I Feel Like Sometimes The World Forgets Writing Is A Talent And An Art Form.

𝙰 𝚆𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍

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

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Your husband was supposed to be dead. It's what bastards like him deserve after abandoning their wives in the middle of a blizzard. But he's here, haunting you even when you finally thought you were rid of him. No one can know.

Despite how sobering seeing your husband felt, it didn’t miraculously purge the whiskey running through your veins. You stumble towards the stairs of the saloon and stumble on the first step. “Damn,” you curse, blaming a loosened floorboard that doesn’t exist. Your fists clenches around the banister, relying on it to keep you standing. 

With each step, the warm air from the upstairs presses down against you. Your head spins with the effort it takes to keep moving forward. The heat of grinding bodies from the bedrooms seeps through the cracks of the doors. Sweat beads along your temple as you make it up the last few steps and you fight against the urge to pass out. 

Just as you pull yourself onto the landing, you manage to spot your husband’s form turning down the hall opposite of you. He and the whore disappear from view, “Shit,” you mutter, pushing yourself forward faster. Your legs pump as quickly as they can but the booze has numbed them. You feel nothing more than an almost pleasant tingle as you try and get them moving. 

A man stumbles towards you, grinning like a drunken fool. You don’t manage the grace to avoid bumping into him and his hands immediately rove your body, mistaking you for a working woman. You grunt nonsense at him, swatting his arms away and paying no heed to the insult he hurls at you. Your only focus now is the spot where your husband disappeared. You’ve nearly caught up with him when you feel your stomach roll unpleasantly. You latch onto the banister and curl over it, trying to keep your booze down. 

You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, clenching your eyes shut as you force the bile down before it can rush up your throat. You clamp a clammy palm over your mouth and turn your eyes toward the balcony on your right. 

Only an orange glow, fading against the horizon, remains of the day. The sun has long since disappeared from the sky. You were wondering why you felt so horrible. You’d drank the entire day away without realizing it. Not only that, but you’d been on your own all day. The cogs in your head are slow to turn through the sluggish mush that has become your brain. You know you had someone waiting on you, or you were waiting on them. You can’t seem to remember which. 

But there was something else you were doing, besides trying to remember why you were so drunk and in a saloon all alone. You push off the banister, stumbling back a few steps, and think as hard as you can. Your gaze drifts to your left ring finger, to the pale line of a missing ring. “Husband,” you whisper, “no good husband that’s supposed to be dead.”

A man shoots you a worried look as you pass by him but you just send him a watery smile. He shakes his head with a sigh, “Never should’ve started lettin’ women in here.”

You roll your eyes but the motion just makes you dizzy and you have to lean on a wall for a moment to get your bearings back. By the time you do, the man is gone and you’re all alone on the second floor. 

You have to use the wall to keep yourself balanced, but you do eventually manage to make your way towards the bedrooms. You’re not sure how you’ll know which one your husband is in. There’s always the option of simply busting down the doors until you find him, but that will draw too much attention. 

With your ear pressed to the walls like some kind of pervert, you pass by three bedrooms before you think you’ve found the right one. Slightly ajar, the door lets lamplight seep out into the hallway. Whoever is in there had been in a rush and hadn’t bothered taking the proper, mannerly, precautions. It seems like something your husband would do. 

With as light feet as you can manage drunk, you make your way towards the door. You hover in front of it, listening for a moment to soft sighs and creaking bedsprings before you peer inside. You only see the back of the woman at first, red curls falling over her shoulders, dress hastily pushed beneath her breasts. She’s bouncing atop a man who's wearing a pair of boots that look far too familiar to you. 

Reaching forward, you press the door open just the slightest bit more. Her grinding motions no longer block the man she’s with. Your throat tightens, heart souring, as you see your husband’s face turned up in glee. He lays below her, grinning like a fool, hands caressing her hips in ways he’d never done with you. She couldn’t look more tired of him, gaze constantly drifting towards the crumpled-up cash on the table beside them. 

You feel something white hot and angry strike through you. It’s callous, and unrestrained as you slip your hand across the revolver on your hip. You slide through the door with more grace than you should be currently capable of. You keep your eyes solely on the woman. You recognize the glazed look of your husband’s eyes, he’s too drunk to realize a gun’s being pointed at him, but she’s sober, she could scream and everyone would know you’re up here. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he slurs and it’s like something inside you splits and snaps open. He hasn’t called you beautiful in years, he hasn’t even tried to sleep with you since your first year of marriage. He’d bluntly told you that he’d rather cut off his cock than get you pregnant with his children. And here he was, laving this whore with compliments like he wasn’t paying her to make him happy. 

Righteous fury makes a fool out of you. You think of every bad night, all the moments you’d curled up in your room covered in bruises after he’d had too much to drink. You pull the revolver out, cock the hammer back, and point it at the back of the woman’s head. Her movements still, hips hovering in the air as she peers ever so slightly over her shoulder. 

“What’re you doin’?” Your husband slurs, slapping roughly at her hips. You see her jolt and listen to the smack echo through the room as her pale skin reddens. Your eyes burn with unshed tears and you nod towards the money on the dresser.

“Take the money. Get out,” you motion with your gun towards the door. She stays completely still, eyes so wide you can practically see the whole of them. Your finger twitches towards the trigger and she leaps up, nose flaring like a terrified rabbit. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She grabs the money, not even bothering to fix her clothes, and runs out the door. You figure after having to deal with your husband’s whiskey dick, she could use the compensation. She hastily slams the door shut behind her and you listen to the sounds of her rapid footsteps disappearing down the hall. 

You should be worried she’ll tell someone or get the sheriff, but you doubt she will. You’re sure she’s been threatened by plenty of angry wives in her time here. You’re probably just one of the rare few who bring a gun to drag their wily husbands out of a whore’s bed. She’ll dismiss you as nothing more than an irate woman taking her husband back home. 

Or, perhaps, you’re just drunk and confident enough to believe you can get away with this without any consequences. 

Vince’s pants are jerked lazily to his knees, he leaves himself exposed to you as he gets up on his elbows. You can almost smell the whiskey on his breath as you’re reminded of your disaster of a wedding night. He’d looked just like this then. Foolish, drunk, and like the biggest mistake of your life. 

He’d told you he was so nervous to lay with you that he’d practically drank the whole bar at your wedding. You hadn’t been able to do anything that night except stay up to make sure he didn’t drown in his own vomit. You’d even spent the next day nursing him so he wouldn’t suffer too much from the consequences of what he’d done. 

He’d been so sheepish, so horribly ashamed of his behavior as he apologized to you. You’d thought it be a silly story to share with your children one day. Or even one to just keep to yourself and laugh at, occasionally. You hadn’t thought it would become your everyday. You hadn’t thought the apologies would stop. 

His eyes roam lazily over you, tongue licking at his cracked lips in appreciation. A wet chuckle leaves him when he spots the gun in your hand. He grins at you, that familiar smile that always used to make you feel small. “Calm down, there’s more than enough of me to go around, honey.”

It hits you, then. As he laughs and smiles at you like this is all a joke. He doesn’t recognize you. You’re a bottle of whiskey deep yourself and you’d been able to tell the back of his head from every other bastard down there. But standing right before him he doesn’t even know who you are. 

He doesn’t even have the decency to realize you’re his wife.  “What’re you looking at, right now?” You demand, letting the gun drop a little. 

He shrugs, “I don’t know,” you grimace as he lets out a belch. “One wild woman, that’s for sure.”

You laugh but there’s no humor in the sound, only the acceptance that there was no part of him that ever cared about you. Even before things went bad, when you were still young and naive. You never meant anything to him and he had been your whole word. The gun hangs limply by your side, “You’re seeing,” you tell him slowly, “the wife you left for dead. I’m standing right in front of you, Vince, what does that mean?”

He blinks slowly and you watch as the thought forms. Eventually, the realization dawns on him. His jaw hinges open and closed, just the barest bit of sobriety shining through his reddened eyes. You tilt your head, face expectant, as you wait for him to say anything to you. Prove there’s any part of him worth redeeming. 

His brows furrow, lips turned down, and you wonder what he’ll say. “Help-” He starts to holler and you lunge forward. If anyone hears him or sees you standing in his room with a gun, you’ll be hanged. Maybe not before, you could have lied and said you were only an angry wife looking to scare him. But you travel with outlaws now, he’ll get you killed. He’ll get them all killed.  

You grab the closest thing you can and drag a pillow over his face. If this were any other day, he’d have you on the floor, his hands would already be tight around your throat. But he’s weak and he’s drunker than you. He has nothing to motivate him to stay alive but spite. And you have your grief and your rage and you use it to keep the cotton pressed firmly against his mouth. 

“I thought you were dead, you fucking bastard,” you hiss at him. He can’t respond, not with the way you’re shoving the pillow down his throat. His hands grab at your arms, squeezing your biceps so tight you feel like the bone might snap. But you don’t let go, not even when he rakes his nails down your arms and takes skin with him. You cry out in pain, watching as blood beads from his deep scratching. 

You put as much of your body weight against the pillow as you can, but he refuses to give up. He kicks his legs out wildly, bucking like a bronco and nearly throwing you off of him. His arms start swinging every which way. He manages to catch you in the nose and your head goes swinging painfully to the side. Even drunk, he’s still packing a hell of a punch. 

The pillow slips from your grasp as you clutch at your bleeding nose. He throws it across the room and starts to sit up. You can already hear his gasping voice, struggling to call for help after what you’d put his throat through. You spot the revolver on the ground, still where you’d dropped it. 

You don’t look at him as you pick it up, don’t listen to his pathetic whimper. You scoop it off the cracked wood and turn towards him. He only has the briefest moment to see what you’ve got in your hand, to realize the threat is real. You only get one second to revel in the wide-eyed, pleading look on his face before his head is snapping back and his brain splatters against the wall. 

Your ears ring as the shot echoes through the, now, starkly quiet room.  The adrenaline still rushes through you, heart pounding and knees knocking together as you take in the mess. His head dangles off the side of the bed and if you stay standing just where you are, you can almost pretend there’s no hole in it. 

Your arms buzz from the recoil, hands shaking so badly that the gun nearly slips from your grip. Your blood covers your arms and hands, but his douses the entire room. You press a hand against your chest, stumbling back a few steps and gasping. 

You’re going to have a heart attack. A heart shouldn’t be able to pound against your rib cage like this. Your blood shouldn’t be clawing at your veins and trying to escape. You turn away from his body and clench your eyes shut, trying to breathe normally. 

