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shurisneakers · 2 months ago

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unsolved (v)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, witchcraft

A/N: it's like i never left amirite (im sorry it has been like 10 months pls forgive me ily guys let's pretend this series never went on hiatus) (i had cancer and college but now I've graduated from both and i live babyyy. anyway. welcome back to my house of horrors)

Previous part || Series masterlist

When you tell Maya you want to do witchcraft, you'd done so with the full expectation of defending your idea with the force of a PhD student who was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

She surprisingly agrees.

“Really?” It's hard to stop the astonishment from entering your voice. Honestly, it sort of pisses you off that the Canva presentation you spent five hours on wouldn't actually see the light of day.

“Yeah, sure. I think it'd do well with the older demographic. ” She shrugs.

"Really?" Now you weren't sure she was on the same plane of existence as you were.

“Make some animals talk. Conjure up some parking spots.”

Ah.

“I was thinking more like... hexing people and shadow demons,” you test slowly.

That seems to tether her to reality.

Her head cranes towards you centimetre by centimetre, like she was buffering in real time.

“Are you insane?" she states, not very much sounding like she was expecting an answer. "Do you want to end up on the news? Do you know how vicious Facebook groups can be?”

“No PR is bad PR,” you preach wisely, parroting advice you’d seen bots on Twitter tell other bots.

“That doesn’t apply to you. I already have a tough time explaining Stephen Strange and why he’s not literally the devil to the public."

Now that was a little unfair. Perhaps it warranted another Canva presentation.

"Have you considered that I'm hotter and significantly cooler than Stephen Strange?" you suggest helpfully.

She squints at you, or more likely your audacity. "I will not have another scandal on my hands this week.”

“But next week is okay?”

Her hardened stare tells you quickly what a thousand words cannot.

You cross your arms over your chest. “Thou limit me so, Maya. How is one to find you invigorating content in these trying circumstances?”

Maya taps your shoulder on her way out, crooning, “There’s a reason I asked you to do this series. You’ll figure it out.”

You hide a smile with an all too dramatic sigh. “Thou compliment me so. How am I to not fall in love with thee?”

Maya shakes her head playfully. “Nothing that will get me called into a press conference by mid-day. No hexing. No extreme curses. ”

“Mid-level curses it is, then” you call after her.

Her leaving figure does not give you a reply.

After a week of staring at the corner of his room through the night, delirious to the point where he seriously considered using Sam’s Amazon Prime account to buy his own stupid ghost apparatuses, Bucky throws in the towel.

Clearly, he was mistaken. Sleep deprived and probably missing his family a little more than he would have ever admitted to a living soul.

Bucky's sleep deprivation adds to his already charming and sociable personality.

No one would touch him with a ten-foot pole. Bucky’s usually grumpy and while everyone had sort of built a tolerance towards his regular nonsense, he was now the very sexy combination of grumpy and sensitive.

For his part, after last week's shenanigans, Bucky has stuck to avoiding anything and everything horror.

He watches only romcoms and finds that while everyone says he seems most like Harry from Harry Met Sally, he hates that Mike Wazowski motherfucker with a passion.

While everyone else seems to get the memo, you have chosen to ignore it blissfully, and have instead been prancing about all week, shoving meme after meme into his face.

Bucky Barnes smiling compilations that were 7 seconds long. Bucky Barnes social media fanfictions that showed him replying far more than he had ever replied to anyone in real life ever.

Bucky’s learnt to ignore you with a long-suffering glare. You adapt quickly, skillfully dodge the daggers shooting out of his eyes and shove another TikTok in his face. It is an edit of him to Toxic by Britney Spears. He doesn't want to ask where they got some of the footage they used.

After the fifth Twitter screenshot, he takes to avoiding you like the plague.

Unfortunately for Maya, that involved avoiding the set too. He sees on the official The Graveyard Shift channels that there’s an announcement put out about an episode delay.

It is undeniably his fault. No, he still won't answer the group chat or the several knocks at his door every day.

But because the universe is invested in his sorrow, you seem to find him wherever he goes.

In the garden, digging through the vegetable bed.

In the storeroom, looking through oversized cookware.

When he walked into the alley behind the Tower and found you there, he hissed at you like a feral cat and you asked very loudly what the fuck was wrong with him.

He checks every part of him and all his clothes for a tracker but no-- you just seem to have a karmic connection level of being exactly where he is.

When he runs into you for the fourth time at the library, he really thinks he’s lost it.

“Are you following me?” he asks, voice sharp.

You look at him in wonder. “Your ego is so big it could have its own gravitational pull. How do you carry around your massive head all day?"

“Everywhere I go, you’re there.” He continues, finger pointing in accusation.

“Bitch, you're the one who walked in here," you exclaim. "I’ve been here all day.”

“Doing what?”

“Who’s following who now?” you dare.

“Because you’re in this section.” He does a quick check to see what section it actually is. Witchcraft and Wizardry. He may not have known that when he accused you but he definitely was not wrong.

“Why do you care what I do here?”

Because he's wondering if he’s managed to shut down production permanently and sent a bunch of people into unemployment.

“I don’t trust you here," he settles on instead. "What are you actually doing?"

“I’m learning things. Gaining knowledge. And such." You gesture vaguely before you narrow your eyes at him. "Not that you would know, you ape.”

He scoffs. He had the intelligence of a thousand suns, mind you.

“You don’t even have a book," he counters.

“So? I’m gaining knowledge through osmosis.” You look around. “I’m absorbing.”

His nose twitches, teeth clenched.

“Whatever,” he mumbles instead, turning his attention to the bookshelf.

As he thumbs through various titles he’s too annoyed to read, a small movement catches his attention.

He watches you from the corner of his eyes.

“What?” you demand, this whole exchange too damn loud for a library.

“What?” he challenges right back. “Why are you watching me?”

“Why am I– you’re the one staring at me.” You throw your hands up. “First you follow me here, second you accuse me of things that would get me burnt at the stake a couple of years ago, third you accuse me of watching you just 'cause you know you're pretty. You–”

Bucky narrows his eyes, not missing the random compliment you slipped in.

“Hold on just one second. That’s why you’ve been avoiding everyone all week.” You stare at him, wide-eyed and unrelenting.

He thinks he must have missed some part of the conversation because he has no idea why you're looking at him like you've figured him all out.

“That’s why you’ve been so jumpy and sleep deprived ever since that episode you filmed.”

Bucky’s gaze doesn’t waver, but his mind races and his breath falters for a second. There’s no goddamn way you knew what had gone down, he’d deleted every footage that could possibly–

“You missed me.”

He stops his overthinking right in its tracks.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” You tilt your head, face full of pure sympathy. “You filmed one episode without me by your side and realised you couldn’t live without me.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, eyes pressed closed tighty, partially in relief.

“You want me, don’t you? You want me so bad it makes you throw u–”

“Fuck off.” Bucky turns on his heel at the speed of light.

“You have a fat, raging crush–”

“I’m fuckin' moving out.” His voice is like rocks.

“You can move out, but you can never move on, baby,” you whisper-shout. “When’d you realise you liked me, Bucky? Night one? The first hou–”

He slams the library door behind him.

From: Stevie Left some strawberries outside your door. They’re good.

From: Stevie How are you doing today, by the way?

From: Bucky alive

From: Bucky and thanks

From: Stevie Anything we have to talk about? Your wood chisels didn’t break again, did they?

From: Bucky nothing im fine

From: Stevie You sure? Time for a Cypress Hills visit?

From: Bucky no im fine

From: Stevie You haven’t left the room in a week. Beat your old record and I'm going to start getting worried here.

Bucky stares at his phone wondering how he ended up with a mother a century after his own died, before sighing.

From: Bucky going to film a video this week. im fine

From: Bucky promise

Because there really was no other way to convince Steve that he as leaving the cave he constructed from his comforter.

From: Steve Good to hear. I’m always across the hallway if you need anything.

From: Bucky i know. your gramophone won’t let me forget it.

From: Steve Dick.

From: Bucky it is too damn loud. old ass

From: Steve Got a new record. Haven’t listened to it yet.

From: Bucky ill be there in 10

That Friday, Bucky walks onto the set in his finest black hoodie and darkest sunglasses, looking less like a badass and entirely like a hungover teenager.

Before he has a chance to even register what’s going on, he is ambushed by lights, a team touching up his face and his stupid dollar store sunglasses leave him before he has a chance to protest.

“I told you he’d show up,” you pipe up proudly from your place at the table. “Lil' shit simply missed me too–”

“Stop,” he interrupts, finally getting around to look at the set when the foundation brushes stop assaulting his line of vision.

For a hot second, he thinks you've taken over Steve's cooking show.

