I’m Binging All Of Your Wolvie Fics… Im Obsessed With Your Love For The Plot And Character Building.

The final part of How About a Nuke is now posted!

I know someone sent me a a message about if I’m writing anymore Logan fics I AM DONT WORRY

But….. would y’all read Van Helsing fics too? Idk just a thought.

Only Have Eyes for You

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Series Masterlist

Cooper Howard x fem!reader, The Ghoul x fem!reader Summary: He found you, again, you should be expecting it at this point. The only problem is there’s still a Deathclaw lurking around outside the station. You’re stuck with him and the bodies of the ghoul you kill in a desolate gas station.

“God, Coop, this is delicious.” She moans around the fork and takes another bite of dinner. He clenches his fork a little tighter, trying not to stare too obviously at the way her lips wrap around the metal. He feels like a lech, watching her reactions so eagerly. He also feels like she might be playing this whole thing up to screw with him. 

He’s a good cook, but he’s not that good. She glances up at him, red lips tilted up into a mischievous smirk. He lets out a rough sigh, shoulders slumping forward as he shakes his head and digs into his own meal. Of course she was messing with him. 

She lets out a little laugh, “Sorry, couldn’t resist. You’re so easy to rile up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he tries to sound stern, but he can’t mask his own smile. “Keep it up and I won’t be cooking for you anymore.” He points the fork at her, an attempt at being intimidating, but he can’t keep the act up when she laughs. 

She’s enchanting, everything about her. The way she sits, eats, talks. He could just watch her all day and never be bored. Everything about her seems to be designed to tempt him. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this, it’s wrong. But he finds that thoughts like these are becoming easier to live with everyday. 

There’s always a cop out or an excuse that assuages his guilt in the moment. Of course, that night, when he puts Janey to sleep and lies next to his wife, that’s when everything comes crashing down. But when he’s with her, it’s like they’re in their own world. 

There’s no one here to answer to. No responsibilities to worry about or deadlines to meet. He can take off the celebrity mask and just be himself around her. Her presence is freeing. She approaches everything in life with such self-assuredness that he feels more confident around her. 

Sometimes, after a particularly bad day or a rough fight with Barb, he imagines what life would be like with her. If he’d never been a movie star. If he’d never fought in that war. If he’d just met her before everything changed. Maybe they’d have a ranch, out in the middle of nowhere with no one and nothing around them. 

It would just be the two of them together, maybe some chickens, definitely Roosevelt. The thought always makes him smile. Then he remembers what reality actually looks like. The war, the stardom, his family, it’s who he is. It’s so deeply ingrained into him that he doesn’t even know who he would be without it. 

“Oh,” she looks up from her plate and glances over at the record player. Cooper takes the chance to look at her, really look at her. The candlelight gives her a youthful glow. Her lips are eased into a gentle smile, expression soft and open. It’s the most relaxed he’s seen her in a while. She’s been so tense lately, it’s why he offered to make her dinner. 

Now, the tension has melted from her shoulders. It looks like the light’s gone back on in her eyes. Hell, he’d practically invited her on a date, he doesn’t know why he’s surprised by how happy she looks. They’re eating a dinner he made by candlelight with I Only Have Eyes for You playing in the background. 

He’s not sure he could have made this any more romantic. “I love this song,” she whispers. She glances back over at him. It’s a brief look, fleeting and gone as quick as it comes. But he knows what she’s thinking, because he’s thinking the same thing. 

They speak with their eyes, their looks, it’s become a secret language between the two of them. It’s full of fleeting touches and longing gazes and it’s always quicker than he wants. There was a yearning in her eyes that he knows is reflected in his own. The desire to act on their desires. 

For tonight, only tonight he reasons, he’s going to do what he wants. The world will melt away and he’ll give into the fantasies. They’ll go back to their usual tomorrow, but tonight, tonight is for the two of them and no one else. 

He stands up from his seat and she glances up at him, eyes wide and a furrow in her brow. “Come on darling,” he whispers. If he speaks too loudly the spell will end and they’ll sober up, realize what they’re doing. He holds out his hand to her and she looks at it for a moment. Fleeting touches, it’s all they know, tonight that changes. 

She doesn’t smile, simply slides her hand into his and nods. Acceptance of what they’re doing. Her palm is warm against his, smooth and when she squeezes his hand it takes everything in him not to just bring her into his chest. But he has to be slow, savor this while it lasts. Tomorrow it ends. He can’t let this moment be rushed. He helps her to her feet and leads her into the open space of his living room.

When he comes to a stop she finally takes her eyes off her heels and looks at him. He swears the stars are in her eyes, they lure him in and keep him captive in their hold. He never wants to look away from her. 

Her hand slowly glides up his arm. Her fingers brush against the nape of his neck from where she lazily drapes her forearm over his shoulder. He smiles at her, heart racing a bit when she gives him her gorgeous smile in return. They sway slightly as his arm wraps around her waist and his free hand takes her other one. 

She scoffs in amusement when she notices the way he keeps them apart. There’s a ridiculous amount of space between the two of them. He’s afraid if he pulls her any closer he’ll lose the last thread of sanity he has.  

She takes the final step, slotting her feet between his, their chests pushed up together. For a moment, he worries that she can feel how quickly his heart is beating. It processed slowly that it’s her own pulse he’s feeling. She’s just as affected by him as he is by her. 

She gives him one last look before she leans her head against his shoulder. He mourns the loss of her eyes for a moment before he closes his own and leans into her. He forgets where he is, lets himself get lost in the moment. They're not even dancing, merely moving together. 

He’s not sure how many songs they sway to, how long they stand joined together. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t know whether they’re still in his house or have somehow danced their way into the backyard. He only has eyes for her. 

You hold your hands up, trying your best to placate him. Cooper just gives you a mean smirk, his head tilted in contemplation as he looks at Lucy. Her eyes are wide as she stares down the barrel of his gun. “Cooper-”

He pulls back the hammer and your mouth clamps shut. You have no way of knowing what he’s going to do. Maybe if this was two hundred years ago you might. But this man before you is a stranger. 

Your heart leaps to your throat and you have to stop yourself from lunging forward when he grabs at Lucy. In a split second the gun is pointed at you and his arm is tightly wrapped around her neck. Lucy wheezes, hands desperately clawing at Cooper’s arms. 

You’re crouched on the ground, hackles raised like a feral animal. There’s a throbbing pain radiating from where he shot you. Were it not for Lucy’s medkit you would have bled out. If the wound wasn’t crippling you right now, you would have already shoved your knife through his neck. Again. 

“Up,” he commands with a jerky upward motion of his gun. Your eyes dart to Lucy’s. They’re rounded with concern and she shakes her head as much as he allows. You can’t run, your brains would be splattered across dusty linoleum before you breached the door. You have no choice but to comply with his commands. 

He smiles, seeming to come to the same realization as you. His eyes rove over you, lightening with satisfaction as he catches sight of the blood covering the entirety of your right leg. Then they happen upon the head dangling from your hand. “Well, well, well, look what we have here. Three for the price of one backstabbing bitch.”

Your face screws up in a sardonic smile and you toss the head to his feet, “Take it. Leave us the hell alone and just take the bounty.” Lucy squeaks but her face is turning purple from the grip he has around her throat. She’s got no room to protest against this. Either you give up the head or he kills you both. You don’t see yourself getting out of this one. 

To your chagrin Cooper simply shakes his head. He tucks the gun back into its holster and you track the movement carefully. He reaches behind himself, pulling out his rope and roughly placing it in Lucy’s hands. With a loud gasp she’s released from his hold and shoved forward. You grunt, hands reaching up to brace her as she crashes into you. She pants into your shoulder, rubbing her throat with a wheeze as she catches her breath. 

Cooper’s eyes are cold, devoid of anything except a detached boredom as he watches you both. “Tie her up.”

Lucy looks over her shoulder, voice cracking and painful to listen to. “What?” You can barely hear her, you’re not sure how Cooper manages to understand what she’s saying. But he does, he doesn’t say anything else. He leans back, arms hanging relaxed by his side as he nods once more from the rope in her hands to you. 