The barrel of the revolver is still warm from the bullet, the last bits of smoke eeking out of the tip. The smell of gunpowder and blood is overwhelmingly nauseating. You rush towards the window in the room, throwing the gun to the side and ripping at the pane until it lifts enough for fresh air to flow through. 

The body behind you can’t be your husband. It’s too still, to limp. He was wild and raging, full of life in the worst possible way. How is it possible that you’re responsible for taking that from him? It can’t be. You can’t have done this.

You try not to listen to the steady drip of blood. But it’s impossible not to taste the iron in the air. Your head tips out the window and the contents of your stomach burn as they rush out of you. It lands in the bushes below, rustling the leaves slightly. 

The sounds of the saloon are so loud that they drift into the night. People scream and shout at each other and you hear what sounds like a chair being thrown. How lucky for you. You shoot your husband and a fight breaks out so no one can hear it. 

You fall away from the window and sink onto the cool wooden floor. Forcing yourself to look at the corpse on the bed, you bite back a sob. You just killed your husband and the idea is slow to settle. A part of you can only see a corpse, with his head still hanging off the other side of the bed you can pretend it didn’t happen. 

Arthur sees Mary to the train station just as the sun begins to set. He’d like to linger in the ache of her absence, but he can only think about how he promised you it’d just be an hour. He can’t imagine how irate you’re going to be that he’d been gone the whole day. 

Hunting down Mary’s brother had been much more tedious than he thought it would be. He’d joined some turtle-worshipping cult and Arthur doesn’t even know where to begin explaining himself to you. You’ll probably think he's just making it all up. 

He pushes Diablo forward, the horse nickering below him like he’s giving him hell too. He doesn’t even know where to start looking for you. But, he figures in a town this small, if anyone had information they’d be in the only half-decent place they got. He nudges Diablo’s sides and turns him towards the saloon.

He takes his time walking to the saloon. He’s in no big rush to have you yelling at him for leaving you alone all day. He tries to prepare a half-decent explanation, maybe mentioning Mary and their history might ease some of the tension. You’d at least know why he felt like he had to help her. Or maybe that would only make you more mad. 

He didn’t know how to handle women, especially when they were angry. He figured no matter what he came up with, he wouldn’t be absolved from this. He looks around the saloon, trying to spot you anywhere but it’s crowded with smoke and bodies. He’s got better luck just asking the barkeep. 

“Ain’t got food here,” the man behind the counter warns as Arthur approaches. He doesn’t look up, too focused on scrubbing some blood off the wood. 

Arthur shakes his head, “Don’t need that. Need a woman.”

The old man scoffs and gestures behind him, “Take your pick.” Arthur turns and finds five working ladies smiling at him. One of them waves and he shakes his head with a grimace. 

“Not like that,” he grouses. “I was with a lady, had to leave for a little while. She might have come through here, you seen ‘er?”

“Geez mister, with a description as detailed as that I’m surprised you haven’t found her,” the old man grumps. Arthur glares, leaning further onto the counter and pushing the revolver on his hip out. The man rolls his eyes with a huff. “Only one lady been through here on her own. Sat here drinking the better part of the day away and stumbled upstairs. Haven’t seen her since, I swear.”

Not once has Arthur seen you drink more than a sip of liquor since you’ve been at camp. He sees the way your face screws up whenever Javier tries to pour you some more, he knows you don’t like the taste. He knows being on your own all day probably had you bored, but he can’t imagine you drinking so much for no reason. 

He gives the old man a doubtful look but he’s already back to cleaning up. Sighing, Arthur glances up the stairs and frowns. It’s not like he’s got anything else to go on. Maybe you’d just used his money to rent a room so you could sleep. He heads towards the stairs, calling out your name as he goes. 

It almost seems empty until a door slams up ahead and a redheaded woman comes rushing out. She’s wide-eyed, face so white he can see the blue of her veins. She slams right into him, nearly falling on her ass as she gapes up at him. 

“Oh,” she forces a smile, “sorry mister.” She looks suspiciously disturbed and it has Arthur’s stomach flipping uncertainly. She tries to slip past him but he reaches out, snagging her shoulders and turning her around before she can get far. 

“I’m lookin’ for a lady,” he tells her lowly, the tone of his voice a threat. He describes you as best he can, not once taking his eyes off her face. It twitches now and again, her eyes darting every which way. “You seen her?”

She opens and closes her mouth rapidly, shaking her head like she doesn’t know. “Um,” she clears her throat and Arthur’s eyes narrow. What has she got to hide? “Sure, ran out of here like a cat on fire a few minutes ago.” 

“You know why?” He asks in that same tone and she just shakes her head again. She shifts like she wants to leave and Arthur tightens his grip. There’s clearly something she’s not sharing and he’s going to get to the bottom of it. Realizing this, she lifts her foot and slams her heeled boot down on his toes. 

“Shit,” he hisses, letting her go as he jumps back in surprise. She bolts towards the terrace, sliding around the corner and disappearing down the back set of stairs. Arthur runs after her, one foot dragging slightly behind the other. “Hold on a minute!” He shouts as she disappears into the alley beyond the saloon.

She runs him in circles, dragging him between every building in Valentine before he finally lands right back in front of the saloon. He can’t find a trace of her anywhere, their footsteps overlapping in the mud and making it impossible for him to track her. 

 “God dammit, where’d you go?” He mutters to himself. He lets out a heavy sigh and tries hollering your name again. He doubts it will help at all but he feels useless just standing in the middle of the road. 

He’s properly worried now, not sure why you would have run off. He’d given you that gun to protect yourself with, he can’t imagine you would get much trouble on your own with that on your hip. He still fears that a drunken patron in the saloon might have mistaken you for the wrong type of woman. Maybe you were handled improperly before you could pull the trigger. 

Arthur doesn’t want to linger long on a thought like that. He can’t imagine something like that happening to you. It makes his stomach tense with more guilt as he walks back towards Diablo. 

“-I swear, she looked insane.” Arthur’s ears perk up as the hotel owner’s voice drifts towards him. He turns and sees two men talking out on the porch. “She ran through here with what looked like blood all over her. ”

It could be any woman. Hell, it could be the prostitute he’d just chased down like a madman. But there’s a chance that the man is talking about you and he can’t take the chance. He stalks towards him and the patron the owner’s talking to spots him. His eyes widen and he scrambles back just as Arthur barrels forward. 

He grabs the owner by the collar before he can turn around and shoves him into the wall of the hotel. “Where’d she go?” 

“What- Who- Sir, please-” He sputters, eyes wide with fear while he looks like he might spoil himself. 

Arthur shakes him a little harder, shoving him further up the wall. “You know damn well who I’m talkin’ about,” he growls, fists clenching so tight in the man’s shirt it starts to tear. “The woman, where’d she go?”

He can’t answer, he’s gone so pale Arthur can practically see through him. He also looks like he might pass out. But the patron he’d been talking to shoots to his feet, backing away from Arthur while he points to the barn across from them. “He said she went to the stables, I swear.”

Arthur lets the other man go with a rough sigh. He didn’t need to threaten him, the man was only a witness to your escape, not an accomplice. Still, he’s angry he even has to interrogate him at all. 

Arthur rushes towards the stables and slams the doors open. The older man inside practically jumps out of his skin as Arthur glares from the doorway at him. 

“The woman who came by?” Arthur demands. He’s got no time to explain himself now. If you got a horse, there’s no telling where you might have run off. And the way people keep describing you, you sound like you were drunk and out of sorts, possibly even hurt. You might not even remember the way back to camp. 

Arthur had promised Hosea he’d take care of you. He couldn’t have messed up this badly just because he was busy trying to rustle up a rich boy. 

“Oh, well, she came in lookin’ all sorts of wound up. She grabbed one of my mares, gave me the money, and went running. Gave me more than she was supposed to, I don’t think she was in her right mind.”

“Where’d she go?” Arthur barks out, impatient of his doddering story. 

The man shrugs, eyes wide with surprise. “Well, I don’t know. Think she mentioned something about an overlook, but I’m not quite sure. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

Arthur doesn’t answer the man. He whistles Diablo forward and hastily climbs the horse. He rides him harder than he should, driving him faster even when he knows he wants to slow down. He doesn’t see your bleeding body anywhere along the path as he races to camp and he has to be slightly grateful for that. 

He can’t help but feel slightly irritated at you, though. Why didn’t you just wait for him? He knows that he took longer than he said he would. But just leaving town altogether was beyond stupid. The roads are dangerous at night, even if you do know how to work a gun, you don’t have any chance against an ambush. 

He digs his spurs further into Diablo’s side, ignoring the way the horse huffs and puffs as they make their final stretch through the woods. He ignores Charles’s greeting as he rides in and practically leaps off the horse as he runs into camp. 

He doesn’t have to go far to find you. You’re in a new dress, staring over the fire with this odd sort of wide-eyed look. He doesn’t see any paint or blood, just a few nasty scratches on your arm. Seeing you standing there acting like nothing’s wrong and you didn’t worry him half to death gets him beyond angry.  

He bears down on you, grabbing you by the shoulders and flipping you around to face him. “What the hell were you thinkin’, leavin’ like that?” He knows he needs to be mindful of his tone. He’s not exactly easy on the eyes, he’s sure it’s not much better when he’s shouting in your face. But he’d thought you were dead or worse.  

Hosea notices the commotion, standing up from the domino table as Tilly turns towards you both. Arthur doesn’t have eyes for anyone but you. You’re staring up at him, all glassy-eyed and trembling. But you’re not speaking and it’s making the anger in his mind gnaw away at any common sense. 

“Answer me, dammit! What the hell were you thinkin’?”  

You open your mouth and Arthur thinks you better have a damn good answer for this. Instead of words, all that comes out is a shuddering sob that has you shaking in his hold. “I’m sorry,” you blubber, head bowed as tears start streaming. 

Arthur’s eyes go wide and he slowly releases your arms. “Oh,” he trails off, hands hovering over you in an almost-touch. You wipe desperately at your tears but they won’t stop coming and he’s worried you might fall over with the force of your heaving. 

“I’m so sorry,” you cry out. He doesn’t have a moment to react before you turn around and run off towards the trees. Arthur watches this all happen with a slack-jawed, awed kind of expression. He looks around and sees half the camp watching him. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he argues weakly, trying to think of some defense. He moves to go after you but Mary-Beth shakes her head. 

“Don’t, Arthur. Leave her be, you have no idea how terrifying you get sometimes.” She shakes her head in disappointment and walks over to her tent. 

Arthur feels his heart sink to his stomach, tongue-tied with all kinds of excuses. No matter how hard he tries to be good, he just can’t do it right. 