There are candles floating around, which he assumes you're holding up. A large… cauldron, gigantic wooden mixing spoons and 50 little bowls worth of ingredients are neatly arranged on the table.

“What the hell is going on?” he questions immediately. “What is all this?”

“Mise en place, baby,” you reply, shutting a book you had on the table loudly before looking at him. “You’re on dish duty. Come on.”

“What?�� His eyebrows pull into a frown.

You dust off your hands before reaching under the table and chucking an apron at him. “Back when I worked as a line cook, the number one rule was to clean up as you go. I like to think of it as--”

“What is going on here?” he specifies, already trying to piece together your timeline in his head with every new piece of lore.

“Welcome to my kitchen, motherfucker.” Your grin is nefarious. “We're gonna do some witchcraft.”

After he spends fifteen minutes on the phone with Maya confirming that yes, that is indeed the episode and that the heads up he needed would have reached him if he opened the seventeen million messages on the group chat– he finally comes to stand behind the bench with you, a tick in his jaw but also with enough self-awareness to be sheepish.

He thought his grand return to the channel would be a simple video with some ghost reading or whatever, not… this.

He turns to you, ready to reach a compromise that ends with him not having to be there at all.

But in the fifteen minutes he had turned his attention to the call, you’ve somehow convinced them to start rolling before he gets the chance to leave, so he’s immediately hit with a--

“We’re on in three…two–”

“Where is your apron?” you demand, looking him up and down.

“I’m not wearing that shit.” It had some stupid slogan like ‘Life is about taking whisks!’ and he had already been through enough.

“Jeez, annyone would think that you're not in love with me--"

"I'm not."

"--by the way you're so ungrateful. I got that custom-made for you,” you tsk. “I could've gotten the other one. Mine could've said ‘he’s my sweet potato’ and yours could've said ‘I yam’.”

Bucky experiences a whole-body chill.

“Whatever," you dismiss with a wave of hand before looking into the camera. "Before we get started, we recognize that for some, witchcraft is a deeply meaningful religion and spiritual practice that should be approached with respect and curiosity.”

“We’re not claiming this is the definitive guide to witchcraft, we’re simply trying out a book that’s been highly recommended for better or worse, and seeing where it leads us. Whaddya say, Bucko?

You look at him for input. Bucky stares at the dusty, hole-ridden monstrosity on the table.

“What’s it called?” Bucky asks finally after a long pause.

You tap the thick, old book. “Witchcraft for Weenies: A Totally Legit Guide to Authentic Witchcraft by A. Harkness.”

“Is that the actual name or are you just making it up?”

“Rich coming from the only one between us who actually lied on camera--" you glare at him. "I would never fabricate my sources, I’m a champion for academic integrity.”

You pick up the book to show him, flipping it towards the camera too and sure enough, the book that was basically falling apart at the binding was called exactly that.

“Let’s-a go, baby.”

You stare at him, lips pressed together. Bucky gives no inclination towards changing his answer.

“Fine. We’re going to do this the hard way, I see.” You exhale, reaching into the pocket of your apron.

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together when you brandish a deck of cards, yank his arm towards you and drop it into his open palm.

“Shuffle," you command.

Something very familiar faces him.

Bucky stares at the cards before looking back at you. “Why’s my face on it?”

“It’s a tarot deck I got from Comic Con,” you insist. “Avengers themed. Now shuffle it.”

He thinks you left that card on top on purpose, but regardless, he's already been too much of a menace to the crew to be the cause of any more disturbance.

So he slowly begins, careful and skilled, before you scoff in his face.

“Faster, grandpa," you chide. “I’ve seen the way those hands cut garlic when no one’s around, I know you move faster than that.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but complies anyway, shuffling the cards with the adeptness only a certain Jim Morita could have taught him in a dark tent to keep him awake on a night watch.

“Faster,” you goad, face smug. “Faster. Come on now, Barnes, your age finally catching up to you?”

It’s stupid– he doesn’t even know why he’s actually complying and increasing his speed. He can’t believe that he was letting you pressure him.

“C’mon, faster, Barnes, you abso-”

His hands were moving so fast by then that they’d have to put the video in slow motion to catch all the movement.

“Faster–” and in the commotion, a few cards fly out.

“Brilliant, thanks.” You slam them down on the table, plucking the deck out of his hand before he has a chance to process why the fuck he actually went ahead with what you were trying.

“Right, so the universe has decided that these will be your cards,” you tell him, and he finally looks down at what had fallen out of the deck.��

The cards show Sam’s Captain America shield, Carol Danvers, and Spider-Man, with words written below.

“The Star, Six of Cups, The Hanged Man,” you read out thoughtfully.

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they’ll fall out of his skull.

“You know, I’m going to just make a general assumption and say you need help.” You hum to yourself. “I'm gonna make a potion to get you some.”

“Get me some?” He's too busy trying to figure out what the cards could possibly mean to see that he's walked straight into that one.

“Get you some perspective. You need an advisor who’ll dish it to you straight. Give you the facts, no bullshit–”

"No." He had too many of those in his life and he has had enough of people being “honest” and "straightforward” and telling him his moustache was ugly every time he dared to try out a new look–

Until you reach under the table and again and suddenly, there’s a white creature buzzing around on the table in front of him.

“Behold– your new advisor,” you announce.

From the corner of his eye Bucky can see the production team scrambling to figure out where the hell this was going. He lip-reads producers’ orders to find adoption links or resources to insert during post-production, and teasers on social media, to make this look more planned. Great, so no one was prepared-- it wasn't just him.

“Whose fucking cat is this?” He looks down at it, all white except for a few brown spots all around, green eyes and evil in her aura.

“Relax, I'll give her back when we're done.”

“Give her ba–” he echoes. “Where did you get her?”

“The alley outside,” you coo, rubbing under her chin. “I checked and she doesn’t have an owner. But look at her, she’s meant to be here.”

Bucky looks at the cat. The cat looks back at him, irises narrowing into slits. His nose twitches.

“You can’t just bring a cat–”

“Remember to adopt, not shop,” you say to the camera before clapping your hand. “Anyway. If my potion goes according to plan, she will be giving you unsolicited life advice for eternity.”

“You will be unemployed, then,” Bucky manages to add while watching the chaos unfold behind the camera.

“Nonsense, I’m irreplaceable.” You grin. “Besides, you can't manufacture chemistry like this even in a cauldron.”

You send him a flying kiss. His glower was as sharp as laser beams.

“Let’s get started.” You grin at the camera.

Bucky tries to pet the cat. She hisses at him.

Well all-fucking-right then.

One hour later, things have descended into madness of the most mundane kind.

It was precisely when you started telling him ten minutes in that a book had nothing on your instincts and raw intelligence that Bucky knew that this was going to shit.

The cauldron was on an electric stove unlike the open fire demanded by the book because the team had enough foresight to know it would be a fire hazard.

You toss in something that looks like cardamom but he isn’t sure at this point. He just wanted to get away from the bright lights and the strange smiling liquid boiling awai.

The cat sits obediently by your side, watching curiously. He is convinced that she is evil.

Unfortunately, Bucky has had to hold her back twice when she tried to stick her paw in to attack a bubble, and at this point, he doesn’t think he has it in him to do it a third time.

You read the recipe as if it makes any sort of fucking difference now.

“We’re almost done,” you sing.

Bucky nurses his headache. “Don't give me hope.”

“Put some more reegelbeetle seeds in,” you dictate. “This is gonna work, I can feel it.”

Bucky uses his free hand to do as you say. He doesn’t even think it’s the right one, he just reaches for whatever is closer to you and you don't seem to care either.

You toss in some more seeds, stir twice and then turn off the stove.

“Boom.” You lift the spoon up, watching the thick liquid drip back. “This is either a talking potion or a hex.”

"Hex to do what?”

“I think it activates dormant allergies.” You squint at the book that literally had no significance besides being a prop. “You got any?”

“No.” But it makes him think of Steve’s pollen allergies.

“Oh. Well, then there’s only one outcome here.”

“Alright, here we go.” Of the gigantic pot that you’d just stirred, you fish the tiniest amount out on the smallest spoon he’d ever seen, which you also apparently stored in the vast space that was your apron pocket.

The cat watches you hold the spoon near its face.

It takes a sniff. Then two. Finally, after deeming it non-poisonous, it sticks out its tongue the tiniest bit and takes a lick.

The whole crew is silent.

Bucky’s hand is still pressing against his temples.

“Tell us your name,” you urge, voice hopeful.

The cat looks at Bucky, and for a second, something akin to understanding flashes in its eyes. It’s uncanny and weird and something about it unsettles him deeply.

You seem to catch it too because you look at him in surprise. He looks back at you, face pulled into a frown.

And for a moment, he wonders. If you'd somehow done it. Because there’s no fucking way–

Then it meows.