Your hands tighten to the point of creaking pain in your knuckles as Lucy slowly shifts away from you. Her own grip on the frayed rope is shaking, hands trembling as her cool fingers wrap around your wrists. You don’t let your eyes leave Cooper. You take in the smug look on his face and let it fuel your hatred for him further. He might think he’s got you now, but the second you’re fully healed you’re going to kill him. Permanently this time. 

There’s a little tsk from Cooper and Lucy glances back at him, hands still hovering over your wrists. He shakes his head and nods upwards. Her lips part, brows narrowed in confusion as her hands slowly make their way higher up your body. Over your forearms, past your elbows, and grazing against your biceps. He’s only satisfied when her hands are placed loosely around your neck. “Leash her,” the command is a rough growl that has panicked shivers crawling down your spine. There’s contempt dripping from his voice, nothing but hate as he barely even looks at you. 

Lucy mouths an apology but you just shake your head. You don’t need her apologies, you just need this to be over. You need him to turn his back so you can both make a run for it. Craning your neck forward, Lucy slips the loop over your head. She tries not to irritate the bruise that is already around your throat from your last run in with him but it's unavoidable. Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding together as you try not to focus on the burning chafe of rope against your skin. 

Something wet nudges against your hand and your stare breaks away from Cooper. The back of your palm is sticky with something slimy and you grimace as you glance down. There’s a sharp yip from the hound beside you. She’s nudging relentlessly against the hand holding the head, like she’s trying to take it from you. Your fingers bury deeper into the hair and you jerk back, forgetting momentarily about the rope and hissing when it tears at the fragile skin. 

Cooper stomps forward, the spurs on his boots sounding like jingling omens of doom. He grabs at the rope and with a hard tug you stumble towards him. Your chin lands on his chest, the bone digging uncomfortably into his sternum. You glare up at him and he’s already grinning down at you. The yellow of his teeth looks particularly putrid tonight. 

His hand is rough as it grasps your wrist. The skin hardened and calloused from hundreds of years of being under the nuclear sun. Your breath catches slightly when it finds its way around the base of your neck. His touch is almost gentle as his fingers skate across your collarbones. It catches you off guard, lips parting with a surprised gasp as they travel deftly up your neck. 

You expect him to squeeze so you take a deep breath. His smile ticks up, grin widening at the action. His head tilts slightly as he takes you in, eyes roving up and down your form. This is odd, this feeling. There’s a flutter in your stomach, a recognizable ache in your chest when you see the way he’s looking at you. 

Your eyes are locked, something old and familiar swimming in both of them. You used to be ashamed of this feeling he brought up in you. He was a married man after all and you were just his lying assistant. You were never supposed to be attracted to him. You’re certainly not supposed to be attracted to him when he looks like this. But despite how much he’s changed, he’s still got that Cooper Howard charm. 

He doesn’t drag you forward roughly. He guides you further into him, tilting your chin up and leering down at you with that angry grin. His hand glides around the back of your neck-

The head drops to the ground with a wet thud as your hands fly to the rope on your neck. He’s grabbed the back of it, tightening it so hard you’re sure you felt your eyes pop out. The smile on his face is gone, instead it’s replaced by an intensely concentrated look. His eyes are boring into your own, taking in every twitch and gasp as he watches you struggle for breath. 

You dig at your neck, feeling warm wet blood bubble under your nails the more you rip at the rope. Your fingers go cold and your tongue swells as the pressure in your face increases until you think the skin will burst. The eye contact doesn’t break between you, darkly intimate as he takes in every detail of your slow death by his hand. 

The world around you is muffled like you’re underwater. The blood rushing around in your head as your brain throbs. Vaguely, you can hear Lucy shouting and the dog barking. But Cooper never takes his eyes off of you. He’s undeterred by Lucy hitting and slapping at him with her own fatigued arms. It’s only when a loud roar off in the distance rattles the floor of the station that he lets you go. 

Your legs give out but you don’t get a chance to sink to the floor. A firm arm wraps around your waist and keeps you clutched to his chest. You have no choice but to hold onto him, nails digging into the leather of his duster as you catch your breath. “Alright,” he mutters, voice low as he speaks into your ear. “Catch your breath, sweetheart.” For a moment you can pretend he’s comforting you. That he wasn’t the one who just tried to kill you. 

He doesn’t let the fantasy last long. “It’s only going to get worse from here.”

You’d cry if you weren’t so exhausted. “Please,” Lucy croaks from behind you. “What do you want from us?” You try to slip away from him while she speaks. But you still don’t have great control over your faculties. Your feet just slide uselessly against the floor as he keeps you strapped to him like an iron band. 

“You,” he spits the word out like an insult. “Well, I don’t want nothing from you, little lady. It’s her I want.” You don’t have to look up to know that he’s talking about you. It’s clear enough from the way he tugs a little at your rope. You whimper at the twinge of pain and he chuckles. You glance up enough to see him look down at the head, frowning slightly as he considers it. “Although, that bounty right there is a bit of a bonus.”

Lucy shakes her head, ponytail waving around wildly. She holds up her hands, starting towards it. The dog lunges forward and Lucy stumbles back with a frightened yelp. “Please,” she looks up at Cooper, eyes pleading. “I need that head to save my father.” You would sigh if breathing didn’t hurt right now. There was no getting him to sympathize with her. 

“Your father?” Cooper questions, voice almost sounding sympathetic. Lucy nods, lips pouted and eyes wide with a beg for mercy. He huffs, a sneer marring his lips. “Well that’s just too bad,” he mocks. Lucy doesn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm in his words, though, so he makes himself a little more clear. “I don’t give a fuck about your father, darling.”

Before anyone can say anything else there’s another loud roar, this time much closer than the last one. Cooper tenses up around you, arm tightening and eyes darting over to the closed metal door of the shop. Finally, he releases you. 

Your legs are still wobbly, you manage to stay standing for a second before they give out. They fold under you like a crumbling card tower and your body jolts roughly against the floor. Lucy skirts around the growling dog, still guarding her master’s head, and kneels beside you. 

Cooper opens the door, he pops his head outside for a second. You and Lucy share a look but it’s barely a minute later before he darts back inside and slams the door behind him. Without a word he drags a large metal shelf in front of the door and blocks it off. 

You and Lucy watch as he does it to the other doors as well. His face doesn’t give away much but you can tell from the hunch of his shoulders that whatever he saw had scared the hell out of him. You don’t know what time Deathclaw’s like to hunt but you figure it’s probably about now. You would enjoy the idea of something frightening Cooper if it didn’t scare you ten times worse. 

Cooper looks over at the two of you and frowns like it’s your fault you're all stuck here. “Settle in, ladies, it’s going to be a long night.”

He managed to find a half rotted couch in one of the rooms, it’s not very comfortable. But it’s better than the floor. It’s certainly better than being tied up to a counter, which is exactly where you are. You keep shifting around, picking at the dried blood on your pants. He can’t deny the satisfaction it brought him to see how uncomfortable you are sitting in your own blood. 

Your little friend is still hovering around you. He hadn’t really had to worry about tying Lucy up, she refuses to leave your side. Lucy keeps fussing about the wound on your neck. Everytime she tries to take the rope off all he has to do is clear his throat and she’s pale with fear. 

The dog is curled up by him, resting on top of her owner’s head. It’s creepy, her attachment to that damn thing. She should be able to smell the death on him. Though, with the men he used to work for, he’s sure that she doesn’t know any other smell. 

He didn’t bother questioning them about the dead ghouls in the shop. He’d just made them drag the bodies into the empty refrigerators to hopefully keep the smell locked away. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. You’d had a bloody crowbar in your hand when he’d ambushed you. 

He catches your eye from where he rests on the couch. It’s hard to believe you’re such a ruthless little killer considering how pathetic you look right now. Your expression is sour, eyes set with thinly veiled hatred. You can glower all you want, he’s not gonna pretend he didn’t see the want in your eyes earlier. You might be angry now, but you still want him all the same. It’s gonna make breaking you so much sweeter. 

Lucy happens to catch the look and she frowns at what she must think is familiarity. He tilts his hat over his eyes, deciding he might as well try and sleep now. They won’t be leaving this place until the Deathclaw lurking around outside goes back to its den. 