There’s no light but the moon to guide you as you trip your way through the underbrush. A few fallen branches snag at the hem of your dress but you keep moving. Your chest heaves as you try and catch your breath. You rub painfully at your eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears that just won’t stop coming. 

The tip of your boot catches on a stray rock and you fly forward. Your hands sink into soft grass and you feel wet patches forming on your knees. So much for your clean new dress. You stay where you are, curled up on the forest floor feeling like a pathetic wretch 

You can’t get the blood off your hands. Even after washing it off in a pond on the way to camp. You still feel it soaking through your clothes and staining your skin. Somewhere inside yourself, you know that this is just shock. You’ll be fine soon enough. 

But for now, you’re stuck in an endless cycle of watching the death of your husband play out over and over again. You see his chest blowing out the last bits of air in his lungs. You feel the heavy weight of his limp body in your arms as you drag him into the wardrobe. The squish of his brain under your foot as you made a run for it. 

You curl into yourself, and one last, hard sob rips through you before you feel your chest begin to silently fill in and out. The tears come a little slower as you place your hands over your face and force yourself to breathe. 

“Who’s there?” You recognize Charles’s voice but you don’t have the wherewithal to answer, still trying to calm yourself. “Who’s there?” He demands again, louder. His question is accompanied by the cock of a gun, but that’s all you hear. He’s near silent as he makes his way through the forest. You open your eyes only to find yourself staring down the barrel of his rifle, no warning of his approach. 

He says your name, his tone tinged with worry. “What are you doing out here?”

You wipe your face off, take in a shuddering breath, and open your mouth. Nothing more than a wheeze comes out. You don’t know what to say to him. You don’t even know how to begin to approach this. 

He kneels before you, his hand landing on your shoulder and then running gently across your arm. Your brows furrow as he starts petting you, almost, like a dog. “What the hell are you doing?” You ask, barking out a wet, incredulous laugh. 

He lifts his hand, a slight tilt to his lips, “Seeing if you’re injured. Is that not what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, biting your lower lip and scrubbing a hand down your face. “No,” you whisper. 

“What happened?” His voice is so gentle and soft that you’re lulled into a feeling of security. You don’t see him shouting at you the way Arthur did. You imagine him listening with that stern expression of his and not saying anything at all. 

“I killed him,” you mutter, staring down at your balled-up hands. “I killed him and I stuffed him in a wardrobe.” You look up at Charles and if he’s shocked, he’s doing a damn good job of not showing it. “I ran, threw my clothes in a lake, and came back to camp. I didn’t know what to do,” your voice is a hushed whisper, words coming out faster than you can think of them as you begin to unload on him. 

“Stop,” he interrupts before you can confess any more of your sins. “Who did you kill?”

You hesitate and he gives you a stern look that forces the words out. “My husband. I saw him in the saloon, he had a woman with him and I just got so mad,” your nails bite into the palms of your hands and he reaches down, forcing you to uncurl them. 

“You stuffed him in a wardrobe?” You nod your head rapidly and he sighs, getting to his feet. “Did anyone see you?”

You think back on it, trying to think of a witness. You’d been pretty drunk at the time, it’s hard to recall much before you pulled the trigger. “The woman,” you whisper, head bowed with shame as you remember her. “There was a woman with him and I kicked her out.”

“Get up,” he tells you, tone short and commanding as he starts to walk off. 

You feel your heart drop to your heels, scrambling to your feet and chasing after him. You nearly barrel into his back in your attempt to catch up. “Where are we going? Are you turning me in?”

He shakes his head with a low laugh. “No. But we need to get rid of the body. If we’re lucky, no one will have gone in there yet. If we’re not, we’ll need to deal with that woman.”

You blanch at the idea of having to shoot someone else but Charles doesn’t give you much time to stomach the thought. He walks back into camp, tossing his rifle at an unsuspecting Lenny. “Hey, it ain’t my turn tonight!” Lenny argues with Charles retreating back. 

“It is now,” he calls over his shoulder. He leads you back to the horses and it’s like he’s got you on a leash. You follow blindly behind him, just needing someone to tell you what to do. You climb the mare you’d impulsively bought. You hadn’t even really processed what you’d done. 

It’s not until now, that you’re sitting on her, that you take in anything about her. She’s pretty enough, an Ardennes with white coloring and an odd grey speckling on her back legs. You like the feathering on her hooves and how soft her mane is when you run your hand over it. But you’re most thankful for the fact that she got you back to camp as fast as she did. 

Charles starts to pull out of camp when someone approaches your horse. You glance down, focus still split between what you’ve done and what you’re about to do. You find Arthur staring up at you, hands bracketing the saddle so you can’t leave. He looks around you, glancing at Charles before turning back. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, voice having lost some of the edge from earlier. You can still see the tension in his shoulders but it's clear he’s trying to keep his tone in check. 

You look over your shoulder, leaning on Charles for guidance. It’s not like you’ve ever murdered someone before, you’re not even sure how to lie about it. You just know that you don’t want Arthur to ever learn about what you did. You don’t want any of them too.

It’s a gang of outlaws, liars, murderers, and jackasses and you’re terrified that if they ever found out about this, they’d start looking at you like you’re one of them. “Nothing important, just taking her for a ride,” Charles answers. His horse kicks at the ground impatiently, wanting to get a move on and you can feel your own mare getting restless. 

Arthur’s eyes narrow with something like suspicion. His jaw sets and you have a sinking feeling in your stomach that you know what he’s going to say. He’ll call your bluff, say he’s coming with you. Then you’ll be forced to tell the truth. He’ll know you killed your husband. 

You play a dirty card, staring down at him with wide, wet eyes and sniffling. “I just need to be away from camp, Arthur. I got so scared earlier.” The because of you goes unsaid but you know he hears it nonetheless. 

His face slacks with something like guilt and he takes his hands off your horse, backing off. “Look, about that, I’m real sorry, alright? I got worried because you weren’t in town-”

“You said an hour,” you snap. A sudden wave of irritation takes hold of you. Not only is he stopping you from cleaning up your mess but he’s trying to make it out like you leaving wasn’t his own damn fault. “You left me on my own until sunset. What the hell did you expect me to do? I thought you were just going to leave me there.” You scoff, shaking your head and looking down at your hands. “Wouldn’t be the first time a man abandoned me.” It’s low, comparing him to the husband you just killed, but you need to play every card you have to make sure he stays away. 

His brows furrow and you see the brief flash of hurt on his face before it disappears. With a heavy sigh, you lead your horse towards Charles. “Just leave me be,” you snap, taking off before he can say anything else. 

You’ll stew in that guilt later, for now, you need to go get rid of your husband's body. 

“He’s in there?” Charles motions towards the saloon and you nod your head. “Alright, hitch the horses over here. We don’t want people seeing us.” He leads you to the gunsmith across the way and you both get off your horses. 

Charles stops you from going in the front and takes you around the back of the saloon. He leads you to a set of back stairs that almost gets you exactly where you need to be. You’re on the upper floor but the room your husband is in is on the other side of the building. 

Charles looks at you expectantly and for a moment you’ve forgotten that it’s your murder you’re cleaning up. You’ve just been obeying him blindly like a beaten dog, needing someone to tell you everything will be alright. “Oh, right,” you whisper, leading him around the banister and towards the hallway your husband is in. 

You’re nearly at the door when another couple starts walking towards it. “Shit,” you hiss, “that’s it.” 

Charles looks around your shoulder to the slightly ajar door and lets out a loud sigh. “You didn’t even close the door?”

You turn and glare at him, “I was a little distracted,” you snap quietly. He only shakes his head, grabbing your hand and running towards the room before the couple can get to it. You nearly slam into the woman in your haste to get inside. 

Charles slams the door closed behind you both and you hear her laugh as she moves down the hall. “Young love,” she muses to the man she’s with for the night.

You sink against the door, letting out a breath of relief. When you open your eyes again you find Charles standing in the middle of the room. He almost looks a little shocked. When he turns back to you he’s got an astonished expression on his face. 

“What did you do?” He demands lowly and you flush. 

“I- I,” you stutter and take a hesitant step towards him. “I shot him and stuffed him in the wardrobe,” you rush out, motioning towards the closed wardrobe beside him. You stand next to him, finally getting a good look at what he’s seeing. 

You grimace in disgust. You suppose in your haste to hide the body and leave you hadn’t wholly taken in the gore of the room. There’s a puddle of blood soaked into the bed and a trail of it leading to the wardrobe. You’re pretty sure there’s a pile of your sick in the middle of the floor. Besides that, it’s like a bomb of feathers and brains splattered across the wall and floor. You can even see a bootprint where you’d stepped in a pile of mush. 

“Oh, god,” you mutter, stomach flipping. “This is bad.” You’re grateful you’d already thrown up earlier, you don’t need Charles seeing you get sick. He’s already seeing you at your worst, that would just be salt in the wound. 

Charles lets out a heavy sigh and moves towards the wardrobe. “It’s fine, we only need to rid of the body.”

“The body?” You take in a deep breath, lowering your voice and giving him an incredulous look. “What about the blood?” You can’t help your shrill tone of voice as you motion towards the innards everywhere. God, had you painted the walls with it? How the hell did it get this bad?

“Blood doesn’t matter if they can’t find the body,” he tells you with a deadpan expression. He pops the wardrobe open and your husband comes tumbling out. He lands at your feet with a wet thud and you grimace. 

Charles grabs the sheet off the bed and hands you one end. “What are we doing?”

“We’re gonna wrap him up. Then, you’ll go outside and make sure no one sees as I toss him off the balcony.”

“What-” Your eyes go wide as you help him lift your husband onto the sheet. 

“There’s a pig pen nearby. We’ll toss him in and the hogs will have taken care of everything by morning. As long as no one knows the man who was killed in here was your husband, it can’t be brought back around to you.” He speaks about this with such casualness you’d think he was deciding what he wanted for dinner. He tucks the sheet and starts to roll your husband, you blink a few times and force yourself to help him. 

When he’s fully wrapped Charles hoists him over his shoulder with a groan. “Downstairs,” he commands and you take off running. You leave the room and take care to close the door this time. You head down the hall and make your way towards the back stairs. 

Just as you open the balcony doors someone comes through them. She stumbles into you with a groan. “Watch it-” She cuts herself off, jaw clicking shut as she gives you a wide-eyed stare. This is the woman who’d been with your husband. 