He exhales.

Your shoulders drop as you let out an “Aw, man.”

"Great. Goodbye. Like and subcribce to the bell icon," he calls out, dusting his hands against his pants.

Someone from the production crew sneezes.

Both of you turn to him immediately.

At the same instant, someone else all the way on the opposite end sneezes again, and the whole crew turns to look at them, before another sneezes in the front.

“We did it!” you cheer.

“We didn’t do jack,” Bucky interjects immediately as the crew errupts into a cacophony of chatter and sneezes.

“It’s a hex that activates allergies and they’re sneezing,” you point towards them with the spoon, triumphant.

“You threw fifteen fuckin' pounds of pepper in there,” he argues. “You've turned this room into a sandstorm of dry spices. This proves nothing.”

“I’ve connected the dots.” Your eyes shine, ignoring him.

“You didn’t connect shit.”

“I’ve connected them.”

Someone in the corner sneezes. He wonders if Steve’s allergies would be activated by the trace amounts of... cursed soup that he carries with him back to the floor.

“Well, we can’t leave them like this, Bucky.” You look around, tsking. “We gotta make a reverse hex or something.”

“You can,” he says. “It’s called opening the windows.”

“Nope,” you pop the last syllable. “We’re making another potion. C’mon.”

“First of all, this is not a potion–” he begins, but is interrupted by a buzz on his phone, the screen lit up by a text on the groupchat.

From: Maya I don’t give a shit if it’s placebo or not. Make a damn potion before you get sued for hexing employees.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Beautiful. Grab the ash sphinx flakes,” you brandish another big cauldron from fuck knows where.

Bucky stares at you, unmoving.

“Just get the oregano,” you sigh.

The cat tries sticking her paw in the pot again.

Bucky feels a sneeze incoming.

Whether the hex and subsequent anti-hex Maya forced you to make at gunpoint was real or not, is yet to be determined scientifically.

What actually does happen, is the damn apron you give him carries enough trace amount of your stupid experiment, that it somehow activates Steve’s very real pollen allergy. Bucky finds himself on edge for the rest of the day every time the man rattles the walls with his middle aged dad sneezing.

It carries on over to his show, which means Steve’s episode on baking a 1950s chocolate cake from tomato soup is edited extremely strangely to cut out every sneeze.

Which means Nat’s episode on spy inaccuracies in Argylle takes twice as long to film because they have to take a few seconds every time Steve’s sneezes interrupt her from the set next door.

Which means Bruce’s video on the science behind memory is delayed on shooting.

All in all, something does seemed to have been hexed, but it mostly seems to be everyone’s fucking productivity.

Finally, everyone manages to get through the day, and the videos are sent to post production.

The same night when everyone’s gathered at the dining table to commemorate the end of another shoot day, Bucky slips out, knowing that Steve would save him a slice of pizza if he never returned.

He goes back to the library to return his copy of Understanding Wood Finishing, when his curiosity leads him back down a familiar path.

It’s where he finds you again, in the same corner as the last time, on the floor, surrounded by shelves.

“You again.” You quirk an eyebrow when he appears from the shadows. "Aren't you supposed to be eating pizza?"

“What are you absorbing now?” he asks, voice low for once, respecting the sanctity of the library now that day had slipped into night and everything seemed a bit more solemn now.

“Nothing,” you answer.

“Then why are you here?”

He figured you’d be out there, introducing everyone to the cat that was now set to be roaming the halls, before someone assumed it was a shapeshifting enemy and dealt with it accordingly.

“God forbid someone get some peace and quiet for once,” you mumble. “It’s too loud out there.”

Oh.

You don’t say anything else, leaning back against the bookshelf with your eyes closed.

There really isn't a need for more words. He gets it.

The understadning leaves silence in its wake. Bucky doesn't really have anything to say.

“Did you come here just to stare at me?” you ask finally. “Did you finally admit your feelings?”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “I’m not in love with you.”

“Only a matter of time.” You smile before changes to something more subdued, a bit more serious. “You wanna talk about what’s actually been bugging you for the last week?”

Bucky looks at you wearily. “The tarot cards tell you something?”

You eye him. “Not more than what’s obvious. Wanna talk about it?”

He swallows, throat suddenly feeling like it's closing in on itself.

“No.”

“Alrighty.”

You say nothing more than that, leaving the both of you in relative quiet, save for the buzz of the warm fluorescent light above.

Bucky takes an awkward seat next to you on the floor.

You pry open an eye to look at him in suspicion.

“Y’mind?” he manges.

“Mind what?”

He gestures to himself uncomforably, readiy to jump up and leave at any second.

You observe him for a second, and for once he stares back with no irritation in his look, just permission.

“No, you can sit.” You close your eyes. “So long as you don’t tell anyone else 'bout this place.”

If there’s anything Bucky’s good at, it’s keeping a secret.

He settles back into the shelf with an exhale, letting the weight of day roll off his shoulders.

You wordlessly slide a thermos towards him. He doesn’t even have to open it to know it’s the damn soup from that afternoon.

And if he’s being honest, it doesn’t taste that bad at all.

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #unsolved fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

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mandalhoerian · 4 months ago

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Come on in, brave souls.

Welcome to a Halloween event where there are no happily ever afters, only the darkest and most twisted outcomes. During the last week of October, you're cordially invited to step into the world of Resident Evil with me, where every installment leads to either heartbreak, bloodshed, or loss.

Each story explores a different horror genre, dragging your favorite characters into the depths of despair with no chance of escape. Heroes are twisted, relationships shattered, and the very concept of survival comes at an unimaginable cost.

In this anthology, no one is spared the horrors that await.

Will you dare to face these bloody endings?

Read the summaries, and reserve your spot on this form (CLOSED.)

Edit: most works are deleted due to me not liking them anymore.

🥩 ⸺ you were the last good thing about this town

» jill x f!reader: jennifer's body, supernatural horror

In this town, no one leaves. You’re born here, you live here, and you die here—and for as long as you can remember, it’s been the same with you and Jill Valentine. You fall for the wrong men, she pulls you out, and the cycle repeats with neither of you leaving. It’s a pattern you’ve come to rely on, a safety net in a place where nothing ever changes. But, things start to unravel that one fateful week when Jill shows up in your house all bloody and out of it on the same day your ex's body is found in the woods, mutilated. The once predictable rhythm of your lives shifts, and now you find yourself the one chasing her, trying to understand why she's refusing that ever happened, gaslighting you into thinking it's your fear and grief talking. At the end of this road, this time Jill might not be the one pulling you out—she may be what pulls you under.

♾ ⸺ fortunate son

» chris x reader: groundhog day, psychological horror

Chris Redfield has faced nightmares before, but nothing like this. Sent on a mission to a remote island facility, he and his team believe they’re there to contain a bioweapon outbreak. But they end up being contained in a time loop instead. Every day begins the same—"Fortunate Son" blaring on the radio, the island looming in the distance, and the same mission ahead that leads them to the lone survivor of the experimentations, you, who remembers the resets along with him. And every day, no matter how hard Chris fights, his friends die. One by one, in increasingly brutal ways he can save none of them from. As Chris’s desperation mounts, he’s forced to question everything—and everyone—around him. And his prime suspect naturally happens to be you.

🩸 ⸺ offer me that deathless death

» ada x f!reader: dracula, gothic horror

In the shadow of the 19th century, where ancient traditions meet modern curiosities, you—a driven historian—have received an invitation to the secluded estate of Ada Wong, a mysterious noblewoman whose family’s shadowed history has eluded scholars for decades. Drawn in by the promise of being the first and only one to record it all down, you soon find yourself in a place where the boundaries between academic fascination and forbidden desire begin to blur, and the woman at the center of it all is as alluring as she is unknowable. Yet beneath the surface of your growing bond with Ada, there’s something you can’t quite grasp—strange occurrences that leave you drained, dreams that feel too vivid, and a constant sense that you’re slowly losing yourself. The more you uncover, the more you wonder if you're truly a guest in Ada's world. But the question isn't what you are, but what you will be. A sacrificial lamb, or scapegoat?

#leon kennedy x reader #ada wong x reader #carlos oliveira x reader #chris redfield x reader #luis serra x reader #albert wesker x reader #jill valentine x reader #resident evil x reader #bloody endings masterlist #leon kennedy #ada wong #jill valentine #chris redfield #albert wesker #carlos oliveira #luis serra #resident evil

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obsessivevoidkitten · 1 year ago

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Your Guardian Angel

Male Angel Yandere x Gender Neutral Reader (CW: Extremely dubious consent, stalking, possessive yandere, jealous yandere, general yandere behavior, manipulative yandere, emotionally manipulated reader, reader dies nonviolently but the story continues with them in the afterlife, reader's boyfriend momentarily has cancer, religious themes and concepts, heaven, angel disguised as a demon, mild biting, soul claiming, heartbroken reader) Word Count: 2.5k (This was written within one late night/early morning writing session and was not beta read, I hope you all like it and I apologize for any errors.)