“Do you know him?” He attempts to drown out their conversation but its hard. They’re in ridiculously tight quarters and as much as he wishes he was alone right now, he’s not. He could always just toss Lucy out the door, use her as a distraction for the Deathclaw. Sadly, she does have some use about her. 

Clearly she knows her way around a gun and a medkit. She’s resilient, he’s sure even if he did toss her out she’d still bounce back somehow. Besides, she’s keeping her friend calm and docile. He needs them both to keep each other under control. 

A light hum, “Used too.”

Lucy’s voice is incredulous, she almost sounds betrayed. “How is that possible?”

He opens his eyes just enough to see yours widen. Your face pales like you’d just realized the mistake you made. He doubts Lucy actually knows much about the vaults she lives in. He’s sure that, just as you always did, you’re still keeping Vault-Tec’s secrets. 

Instead of answering the question you try to deflect. “Come on, he might be missing a nose and have a real shitty fucking attitude.” He can’t help but snort at the anger in your voice. Like you have any right to be angry at him. “But you don’t recognize your favorite little mascot?”

He sneers at the mocking tone. When he glances back up you’ve got a smug little smile on your face. You’re not looking at Lucy, you’re already staring at him. Waiting for him to explode. 

Well, one thing hasn’t changed. You still know how to get under his skin. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know just how much you piss him off. He doesn’t give you the satisfaction of his reaction, he just closes his eyes again and imagines all the different ways he wants to torture you. 

“What do you mean?”

“You should ask him for an autograph Lucy, it’s our very own Vault Boy.” He pictures sliding his knife under your skin and peeling while you shriek. “Isn't that right, Cooper?” He sees himself shooting Bud and Barb and you, over and over again. The same little fantasies that got him through the first years of the fallout. 

Lucy is undeterred by your deflection. She keeps her eyes trained on you both. Her brows are drawn in, mouth set in a firm line. “You two know each other.” You don’t answer, eyes darting away from his and settling on the floor. Lucy sinks back against the counter and sighs. “That’s why you never loved Norm.”

Norm? He tilts his head up, taking in the affronted look on your face. Your head whips back towards her, “Lucy-” she cuts you off. 

“Him?” She motions towards him, voice incredulous and almost hurt. Who the fuck is Norm? You lower your head, like you’re ashamed. He wonders if it’s because you got caught or just because you were ever with him. “He’s so much better than my brother?” She keeps going, voice reaching a pitch of anger as she prods at you. 

He’s surprised by how quickly she connected the dots. He hadn’t thought she would be so perceptive. He’s sure that little show you gave her earlier when he had his hand around your neck probably gave you away. 

“In my defense,” you hiss back, “he used to have a fucking nose.” 

You know she’s struggling with this. The idea that you could have ever loved the ghoul. But, she doesn’t understand just how different he had been when you’d known him. She only knows this cannibalistic sadist without a kind bone in his body. 

Lucy is staring at you with something close to hate in her eyes. You can’t really blame her. So far he’d beat you both down and taken you hostage. You both know it’s only going to get worse. And now she thinks that you loved him, which is true. You think she might believe you still have feelings for him, which, despite your earlier display, is not true. 

She also knows now that you precede everything before the fallout. You’re sure she’s trying to put together how that works and right now you need to distract her with whatever you’ve got to keep her from figuring out the truth. 

“He was different,” you try, voice soft and pleading. 

She just shakes her head, turning away from you. “Norm deserved better,” she whispers and you frown. It hurts, the way she says it. Like you aren’t good enough for him. You cared for Norm as best you could but you weren’t going to apologize for not being in love with him. You can’t control who you love and who just can’t.

She would never know the man you loved and the thought hurt more than you cared to admit. “Who the fuck is Norm?” You and Lucy both leap apart, not expecting to hear his voice. You share a hesitant glance with each other. 

Cooper stands over you, expression expectant and hard. You try to shake your head, but she’s already answering, “Her husband,” she spits the words out like a threat. You recognize the tone, the same one you used to hear pre-war. Like if he keeps bugging you, your husband is going to come kick his ass. 

But this isn’t some asshole hitting on you in a bar. And Norm isn’t exactly a fighter. Cooper seems to realize that too because he steps back and fixes you with an odd look. You brace yourself, for anger or disgust, anything. You’re not prepared for the way he laughs, hands on his knees and whole body shaking with it. You frown, almost offended by his display. 

What the hell was that supposed to mean? 

You’ve never seen him laugh like this. 

Lucy gives you a scared glance before scooting closer to you. “That’s rich,” he sighs, wiping a tear from his eyes and shaking his head. “Married in the fucking apocalypse, how goddamn ridiculous.” He doesn’t sound amused anymore. There’s venom in his tone. His eyes narrow down on you and you shrink further into yourself, thigh throbbing painfully. 

He walks back to the couch, throwing himself down and tugging the hat over his eyes. “Feel bad for the poor bastard,” he mutters, the words feel hateful. But everything about him now is tainted with anger and hate. 

Lucy, realizing he isn’t going to bother you both anymore fixes you with one more angry look before moving away from you. She settles against the refrigerators. She’d rather sit near dead ghouls than be near you. 

Your head falls forward with defeat, chin tucking into your chest with a rough sigh. You’re sure it wouldn’t take much longer for her to discover just who you really are and what you do for Vault-Tec. She’s smart, she’s going to figure it out soon. And when she does she’s not going to be interested in your company anymore. 

Once that happens, well, Cooper’s got nothing left to leverage against you. 

“You cooked?” The astonishment in Norm’s voice has you rolling your eyes. 

“Don’t sound so surprised. I am capable of some wifely duties,” you send him a playful grin and he offers up a brief chuckle. “Your dad’s coming over,” you admit. You turn your back to him, placing a fork beside the plate you're setting. You can practically feel the tension that settles over him at the announcement. 

Hank’s visits never really go the way that he wants. Or the way you want. He’s the overseer before he’s an old friend and especially before he’s a father. At least to Norm. He’s always been a little sweeter on Lucy. You’ve never really figured out if it’s because she embraces her role in the vault so much better than Norm. Or if it’s because she reminds him of her mother. 

You, personally, never got to meet Lucy’s mom. You only heard stories about her. Norm was too young to really remember her, but Lucy always loves to talk about how kind of a woman she was. You don’t know the real story of how she died, but you know the shit Betty and Hank pedal isn’t the truth. 

You try to avoid the topic of parents in your home as much as you can. It’s a sensitive subject for Norm. It’s why you’d been putting off telling Norm about Hank coming over. But you put it off so much, you’ve had no choice but to spring it on him. It’s better like this, honestly. He always weasels his way out of these dinners. Then you’re stuck awkwardly fielding Hank’s questions about your marriage with his son. 

It’s not really fun to talk to the guy you used to get drinks with about creating a child with his kid. 

“You didn't tell me,” Norm doesn’t sound angry. He never gets angry with you. He just seems resigned. Resigned to accepting that he’s in a marriage he never wanted. Resigned in the fact that he hates the vault he lives in, the jobs he works, that he’ll never truly be satisfied. Your husband can be a sad man sometimes. 

You wish you could be what he needed you to be. Wish you could love him the way you should, but you can’t. As much as you try. He knows it’s forced and he doesn’t want to pretend he’s okay with being second choice in your heart. 

“I’m sorry, but you always manage to get out of these things. Then I’m stuck awkwardly talking about sperm count and his and Lucy’s book club.”

Usually Norm just huffs and accepts his fate. Instead, he fixes you with an odd look. It’s that assessing gaze he gets sometimes that makes you feel like he’s looking straight into your core and seeing the rot there. He walks around you, grabbing a plate and finishing up setting the table. “You know,” he starts and you tense up. 

You pretend to be busy mixing the mash potatoes so you don’t have to look at him. Your anxieties are always evident on your face, you don’t need him to pick you apart right now. “My dad seems a lot more comfortable with you than he does me. Sometimes,” you risk a glance and he shakes his head. He seems like he’s talking more to himself than you. “Sometimes,” he starts again, “it seems like you two know each other.”