You hold your hands up, “Hold on-”

“You killed him. I heard the gun.” Your face drops, hand instinctually going to the gun on your hip. She notices this and quickly stammers out a rushed sentence. “Usually the women beat on me.”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head. “What?” You glance around her, wondering if anyone would see you kill her. Hiding a body isn’t a leisure activity, you need to get downstairs and she’s in the way. You should just shoot her or hit her over the head and drag her towards the hogs too. 

When did you get so comfortable thinking like this?

“They just go after me, the wives. Yank on my hair, kick me, sometimes they spit too. They don’t never go after their husbands. I’ll be honest, I thought you were finally gonna be the one to do me in.” She laughs to herself and you force yourself to join along, not sure if she’s leading into turning you in or not. “But, no, you paid me for my time and let me go.” She winks and grins, “I won’t say nothin’ if you don’t.”

She walks off without another word and you stay firmly rooted in your place. Your eyes are narrowed in confusion, jaw slack as you try and process a whore casually agreeing to not turn you in for murder. You knew outlaw life was different than the way you lived as a proper lady. But this is simply astonishing. Is your life now just full of absolute psychopaths and madmen? 

Turning back towards the balcony, you rush down the stairs and nearly fall on your ass as you run to stand under the open window above you. Your eyes dart every which way, checking that no witnesses will spot your illicit activities. There’s a dark howling forest at your back and lightless houses surrounding you, no one to see what you’re going to do.  

You whistle and a blanket-wrapped lump drops from the window. You jump back before it can land on you. When it hits the ground with a thump you run forward and roll it into the bushes under the window. Charles's head peers over and disappears in a second. 

You’re paranoid, head whipping in every direction at every gust of wind and rustle of leaves. At any moment you think someone is going to jump out of a bush and cry “Murderer!”

It only takes two minutes for Charles to join you and in that time you feel like you’ve aged ten years. He comes down the stairs calmly, in no rush at all. He nods towards the body and you both roll it back out of the bushes. 

You take the feet sticking out of the blanket and he grabs the shoulders, nodding his head backward. “Pen’s this way.”

You both stumble along behind the shops. Pausing every so often when you see the glow of lamplight or the chatter of voices gets too close. “Why didn’t we take the horses?” You grunt, readjusting the feet in your hold for the nth time. Your arms are screaming with overuse as you struggle to keep a hold of your husband. 

Charles smirks and keeps walking backward, looking for all the world like he’s completely at ease. “Consider this a lesson the next time you plan on killing someone.”

Your jaw gapes and you narrow your eyes at him. “You’re punishing me?” 

“You think this is how I wanted to spend my night?” You clench your jaw shut, keeping quiet as the squealing of pigs gets closer. “Nearly there,” he mutters. You can see it coming up now, the wooden fencing is nearly at your fingertips. 

“Alright, come on.” You scuttle along behind him, shuffling until your hip hits the wood. You prop the feet on your knee, groaning as you heave the body up to your shoulder. “Toss him,” Charles instructs and you use the last of your remaining strength to send the body over the fence. 

The hogs lift their noses to the air, already curious by the smell of blood. Charles jumps over the wood and undoes the blanket, he slices open another cut on the body, enticing them further. He jumps back over just as the animals come trotting forward. 

“They’ll really eat him?” You ask, doubt flooding your voice. 

Charles hums and nods his head. “They’ll eat anything if they smell the blood.” Your stomach churns as you see one take the first bite, the others quickly following. You whip around, putting your back to the scene. Charles crosses his arms, glaring down at you. “Think you’ve learned your lesson?”

You tug the revolver out of the holster on your hip and hold it out to him. “Never again,” you swear. He chuckles and takes the handle from you. “Sure as hell never trying whiskey again.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he corrects, smiling down at you. 

You sink against the fencing, ignoring the sounds of the pigs feasting. Mud soaks the hem of your dress and blood covers your hands once more. But it’s not as awful as it was a few hours ago. At least you’re not alone now. And you know Charles won’t tell anyone the truth of what happened tonight. 

Still, you can’t help but worry that they’ll find out somehow. Dutch won’t risk having a liability around and that’s all you made yourself tonight. You could have gotten caught, you could have hanged for this. The bastard getting eaten behind you certainly isn’t worth all the trouble. 

But there’s no mistaking that with him gone, there’s a weight off your shoulders. An empty spot in your heart is filled with the knowledge that he’ll never hurt you again.

Next Part end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot 

I HIT A 1000 FOLLOWERS OHMYGOD SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

I LOVE YOU ALL ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

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

Update: I did it. here you go

Hey I’m just begging for a fic of Logan with a shy reader that she has a crush on him but thinks he’s never going to fix on her since Jean exists (maybe the reader can make her hair color change depending on the emotion or something

a/n: sorry I haven’t been responding to asks. The new job has officially killed my spirit. But I got to work out finally and do some yoga so hopefully I’ll start feeling more motivated 🤞🤞this one will be shorter

Logan Howlett x X-men!reader (Chameleon)

“Chameleon!” You jump, shoulders flying up to your ears. Almost immediately you can feel the tips of your fingers tingling. Sure enough, when you look down they’re already disappearing. Sighing, you turn around and glare at Scott. 

“What have I told you about scaring me?” 

He grimaces, raising his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I forgot.”

You roll your eyes and turn back toward your project. “Every time,” you mutter bitterly. You’re not an idiot. You know he thinks scaring you is funny. The whole school does. They all like to see you yelp and blend in with the nearest surface, the only thing visible is your stupid hair. 

“You’re, um, turning red.” Scott points to your head and you don’t have to look to know your hair is shifting colors.

You reach over and swat harshly at his arm, “Because you pissed me off! I know you scare me on purpose,” you accuse, jabbing your finger into his chest. He laughs and stumbles away from you. 

“Alright, alright, calm down. I was just messing around a little. Look,” he glances down at the lesson plans before you and sighs. “All this will have to wait. Charles needs us all for a mission.”

You huff and shove the papers into your desk drawer. “Alright, lead the way.” You feel Scott’s eyes still lingering on your hair and glare at him. “Move it, Summers,” you demand. 

You were already in a bad mood, you didn’t need him making it worse. It honestly shouldn’t be such a big deal for you. You get scared by everyone all the time. You used to enjoy it, enjoyed the way it felt like you all had your own joke. But, eventually, it started to feel less like an inside joke and more like you’re the unwitting butt of one. 

Some mutants get amazing powers, like Jean or Charles. Logan’s abilities are incredible, even if he doesn’t believe you when you tell him that. But yours, well, you're better suited as the cheap gimmick of a children’s birthday party than an X-Men. You’re just a walking mood ring that blends in with her environment. 

The only thing you’re good for is reconnaissance missions and embarrassing yourself. You don’t know what Charles sees in you. You’ve never understood why he insists you’re such a good asset to the team. Yes, you are good at spying on people, but you don’t need to when Charles has such strong telepathic abilities. You’re essentially useless in a fight due to a lack of regenerative or strength abilities. 

More often than not you feel like a child playing dress up, chasing after the big kids. You know the others don’t mean anything bad by it when they tease you into going invisible or laugh when your hair changes. It’s all in good fun. But it doesn’t make you feel any less like easy entertainment rather than a teammate. 

It doesn’t help that you’ve got little to no control over your abilities when it comes to Logan. You’ve never had such a horrifically bad crush like this. Anytime he opens his mouth around you, you're fighting off the urge to just go invisible and run away. You feel like you go feral around him. You don’t know how he hasn’t caught onto what the colors of your hair mean when you’re near him. 

It’s constantly switching between some odd mix of red and pink when you talk. Which, you know what it means, but you’re praying no one else does. Red can mean angry, depending on whether you’re talking to Scott or not. You know, though, that with Logan it just means you want to jump his bones and you’re hopelessly in love with him. 

Thankfully, like the others, he associates red with anger. Which isn’t great for you because that just means he thinks every time he opens his mouth you’re pissed off. At yourself, maybe, but at him, never. It just means when he wears those stupid tanktops you want to dig your teeth into his biceps and never let go. 

Scott opens the door to the meeting room and you slide in past him. Charles gives you a brief smile as a greeting. You take the chair at the end of the table, which just happens to be next to Logan - completely coincidental. He gives you a tense smile and you return it stiffly. You tug your hood over your hair, praying he doesn’t notice the red in your strands yet. You don’t want him to think you hate him. You completely prefer that over him knowing how feral you are for him, but it’s not conducive to your slow plan to finally get him to acknowledge you as a sexual partner. 

You swear, if your name isn’t Jean Grey, you might as well just be a shapeless blob of nothing. He glances over at her, that smoldering look in his eyes, and you try not to throw up in your mouth. Scott wraps an arm around Jean’s shoulders and they break their lingering stares. 

Logan glances over at you and catches the glare on your face before you can get rid of it. He huffs and turns towards Charles. With a sigh, you sink back into your chair and focus on not just going invisible. 

“Chameleon,” Charles says your name and your eyes widen. You wonder how much you’ve missed while you’ve been glaring at the back of Jean’s head. “Does that sound alright with you?”

You look around the table for help but they’re all staring expectantly at you. “Sure,” you stumble over the word, racking your brain for any answers. It seems not even your subconscious was paying attention to Charles droning on. “Sounds great.” He gives you a satisfied nod. 

“Good. Off to the jet, all of you.” he rolls out of the room and you wait until he’s out of earshot to kick Logan under the table. 

He glances back at you, smirking. “Don’t know what you agreed to?”

You purse your lips and shake your head. “Nope,” he gives you a look like he knew you’d say that. You hate how well he can read you when it feels like you’re constantly hitting walls trying to understand him. 

“You’re scoping a place out for us. Making sure it’s safe so we can retrieve some information.” You give him a thankful look and he chuckles. “You need to start paying attention, kid.”

You groan and get up from your chair, brushing past him. “I told you to quit calling me that.” It makes you feel like that’s all he’ll ever see you as, some kid invited onto the team. You want him to see you as someone he could have sex with, hopefully, love one day. 

He glances past you at Jean. She smiles at him and you fight everything inside you to not roll your eyes and gag at them. She’s holding onto Scott and making fuck me eyes at Logan, which he’s happily returning. This is just too disgusting for you. 

You shove past him and ignore how he calls out your name. Your real name. He’s the only one that uses it. For some reason, most people just refer to you by Chameleon. You don’t understand why. They just don’t seem to think of you outside your abilities as a mutant. 

You make it to the jet before the others, taking the private time to change into your X-Men suit. If there’s one useful thing about your ability, it’s that it affects whatever’s touching you. Which means, you don’t have to strip naked to go completely invisible. And if anyone is around you, all you have to do is hold onto them and they’ll blend in too. 