Not everyone receives a guardian angel, there are simply too many humans in the mortal plane to meet that type of demand. Instead guardian angels are allocated based on greatest need to those who might be most vulnerable to dark forces and to those with stronger souls who would be too dangerous if corrupted by the likes of a curse, demon, or vampire.

But you were one such soul. Perhaps the trials you had struggled through in life had left your spirit bruised and battered and dark entities were primed to take advantage.

Or perhaps the things you had experienced had strengthened your will and that was reflected on your soul, making it a tempting mark for corruption.

Either way it really didn’t matter, the result was the same. You had a guardian angel, Eriphel.

Eriphel was, relatively speaking, still somewhat new to the work of guarding humans. He had been at it for a few human generations. Which was very short, considering the immortal life span of an angel. He was one of the younger angels that had been created for this task.

He protected each charge he had with complete determination, always near his assignment, remaining unseen to the mortal realm despite being on a plane that overlapped with it.

When he started watching you when it became apparent in your early adulthood that you required a guardian the job was no different from any of the others that he had.

But… there was something about you that fascinated him. He hadn’t allowed himself to pay much attention to the personal details of his previous charges.

Eriphel didn’t know what was different about you but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. No matter what you were doing he just had to drink it all in. Watching you do your job, watching you cook, watching you read, watching you do all your little human hobbies, watching you do anything filled his entire being with such foreign alien sensations.

His heart fluttered and his chest filled with warmth and longing. He even felt his pants tighten with arousal for the first time in his life. It was so euphoric… and torturous at the same time. The longer that he was around you the stronger all these sensations became.

After around a year it was no longer enough for Eriphel to merely watch you. To be only a passive observer as your life played before him like a movie he had no control over.

He started sleeping beside you in your bed, wrapping his wing around you protectively. Of course you didn’t know he was there, but your sleep did noticeably improve. No nightmares or insomnia, not on his watch.

Eriphel also developed a habit of hugging you at work, wrapping his arms around whenever you became upset or stressed. It helped your mood a lot.

The angel’s divine light was washing over your soul in these moments and even if you could not see him he knew he was the best thing for you. But he also knew that eventually you would pass away as all mortals did and your soul would slip through his fingers as it transcended to heaven.

He couldn’t allow that, he had to take ownership of your soul in the same way that demons did.

If he made a soul pact with you then he got ownership of your soul when you eventually moved on and then you would be his and his alone until the end of eternity.

But he didn’t have to rush it, you were not in any great danger and he could protect you and keep you alive from any external threat that could threaten you… even if it violated a few rules to intercept mundane physical threats.

He had plenty of time.

Or so he thought.

A bit of time passed and you met someone. A man by the name of Jason. A mutual friend had set the two of you up. You tried not to think too much of it at first, how could this tiny insignificant human have any possible influence on you when your souls had felt the holy embrace of an angel’s wings?

But as the days turned into weeks turned into many long months it became obvious you were in love with him.

Eriphel wouldn’t stand for it.

He had been with you for nearly two years by this point.

He knew your favorite color, he knew your favorite foods, he knew every single password that you had for every website, he knew what expression you had when you were deep in thought, when you were annoyed, when you were in the middle of an orgasm.

There was nothing he didn’t know about you.

As he stood before you in the dead silence of night watching your lover spoon you protectively tears rolled down his cheeks. He had never cried before, but he recognized the behavior from the humans he had watched over.

Something had to be done.

If he could just claim your soul then he wouldn’t need to worry about the relative tiny amount of time you spent in this world because you would spend eternity with him when you passed on.

Eriphel decided he would interact with you directly as you slept. He’d disguise himself as a demon and make a deal with you. Then you’d be his and everything would be alright. He was shaking with the sheer anxiety of what he was about to do, he had barely said anything to a human before and even then that was only with some who were deceased.

That night you had a vivid dream, it was so real. A demon came to you and made you a fabulous offer of wealth beyond imagining. You couldn’t remember what he wanted, but you felt the price was too high. You were scared. You turned him down and ran.

Eriphel should have known an offer of wealth wasn’t enough to gain what he wanted from you, still he thought it was worth a try. He knew you’d at least be tempted by all the good you could do with money.

When you next saw the monstrous demon in your dreams you remembered it even more clearly than you had before. You were in a pristine palace of obsidian and red, richly decadent but with an undeniably sinister undertone.

The demon spoke in a voice that sounded like several people talking in unison.

This time it offered to let your parents live longer, to give them pristine health for their age so that they could spend more time with you.

This time you were tempted, you hesitated. But after some consideration you still declined before fleeing. Your parents weren’t in bad health as far as you knew and them having a few extra years wasn’t worth the price of your soul until the end of time.

Eriphel was homing in on the solution, getting closer to the offer that would have you as his. But he wasn’t there yet…

A couple months passed and you and your beloved Jason moved in together. But tragedy struck as not long after that your boyfriend went to the doctor to get some worrying symptoms looked at.

Cancer. Inoperable brain tumor.

The news broke you, but you had to put on a strong face for Jason’s sake. He had always supported you and been the strong one when you needed him and now he needed you.

Jason fell asleep with his head on your chest as you held him in your arms. You made sure he was sound asleep before you let yourself cry silently.

It took a long time but finally the emotional toll of the day caught up with you and dragged you into sleep as well.

Once again you were in that clean, rich, sinister building of polished red and black. The horned demon standing before you again, terrible and proud.

“I can save him. I can cure him with a snap of my fingers. All you have to do is agree to hand over your soul after your death.”

You were shaky, you couldn’t think clearly after the events of the day, you wanted nothing more than for Jason to live the full life he deserved. If it meant you had to be a demon’s victim and tortured for eternity after your death then so be it, the years you had growing old with Jason were worth any price.

“Yes! Please! S-save him!!!”

He smiled and approached you, grabbing you by your clothing.

“Wh-what are you-”

“This is how a soul pact is sealed. You do want this deal don’t you?” You nodded and hung your head silently as he peeled off each article of clothing one by one. Suddenly you were in a different room, laying naked on your back with your legs propped up on the demon’s shoulders.

You knew he was a wicked and power hungry entity but the way he looked at you was almost like a human looking upon a holy relic. He took his time, shaking hands rubbing up and down every part of you.

This was not how a soul pact had to be sealed, but he couldn’t wait any longer to feel you.

The red skinned monstrosity kissed up your thighs, careful not to harm you with his horns. He was as gentle as a lamb.

When he finally got to the point where he was lining up his large cock with your hole he kept that same gentleness. You thought he’d have just ravaged you but he didn’t do that at all.

The demon slid his cock in you slowly, this wasn’t your physical body and no lube was needed, he glided deep inside you painlessly and moaned loudly as he did so.

Heaven was nothing compared to being inside his beloved darling who before today could have only dreamed of what it felt like inside of you.

As he slid his entire length in and out of you he bit at your chest, hungrily, but not very hard. Not enough to really hurt. Just enough to stimulate you and to taste your skin. He trailed up to your neck and licked, sucked, and kissed there over and over again like it was some drug he was hopelessly addicted to with no chance of quitting.

Your hands gripped the bed sheets feebly as he began to pick up speed. You felt a bit sick. You didn’t think that this would be pleasurable. You thought this would be as painful as he could make it, but it was so good. It made it feel like you were really cheating on Jason.

Even if this was probably just a stress induced dream your brain made to help you cope with devastating circumstances.

Eriphel couldn’t last long, being his first time and doing it with someone so supremely important.

His pace remained steady as his strong hands gripped your hips and pulled you close, slamming you down to his full nuts as he emptied them into you and the two of you shared a mind shattering orgasm. You could feel your very soul being claimed by his magical seed.

The demon kissed you passionately and then you and Jason both woke up to the sound of his phone ringing.

It was the doctor.

He was calling to explain that the machine was busted and was showing false tumors. He wanted Jason to come back in tomorrow for a scan on a different machine. He was probably okay.

The demon had kept up his end of the deal.

The two of you hadn’t slept long but now with the new test looming over the both of you neither of you could manage to go back to sleep.

When the time came the both of you got in the car with him driving and you in the passenger seat. Everything was fine and you both tried to calm yourselves and not get your hopes too high. Jason was likely okay, but there was always that small chance that he wasn’t.

You idly looked at the houses and trees as they passed when you saw movement from the rearview mirror. The demon hissing and lunging towards you. You screamed before everything went dark.

Doctors later examined your body and determined that you suffered a massive stroke. Not really what happened. Eriphel just couldn’t wait to have you, and he never said that he’d let you grow old with that… thing… you called Jason.