Your breath catches and you’re pretty sure your heart stops beating for a solid minute. He’s still muttering to himself, not looking at you or really even processing what he’s saying, but you’re worried he’s figured you out. It’s illogical and impossible. You could easily explain your bond with Hank away. But it doesn’t make you feel any better about having to lie to him. 

You’re quite literally saved by the bell as your doorbell buzzes and Hank’s voice calls out a chipper, “Hello!” Norm puts down the last glass, gives you a strained smile, and turns to get the door. You take in a deep breath and slump over the counter for a second. 

You had this foolish idea in your head that the last person you would ever have to lie to would be Cooper. That once you got down into the vaults you wouldn’t have to keep lying to the people you care about. You could finally rid yourself of the constant anxiety and stress of the upkeep of your lies. 

You should have known better. 

Hank walks in with Norm, the two of them chatting about Norm’s new janitorial job. Norm is less than enthused and Hank is worried about the lack of enthusiasm. “Cleaning toilets is a very important role here, son. I’m proud of you.” At least he tries. 

Norm sits his dad at the table and walks into the kitchen. You give him a smile and finish pouring the potatoes onto the dish of food. You hope he doesn’t notice how strained your look is. If he does, he has the decency not to mention it. 

He only offers you a brief smile in return, a secret message in his look. It’s tense, the same as yours, but this is simply a request to play interference between him and his dad tonight. You huff a laugh and nod, he gives you a relieved look and grabs the pitcher of lemonade from beside you. 

You watch him walk back to the table. His back is turned as he pours drinks for all of you. You’re reminded of a different dinner you had a long time ago. Not for the first time you look at Norm and wish he was someone else. 

You screw your eyes shut, turning your back on him and glancing down at the food in front of you. He deserves better than you. 

You take in a deep breath and pick up the dish full of your dinner tonight. You straighten out your shoulders and turn towards the men waiting for you with your most practiced smile. “Who’s hungry?”

end. — I do not own the characters or the game/show Fallout, 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)

Broken Machinery

Pt. 6 (completed series)

Series masterlist

Connor RK800 x fem!reader

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

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

Word Count: 3.3K

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

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

“How do you think I felt?” 

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

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

Serves him right. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had lost you both in that car crash. 

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

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

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

PROTECT Y/N

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you shoot?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand.”

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were you not aware of that, Lieutenant?”

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

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

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

“You didn’t ask.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The roof?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t fuck up my crime scene.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was CyberLife hiding? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

LOOK FOR A REACTION TO SPOT THE DEVIANT

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

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

“State your model.”

“Model JB300. Serial number 336 445 581.”

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

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

He’d found the deviant.  

“Has anybody accessed your memory recently?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t want….

Didn’t want what?

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

He didn’t want to die. 

He didn’t want to die alone.

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

That was more terrifying than the thought of dying. 

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

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

DIAGNOSTIC 

Memory…. 100%

Optics…. 100%

Auditory…. 100%

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

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

BANG

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

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

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

Was he okay?

He didn’t know anymore?  

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

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

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

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

I might not be posting anything for the next two weeks or so, possibly shorter. I've been dealing with a lot of life stuff and some mental health problems that I need to start making my priority.

The current series I'm working on will be finished, just not right now.

I usually bounce back fast, so fingers crossed I won't need much longer than a week. I think I just need to rediscover my love for writing.

What kind of dark sorcery did you do to create these wonderful logan fics? They are a lil toooo... chefs kiss😘🤌 in writing.

I'm so honored you think so. But I suppose it's time to come out and just tell the truth.

I sold my soul. In sixty-six years the devil's coming to collect because I figured hell was worth it as long as I knew how to write fanfiction.

What do you think about Stu/Sid as a couple? Matthew Lillard and Neve Campbell dated for 3 years in real life.

I’ve been interested in that dynamic since I first watched the movie. I’m 90% at the end he talks about how he used to be into her. Honestly those two would be so much more interesting to me than Billy/Sid.

I don’t think it would work out well. He’s pretty touchy/sexual and Sid is the textbook definition of a prude. I doubt they would last very long and be more than a fun fling.

The fact that they dated makes a lot of sense bc I always thought there was chemistry there. I think that’s why poly!ghost face is such a big ship bc all three of them had great chemistry.

One More Spring

One-shot

Tagging: @dumblittlebunbun bc you’d commented on a previous slasher post

Bo Sinclair x fem!reader A/N: This was a strange little Drabble I came up with when I was experimenting with a different writing style. Summary: You only have one wish, to make it to one more spring in Ambrose. You know that the women don’t last long, used and tossed aside, you don’t have big hopes. Just one last prayer.

You could always tell what kind of day it would be by how the door closed. Maybe it was because you’d grown up with strict parents, but you could read a mood based off their footsteps. 

For now, you felt comfortable and remained lounged on your crappy lawn chair, trying to get some sun back on your legs after winter. The screen door closed lightly behind Bo as his heavy boots made their way to you. 

You didn’t bother lifting your sunglasses as you felt him hovering over you. “What’re you doing?” His voice was gruff and he sounded like he was panting. 

“Trying to get some color back.”

You could hear him scoff and glanced to the side to see him stealing a swig from your beer. “Don’t have better things to be doing?”

“Like what?” You snarked, rolling over and huffing when his eyes immediately went to your ass. Probably a good thing you chose a skimpy pair of bottoms, he was always more agreeable when he was horny. “Playing housewife?”

He chuckled under his breath, kneeling down beside you and flicking your sunglasses up. “Yeah, maybe.”

You rolled your eyes and swatted his hands away. You propped your head up on your arms and glared at him. “I’ll put on an apron for you later, for now, buzz off.”

He shook his head and stood up. “Don’t know where all this attitude came from.” You yelped as his hand came down on your ass. He laughed loudly, walking away much too smug for your liking. “Better not be a damn thing under that apron later!” He shouted as he went back into the house. 

You looked up to tell him off and finally caught a glimpse of his coveralls. Blood coated the bottom of his pants and you shrank back into your chair. You put your head back down on your arms, closing your eyes and ignoring the way your stomach twinged in anxiety. 

As requested, you’d made dinner in an apron and nothing else. Bo had subsequently banished Vincent from the kitchen. You’d felt bad when you’d woken up in the morning, you hadn’t gotten a chance to slip him any food. You’d passed out pretty much the second Bo was done with you. 

Your eyes darted to the bloody coveralls on your bathroom floor. You sighed, legs aching as you got off the bed. You collected his dirtied uniform and the laundry basket and made your way downstairs. 

You got started on the laundry, kicking the old washing machine a few times to get it going. It had been on its last leg for a decade, it was a matter of months before it finally conked out. You threw the clothes in, fingers snagging on a lacy number at the bottom. 

You frowned, tugging it out and holding it up to the light. You’d never seen this before. It certainly hadn’t come from your bag. “You like it?”

You jumped, whirling around with the shirt clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bo, you scared me.”

He chuckled, face still slightly mussed from sleep. He was only in a white t-shirt and pajama pants, rare to see him in anything other than working clothes. “Snagged that off a tourist yesterday, thought you’d look good in it.”

I thought you would like it. 

I know you’ve got a few shirts like that in your closet.

You always look pretty in this color, baby.

You’d heard it all a thousand different ways. The same sentence over and over and over again. You were haunted by the women of Ambrose. The ones who came before you, who’d tried and failed to play house with him. The ones who were yet to come. 

And the woman who would inevitably replace you when you messed up for the final time. 

Your nails dug into the lace, feeling it give beneath them as you smiled at Bo. “I love it, thank you.”

He hugged you, lips lingering against your forehead before he wandered off to start some coffee. You turned around, eyes going back to the shirt. You’d burn it if you could. Rip it apart and scream, instead you tossed it in the wash with the rest of your clothes. You let the lid slam shut, the noise jarring you out of your stupor. 

You forced on a happy face and walked into the kitchen. Vincent was lingering near the entrance and you offered him a gentle smile. “Sorry about dinner,” you whispered as you passed him. He shook his head and took a seat at the table. 

