re collecting all the shiny shit they can find

Sky is obsessed with doing puzzles the Right and Proper way, meanwhile Wild cheeses absolutely everything he can

Wind believes in all of those classic pirate superstitions

the witches in Legend’s era adore him. Grandma Syrup dotes on him, Maple is like a teasing older sister, and Irene is like a teasing younger sister. this is where he learned most of his magic skills from, and he takes all potentially enchanted or cursed items to them to check out. he’ll never admit it, but Legend finds lots of comfort in all of them, as they’re one of the few people who’ve stayed in his life this long.

Wild’s a pretty good medic!! during his adventure, he very quickly realized how dangerous infection is, so they learned about a lot of home remedies and medicinal herbs, as well as how to tend to a wound from other travelers at stables and inns. he didn’t really get a choice in learning, considering how he probably got stung or bit by painful insects or accidentally brushed up against painful plants a lot during the early days of their adventure, and thus showed up to stables covered in rashes and hives and such, causing every decent person in the area to flock to them and try to help. their Hyrule is very sweet, okay?

they’re not the only one who’s well acquainted with medicinal herbs, though! while I think all of them would have a basic understanding, Time, Hyrule, Warriors, and Wind would know a lot. dw i’m elaborating

Time quite literally grew up in the forest, was raised by a tree, and had actual forest spirits for siblings—he knows his plants. he and Saria would peel willow bark and collect dandelions together

I like to think that Hyrule being half-fae makes him very sensitive to all magic-based auras, including that of plants, so they’re very good at picking out the healing herbs, even if they’re not quite sure what they’re called

listen ok hear me out about Warriors. young Time was appalled that he knew jackshit about nature and forcefully taught him. also, before modern medicine, medicinal plants were used all the fucking time on the battle field. yarrow, an herb that stops bleeding and prevents infection, is called soldiers’ woundwort because of this. i mention this because he was probably concerned about the health and safety of his troops, so he learned what the medics were doing and using.

Wind grew up on a small, tight-knit island, realistically they would’ve had to have learned how to use the things around them to their fullest advantage. that being said, his knowledge is sort of useless outside of his own era, aside from what he was taught in the war. ok i’m done talking about medicinal herbs now i promise sorry it’s a hobby of mine ahhsjdka

Legend’s terrified of dogs. in Link’s Awakening, the dogs are literally balls on chains with huge mouths full of sharp teeth (basically just Chain Chomps). if you want to get angsty with it: it comes from guard dogs being sent after him on his first adventure. he became a lot less scared to more he spent time with BowBow (the ball and chain dog) but, when he woke up, he got the belief that he could only be safe around a dog in his dreams. he’s pretty damn uncomfortable around Wolfie at first, but after lots of time and learning to trust Twilight, he’s able to slowly overcome his fear. sort of. mostly just with Wolfie. he still hates staying at stables in Wild’s Hyrule.

if Wild doesn’t want to explain/source something he’ll just say it came to him via divine intervention. Sky believes it every single time

I was thinking about Legend’s story a while ago and realized it was kind of similar to Joan of Arc’s so take that as you will. idk if this even counts as a headcanon but i’m putting it here

Warriors and Twilight are really close friends because they both understand the struggles of wrangling dirt worshipping nature freaks. anytime Twilight (lovingly) complains about Wild, Wars will counter with whatever asinine feral child antics young Time got up to and suddenly Twi will feel very blessed and lucky

whenever Four sees someone with their hair in a high ponytail he subconsciously thinks they’re very smart and respectable because Dot always wears her hair in a high ponytail

Hyrule is completely fine with not sleeping on a bedroll. they like the dirt, actually. let them sleep in the dirt.

Legend uses apples in his red potions, both to increase their potency and to make them taste better. he also learned how to enchant apples to be healing on their own so sometimes when someone’s hurt he’ll just shove an apple in their face

uhh so ik this is a lot but this isn’t even close to of all my headcanons so yeah there’s that lmao

[sunflowergraves]

Look, I don't care if you dislike Will Solace. There are plenty of fan favorite characters in PJO that I can't stand. But I'm tired of people mis-characterizing him and using it as a base in their argument to hate him.

If you think a character who has been through untold horrors and severe mental trauma is awful because he breaks down and snaps at people when he is triggered, I have no words for you. I don't know what books you've been reading, but Will has been through two wars, witnessed horrific deaths, and was forced into a leadership role at the ripe age of 13 because his older siblings were murdered in front of his eyes. What angers me more is that the reason everyone is so upset by his anxious and abrasive attitude is that they expected him to remain kind and compassionate and happy no matter what he is experiencing.

Having a character who is defined by kindness and compassion crack under the pressure of being there for everyone is amazing representation to have in a popular series and yet people are angry. Sorry that Will isn't Mr. Sunshine. Sorry that he isn't acting like the sad wet puppy people wrote him out to be.

It's even stated in TOA that his entire calm personality is a façade:

"Will laughed under his breath. 'I'm terrified. But one thing you learn as head counselor: you have to keep it together for everyone else.' "

Will's character was never the "super chill under pressure bi" stereotype that people assumed. He represents the people who hide their emotional needs for the sake of others. The people who had no choice but to be the leader. The people who are shoved into the "happy, down-to-earth" box because that's what others need them to be.

He was never mischaracterized, he was recontextualized. Why is every other PJO character allowed to have their breakdowns and trauma, but the second Will does, it becomes a problem? The reality is that a person can change dramatically because of trauma and pressure. People don't just act sad and depressed, they become angry and abrasive.

Have you never been 15 and angry before? Has your past trauma never affected you so violently? Has the pressure never gotten to you, have you always maintained your cool?

I'm not asking anyone to love Will Solace. I'm not trying to change your mind. But I do want you to understand that there are so many people like this in the world and it's tiring to see people not understand that. Continue hating him or whatever, but at least do it with this in mind.