You’re tugging up the zipper of your top as Logan walks in. He gives you an odd look, sitting on the bench in front of you. “Angry about something?” He asks, gaze darting up to your head. 

You drag your fingers over the ends of your hair and sigh. “No,” you tell him bluntly, taking the seat beside him. 

His brows furrow in confusion. “It’s red, though,” he points out, his tone colored in suspicion. 

You laugh a little, “Red doesn’t always mean angry.” It’s the most you’ve ever confided about your hair colors to him. The largest hint you’ve ever given him that you don’t hate him. You’re worried if he knew how you really felt about him, he’d think you were a little creep. 

He slides his arm behind you on the bench, leaning in until you’re practically sharing the same air. You know your eyes are comically large, you don’t even want to know what color your hair is turning right now. “What else does it mean, kid?” He whispers and you don’t even pay attention to the nickname. All you can see and hear right now is him. How close he is, how close your lips are. 

You could lean forward an inch or two and you’d be kissing. “Um,” you swallow harshly around the lump in your throat. You don’t even know what he asked you, all you can think about now is kissing him. 

“Logan!” Ororo’s voice echoes through the jet and you leap away from him, trying to calm your racing heart. Logan sighs and leans back in his seat, giving Storm a tense smile. She glances at you and laughs, “She’s nearly see-through, what are you doing to her?”

You frown and look down at your hands. Sure enough, you’re going translucent. You let out a silent groan, and tuck your knees into your chest. You take a few deep breaths until you’re one solid form again. It’s so embarrassing when that happens, when you lose control over yourself like that. 

But it’s even worse when Logan does it to you. He gives you hope, stupid, hateful hope, for one minute that he might feel something deeper. Only for it to be another joke. You’re a walking mood ring, nothing more than a quick laugh to all of them. 

Jean walks up the ramp, her gaze going to Logan first before drifting towards you. “Are you alright?” She mutters, trying not to let the others hear. Of course, Logan can, with his stupid enhanced abilities. “You’re turning blue,” she points out and you roll your eyes. 

You can feel Logan’s stare burning holes into the side of your head and it only makes you feel worse. You hate being a joke, but you also hate showing them just how much it affects you. You don’t want to seem like a crybaby that can’t handle a little teasing. But you’d thought coming to Charles’ school meant people would stop poking fun at you. It feels like being dragged right back into high school. 

“I’m fine,” you tell her. She doesn’t look like she believes you but she takes a seat anyway. Of course, placing herself right next to Logan, even though her fiancee is a few feet away from her, looking just as hurt as you. They lean into each other and whisper. They’re not even trying to hide it anymore. You let your glare bore into the floor, ignoring how much seeing them together hurts. 

The mission had gone well, Logan had been hoping to go to the bar and grab a drink with you. But the second his back is towards you, you’re running off the jet. Logan calls out your name, trying to catch up. You glance back at him, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. He smiles at you and your eyes widen. You go invisible and Logan glances around, baffled. 

He calls out your name again but the door ahead of him opens and closes quickly. He can only assume you’ve run away again. You always run away from him. You’re always pissed off at him. He doesn’t know what Jean’s talking about when she says you like him. 

Logan’s never met anyone more repulsed by him. 

“Would you just trust me?” Jean tells him lowly, creeping up behind him. 

His face falls and he turns to her, glaring at her knowing smirk. “She just fuckin’ ran away from me. Pretty sure that’s about as good a hint as I’m gonna get, Jean.”

She glances over her shoulder, waving Scott away and looping her arm through Logan’s. “You’re an idiot, Howlett.” He scoffs and she swats at his shoulder. “Trust me, I can read minds, remember?”

Of course, he knows she’s got some pretty decent telepathic abilities. But he didn’t think she would so brazenly breach your boundaries. There’s an unspoken rule that the mind readers of the school don’t delve into your brain without permission. 

She sees the look on his face and sighs. “I didn’t read her mind. She got drunk a little while ago and told me about her raging crush on you,” she laughs a little at your expense and Logan lets out a short chuckle. You can be a pretty sloppy drunk if they let you go too far. He figures it was one of those girl’s nights he wants nothing to do with. You’d probably let the tight reigns you keep on yourself slip for once. 

“She goes red every time she sees me. I don’t know what else that could mean other than she hates me.” Logan isn’t surprised that you’re not taken with him like he is with you. He’s used to the rejection, but it hurts just a bit more coming from you. You’re so welcoming to the others. 

You embrace every new member of the school with open arms. Yet, with him, you get angry whenever you see him. You see through his walls, see the rot lurking underneath them. And, rightfully, want nothing to do with him. He understands your reasoning. 

Most days he barely wants anything to do with himself. He’s made a lot of bad choices in his life, half of which he can’t remember. But he’d hoped, for one minute, that you might give him a second chance. As much as Jean insists otherwise, he can see the truth of how you feel about him every time you run away. 

“Red doesn’t always mean anger,” Jean tells him elusively. It’s the same thing you’d said to him on the jet. It makes his brows furrow in confusion and he glares at her. 

“What else could it mean?” He demands sharply, sick of her teasing him with the possibility you might feel the same way. 

She bites her lip, looking suddenly sheepish. “I can’t say-”

“Jean,” Logan snaps. He stops her from walking any further, keeping her planted in one spot with him. “Tell me,” he’s sick of the games you’re both playing with him. He just wants some straight fucking answers. How hard is that?

She sighs and looks away from him. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell.”

“And I’m sure you promised you also wouldn’t tell me how she feels about me,” he points out. There’s a sharp tone to his voice, it’s rude but he can’t bother feeling guilty about it. 

She can’t meet his eye, a smirk fighting at the corner of her lips. He waits impatiently for her answer, irritation broiling quickly in his gut. He’s about to snap at her again when she finally meets his eyes. 

She speaks through a laugh, like what she’s about to say is so ridiculous she can’t hold it in. “She wants,” she cuts herself off with another laugh and Logan groans in frustration. He begins to walk away from her when she yells, “She wants to fuck you!” At his back. 

His eyes widen in surprise before he turns back to her with a displeased look. “Are you fuckin’ with me?” He demands, narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously. 

She shakes her head and brushes past him. “You didn’t hear it from me,” she warns, tone grave as she leaves the room. 

Logan is left standing in the same spot, stunned at the revelation. He’s not sure how much of that he believes. But he doesn’t understand why Jean would possibly lie to him about this. She gains nothing by setting him up for failure. As much as he doubts the honesty behind her words, he’s got no other choice but to trust them. 

He heads to the most likely place you’re hiding out. Charles has a private library that’s blocked off from the kids. There are too many first editions in there, he can’t risk any of them accidentally blowing them up. You like to head there when you’re trying to avoid people. 

He tries to stay quiet as he walks in, not wanting you to run off again. It’s hard to confront someone who goes invisible whenever she feels like it. He sees light blue hair draped over the back of an armchair. He feels like a creep as he stalks towards you, sneaking and pouncing on you so you can’t run away. 

He can’t imagine how Jean ever thought him approaching you would be a good idea. He whispers your name, trying not to startle you. It doesn’t take a genius to see how much you hate when the others scare you. They might not mean anything bad by it, but they have to be blind not to see how much it pisses you off. 

You still jump, glancing up at him with a surprised look. He looks to your hair for any tells of how you feel. Some pink weaves its way through the stands but it otherwise stays relatively blue. His brows furrow in confusion, he can’t tell if it’s a good or bad sign that there’s no red. 

“How are ya, kid? Ran off pretty quick earlier.” 

“Don’t call me that,” you mutter, giving him a brief glare before staring absently down at the book in your hands. Logan kneels beside your armchair, covering the pages with his hand. You huff, giving him an expectant look. “Yes, Logan?” You demand, tone short.

Logan tilts his head, examining you and your body language. You seem relatively closed off, irritated at him or something else. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good with words or trying to express how he feels. He’s more comfortable showing how much he cares for those around him. 

Throwing caution to the wind, he lets his hand drift to your wrist and tugs you forward. Your eyes widen as he drags you toward him. The kiss is short, he doesn’t want to push you too much. But it takes everything in him to stop himself from deepening it. All he wants is to pull you into his arms and devour you. 

He holds back, parting from you with a low exhale. Your eyes flutter open and he grins when he sees the bright red your hair has turned. “What,” you sputter and stumble over your words. You shove him back and leap to your feet. “What the hell was that?” You demand, voice higher than he’s ever heard of it. “What was that?” You ask him shrilly, again. 

You almost seem to be stuck in a loop, blinking rapidly and asking the same thing. Logan chuckles and gets to his feet, he gives you a knowing look and you narrow your eyes at him in disbelief. 

“Jean told me.”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head. Realization dawns on your face and you gasp, looking up at him with something like horror on your expression. “No,” you tell him lowly. “She didn’t,” it almost sounds like you’re begging him to tell you otherwise. 

He laughs again and your face falls. You start going clear, he can see the bookshelf through your stomach and he sighs. He grabs your hand, holding onto you before you can run again. You don’t even seem to be aware that you’re slowly disappearing from view. 

“She’s, uh,” he struggles to figure out what to say to make you feel better. “She’s been coaching me,” he admits shamefully. “Trying to help me talk to you.”

You glance up at him but he can barely see your expression. The only thing reassuring him you’re here is his grip on you and your voice. “What? But I thought that-” You cut yourself off quickly and Logan glares down at where he thinks your face is. 

“Thought what?”

You take a long pause and exhale deeply. “I thought,” you mutter, “you liked her.”

“She’s with Scott,” he points out bluntly. He can practically hear you roll your eyes, even if he can’t see it. 

“Yeah, I know. But you guys are always whispering to each other and making googly eyes.”

“Googly eyes?” He interrupts, disgust clear in his tone. 

“I was wrong,” you continue, ignoring him. “I see that now, but I thought you didn’t care about me.”

Logan huffs, he hates that you thought that. He should have just been open with you from the start. He’s faced rejection his whole life, he shouldn’t have been so petrified of it just because it could come from you. If he’d just manned up and told you earlier, it would have saved you both a lot of time and hurt. 

“Kid,” he hopes he’s making eye contact with you and not just staring at some random book. It’s really hard to tell when you go invisible like this. “You’re the only person I care about in here.”

You’re quiet for a long while and he worries you’ve somehow slipped away without him realizing. But, ever so slowly, you start coming back into view. Logan awkwardly averts his eyes from your breasts, he’d been hoping he was making eye contact with you, clearly, he was wrong. 

“You mean that?” You ask, and he hates the trepidation in your voice. He’s never been good with words, he doesn’t know how to tell you how much you mean to him. But he can show you. 