You grabbed the ingredients you needed, rustling through Bo’s ancient cookbook for the French toast recipe you’d found the other day. One day, you’d run out, you wouldn’t have any more delicacies to surprise them both with. 

Bo would tire of the same repetitive food. The same face every morning. The same sounds and movements in the bedroom. You’d become used up, lose the new shine everyone loved on their toys. 

You clenched the spatula in your hand, gritting your teeth as you cooked some eggs for the both of them. You brought it over to the table, scooping it onto their plates, Bo got the bigger serving. Bo always got what he wanted.

Your mind flashed to the garage, the straps there waiting for you. “Hey!”

You jumped, pan nearly dropping out of your hands as you stared at the dropped eggs on his lap. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” You rushed to the counter, grabbing a towel and kneeling down, frantically trying to get them off his pants. 

A calloused hand landed on your head, you jumped and looked up at Bo. Your heart raced, expecting malice or a sneer that meant the last nail had fallen and your time was up. Instead he was smiling gently down at you, hand smoothing the hair from your face. “Just a spill, darlin’, get the bacon ‘fore it burns.”

You backed away instantly, taking the egg filled rag with you as you went back to the stove. You flipped the bacon, turning off the burner and risking a glance over your shoulder at Bo. 

He was sipping his coffee peacefully, not a worry in the world. But you could see how tightly Vincent had his fork gripped, the way it shook slightly as he placed it back on his plate. Seems you weren’t the only one who’d thought your time was up. 

When would it happen?

When spring returned and the birds started chirping their early morning song again?

You wouldn’t mind if that was when it ended. If you got to make it to another birthday, that would be even better. You’d like to experience another holiday, or Halloween. Perhaps that was too much to ask for. 

You’d settle for just seeing the buds return to the trees in Ambrose once more. Pink blooming in the absence of death. That would be lovely. 

Alright, you’ll take that. 

Make it through one more spring and you can happily let go. 

You could hear the women screaming as you walked down the stairs of the house. See glimpses of who they used to be. Hair clips you knew weren’t yours, underwear buried in the back of drawers that you’d never touched. Necklaces and jewelry that didn’t match yours. 

You could hear their voices, disorienting and panicked as you hung the laundry on the line. Felt like the birds echoed their mourning cries in their melody. 

You saw the red lines around your wrist as you pulled off the dry sheets. You tried not to look at them too much. Bo liked to touch them, rub his fingers along your wrist and admire them. He thought it brought you closer, linked you together somehow. 

You hated looking at them. Hated the sight of the worn skin. All it reminded you of was the time below. Your pictures that were tacked above the others. 

You heard a scream further away from the house, bloodcurdling and echoing through the air of Ambrose. It would never make it out. Never travel past the forest bordering the ghost town. You wondered if it was a product of your own fractured psyche or another masterpiece in the works. 

Your question was answered when you sat on your knees in the bathroom that night, trying to scrub the crimson out of Bo’s coveralls. 

You liked your time with Vincent. You like the candles he kept scattered around his studio, nails dug into them to help him keep time. He’d sit you down on the couch and would position you like a doll. You’d let him, mind going numb as you lost time for as long as he wanted to draw you. 

You knew he liked you the most out of the other girls. You learned sign language for him, communicating with him when Bo got sick of both of you. He enjoyed your face the most. It wasn’t model perfect or the type of beauty people wrote songs about. 

He liked the normalcy of it, the slightly blandness. He’d told you once, on a nice night, that it was your eyes that gave you life. Not the color of them, but the light behind them. 

You wondered if he would draw you again when Bo snubbed them out. 

You folded Bo’s clothes, tucking them neatly into his drawers and tossing the basket back into the hall. You moved towards the bed, straightening the sheets and tucking them in tight. You liked it tight, he hated it. 

Your one act of rebellion. 

It honestly wasn’t hard to fall into this role with Bo. You’d known if you’d wanted to survive the only chance you had was to make him happy. In a way it was peaceful here. It was quiet and you never had to worry about anything.

You cleaned the house, cooked the food, were the perfect housewife and he’d be content and so would you. He let you have your own time, surprising you with journals to write in. Or he’d dig through tourists bags and bring you back books he’d thought you’d like. 

You didn’t get to go into the city with him, doubted you ever would, but you were okay with this. 

You picked up his watch, opening up his night table’s drawer to tuck it away. Your eyes landed on a bright splash of red and your fingers froze from where they hovered above the handle. You glanced over your shoulder, heart thrumming. 

You turned back towards the drawer and carefully slid the Polaroid out. 

A picture, a woman with gorgeous red hair splayed along her pillow. She looked beautiful. 

Or she would. 

If it wasn’t for the gash across the neck, so deep it showed you the inside of her throat. Crimson dripped from the wound, pooling around her and onto the bed below her. 

Your eyes darted to the bed to your left, hands wrinkling the pristinely kept picture. Without thinking your hand dove further into the drawer, probing, digging, searching for something. 

You didn’t know what until you hissed, hand jerking back as blood blistered out of the gash on your finger. You placed the picture back, popping your finger into your mouth and licking up the metallic taste of your blood. 

You used your other hand to wrap around the handle of the blade, tugging out the large kitchen knife and staring down at it blankly. 

One more spring.

You put the knife back, straightening out his drawer and leaving the haunted bedroom to clean your wound. 

You woke to the sound of birds chirping. To your left was the window, pink buds blooming across the branch of the tree across from the house. Above you was Bo, straddling your waist, a knife held tightly in his hand. 

“Well,” you wrapped a hand around his, calmly pulling the knife down to your throat. You’d thought you’d be more upset. Fight, beg, plead for one last winter, or just another day. One last good day. But you were tired, you’d been slipping since summer. Bits and pieces of yourself floating along the wind, joining the cacophony of lost women. “Aren’t you going to do it?”

Bo stared down at you, his brows furrowed. The whites of his eyes were red and you knew he’s been struggling with this for a while. You weren’t sure how long he’d been sitting above you, but you knew it had been before you’d woken. 

You were thankful, at least, that he had let you see the spring morning before he did this. 

He yanked his hand out of yours, “Crazy bitch,” he muttered. He scoffed and shook his head, jumping off of you. Your head lolled to the left, you opened up the window, inhaling the fresh smell of new life. 

You made it another winter and another spring. Your face was plastered along Vincent’s wall. Statues of you adorned Ambrose but you didn’t occupy a single one of them. 

On the outside MISSING flyers with your face faded and fell from lamp posts. Your name was forgotten from the minds of those who’d been alive to mourn you. You became another statistic, another lost soul. An old news story that would be used in classrooms. 

What happened to her?

Is she still alive?

Was she the first?

Will we ever know?

No. They wouldn’t. You were the girl on the paper trampled beneath frantic feet as they rushed to work. Tossed aside in the garbage when they were done with the morning paper. To the rest of them, you were forgotten. 

To Ambrose, you were their muse. Inspiration behind their every move. 

Every morning you’d wake up to a blade pressed against your throat. And every morning Bo would leap away from you and shake his head. He’d never do it, you knew that now, and it provided you with a careless freedom that freed you from the shackles you’d placed upon yourself. 

You didn’t spread your legs and let him take what he wanted anymore. You didn’t submit under his temper, you fought back, raised your voice and threw glass bottles right back at him. You didn’t let him bend Vincent under his thumb or scream at him just because he could. 

You pushed, every day, that invisible line that separated you from the other ghosts in town. Yet, somehow, you never breached it, only managed to extend it. 

“I want to go with you.”

Bo froze, after a moment he fixed his cap and grabbed his keys from the tray. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, “Well, come on then.”

You followed him through the front door, hopping in the truck when he opened it up to you. The engine rumbled, vibrating the seat below you and his hand slid from the keys to your thigh. He squeezed, as if reminding himself you were there, he was really doing this. 

You could hardly believe it yourself. 

Bo rounded the bend from the gas station and you felt your heart racing. A hummingbird flitting through your chest, frantically trying to break from the cage of your ribs. He pulled through the old campground, the one you’d been on before your car had mysteriously broken down. 

You couldn’t remember who it was you were with. What their names were.