No, he said he’d cure him. And he had. It had been easy enough to reverse the magic he had used to give him cancer in the first place.

When you woke up you were in a large white room that looked like it was made out of marble, gold, and silver. The lights around the room looked to be carved out of pure milky white crystal.

You were confused. If you had died by the hands of that monster wouldn’t you be in the place you had seen in your dreams?

“Hello.”

You turned to see a tall lean man adorned in white robes, his hair was sparkling silver, he had a pair of great wings outstretched from his back, the feathers looked as if they had been dipped in the most thin and fragile layer of silver possible. His whole body glowed with a faint white light and his eyes were an otherworldly shade of shining gold.

“I understand you are confused. I am Eriphel, I am an angel that scours the mystic planes for demonic presence and eliminates it where I can. You were attached to a foul demon, a parasite of human misery. I noticed this just in time and snatched your soul at the moment of your death…”

You took in his words while staring transfixed at his beauty. You were really dead then. You introduced yourself and thanked him several times before calming yourself a bit and asking what you desperately needed to know.

“Is this heaven? Will I eventually be reunited with my boyfriend?”

Eriphel had to suppress a bit of rage that began mounting at that last inquiry.

“Sadly, your soul was marked by a demon, you can never enter the proper realm of heaven without being cast to hell, where that demonic entity would surely get you. But you are safe here, in my home. You will have to stay here… forever…”

His voice was mournful, and his eyes were wet with sympathy at your plight… or so you thought. Eriphel was really just crying because his fondest dream had come true. With no one else to interact with and his intimate knowledge of your every like and dislike you’d certainly fall in love with him.

The angel pulled you into a comforting hug as you sobbed into his chest at never being able to see Jason again, and he smiled wickedly as he rubbed your back. No one else would ever come between you again.

#yandere teratophilia #yandere terato #yandere exophilia #yandere exo #yandere angel #gender neutral reader #yandere x reader #male yandere x gn reader #male yandere x gender neutral reader #yandere x gn reader #My OCs #My OC Eriphel #yandere scenario

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doctorsilverhead · 3 months ago

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please do something of Bay Optimus with the reader, but don't make them a couple, more like Optimus loves the reader but the feeling is so alien to him and he can't quite put a finger on it, specially because he think it'll be completely illogical (Shockwave moment), but despite all, still wants to be with you, like all the time, cuz you're full of kindness and compassion, and he just wants to surround himself with it. PLZ DO IT 😭

Heartstrings of Steel (Optimus Prime X Human Reader)

In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where stars twinkled like beacons of hope, a being of immense power and wisdom found himself drawn to the warmth of a human soul. Optimus Prime, the noble leader of the Autobots, had encountered countless battles and faced innumerable challenges, but nothing could have prepared him for the profound connection he felt towards you.

As he gazed upon your radiant presence, a strange sensation stirred within his spark – a yearning unlike any he had experienced before. It was a feeling so foreign, yet so captivating, that it left him in a state of bewilderment. The logical circuits of his mind struggled to comprehend the depth of this newfound emotion, for it defied the very laws of rationality that had governed his existence for eons.

Optimus Prime, a being forged from the finest alloys and imbued with the wisdom of the Primes, found himself drawn to the kindness and compassion that emanated from your very being. Your gentle spirit, untainted by the harshness of war and conflict, resonated with his own unwavering belief in the sanctity of life and the pursuit of peace.

As he observed you, he marveled at the way you carried yourself with grace and empathy, extending a hand of friendship to all who crossed your path. Your actions were a testament to the inherent goodness that resided within the human race, a quality that had often eluded his understanding in the midst of the endless battles he had fought.

Despite his vast knowledge and experience, Optimus Prime found himself at a loss to explain the profound connection he felt towards you. It was as if your very presence had ignited a spark within him, a spark that burned brighter than the stars themselves, filling him with a warmth he had never known before.

In those moments of quiet contemplation, he would ponder the depths of this newfound emotion, his processors whirring as he attempted to decipher the intricate web of feelings that had ensnared his spark. Yet, no matter how he tried to rationalize it, the truth remained elusive, a tantalizing mystery that beckoned him to explore the uncharted territories of his own existence.

To Optimus, the concept of love is as foreign as the distant stars from which he hails. His life, dedicated to the protection of all sentient beings, seldom affords him the luxury of exploring such deeply personal sentiments. Yet, in your company, he encounters an array of emotions that are as perplexing as they are profound. It is an experience akin to discovering a new spectrum of color in a world previously seen only in shades of duty and war.

Your interactions, though simple and unassuming, leave an indelible mark on Optimus's spark. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to you, wanting to be near you, to learn from you. The kindness and compassion you exude effortlessly are like beacons of light in his tumultuous existence. It's not just the battles won or the crises averted that begin to define his days, but the moments shared with you—moments that offer glimpses into what it means to be truly alive.

And so, Optimus Prime found himself drawn to your side, seeking solace in your company and basking in the radiance of your compassion. He yearned to surround himself with the very essence that made you who you were, for in your presence, he found a peace that transcended the boundaries of logic and reason.

Though the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, one thing remained clear – Optimus Prime's desire to remain by your side, to bask in the warmth of your kindness, and to learn the secrets of the human heart that had so profoundly touched his own. For in that moment, he understood that true strength lay not only in the might of his form but in the depth of his connection to those who embodied the virtues he held most dear.

#optimus prime #bumblebee #dark deception #decepticons #megatron #optimus prime x reader #transformers #transformers au #transformers bayverse #transformers g1

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katakaluptastrophy · 10 months ago

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You know when you're at a dinner party with God and things start to get...weird...? It's Maundy Thursday, and it's time for more Bible study for fans of weird queer necromancers!

It's currently Holy Week, the week where liturgical Christians reenact the events of Jesus' death and resurrection in real time. And today, it's Maundy Thursday, which commemorates the Last Supper, where Jesus ate with his friends before he was crucified.

Before we get to the Locked Tomb, what's so special about the Last Supper?

There are actually a few significant things that happen during the Last Supper, but this is where Jesus introduces the concept of communion:

Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood. - Matthew 26:26-28

This isn't actually the first time Jesus has told his followers they will need to literally eat him:

So Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. - John 6:53-56

If you're thinking that sounds a bit intense, you're not alone - the Bible says that "many" of his disciples left after being told that they were apparently going to have to eat Jesus to be saved and resurrected.

While many Protestant denominations take this symbolically, Catholicism teaches transubstantiation: that when the priest prays over the bread and wine at mass, they really do become Jesus' body and blood.

With this in mind, let's circle back to necromancers:

"Overseas to Corpus. (She likes the word corpus; it sounds nice and fat.)"

This is probably Corpus Christi College, Oxford (named after the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, where the church celebrates the real presence of Jesus in the eucharist). The symbol of the college is a pelican - there's even a fabulously gilded pelican atop the sundial in their main quad.

What do pelicans have to do with the eucharist? Quite a lot, actually... The pelican is a really old symbol for Jesus, because it was believed to feed its young on its own flesh and blood in times of famine. The pelican on the Corpus Christi sundial is pecking at its own chest.

The pelican, like Jesus, was believed to give its own body to save those it loved.

Okay, so we've talked about Jesus, and weird cannibal birds, but why is this relevant to necromancers?

Specifically, the necromancer, the Necrolord Prime. John Gaius styles himself as "the god who became man", echoing Jesus as "the word became flesh". His entire pastiche of divinity is a sort of bootleg Catholicism. But while Catholicism posits Jesus' offering of his own body as foundational to the salvation and resurrection of humanity to eternal life, John's godhood relies the exploitation of other's bodies as the foundation of an empire of eternal death.

I've mentioned before in discussing Lyctorhood, how vampires have been understood to represent a sort of inversion of the eucharist because instead of consuming Christ's blood to receive eternal life in heaven, they consume other people's blood for an cursed eternal life on earth. John, and the Lyctors who followed him, gained power and eternal life from the consumption, body and soul, of another person.

In Catholic theology, Jesus offered his own body to degradation and death for the eternal salvation of humankind, but John forcibly consumes someone else's in service of his own apotheosis and immortality, dooming humanity in the process. He wants to be a Catholic flavoured god, but without the suffering that entails. But he's perfectly willing to outsource that suffering to others.