His hand drifts up your arm, wrapping around the back of your neck and tugging you towards him. You trip over your feet, hands landing on his chest to stabilize yourself. He leans down, hovering over your lips for a moment. He waits until your eyes drift shut and your lips purse impatiently before he finally kisses you again. 

He doesn’t hold himself back this time. He pours every racing thought he’s ever had about you, every one of his wanted-to-tell-you-how-he-feels-and-hasn’t moments into the kiss. Your hands slowly curl up into his shirt, wrinkling it and tugging him further into you. 

To his surprise, you deepen the kiss, mouth moving over his like you want to devour him whole. He’s sure if he opened his eyes your hair would be a bright roaring red. He smirks against your lips, happy that, for once, he actually listened to Jean. If it gets him results like this, he might have to do it more often. 

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

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡ 

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

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

I absolutely love your Cooper Howard x reader fanfic! I love how you capture Cooper’s character complexity. The fact that he (loves?) the reader but can’t accept it because of his past trauma is just on point! Also, the fact that you post so consistently is amazing too!

The (loves?) is the only proper way to describe their relationship bc they are both so traumatized and confused neither of them really know how to function with or without the other

I post so consistently bc I’ll put on headphones and it’s like BOOM three hours later I have another chapter. I’m just hoping I don’t lose steam bc I’ve just gotten really sick and feel like I’m getting kicked in the teeth by the flu

I have so many different fandoms I want to write for. There are years of main character syndrome and high school obsessions built up in my head.

Like the outsiders, HotD, GoT, The Boys, Narnia, about a hundred different small fandom video games like fable and bioshock. I need a button to press where I can just get all the fics out in one go.

(this is an encouragement for requests and convo btw)

just wanted to let you know that you're my favorite logan author<33

omg stawwwwwppp you guys are making me blush <333

reblog if you’re a writer who feels guilt whenever they’re not writing and being productive, so I know I’m not the only one lol

haunted past

Mike Schmidt x fem!reader

a/n: WARNING: loose recollection of the movie bc I don’t have the energy to rewatch it lol. I’m not planning on following games/book lore bc I don’t have the time to rewatch the eight-hour YouTube video covering it all. So, forgive me if I take some creative liberty. (Dark subjects following the themes of the movie/games below the cut, including the murder of children)

Summary: You'd thought you'd left the past behind. You never thought you'd be back at this place. It's the source of your every waking nightmare and the worst day of your life. Freddy Fazbear's is the catalyst of where your life went wrong, but when Abby's life is on the line, you have no other choice. Can you survive another night at Freddy's? (Part of my Halloween Palooza)

The door creaks open, one eye peeking through the crack. Mike taps his foot impatiently. He glances briefly down at Abby. She’s practically giddy with excitement as she waits for you to open the door. He knows it's only because you’ll let her watch whatever she wants on TV and don’t enforce bedtime. 

He hates having to resort to bugging you about this. It’s not like he can pay you for all the times you’ve watched his sister. Relying on you for free labor isn’t exactly the best lead into asking you out—not that he thinks you’d actually give him a chance. 

“Christ,” you prop the door open, just barely wide enough for your frame to fit in. You’re not especially welcoming. “What do you want now?”

Abby breaks free from his hold. She shoves through you and rushes into your house. You scoff, turning slightly to watch her. Mike rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “Don’t tell me,” you stop him before he even gets a chance to start. “You’re back for unpaid labor?”

Mike’s face screwed up, even if it’s true, it still stings to hear. “Look, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t-”

“Do this if you didn’t have to,” you finish for him. With a brief sigh, you close the door and step outside with him. You’re in some of the skimpiest shorts he’s ever seen and an inappropriately flattering tank top. He’s struggling, as he usually does, not to just bolt. 

He finds you hard to talk to. Not just because of his usual aversion to the general public, but simply because of how intimidating you are. Besides your already blunt personality, he’s rarely ever had a crush this intense before. It’s hard to stomach these feelings, especially when he knows there’s nothing to be done about it. 

“I’ve heard the spiel before, Mike.” His face screws up at the bluntness of your words. You’re normally like this but you seem especially annoyed tonight. You take a seat on the rocking chair on your tiny porch and nod towards the other one. He takes it as a win that you’re not just kicking him to the curb.

You’ve made this place a home more than he’s bothered to. You’ve got a few potted plants littered around the porch, chairs, and your little glass table with an ashtray he’s never even seen you use. You don’t seem like a plant kind of girl, but they're doing better than any he’s ever attempted to take care of. 

“What is it this time, anyway? And what happened to your other babysitter?”

He rolls his eyes at the mention of Max. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with her all day. She just left Abby home alone the other night.” Your eyes narrow with anger and you let out a loud huff. 

“What a bitch,” you mutter, tucking your legs into your chest. 

Mike shrugs and picks at the hem of his sweatshirt. He hates talking to you, he doesn’t know how to. He never knows if what he’s saying is irritating you or not, you’re so hard to read. He barely knows anything about you, yet you’re the closest thing to a friend he’s ever got. 

“I’ve got a new job-”

“You didn’t tell me that,” you interrupt, and you almost sound… hurt? He doesn’t want to read too much into it, but he still offers you a whispered apology anyway. 

“I’ve been pretty busy, all this shit with my aunt and rent,” he gestures vaguely to his house across from yours and lets out a tired sigh. His head falls into his hands and he scrubs his hands down his face. He hates burdening you with his problems. It’s not on you to be his on-call babysitter and therapist. 

You place a light hand on his arm and for a moment he thinks he might be dreaming. You lean forward, forcing him to meet your eye. “Rent? Look,” your face screws up awkwardly and you force the next words out, “I’ve got money.”

“No,” he immediately interrupts, jerking away from your touch as his face sets in anger. He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a beggar. He’s not telling you this to get a handout. “No, I don’t want your money.”

You scoff and cross your arms, glaring at him. “I’m not offering it freely. Consider it a loan, alright?” He opens his mouth and you cut him off with a pissed-off look. “Just shut up and wait here.” You get up, slipping back inside your home. He hears you through the open window as you greet Abby. 

“How’s school?” You ask, rummaging through something. 

“I don’t know, fine,” she answers vaguely. 

He can hear you scoff in amusement, “Yeah, I hated school too.”

“Mac and cheese later?”

The door opens and you call a, “Sure, kid,” over your shoulder. It’s another reason he likes bringing Abby over to your place. You seem to be the only person she’s willing to give more than two words to. Besides, you can actually get her to eat somehow. 

You approach him with a slip of paper in your hand. You shove it into his unwilling hands and he lets out a rough sigh when he sees it’s a check. “Don’t argue,” you snap, sitting back in your chair and refusing to make eye contact with him. “You’ll pay me back.”

He says your name and you shake your head, clearly uncomfortable. “Forget it, just tell me about the new job.”

He scratches the back of his head, debating whether or not he should thank you for the help. It’s not a lot, he knows you’ve got about as much to spare as he does, and he’ll still need to finish this job. However, it is enough to put some food on the table without worrying about every penny. 

Still, you look incredibly disturbed by your own generosity, so he pockets the check and figures he’ll think of a different way to thank you. “It’s a security gig.”

“Really?” You smirk and turn towards him. “Someone hired you after what happened at the mall?” You give him a disbelieving look and he can feel the way his face heats up in embarrassment. 

“Yeah, well it’s pretty creepy. It’s at the old abandoned pizza place. Freddy Fazbear’s.”

Any amusement on your face is drained and you give him a horror-struck look. “What’d you say?” You whisper, voice stricken by something he can’t decipher. For a moment, he doesn’t even want to answer you. 

You’re completely unrecognizable, the usual stoicism he faces is replaced with absolute terror. “Um,” his brows scrunch in confusion and he clears his throat awkwardly, “Freddy Fazbear’s.”

Abruptly, you jump up from your seat and rush away from him. He watches as you run back to the door, his confusion only rising. He calls out your name but you just shake your head. “I gotta head inside, watch the kid.” It’s a rushed excuse and one he sees right through. “You should go.”

He doesn’t get a chance to question you as you slam the door closed. He gets up, but the lock clicks, and the window slams shut. Mike stands in front of your house, absolutely shocked by what just happened. He’s too confused to be concerned, wondering how what he just told you could have elicited that reaction. 

With a low exhale he turns on his heel and walks back to his car. He throws one last glance over his shoulder at your house, but you’ve clicked off the porch light, completely blocking him out. 

He shakes his head in astonishment, getting in the car and driving off to the pizza place. What the hell was wrong with you?

You’re glad Abby is in the bathroom as you catch your breath. Your back is plastered to your door, chest heaving as you fight off the oncoming panic attack. The last thing you need right now is her pestering you about what’s wrong. 

You clench your eyes shut, but when you do all you see is a golden back and the sharp glint of a knife. Your hand drifts towards your abdomen, subconsciously lingering over the scar. Your eyes shoot open and you shake your head, trying to force the memories of the night away. 

You haven’t heard that name in years, haven’t thought of it. You’d thought you’d gotten rid of it entirely. You should have known better, it was always going to haunt you. If you were less of a coward you would have moved away years ago and let the past be buried entirely. But you just couldn’t fully let him go, could you? 

The sink runs and the door is thrown open as Abby comes back to the living room. You force yourself away from the door and offer her a tense smile. Her eyes narrow in suspicion and it’s the first time you’ve despised how clever she is. 

“What’re you drawing?” You rush the words out, voice tight and panicked. You just need to distract yourself. You need to think about anything but that damn place. 

Her suspicion gives way to her typical eagerness to shove her sketches in your face. You don’t know much about kids, but you know she’s not what people consider normal. Not that you mind. However, you’ve never been a big fan of children in general, they bring about bad memories for you. Watching Abby so regularly was happenstance when you greeted Mike as they moved in. 

You’d never been the type to have freshly baked cookies and a welcome wagon for everyone in the neighborhood. For the most part, you all pretty much steered clear of each other. But Mike was cute and you felt like flirting for a little bit. 

You hadn’t expected him to be quite so awkward, or for there to be a kid. In a desperate attempt to end the conversation and escape how stilted the whole thing was, you offered help if he ever needed it. And he needed a lot. 

Now, your weekends have turned from one-night stands and hanging out with people you barely consider friends, to watching cartoons with a kid. You don’t mind it, but you’d prefer it if her brother were there to join you both. His stunted personality has a certain charm you find yourself drawn to. 

“Here,” Abby takes a seat on the floor and you join her. You tap your fingers against your thigh, trying to soothe your heartbeat back to a normal rate. Your mind is racing in a million different directions as you take the picture from her. 