You’re halfway certain one of them had been a lover. His name lost to the past. 

Bo pulls onto the highway and you brace yourself. You’re not sure for what. Perhaps for him to change his mind, a blade buried in your gut. To start pouring blood down the front of your shirt. Or maybe the car will wreck, divine intervention deciding that neither of you get another day. 

Nothing happens. Bo slams his hand against the truck’s stereo and rock crackles through the speakers. His hand returns to your thigh and he hums along to the music. After a moment you relax, rolling the window down and letting the breeze cool you down. 

He makes it to the city, smaller than where you used to live, but a mammoth compared to Ambrose. You buy groceries, marveling over products you’d forgotten even existed. You finally manage to buy the tampons you like instead of getting lucky that another woman has them in her bag. 

You harass him into letting you go to a secondhand store, buying a shirt for you. Yours and yours alone. It’s simple, long sleeved and white, nothing special, but it means everything to you. When you make it back to Ambrose, the familiar stifling air and aged walls, you bury the shirt in your dresser. 

You’ll never wear it and never part with it. This shirt will never be anyone else’s but yours. You’ll never allow another woman to get her hands on it. Even when you’re gone you’ll protect it. 

“What do you think?”

Bo shrugged, taking another swig of his beer as his eyes roved over the journal in his hand. You sat on the edge of your seat, eagerly watching him read. Perhaps a bit too eagerly, he sensed it, pouncing on the chance to make you vulnerable. 

“You know I don’t read much, baby.”

You rolled your eyes and moved to sit next to him. “I’m aware, it’s real sad, Bo. Now,” you nudged his shoulder with your own. “What do you think?”

He chuckled, marking the page and tossing it on the coffee table. His legs spread and you took the invitation, slotting yourself in his lap and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He grinned up at you, “It was good. Real fuckin’ good.”

You smiled, cheeks puffing out with the force of it. “Really?”

He nodded his head, “Mhm.” He leaned forward, taking you with him, and placed his beer on the table. You reached behind yourself, blindly readjusting it onto a coaster. He rolled his eyes, but you saw the fondness in them. 

His hands moved down your back, squeezing your ass before they landed on your thighs. Rough calluses spread along smooth skin and goosebumps prickled under his touch. You don’t know why you let him read the strange disjointed novel you’d been writing. 

Maybe because you knew no one would ever see it. Maybe you wanted some part of yourself permanently embedded into his brain. Either way, you enjoyed the way his face changed as he took it in. The expressions shifting with each new sentence. 

“You got a fucked up little mind, you know that?”

You hummed, nodding your head and leaning forward to slot your lips against his own. It was his own fault you were like this. He’d bent you, broke you down, used you until you were a shadow of the woman who used to exist within your body. 

Maybe he had won. 

There was a part of you, a spirit, floating somewhere beneath his garage, that had once belonged to you. 

You ground your hips down against his, biting down on his lip until copper flooded your mouth. He didn’t get angry, just gripped your hair and moved you both to the cushions. He groaned into your open mouth, pinning your body below his and manipulating you how he wanted. 

Then again, maybe you’d ruined him too. 

You shouldn’t be alive. You shouldn’t still have a throat to drag air down, but here you were. Shoving against him and forcing him to submit to your whims. You weren’t the only one who’d changed, and you both knew it. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie House of Wax (2005), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

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

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Jack's gone missing and there's only one place that's going to have the answers you need. St. Denis may just be one of the dirtiest places you've set foot in. Still, if stomaching a mobster chatting you up, means getting the boy back, then you'll just have to deal.

A few weeks later

Arthur’s shoulder is still sore where he’d been shot. You lay under his left arm rather than his right so you don’t irritate it any further. After he’d started moving around on his own again, you’d gone back to sleeping in the women’s tent. 

He knows how uncomfortable the cramped tent is now that they have to make room for you and Sadie, so he let you sleep in his tent on days he wasn’t in camp. One night, he’d come back earlier than expected after a hunting trip and you’d been asleep on his cot. When you’d woken up, his good arm was wrapped around you and you had been tucked into his chest. Neither of you said anything about it, you just continued sleeping there, even on the nights that he was around. It’s comforting, having him watch over you again just like when he had first saved you in the mountains. There’s a familiarity to it that you’d been missing. 

Still, as comfortable as you are sleeping beside him, your nights are restless. You’re plagued with guilt for what you’d said while he was sick. It almost feels like taking advantage of him while he was at his most vulnerable just so you could whisper what Dutch might call ‘your poison’ into his ear. You had a personal agenda, even if it was for his benefit too. You wanted Arthur for yourself, together and away from this life. Mostly, you wanted him out from under the control of Dutch, and safe. Still, you had no right to preach about Dutch being such a conman when you’re doing the same thing. 

Tonight, you’re awoken by the same nagging thoughts. Your eyes flutter open as your stomach twists with a painfully familiar guilt. Huffing, you adjust yourself higher up Arthur’s chest, trying to force yourself to get comfortable again. His arm flexes around you as he shifts onto his side. 

You tuck the rough wool of Arthur’s blanket under your chin but it doesn’t do anything except irritate you further. Trying to make sure you haven’t disturbed him too much, you risk a glance up at Arthur’s face. He’s the most at ease when he’s sleeping. It’s the one time you’ve seen him look his age, as the stress and tension melt away from him. 

He’s healthier now and beginning to look alive once more. His cheeks are filling out, no longer so gaunt and hollow that the bone nearly pokes through. When he greets you in the morning his eyes are warm and bright. They don’t carry the flatness of fever and the threat of death. He’s slowly started to regain his appetite, clothes no longer hanging so loosely off his frame. And he finally shaved that horrendous beard he’d grown while he’d been sleeping. It’s a relief now that the reason for staying up all night isn’t because you're making sure he doesn’t stop breathing in his sleep. 

Sighing, you carefully maneuver your way out from under his arm, sitting up in the cot. His hand drops from your shoulder to your lap as he readjusts himself to your absence. You look back at him and grimace. Just another secret to keep. 

You killed your husband and no one except Charles and a whore will ever know about that. But that had felt right like you’d done the world a service getting rid of him. And you know, that getting Arthur to see past blind loyalty to the gang and to Dutch is better in the long run. But taking advantage of the fact that he was bed-ridden and couldn’t run away from having that conversation was wrong. You’re feeling like the scum you make Dutch out to be. 

You brush your hair back and get to your feet, deciding to go sit with Charles while he’s on watch. It’s usually what you end up doing when you can’t sleep. Neither of you will talk but it's comforting just to have his calming presence near you. Your fingers are on the knots of the tent flap when a scream rips through the cold night air. 

Eyes wide with fear, you stumble back a step. Arthur shoots up in bed and you whip around just in time to see him drag his revolver out from under the pillow. “What’s wrong?” He barks out the question as he leaps to his feet, coming to stand in front of you. 

Your eyes dart between him and the gun. He’s wide awake like he hadn’t been deep asleep only a minute ago. And you didn’t even know that gun was there. You forget, sometimes, just how on edge these people have to be to survive. Thinking it’s you who screamed, Arthur snaps your name out when you don’t respond.

A shout rings out now, coming from just outside the tent. It’s a woman’s voice but you don’t know which one. Arthur guides you behind him and goes towards the tent flaps. When you try to follow him he barks out a brisk, “Stay” and runs out of the tent, half-dressed, gun in the air, looking crazed. 

Ignoring Arthur, you push open the canvas just enough to poke your head out. Most everybody’s been woken up by the commotion. They’ve all got their guns out, looking for whatever threat has someone hollering like a dying animal. You look past them and towards the fire where Abigail is beating on John with every ounce of strength she has. 

The fire casts a shadow against her wild eyes, making her seem larger than life, near inhuman. “You bastard!” She screams, slapping John so hard across the face you can hear it connect from where you are. “How can you just stand there!” 

Arthur gets to them first. He tucks his gun away and grabs Abigail’s wrists, ripping her away from John so she’s forced to stop hitting him. He’s muttering something to her and you can’t hear it but you imagine he’s trying to calm her down and get her to explain herself. 