There's something just achingly awful about Alecto liking the feel of the word "corpus" - "body" - when she so hates the body that John constructed for her. John describing Alecto as "in a very real way" the mother of humanity and the mother pelican on the Corpus sundial rending her own flesh for her children. John forcing the earth into a personification of femininity and playing Jesus on another's sacrifice. His daughter, unwillingly trapped in her own corpse walking around with the wounds of her significant self-sacrifice like the resurrected Christ but yet again another body exploited by John in support of his performance of godhood. It brings to mind a very different fantastical engagement with Catholicism, where in the Lord of the Rings Tolkien - riffing on St Augustine - suggested that evil cannot create, it can only mock and corrupt. The ethics of The Locked Tomb may be messier than that, but there's something indicative in how John shies away from his creative powers - his abilities to grow plants, and manipulate earth and water - in favour of his dominion over death.

The metaphysical world of The Locked Tomb is clearly not intended to be the same as that of Catholicism. But with hindsight, perhaps John was onto something when he was surprised that he didn't "get the Antichrist bit" from the nun too.

John isn't the Antichrist. But he is, thematically, anti-Christ.

If we're talking about John and Jesus, there's also, of course, the question of Resurrection. But we've got to go through Hell and back before we get there on Sunday...

#the locked tomb #tlt meta #john gaius #alecto the first

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poetic-mac-n-cheese · 1 year ago

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Why is Gideon not a necromancer even though her dad is literally the necromancer prime (tm)?

My unserious answer is Wake’s body would have physically rejected a necromancer pregnancy - she’s just that stubborn.

My real answer is Wake was pregnant in space. Space is famously devoid of thanergy. My understanding is that the reason the houses have necromancers and the colonies don’t for the most part is not some coincidence or cosmic gift - it’s a consequence of the resurrection. The houses are thanergy planets and so the people there are soaked in death energy even pre-conception. Also they all have previously dead, then resurrected ancestors, so that probably fucked with their reproduction for ages - literally every one of them came originally from an egg that died and then was resurrected. Harrow is a necromancer because her parents somehow infused her embryo with the death energy from 200 kids - so there is definitely a relationship between thanergy presence around conception and necromantic ability.

I even wonder if John can pass on necromancy genetically (I guess necromancy isn’t fully genetic but w/e), since his necromancy is the only one that didn’t come from dying and being resurrected/coming from a thanergetic line/planet, but was instead apparently just bestowed upon him by the soul of the earth herself (?). And Wake, presumably, comes from the billionaires that escaped from the earth before the apocalypse/resurrection/thanergy bloom, so it’s extremely unlikely if not impossible for her to give birth to a necromancer. But in any case, I’m pretty sure she spent her entire pregnancy, from fertilization to ill-timed delivery, in space. Why didn’t she land on the ninth before giving birth? She could have cosplayed as a pilgrim and had a much easier time of it I would think, but instead she stayed in her ship the whole time. Gideon wasn’t exposed to any thanergy (unless you count the presence of lyctors from her mom’s fucked up polycule lolll) from conception to birth, and that probably negated any potential she had to be born with necromancy.

I’m pretty sure Wake knows all of this though, which means that my serious answer is in fact that Wake physically refused to birth a necromancer - she’s just that stubborn.

#I don’t have the books on hand I might be totally off #the locked tomb #commander wake #Gideon nav #john gaius #emperor john gaius #harrowhark nonagesimus #tlt #the locked tomb meta #tlt meta

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themareverine · 1 month ago

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Who We Are | dofp!Logan x mutant!fem!OC

summary: "What am I, Logan?" Swallowing, "What is this?" And she knows what she is, subliminally.

warnings: angst, brief mentions of PTSD, trauma, mutant!fem!OC

a/n: i should be working on Toy Soldiers and my next series chapter. i really should be. but this came to me this week while at my new job, in my new office, and honestly i'm due for my period so i'm deep into feelings. enjoy this if that's possible. based on concepts i have for my Mare & the Wolverine series, e.g., fem!OC acquires Logan's genetics through Weapon X experimentation. i envisioned DOFP Logan for this but have no idea how it would fit into the timeline.

“Got someone here to see ya, dearie.”

Eyes don’t flick up from the tablet resting face up on the desk, screen illuminated bright with open email and Outlook scheduling only slightly overtaken with Microsoft Teams messaging. A milkwhite pen lazily spins through fingers riddled with turquoise and sterling. Untouched, stale coffee takes up precious desk space in a slightly dented, fading Yeti.

When movement from the doorway doesn’t come, sapphire eyes lift from the wash of blue light. Gaze flicking to the calendar illuminated on the desktop, the office chair rolls lazily away from the desk, toes slipping back into formerly abandoned high heels.

“I don’t have anything scheduled,” elbow finding the chair’s arm, her fingers knead into the flesh along her temple, “you sure they’re here for me?”

“Says he wants to talk to you about some volunteer opportunities,” sleek, silver hair spins around the older woman’s finger, glasses low on her nose only a moment as she lifts a knuckle to lift them, “you want me to chase him off?”

Can’t really argue with work opportunities. “Send him in. Call me in fifteen minutes with an emergency.” Tapping her wristwatch, her brow pops, colleague sent away with a uh, huh sure nod following.

Head canting to the side, she pops from her chair. Stretches her neck. Toes curl inside her heels, against worn once-padded soles eaten away under sweat and miles. Pain ricochets off the heaviness of her skeleton, sending hot licks of pain up her spine. Knocks off the base of her neck like a firecracker. Bones in the back of her hand burn, acidic pain stabbing between knuckles not unfamiliar. A glance down at the thin skin at the back of her hand stirs subconscious magma, stoning in a way she can’t quite swallow.

Sahara heat in the heat of her throat empties into the open air of her gut, and she rousts her tongue against her back molars. Hopes it’ll resolve—it doesn’t. Grabs for a drink of lukewarm coffee. Nada. Zilch.

Damn. “You decent, honey?”

A wry twist of her lips. “Sure,” she waves a hand forward. “Send ‘im in, Donna.”

Turning to retrieve that favorite milkwhite pen she’d discarded off to the side of her keyboard, she spins it through her fingers again. Checks emails, eyeballing the front desk associate from a grim, corner-eye peer.

Donna, bless her soul, nods. Leans back out the door, on her broken-ankle-waiting-to-happen heels that are as pink as they are dangerous for a lass her age. Waves the happy little accident forward with a flick of her near-translucent, arthritic fingers. Bangle bracelets tink as she shuffle dances with the stranger past the door.

Eyes turned down to the keyboard, she entirely misses the figure taking up her doorway. An onslaught of cologne hits her nose like a landing strip, an assault that rips open the void of her memories like an untapped dam—her pupils blow wide. Alarm kicks her heart forward against the sledge of her ribs, she swears to God she can feel cardiac tissue bruise. Animalistic fear swipes at her stomach, tearing it open like it’s ribbons of rare prime rib. Acidic contents of her stomach splash up on her tongue, but instinct makes her swallow it back down the hatch, burying the primal instinct to run.

Couldn’t miss that slick, sensual heat barraging into the room like a battering ram for anything. There was only one man in her world she’d known to smoke contraband cigars of such a sickeningly smoky, thick caliber—one man that could leave her so disarmed, distempered. In shambles.

Logan.

Her sapphire eyes flick over to icy, venomous in all of a heartbeat—she can feel them. Tracking him not unlike a predator cornering prey, she pops tall. Chair rolls back all too hard, with purpose. Bounces off the wall.

Rolled away, her tether to anything pumping daylight between them suddenly vamoose.

Fear licks at her spine like it’s a frickin’ lollipop. It isn’t terrorized fear—it’s that special kind of fear, the one that burns. The one that haunts and visits young. Simmers low. Eats away like corrosion—the fear of not what he’s done to her, anatomically. Never. Logan is many things, but not abusive. Not mentioning—these adamantium bones, these that build out her frame, rattle cold even mere inches from the sun? His curse, wrapped up inside her?

She barely remembered fear anymore.

This instead, it’s— a tender fear of what’s been dangled, shattered. Devastated. Buried six feet so far under it’s been feasted on by worms and twisting, cold fingers of the underworld. More pain, more emotional damage. More visceral, brutish damage than what’s already been done.

Knowing he can feel her heartbeat even across the floor space, she wills her heart to slow down—the small corner of it she can control when he’s anywhere in territory. Strange way over her, he has—had always. From the first day meeting him, signing her name on the proverbial dotted line of the pinkslip that is knowing Logan, he’d enraptured her. Captivated her. Took hostage parts of her she didn’t know were up for discussion. Knowing her inside and out wasn’t enough, even if it’s a literal statement—he’d seen her in ways that could make him a priest, counted her sins splayed across the altar of time.

Devil’s advocate, always. He’d promised to never do the very things he’d deny to God.

And it's cardinal sin, the way he looks at her. Mortal how he ravages her without even batting an eye, expressionless and unreadable like dark midnight. Venial—she can feel him even with five feet of daylight and lifetimes between them. All the times he’d touched her, all the sweet everything’s he’s whispered, lapping back through her brainspace like pace cars. Standing in her doorway like an untouchable Goliath. As radiant as the sun always, but dark as the witching hour.