It doesn’t help, if anything, you feel even worse. Bile and terror make for a bad combination as you stare down at her crudely drawn “friend.”

“That’s Freddy,” she tells you. “Chica, and Bonnie,” she’s all smiles as she points to the different caricatures. All you can do is nod, eyes peeled on the blue bunny. 

“You’ve been with Mike to the new job, huh?” Your voice is airy as you flip the paper over and shove it away. Abby frowns, snatching it back from you and smoothing out the wrinkles your grip left behind. 

“No. These are my friends.” 

Terror makes way for concern as you slowly turn towards her. “What?” You ask quietly, not wanting to believe what you’re hearing.

“They’re my friends,” she repeats slowly, giving you a disbelieving look. She turns away from you, huffing and picking up her crayons again. You scramble to your feet, rushing to get away from her. You grab your phone book and run to the landline. You go over the F’s a million times, but you can’t find Fazbear’s number anywhere. 

The entire night is turned into one long, agonizing wait for Mike to return home. You find yourself unable to eat or sleep. You move like you’re walking through a fog. Make Abby dinner, wait for her to pass out, and put her to bed. Then you sit and stare at the blank screen of the TV, just waiting for a knock on your door. 

At 5:30, you finally hear it. You shoot off the couch, rushing towards the door and throwing it open. You know you must look insane, eyes wide and face drained of blood as you drag Mike inside. 

He stumbles from your grip, giving you an affronted look as you slam the door closed behind him. He glances over his shoulder, making sure Abby isn’t woken up by the noise. “You need to quit!” You shove the words out in one rushed jumble. 

His brows furrow and he shakes his head, not quite understanding you. “What?” He asks, scoffing and looking away from you. He glances towards the messy couch and then back at you. “Have you been awake the whole night?”

“Mike,” you grab him by the shoulders, squeezing until he winces from your touch. “I need you to fucking listen to me, you cannot go back. You can’t go back.”

He places his hands over yours, threading his fingers through yours and trying to ease your grip off of him. Neither of you pays attention to the fact that he doesn’t let go. “What are you talking about? I can’t just quit.”

“Mike,” your voice carries a desperation you rarely let yourself show. You know that it’s difficult for people to read you. You’re aloof on purpose, anything to keep people away. But right now, you need him to recognize how vulnerable you’re being. You need him to see the fear and panic on your face and just fucking listen to you. 

“You need to leave that place behind and not look back, okay?”

He takes a step back from you and you know you’ve gone too far. You should have played it cool and approached the subject like a normal person would. But there’s nothing normal about Freddy Fazbear’s and you need him to know that. 

Instead, all you’ve done is properly terrify him away from you. He releases your hands like they’re hot irons and stumbles a few steps away from you. He has a placating smile on his face as he nods his head shallowly. “Alright, sure,” he mutters, not meaning a word of what he says. “I’m gonna get Abby. Need to get her to school soon.”

He rushes down the hall and you let yourself fall into your kitchen chair. Your head drops into your hands and a hollow pit of despair opens up inside you. You did this all wrong. You always do. Every time you try and help someone it turns back around on you. No one believed you the first time, why would they now?

You hear him walk past you, Abby’s grumpy voice demanding to know why she can’t stay longer. “Now,” he snaps, opening the door and pushing her out. It closes and you finally lift your head, expecting them both to be gone. 

Instead, Mike lingers by the door, he has a concerned look on his face as he approaches you. He kneels and opens his mouth with a low huff of breath, “Look,” his hands hover over yours like he wants to hold them. You tuck them away before he can, not willing to make eye contact with him. He shakes his head, stopping himself from whatever he was going to say. 

He stands back up, glancing down at you with a frown. “Just try and get some sleep.”

That’s rich coming from him, but you don’t bother saying anything. You only nod your head, willing him to just get the hell out of your house and take his sister with him. You tried, you can’t say that you didn’t. 

The door slams closed and you flinch at the noise, a flash of blue darting across your vision. You know it’s not real, it’s just a product of your lack of sleep. You can’t help searching for a pair of blue bunny ears, though. 

Dread sinks deep in your gut as you think of losing the closest thing to a friend you’ve had in years. Preemptive grief weighs heavy on you as you get up and throw yourself onto your couch. You imagine the pain of losing Mike and let it be what lulls you into a restless sleep. 

As insane as you were behaving yesterday, Mike still has little choice but to ask you to babysit once more. He hesitates, something is clearly going on with you. He’s never witnessed anything beyond vague disinterest in your interactions. 

How you acted yesterday would be out of character for anyone, but coming from you, he’s worried that there might be something seriously wrong with you. He doesn’t need to burden you further with his sister, but he needs this job. He’s backed between a rock and a hard place. 

He decides to come over without Abby, just to try and gauge how stressed you might be. Your porch light is on as he approaches the house, but he doesn’t see your car anywhere. He’s hoping it’s parked down the street. 

He didn’t give you much notice that he was coming over, but you rarely leave the house. When he first moved in, you were gone every night and there was a new car besides yours every other week. 

Nowadays though, you seem content to be a homebody most of the time. He’s about to knock on your door when he notices something pink shoved under the ashtray on your table. He frowns, his confusion only deepens when he sees his name scrawled in your unusually messy handwriting. 

He unfolds the paper, eyes roving over the words in disbelief. 

Mike, 

In case you need my unpaid services again, call someone else. I’ve got a date tonight that I’m not gonna reschedule to deal with a kid that isn’t even mine. Maybe you’re right, you really should just give her up to her aunt. God knows you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re a bad friend, but you’re a worse brother. Stop dragging me into your mess and just sort your life out. 

The further he reads, the more angry he gets. The paper is crumpled under his tight grip and he cusses as he tosses it into your rosebush. He doesn’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but he doesn’t feel like dealing with it tonight. 

As angry as he is, that you could throw something like that in his face, he still can’t help but worry about you. There’s something very wrong with you, lately. But it’s not his problem to solve, you’ve made that abundantly clear. 

You fiddle with the rings on your fingers, gnawing on your lip as your eyes dart out the window of your beat-up car. The longer you sit in this parking lot, the more guilt you feel. You know you wrote what you did for the best, but it doesn’t ease the sting of regret. 

You wrote some nasty shit to Mike, throwing his deepest insecurities back at him like it meant nothing. But you needed to make sure he didn’t come looking for you. You needed insurance that after all this he wouldn’t want anything to do with you. 

Freddy Fazbear’s dilapidated sign looms over you and you could almost cry looking up at it. You’ve run from this moment for so long. You’ve kept your back stubbornly to the past and refused to look. 

Surging memories have been buried in alcohol and sex. Remembrances of the past have been erased. You cut off your family, friends, and anyone who knew what happened to you. Yet, you couldn’t leave this town. You could never leave him behind, not when you know he’s still in there. 

The taste of bile has laid thick on your tongue since last night. You haven’t had a moment of true rest since hearing that name again, since seeing Abby’s picture. Never, have you labeled yourself as selfless or a hero. The whole reason you’re in this mess is because you’re a coward, through and through. 

Now, in an ironic twist of fate, you sit in the parking lot of your childhood and you wait to sacrifice yourself to some higher entity so Abby might have a chance of surviving. You know that what you’re hoping to accomplish tonight is a pipe dream, that you’re more likely going to die than you are to achieve anything fruitful. But you’re never going to be able to live with yourself if something happens to Mike and Abby and you don’t do anything. 

You can’t have someone else's blood on your hands again. You left Jeremy behind. You’re not going to do the same to them. You check the clock on your radio and suck in a deep breath. Adrenaline rushes through you as the sun slowly sets behind the pizza place. 

Your blood is tingling with the anticipation of being spilled. There’s a phantom twinge of pain from the scar on your stomach. You wince through it, turning off the car and throwing the door open. You’re praying that you’ve left Mike without a babysitter and he won’t show up to his shift tonight. 

You round the back of the pizzeria, frowning at the chain on the handle of the door. You brought bolt cutters for a reason, but you were hoping you might be granted a silent entrance. You cut through the chains and they clatter to the pavement, the noise echoes through the quickly darkening sky. 

You roll your eyes, pushing the rusted door open and slipping inside. So much for the element of surprise. The hinges creak behind you and you whirl around, grasping for the handle. The door slams shut with a loud slam before you can stop it. 

You shrink into yourself, glancing over your shoulder, already expecting someone to be standing at the other end of the hall. Instead, it remains empty. You don’t know if that's better or worse than what you were expecting. 

You pull your flashlight out of your back pocket, shine it down the hall, and step silently over the tipped-over filing cabinets. The place is nothing like you remember it. Gone are the bright neon lights and the sound of children’s laughter. 

Instead, it’s replaced by cobwebs, flickering lights, and a haunting silence that has chills rising along your arms. You keep one hand along the wall, ignoring the way dust seeps into the cracks of your palms. Your light darts between the ground and the cavernous dark before you. 

There’s a suspicious shadow at the end of this hall that you don’t trust. It’s too dark, and you swear you feel eyes following you. But you can’t tell which direction they’re coming from. Something loud cranks at the end of the hall, the sound of gears grinding together stops you where you are. 

You freeze, breath coming in short bursts of air as you slowly tilt the light towards the shadow. Before you can see what it is, a shrill, childish scream rips through the air. “Abby!” You shout, rushing towards the noise, ignoring the noises following quickly behind you. You burst through the door at the other end of the hall and freeze when you see Mike fighting off the cupcake. 

You rush towards him, slamming the bolt cutters through the faux frosting before it rips his fucking arm off. He stares up at you in shock, he’s already covered in blood and bandages and you can’t even begin to wonder what happened to him. 

He mutters your name in disbelief and you stumble back from him, letting the bolt cutters and animatronic drop to the ground. “Mike, what the hell are you doing here?”

He jumps to his feet, speaking to you with an accusatory tone, “What are you doing here? I thought you had a date,” you don’t miss the jealousy in his tone and you scoff. 

“You almost had your arm gnawed off by an animatronic, do you really think this is the time for that?”

He opens his mouth, to argue or concede you’re not sure, and another scream rips through you both. You turn towards the side door and your face screws up in fear. “Tell me I’m wrong, tell me that’s not Abby.”

His answer is shoving past you, shouting his sister’s name. You follow after him, barreling through another door and stumbling back as you watch the scene before you. Foxy paces across the room, dragging his hook along the old arcade games. 

Mike dives to the right, ducking behind a booth. You see his head begin to tilt towards you and you rush towards the stage, hiding behind it while you look around for Abby. You can’t see her anywhere and you don’t know if you should be relieved or throwing up. 