John and Abigail don’t get along on the best of days, but this is odd even for them. You’d thought you’d seen her at her angriest when she’d found out what Karen and Sean had done in her bed, but this was an entirely different beast. 

“They took him!” Choking back tears, she shouts, “They stole my son!”

 Despite the urgency of Abigail’s situation, the priority remains to keep those still in camp safe.  Jack’s kidnapping was a wake-up call. The gang will never have a moment to feel safe again. No matter where you run to or who you partner with, there will always be a threat hanging over your heads. Dutch has Arthur and Charles out looking for a new place to set up while the rest of you remain behind and pack. 

Before, you would have helped the women pack up their tent and any other miscellaneous items. But your duties have shifted from working with them to what feels like Arthur duties. You take care of his things now, pack up his wagon while he’s gone, and throw your meager belongings in beside his. You feel remarkably wifely as you fold up his clothes and it sends a cold chill through your stomach. This is not a pleasant familiarity. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen the transition from helping around camp to solely taking care of Arthur. At first, you had assumed it was simply because he was so ill that he needed the aid. But now it seems as though they changed your handler from Mrs. Grimshaw to Arthur. She no longer demanded anything of you or tried to take charge of how you act. 

You wouldn’t say that Arthur has taken advantage of the situation. He never asks anything of you, what you do for him you do of your own free will. But it doesn’t ease the sense of dread you feel. You take care of him, his clothes, and his belongings because you don’t know what else to do. Never have you had the opportunity to choose another way of life. You had been born as an object to be bought and traded, sent to a finishing school that disciplined you in the arts of being a wife. You don’t know any other way and that terrifies you. 

There’s a deep-seated worry that this infatuation with Arthur is only a way for you to survive. By latching onto him, you’ve given yourself someone to take care of and someone who will protect you. There’s no chance of abandonment now that the two of you are so connected. 

It’s shameful, this fear of yours. Still, though, it lingers even when it’s unwanted. 

Lady grazes lazily in the grass beside you. Her tail flicks with boredom, her head always perking up when she hears another horse huff and thinks Diablo might be coming back. They’ve grown remarkably attached and you can’t say that you haven’t noticed she’s been a lot calmer lately. You think being around him so much helped ease her into her new environment. You wonder if that’s what happened between you and Arthur, but you just never managed to fully assimilate. 

Taking Lady’s reigns you hitch her up to the wagon and jump onto the driver’s seat. Without Arthur, you won’t have anyone else to ride with.  Leaning back against the wood, you watch as Molly struggles with some crates. She stumbles, nearly tripping into the mud as she tosses them on the back of the wagon. Dutch doesn’t offer her help, he’s too absorbed in his hushed conversation with Hosea. 

The way Dutch treats her, the dismissive coolness, and then the sudden surge of love every few weeks, frays at her mind. Her patience and sanity have slowly been dwindling and you can see it plainly on her face. She’s gone mad and temperamental and is never happy anymore. Is that the fate of any woman who loves an outlaw? 

Trelawney has a family in the city somewhere. How often does he see his wife or his children? 

Abigail and John are no great love story. She’d been the gang’s favorite whore before John got her pregnant. Then, he’d had no other choice but to take care of her and their child. Their relationship was born out of resentment and necessity. The most affection you’ve ever seen between them was her yelling at him for getting clawed up by a wolf. 

Mrs. Grimshaw watches Molly struggle for a minute or two before coming over and silently offering her aid. They don’t speak and the tension is clear between them. Mrs. Grimshaw, Dutch's former lover, and his current jaded woman. Susan had the intelligence to get out before Dutch broke her completely, now she was nothing more than an associate to him. How quickly do the affections of outlaws fade?

But Arthur isn’t John and he certainly isn’t Dutch. You can’t compare him to anyone because you’ve never met another man like him. He’s not your husband. There’s no ties keeping you together. No oaths to break or rings to bury. You can leave anytime you want, the only reason you’ve stayed so long was because it was your choice. 

If you keep looking for your old life in every aspect of your new one, you’ll never move on. If you keep looking backward, you’ll be terrified of everything. You can’t allow yourself to live like that again. 

Grabbing the reins you take a deep breath and close your eyes. You picture your old house, the cracks in the foundation, and the holes in the walls. Still, you hear your husband’s voice carrying through the halls as he shouts at you. There’s nothing like that here, nothing to fear. The memory doesn’t carry any of the pain it used to. It’s like a ghost of a past you’ve nearly forgotten. You just have to finish letting it go. 

Shady Belle’s name carries a certain elegance with it. It sounds like a dignified estate, one you might not find in the city but would certainly find near plantations. In your mind, the name brings about images of your childhood home. The same one that had been taken care of by your family for generations. 

However, the rotting monstrosity of termite-infested wood and stinking mud is certainly no great estate. When Arthur proudly shows you the new camp he and Charles have found, it is an exercise in control not to grimace in disgust. You know you’re spoiled by the way you grew up. To these people, simply having a roof is a luxury. 

Arthur looks at you expectantly as he gives you a hand off the wagon. You bite your lip, brows furrowed as you try and think of anything complimentary to say about the house. It’s difficult to think with the stink of the marsh flooding your senses. “It is certainly something,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at the door that’s not screwed on right. 

You suppose, in a way, it reminds you of your husband’s estate. When the coffers were run dry and your husband had scared away the rest of the cleaning staff. Arthur chuckles and helps you around the puddles of mud blocking the entrance to the home. 

“I know, I know,” he relents, sounding slightly amused by your clear disdain. “It is pretty ugly. But,” he grabs the door’s handle and shimmies it roughly a few times before the rusted hinges let out a loud groan and it goes swinging open. “We do get our own room.”

He motions you towards the stairs and your brows perk with interest. “And,” you glance over your shoulder at him and grin, “what, pray tell, would we need the privacy of our own room for?”

He rolls his eyes at your question and gives you a not-so-gentle nudge up the stairs. “I’m sorry, when did I start speakin’ to the Lady Rowe?” You turn around intending to playfully swat at his shoulder when he unexpectedly grabs your wrist and pulls you to him giving you a rough kiss.  

Pulling back breathlessly, your surprised eyes dart toward his lips, “Well, you’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” You tease. Taking the lead, he guides you through the winding hallway until you reach the very last door in the house. He seems eager to show you and it almost has you excited. 

However, from the way the wood floor creaks under your feet and you can feel the house swaying in the wind, you don’t have high hopes for the state of the room. Besides, when was the last time Arthur or anyone else in the gang had actually slept in a real house? You’re sure he’d get excited by anything at this point. 

He gives you a small smile and throws the door open. You relax your expression, trying to make sure no unkind thoughts show on your face as you step through the door. Your eye twitches slightly and you bite your tongue. This was deplorable. 

The “window” is a hole in the wall that looks like someone had been thrown through. When you look up you can see the sky through the roof. It’s about as small as your old closet and the moist smell is nearly unbearable. The humidity out in these parts is going to be the death of you. You go one step further and swear your heel nearly goes through the floor. 

However, despite all of these issues, there is one very wonderful thing about this room. The bed pushed up against the wall actually looked half-clean and was far larger than Arthur’s tiny cot. “Well, Mr. Morgan, this is something indeed.” He lets out a proud huff and your gaze drifts through the “window.” You grimace as you spot a gator clamping down on a deer in the marsh outside. 

Outlaw life you could handle, but living in the moors was certainly asking a lot. 

If there were any trails left leading to Jack, they would be found in St. Denis. It was suggested that you use your former connections to try and find information on the boy’s whereabouts. The gang didn’t seem to understand that you had no connections of your own. They were either your husband’s or your father’s. And you certainly didn’t want to call upon any of your father’s old partners, that would lead to nothing but trouble. Though, you wouldn’t be surprised if you ran into them. As disgusting and poverty-ridden as the city is, it’s exactly where men like that love to linger.

“I’m still not sure bringin’ you along was a good idea,” Arthur frowns at how you have to ride side-saddle in the skirts you’d donned for this. As much as you’ve grown to love pants, that kind of modern-day fashion isn’t going to work for what you need to do. 