Her skin chills, long nights under stars when they were both younger, stupider not far away memories but recent ones held close. Gooseflesh flecks across her skin, filling pores and chasing up and down her spine like territorial wolves. A knife somewhere in her gut spins a full three-sixty, any second now her entire gut sack would fall open, bloody, to hell between her feet. She couldn't move, though—eyes welded to him like stainless. If she's still enough, maybe she can watch his pores open and close.

Eternities unfold between them, when in reality, maybe thirty seconds has ticked off the clock hanging on the wall of her shiny, new office. Well, new-to-her office. It's hardly such, complete with tattered carpets and holes knocked in the walls from the rough and tumble of shifting furniture. Paint no younger than it's very 2006 aesthetic, there's the smallest hint of antiseptic in the air, a slight draft from the window's ancient weatherproofing. By normal straits, it's barely anything to be proud of—but it's hers. All hers, and nobody had helped her get it.

Not Charles, not Hank. Not references from the DOD, no apology kiss-assing from the military for what had happened with Cornelius at Alkali. Nada from fancy institutions that the X team had arranged for "one of their own." Her office for her job offered based on her qualifications. Her. No mention of mutations, no favors, nothing.

Eight months of skiptracing far and hard from Westchester, desperate for something, anything that wasn't that. Logan. Pain.

She could be surprised that Logan's found her. But, that would be revealing a whole lot of cards she'd not prepared to show.

Have to pay the ante if you wanna play, Logan.

"'All the places I thought'a lookin' for you, this sure as hell wasn't it, darlin'."

Darlin'. It's her favorite, always had been. He knew it. And if that doesn't hurt something delicious, nothing else in the sparkling universe that is this planet would.

Logan is nothing, if not prepared. Straight for the low blows. What a bastard. The little tip of his lips, the quicksilver gleam that flashes through his eyes. All little signs she knows are designed to chisel hard, deep through her bedrock. It's worked, before. Dozens of times that, really, are uncountable. He shifts a little, arms crossed over the leathers of a new-but-not jacket. Sunglasses slung through the collar of a not-new t-shirt. Jeans, scuffed boots. Even from here the bite of bike exhaust is unmissable, nips at her libido like it always had—because Logan has never been sexier than slung low on his chopper, sunglasses on and tufted hair messed from the wind. Free and careless, wild. As God intended.

And it could be funny—Logan, finding her here, two thousand miles from Westchester. On his motorcycle. Looking dangerous and delicious, traversing the country on some hunch about a wild hair up his ass.

Some things, honestly, don't evolve.

Naked and vulnerable as his eyes cut through her like cold adamantium, she swallows the desert blossom her tongue has become. Thigh knocking into the corner of her desk hard enough for a bruise to chance formation on ever-healing skin, she gnaws at the inside of her cheek. Handfuls of seconds fall through her fingers, until she cuts her eyes away, to the heels of her stilettos.

"No," her eyes snap back to him, brow furrowed in barely sentineled rage, "no, Logan. We're not doing this."

His brow pops, animatedly. Like a curious dog. "No?" Pushing off his stance against the wall, his booted foot connects with the floor a little harder than his usual. "What aren't we doin'?"

Any tighter and she'd taste the marrow of her jawbone. "You heard me. I've decided we aren't doing this—now, or ever. Get the hell out of my office, out of my life, and get back on your motorcycle and go back to New York." Finger cutting through the air, her glare is serpentine.

Cold, lacerating. Hopefully to his core, to the very steel that clings to his skeletal system like plague.

"Run back to Jean, Logan—we both know that's where you think you belong." And God, even her name tastes like wicked poison. Like some type of adder, it's pocketed in low places—released only when the fangs pop.

Could serpents suicide from their own venom?

Wouldn't matter, not with him running through my genetics like wildfire. Never say die, has a whole new meaning, huh, Logan? Turning away from him, she gags on her own hatred. The cold splashing up the back of her throat.

He crosses to her in three, big strides. Grabs her arm and whirls her around all-soldier, aggressively. His eyes are hot, wild, as they scan hers—looking for caveats, avenues to invade. White-hot, his grip tightens deliberately, knowing it can't hurt. Won't. Keeping her upright on three-inch stilettos is not his primary goal, but it's working overtime hours.

"Listen."

Her eyes cut to his, cold. Hopes it empties him of any and all courage he thinks he's got.

"I've listened enough." A growl, low between her ribs.

From the wellspring of years—years. Scouting in and out of the affections of a man she'd idolized since a night in that musty Canadian bar, lingering in the sweat and smoke, illegal betting. Still, she can recall how he'd folded her into her Jeep, introducing himself. Willing her to leave, allowing her to stay.

"'Wolverine.' Catchy stage name, hon. That what God calls you, too?"

"Logan, but, you call me what you want, bub."

She'd never stopped calling him anything. Never had dreamed she'd ever stop. If it were up to her, she'd carve out her own heart and give it to him, beating and bloody, for all of time. What's up to her is limited, however—wildcards in a game of chance.

Every dreamer eventually rejoins the living.

If it hurts him, she'll never know. His brow wrinkles, pulled downward into a hard frown that narrows his eyes and casts deep lines across his features. Canyons. Darkness flints through the light in the eyes, for only a moment, before he slightly shakes his head. Confused or irritated, well—it's Logan. Either is more than possible on any given day.

Pulling against his hold, she swipes at his hand. "Let go of me."

He winces, nails catching against hard muscle. His growl hitches in his chest, knocks against his back teeth not unlike a cat. "Quit. Don't be a brat," he hisses, nails biting into her skin. "Just think for a minute, huh? I come all this way, look all over the fuckin' country for you, and you think I'm hung up on Jean?"

Listening would allow him privileges Logan didn't deserve, but she can't not hear him. Instead, she wrenches her arm. Claws at his arm again, this time with more nail than probably necessary. An animalistic, vicious growl gurgles up from her chest. Snakes past her teeth. Hisses between them, venomous and cruel.

It's designed to cut him. Fatally. "You manipulative sonuvabitch—"

"Baby. Listen t'me—"

And before she can think, before she can reason—Snikt!

Out come the claws. Her claws. His mutation, wrapped up in her genetics. Pure accident, until it wasn't—until so much of him required so much of her. It's unfair.

White-hot pain rips through her like five thousand volts, jumpstarting her heart like a grenade. For a heartbeat she fears her cardiac muscle will explode, but it's misguided—regeneration means she'd just grow a new one. Another he could destroy all over again, and again, and again.

"I said let go, Logan!"

A wide arch of her hand between them catches the air, moving it enough that Logan ducks back with the practiced ease of a light-footed soldier. Hand breaking away, she stumbles back on wobbling heels like a foal. Away from him, creating space. Daylight. Air she tries to drag into her lung tissue.

Unable to breathe, to think, she drowns on room air instead.

Droplets of blood from knuckle lacerations land at her feet, hot pain alive and stinging like flame between her knuckles. He may as well have driven a hot blade between the bones in her hand, burning heat cutting up her arm like it's a fat bass awaiting fillet.

And she can feel the bone and tissues moving in her arm, how her ligaments stretch as adamantium blades rearrange her insides, push aside her bones and ligaments and tendons. Making room for itself, throwing aside anatomical musts for what she is. It's otherworldly, feeling components of yourself move and shake when for the entirety of your life, it comes as naturally as breathing.

Eyes flick down her arm, expecting to see her anatomy ripped open to the air. Anticipating something, anything to show that everything hurts. There's nothing, to the naked eye. Simple flesh. Nothing.

It's all in your head. Was it?

Her guts churn like a roiling pot, stirring deep and hot. She can taste her own blood, spit. Vomit somewhere, milked from her oral tissue. A zing of coppery blood on her tongue makes her think she's bitten the muscle. A clench of her abdominal muscle, and she's certain she'll throw up.

Before she can, Logan is to her in three big, heavy strides. Hard fingers latch onto her wrist, pulling her to a hard stop. Not looking away from the stains of blood on adamantium for a heartbeat, his eyes flick over to hers. Hold them, tightly, like a vice. His brow mottles with effort, deep lines as he struggles to hold her arm steady.

Panting heavily, sweat bubbles up from every one of her pores—she can't suck enough air into her chest.

She can feel color exit her body. Pulse bounding, her muscles begin to spasm. Psychologically unable to process the level of hurt racing through her arms, the room spins. Vision blurs behind a fresh veil of tears, nails bite into her palm. If her knuckles were any whiter, bone would kiss air.

The urge to vomit overwhelms. Wrenching her arm from him, she breaks away to empty her guts into the trash under her desk. Adamantium catches the endge of her desk, and makes short work, cutting deep grooves into the oak. Knees buckle. Ankles wobble in her stilettos like a newborn foal. The lick of humiliation is like a whip, a cruel taskmaster.