Something loud clanks above you and the walls of the stage tremor under your hands. You clamp your lips together, swallowing down a whimper as you slink further down the stage. The wood vibrates again and you can’t help the slight gasp you let out. 

Something clamps down on your shoulder, fuzzy and blue. You feel the metal pushing against the plush of the suit and he squeezes until you hear your shoulder cracking. There’s nothing that can stop the scream from ripping out of you as your bone shatters under his grip. Mike turns just as you're dragged onto the stage. 

You’ve only got one arm you can feel now. The other drags along the wood, longer than it should be. You can’t even feel the pain, your blood is pumping so hard you’re blind to it. You lash out at the hand holding you, groping for wires and pulling the second you feel them. 

It makes his grip loosen just enough for you to wiggle away from him. You’ve got oil coating your hand, blood drips down your arm. You can’t look, you know if you do, you’ll see your bones poking through your skin. If you look, you’ll pass out and there’s no telling what they’ll do to you then. 

His eyes narrow in on you and you scramble weakly on your one good arm. Freddy’s disappeared, and you don’t know where to. You can only look on in horror as Bonnie stalks towards you. Dying at the hands of the friend you’d left behind. It seems poetic, in a way. But you know this isn’t him. This is what that bastard has twisted him into. 

His good hand reaches out towards you and you do the only thing you can think of. “Jeremy!” He pauses, the orange light illuminating his plastic eyes flickering out only for a second. For a brief moment, you can see the frightened child within him once more. 

Then, something latches onto the back of your hair and slams your head down until the world goes dark. 

You glance around the pizzaplex, smiling as Jeremy blows out his candles. His parents hover behind him, bickering silently between each other. Jeremy looks at them, his big smile fading when he sees them fighting again. 

“Hey,” you grab his arm as the other kids dart greedily towards the cake. “Wanna play hide and seek again?” He looks at his cake, but he’s never had a sweet tooth. You know he just wants to keep playing, his parents practically had to drag him away from the stage for this. Only to be too busy fighting to wish him an actual happy birthday.

Jeremy nods eagerly, jumping off the bench and following after you. You laugh, darting underneath the balloon arch Mr. Afton had brought out for him. 

You and Jeremy come here every weekend, you’re practically best friends with his daughter Vanessa. She’s kind of weird, but you don’t hold it against her. Besides, being nice means Mr. Afton gives you both free pizza. 

The only reason Jeremy’s parents could afford to rent this place for his birthday was because Mr. Afton had offered them a big discount. You dart past the stage and hover at the edge of the ball pit. “One-two-three, not it!” You press your finger to your nose, laughing as Jeremy is just a second too late. “You’re looking first,” you command, shoving him slightly away from you. 

“Come on,” he whines, “it’s my birthday.”

“No cheating,” you tell him, practically stomping your foot. The big 8 on the paper crown he wears goes ignored as you point towards the booth behind you both. He lets out a loud sigh, stomping his way towards it and turning his back to you. He starts counting, loudly and skipping a few numbers. 

You narrow your eyes at his back but don’t hold it against him. Someone hisses behind you and you frown, turning to see Vanessa peeking out from behind a curtain on the stage. She gives you a weak smile, waving you forward. 

You look to your parents but they’re not paying attention as they talk to the other adults. You clamber on stage beside her, smiling up at Freddy and Bonnie. She grabs your wrist, not saying anything as she takes you to the back. 

“Vanessa?” You whisper, growing a little scared at the darkness of the room. It’s a stark contrast to the bright lights outside. 

“Shh,” she instructs, holding a finger to her lips and smiling. “Just wait here, okay? My dad says he’s got a surprise for you.” You watch as she leaves the room, you hear the lock click as the door closes and jump in surprise. 

“Vanessa?” You call out again, hoping this is just a stupid prank and she’s coming back. Loud, clambering footsteps ring through the hall outside the front door of the room and you gasp. You look around for a hiding spot, something sick twisting in your stomach. You know Vanessa said it’s all a surprise, but you’re scared. 

There’s nothing but empty animatronics around you. Mr. Afton told you to stay away from them, that the springlocks could hurt you. But you have nowhere else to go. You pop open the stomach of Sparky and curl yourself inside her, your eyes just barely looking through the top. 

“This way, birthday boy,” Mr. Afton’s voice croons outside. He opens the door, motioning Jeremy inside and you can almost see his smile through the golden bunny suit he wears. You’re starting to feel a little silly. Mr. Afton’s always been nice to you, why are you so afraid all of a sudden?

Jeremy walks in, a bright smile on his face as he looks around the repair room. He stops in front of a run-down Bonnie and looks back at Mr. Afton. He’s in your blind spot, covered by a shelving unit. You can’t see what he’s doing, but you see the way Jeremy’s face drops. 

“Mr. Afton-”

A golden hand shoves Jeremy’s face back. His brown eyes widen in surprise, the whites of them the only thing you can see. You can hear his muffled scream against Mr. Afton's paw.

Mr. Afton shoves Jeremy back, pressing him against Bonnie. Something silver flashes under the dim lights and you peek your head up. You watch as Mr. Afton runs a knife through Jeremy’s stomach and he shoves him into Bonnie's open chest. You clamp your hand over your mouth, dropping back down into Sparky. 

Your knee knocks into one of the metal springlocks and you have to fight everything in you not to surge forward as it digs through your intestines. You squeeze your hand over your nose and lips until you feel like you can’t breathe so you don’t scream. 

Blazing hot pain shoots through your stomach and legs, blood pools thickly down your dress and you can feel tears building along your waterline. Mr. Afton looks around the room, he rips the bunny head off and frowns. A vein bulges in his forehead as he calls out your name. 

He wipes the knife off and hides it behind his back. He places Bonnie’s head over Jeremy, “Vanessa?”

A moment later the door creaks open and a sheepish Vanessa pokes her head inside. She looks around the room, frowning when she doesn’t see either of her friends. “Where is she?” Mr. Afton demands. 

She shrugs, “I don’t know. I left her in here.” Her eyes narrow and she looks close to tears. “What was the surprise, Daddy?”

Mr. Afton lets out an irritated sigh and waves his non-blooded paw. “Forget that, we need to get back outside.” He rushes towards her, dragging the bunny head behind him, and shoves her back through the door. 

The second he’s gone, you’re openly sobbing. Hot tears pour down your cheeks as putrid bile shoves against the walls of your throat. You push Sparky’s stomach open and gasp when you see the large hole in your stomach. 

The other springlocks twitch threateningly as you tug at the one buried inside you. You take in a deep breath and rip it out, forcing yourself to leap away just as the others close. Your blood is dragged along the concrete as you crawl towards Bonnie. 

“Jeremy?” You call out, head swimming so much you can’t even feel pain anymore. Your fingers are cold as you dig fruitlessly at Bonnie’s stomach. You tug and tug, falling back as the panel swings open. 

You can’t see Jeremy’s head, you only see the springlocks digging into his small body. “Jeremy!” You scream, you scream so loud, Mr. Afton can’t even stop the parents from finding you before he does. 

You pass out from blood loss before they reach you. In that time he manages to paint you as two misbehaving children. You snuck backstage and messed with animatronics you had no business being around. He said you both must have tried to wear the old suits and there was no way of proving him wrong. 

So much damage was done to Jeremy’s body, that they wouldn’t be able to find a knife wound even if they knew to look for one. No one would believe you when you told them he killed him. They just thought you were trying to avoid getting in trouble. 

Mr. Afton only managed to keep the pizzeria open for a few more years. But you never went back. You couldn’t. You never forgave him and you never forgot your friend. 

The smell of cleaning products and the familiarity of a sterile hospital room greet you as you wake up. Your vision is slow to come back. Eyes foggy and blinded by the bright lights of the room you’re in. 

Your fingers twitch at your side and you’re relieved to find your arm still works, even after it was practically shattered by a haunted puppet. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut and forcing them to focus. A messy head of brown hair lays at your side. 

Mike is draped across the hospital bed, completely passed out. You find yourself smiling slightly at the sight. You slowly bring yourself into a sitting position and poke at him. “Mike,” you whisper, voice hoarse from lack of use. 

There’s a throbbing in your head that pulses along your optic nerve. Your face screws up as you reach towards the bandages wrapped around your temple. You’re honestly just happy to even be alive. You can deal with migraines for a few weeks. 

He jolts up, slightly disoriented as he stares at you. You offer him a weak smile and he lets out a sigh of relief. “You’re awake.”

“Apparently,” you mutter. You glance around him, a frown forming on your face. 

“She’s getting some snacks,” he tells you before you can even ask. “Abby’s fine.”

You let out a breath of relief, sinking back into the pillows. Maybe it wasn’t all for nothing, then. “You knew them,” he says. “Or, the bunny, at least.”

You nod your head weakly, any energy you had has been sapped out of you from the relief that both Mike and Abby are okay. “Yeah, I used to.”

“Are you going to tell me how you knew them?”

You take his hand in your own, surprising the both of you. “Some other time, alright? I think I want a date first before we start trading childhood trauma.”

He stutters and stumbles over his words, brows furrowing as he gives you a disbelieving look. “Did you just ask me out? While you’re still concussed?”

“Are you saying no?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it. He lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Abby comes rushing back into the room before either of you can say anything else. She smiles at you when she sees you’re awake. She jumps onto the bed, uncaring of the way her knees dig into your legs. 

“Careful, Abs,” Mike scolds. You wave him off and he rolls his eyes. 

“I made you something,” Abby tells you. She hands you a picture and you let out a sharp breath. 

It’s you and Jeremy. Granted, crayon versions of the two of you. But it’s him all the same, as the boy you knew, no longer the monster he was turned into. You feel tears building in your eyes as you tug Abby into a fierce hug. “Thank you,” you whisper, holding the drawing close to your heart. 

You’d like to pretend that you’ve gotten closure from all of this. Jeremy’s been put to rest and you can move on with your life now. Now, you can have a family again, have friends again. But that would be a lie.

You still feel him, as you always have. He’s a shadow clinging to your back, a haunted past you’ll never be able to let go of. He always comes back. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the games/movie Five Nights at Freddy's (FNAF), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

GUESS WHOSE ON VACATION BITCH

Finally, after five years, I’ve escaped my home.

Which also means that I cannot write because I forgot my iPad. I COULD technically write on my phone but the amount of grammatical errors would make you all lose respect for me. Halloween palooza and Logan requests have been put on hold.

Temporary week long Hiatus while I duel with death eaters 😘😘

(I’m about to lose all of my money at Harry Potter World)