Names cut through her brain with surgical precision, whispers of memories matching with whatever idea of faces her subconsious can muster. Cornelius. Stryker. Alkali.

Filmreels. They pass through the back her brain, black and white. Color. Muted but screaming loudly through her nervous system like a white noise—

Cold, sterile antiseptic that she can taste bubbling around her like hellish brew. Chemicals that lap at the moisture from her eyes. An army of needles and drivers pump poison deep between her bones, filling her marrow with nanoparticles designed to protect, but harm instead, laughing at her agony. They march through her like they have orders—and in a sense, they do, to become a part of her. Divide and conquer, controlling interest.

Pain is relentless, unforgiving. Hollow like an abyss, ever echoing without give. Prejudice and without conviction, it chips away. Viscerally. Starving for her soul. Lusting after her flesh.

"And to think you volunteered— for what? For the life of a man who doesn't even love you? Pitiful fool."

Foolish, indeed. There is so much pain.

Claws retract. Slipping back into her flesh, she can feel the muscle contortion in her arm, deep into her skeletal frame. Past her muscles, tissues, blood. No sooner do they vanish than her flesh stitches back together where they'd been born, a quiet squelch of skin sealing in on itself. Rips through her ears like a nuclear blast.

Suddenly it's all she can feel, taste. See and smell, her own blood.

Stomach looping in on itself, she grabs her arm with otherworldly, white-knuckle strength. Unable to realize that deep tremors have set into her anatomical frame, her fingers are little more than blurring, trembling little digits. Clutching her hand to her chest, the world may as well threaten to rip it from her and bludgeon her to death.

In a way, it already had.

The limb is stained with smeared, speckled blood. It'll take hours for the firmament of pain to fully dissipate in her body, for the power high to evaporate. Faintly she remembers the first time this had happened, though it feels like eternities ago. Hell and back, really. Sticky saliva bubbles through the seem of her lips as she bats away the recollections, trying to ground in the now. Heaves a breath—finally, able to breathe.

Eyelids heavy and vision dancing with black spots, she stares at the floor. Pebbles of blood and foamy, thick spit lay at her feet like lovers, in concentrated worship.

And all at once she feels like throwing up again, struggles with the urge. The sensation drops, ringing against hollow air in her gut. Tremors bite at her nerves, muscles. Continue to rip her apart, stitching her back together as she lifts her head, which may as well have taken the strength of an industrial crane. If it hadn't, she'd never know the difference.

Disheveled, stringy hair clings to the sweat on her face, gaze narrowly tracking Logan. He'd seen everything. All her ugliness, all of what she is. Again.

"Get out," it grates, claws at the membrane of her throat. Acidic bile mingles with her back teeth, her molars grind together from the ratcheted weight of her jaw. "Leave me here, Logan," but all the same, unsaid words skip in and out of everything she doesn't mean, everything she says anyway. Between lines and in margins.

Don't leave me, Lo. See me. Help me.

"Please."

Stay.

Wishing her sniffle wasn't the snot-rolling gurgle it is, her head drops. Lolls to the side. She slips from her knees, aching with pain, to her side. Hiccupping ungracefully as she draws the hand clutching her arm against the apex of her heart, beneath her breast, mostly unable to feel it. Halfway to check if she's still got one, mostly to withdraw. Like a caged creature.

Because that's what she is, these days—a beast.

Sapphire eyes flutter closed. Parted lips suck oxygen rich air into her lungs. Flames in her core begin to extinguish, the ball of energy in her chest settling into a familiar ache that gallops against bone.

Starting to fall into the cool darkness—welcomes the thought of oblivion.

Two hands on either shoulder shake her firmly, once. Heat smacks her in the face, overpowers the air around her senses with that smoky, thick scent of exhaust and cigars. Immediately she knows, her anatomy reacts in ways that should be wrong—her ovaries leapfrog. The cradle of her womb burns. Fingers sting with fire, her heart racehorsing behind ribs that seem to flare with heavy deep breath.

"Stay awake for me, darlin'," thick thumbs knead into the tension that needles deep in her shoulders, milking away tension. Eyes flutter open.

Logan.

"You're okay. Stand for me?"

Buzzing with the highs of adrenaline, her head lolls a little as she shakes it, Logan brushing aside the veil of hair sticking to her face with empathetic fingers. She shakes her head, no. Can't feel her legs, can't think about anything but the weightlessness that calls to her from the pull of unconscious bliss.

If she were able to die, now would be perfect. Just an idea, God, it would be funny if it weren't honest.

But then she's airborne, weightlessness achieved as Logan hauls her up into his arms as if she weighs nothing, which isn't truth. Head falling against his chest, her grip on her arm tightens to bruising. Glancing at her fingers, she realizes tremors haven't fully subsided—Logan adjusts her weight but doesn't protest as she sinks against him, teary again.

Moving to her chair, he kicks it around to face him with his foot. Angles his head gently to rest his cheek along the top of her head, a rare and raw show of affectionate. Something akin to a hum rumbles around his breastbone, she feels it—can't place if it's a soothing hmm or a shhh at her sniveling, doesn't care. Not right now.

He sets her up in the chair, probably with more care than Logan's ever shown.

Calloused fingers brush hair behind her ear, catching across her skin softly. Vision leveling, she lifts her head from the back of the chair. Eyes cast over to him, and it feels like it takes a thousand years. She may as well weigh the volume of the sun; everything feels slow and heavy.

"Thought you were leaving," she manages, the thick gravel in her voice all but bleeding and raw. "Need'ta be alone."

Popping a squat in front of the chair, he steadies it with a firm hand. The other brushes fingertips along the apple of her cheek.

"You think a 'lotta things, honey—and the last thing you need is to be by yourself." Right now, you need me.

It's there, in between every word and shift of his eyes finding hers. Trust me, I know. I know this pain, I carry it close. As close as you, always as close as you.

And he does.

Silence cuts between them like wolves, eating away at daylight and heartbeats. Charged energy snaps like a live wire. Attention falling from his face, her eyes float across his chest, frame.

She didn't see blood, but that didn't mean there wasn't any, even scant traces.

"Did I hurt you?" Oh, God.

Impossible, scientifically—and a part of her knows that. But it doesn't stop her from asking. Habits die hard, despite how many times you crucify them. He shakes his head, slowly. No.

She swallows the thick saliva that's risen in her mouth, flushing out the sours of vomit and adrenaline. "I—I don't know what happened—" more tears, hot and fast, surface. It hurts.

Everything hurts. Parts of her she didn't even realize burned. Deep aches, a thousand needles ravage her body like demons. Someone had taken apart her insides and thrown them back together in a hot ball of wax, anatomy rushing to correct the uncorrectable. Affliction sharpens its teeth with her spine, it's all but jelly. Unable to keep her upright.

"It hurts, Logan," Quiet, defeated. Broken, mouselike. "I'm sorry."

Logan's hand moves to the back of her neck, dips her forward until his forehead brushes hers. Allows her to rest against him, sharing breath. His other hand moves to cradle her face between strong hands. Hands that have killed, hands that understand.

More fresh tears. This time, they fall down his face. One of his hands, she doesn't know which, takes hers. Draws it from her chest. Pulls it to his mouth, shaking fingers. His lips brush against sore, burning knuckles. In a way, this is a Logan she doesn't know—has reasoned, perhaps envisioned. But never known.

"Don't be, pretty thing," his smile is soft, slow. Careful. "Don't gotta be sorry for what you are," he stands, slowly. Offers her his hand. Interlacing their fingers, bends to remove her stilettos. Nudges them aside with the toe of his boot, gently tugs her to her feet. He signals her up with a flick of his fingers.

Obedient, he fortresses her against his chest. Thick arms hold back the world, tired fingers curling against the leathers of his jacket. Breathing him in, for a heartbeat she forgets why. Why she's angry, why they're here—why any of this matters. What any of it even means.

She doesn't forget what he's said, Logan gently swaying her side to side on her feet.

"What am I, Logan?" Swallowing, "What is this?" Lifting a hand, she splays out her fingers.

And she knows what she is, subliminally. On paper, in eyes that aren't hers. Deep, her bones have identity of their own. From now until six feet under, she knows what she is. He's told her before. But to hear him say it, to hear it confirmed in the fading sun of tumult, well—it's identity of a different sort.

His chuckle is low, more of growl than anything. "This," he takes her hand in his again, fingers snug between her own, "this isn't who we are, sweetheart. Not exactly. It's just—it's just part of life." His hand releases, moving to tip her chin up. "And you, well—that ain't hard to figure."

Oh?

“You're mine."

And that's more identity than she figures she'll ever need.

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