After what happened in Valentine, you know Arthur doesn’t like dragging you into the gang’s business. But you’re reluctant to let him out of your sight now. You can’t trust Dutch to take any care or precautions for Arthur’s safety. Besides, Cornwall and the Pinkertons wouldn’t be so desperate as to start shooting at you in the middle of the street. There’s too much risk they might hit the wrong congressman and lose themselves their funding. 

“Arthur, might I remind you that I’m more at home here than I am in camp.” A mangy mutt barks at the horses as you pass by. You can just imagine the fleas crawling through his coat, mud matted into what little fur he has left. A boy not much younger than Jack runs up to him and tosses him a stick. You can see the ribs poking through both of them. 

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh and sets you with a firm look, “Really? This is home to you?”

Slowly, the run-down huts around you give way to smoking factories and haggling merchants. Smog and filth pollute the air, the fog parts just enough for you to see the high-end estates in the distance. The rich, watching their fortunes grow as their factory workers and servants die a slow death. 

“Poor choice of words,” you acquiesce. “No, I’m much happier out in the wilderness. I only mean this is where I was raised to be born, bred, and die. There’s a culture to the sniveling men who live here, and I happen to be quite familiar with it.”

“Well,” Arthur sniffs and you watch him toss a coin into a beggar’s outstretched bowl. “I don’t feel like gettin’ comfortable here. Why don’t we make this quick?” You want to laugh at his impatience, but you can’t deny how your stomach is twisting at all of the decay bordering the city. 

You nod your head, nudging Lady on a little faster. It doesn’t take long for the poverty to fade and make way for the “grandeur” of St. Denis. You still see filth, crime, and unseemly business tucked away into the corners of the city. No matter how hard the wealthy try, they can’t keep the dirt off their hands. It’s impossible to turn a blind eye to the murkiness of what you once thought was a black-and-white world. 

“Where do we even start?” Arthur asks, nose turned up in disgust at the city. You don’t want to make him stay here any longer than you need to. If this is what the future of your country is to look like then you have no qualms becoming a feral mountain woman. 

“If there’s anything rich men love more than making money, it’s losing it.” You nod toward the saloon up ahead and smile. “If anyone has information they’ll be there. Either at the poker table or watching it.”

Arthur nods and you see him nudging Diablo to go faster but you hold out your hand, stopping him. “Wait a moment, Arthur. We’ll need to get our story straight if we’re going to get anything useful out of this.” 

“Oh, come on,” he huffs impatiently just wanting this to be over and done with. “We don’t need a story for this.”

“We most certainly do,” you admonish. You click your tongue disapprovingly at him and shake your head. “They’re not just going to talk to any hick off the street.”

“Hey-“

“You’re to be the help,” you continue, ignoring his protests. “Or, my escort,” you amend when you see the disgruntled look on his face. “They don’t let women at the betting tables so I’ll leave you to the men there.”

“And you?”

“I’ll work those at the bar. They’ll be the most loose-lipped anyway.” You lead the horses to the hitch posts by the side of the saloon. Arthur gets off Diablo and comes to stand by your saddle. He holds a hand up towards you and you swat it away with a rude huff. “Mind your place, sir. The help does not touch,” you inform him, nose turned to the air. It takes a herculean effort not to laugh at how easily his face screws up in irritation. You are enjoying this far too much. 

The annoyed look drops when he sees you struggle to shift your legs to the other side of the saddle. He backs away, hands in the air and a smug look on his face. You peer over the edge of Lady and grimace. You seem to have forgotten just how tall your mare is without Arthur’s usual assistance. “Sure you don’t need help?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the post of the saloon. 

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Arthur.” You drop from the saddle with a jolt and wince a little at the impact on your ankles. He rolls his eyes as you pass by him. 

“Come on, this is ridiculous,” his voice is pleading with you to not go in there. You don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want you involved or just because he doesn’t want to talk to the men waiting for you inside. 

“This will work,” you insist. “As long as you’re not too familiar with me.”

His face drops and his eyes narrow into slits. “Familiar?” He grumbles. You give him a dainty nod, dodging away from the hand that tries to snatch up your wrist. “Fine,” he snaps, spirit finally broken by your own stubbornness. 

“But if this don’t work,” his hand drifts down to the revolver holstered on his hip. “I got somethin’ that will.” When will men learn there are better ways of getting what they want than whipping out their pistols?

“What?” You deadpan, “You’re gonna shoot every man you see until you get your answers?”

He shrugs his shoulders, stalking past you and towards the entrance. “Maybe.”

“Oh,” you scoff and pick up your skirts, rushing to keep up with his easy stride. “Come on you stubborn fool,” you grouse. 

Right before you both reach the entrance, you clear your throat. He pauses, turning around with a glare. “I do believe it’s ladies first,” you remind him. His lips purse and he takes one reluctant step back. “Thank you,” you use your prissiest voice just to rub some salt in the wound.

“I hate this already,” he grumbles, glaring daggers at your back. 

“Hush,”  you bite your lip to stifle the laughter threatening to surface. You must admit, you’re getting a bit of a power rush being able to command him around like this. You’re so used to taking orders that you’ve forgotten what it feels like to give them out. You had once run your house until your husband took over. It’s been a long while since you fell into this role. 

Taking in a deep breath, you straighten up your shoulders and close your eyes. Remembering the vanity that comes along with a role like this, you smooth out your skirts and open the door to the saloon. The chatter and cigar smoke bring you back to memories of sitting in your father’s office while he filled out his reports. He was so cruel if you’d made too much noise while he was working. His favorite thing to tell you was always, “The proper way of the lady is to be seen and not heard. Women are something to be admired, not understood.”

Looking around at the men in this room, you know they’d tell you the same thing. Women aren’t wanted here unless the men have a hand up their skirts or a business deal with their husbands. Even after all your time with the gang, you still find yourself being cowed. You almost want to turn back around and leave. But it’s Jack’s life on the line and you can’t let his mother down simply because you got scared. 

You pull a wad of cash out of the beaded purse on your arm and lead Arthur toward the poker table. After haggling with Dutch for an hour, you’d manage to convince him to hand over some of the camp's funds. He didn’t need to know how much of it you were planning on pocketing for yourself. 

The men around the table glance at you suspiciously out of the sides of their eyes. But they don’t say anything to you until you start to pull a seat out. “Woah, little lady,” one of the men raises his hand and quickly grabs the arm of the chair, jerking it from your grip. He chuckles patronizingly and shakes his head, “I’m afraid there’s no women allowed at this table.”

“Well,” you give him a sickly sweet smile. “It’s a good thing I’m not playing.” Arthur comes to stand beside you and the man’s face pales. With the brim of his hat just barely blocking his eyes, the only thing they can see of him is the revolver on his hip and the nasty looks he’s sending them. He grabs the back of the chair and jerks it out of the man’s grip, nearly sending him flying. 

“My escort, here, will be playing for me.” Arthur takes his seat without another word and you slide the bills into his hand. Leaning over the edge of his chair, you whisper in his ear, “Try not to lose all my money, sweetheart.”

He tugs a cigar out of his vest and lights it up. He puffs silently on it and you spot the way his lips curl slightly at the edges. You can tell he’s doing his damnedest not to laugh at the little show you’re putting on for him.

“How are we doin’ today, gentlemen?” Arthur addresses the men at the table, voice rough and you can already see them getting antsy just being near him. He should have no trouble getting what he wants from them. He doesn’t even have to wave his gun around, he just needs to sit there and look terrifying. 

You leave him to play his part and move towards the bar at the back of the saloon. There are a few men sitting around, but you have to be careful about who you choose. Someone too drunk won’t be of any use to you. And someone stone-cold sober is going to get very suspicious of a friendly woman who isn’t a whore asking them too many questions. 

Rounding the tightly packed poker tables, you stand by the edge of the counter. There’s no point trying to order, they won’t serve a woman. Unless you’re one of the ladies employed by the establishment, you won’t be getting much service. You hop onto one of the stools, taking in the men slumped against the bar. 

One of them is clearly a laborer who wandered into the wrong bar and was too embarrassed to leave. A few others aren’t too drunk, but they’re talking amongst themselves. You’d nearly left when you saw how crowded the place was, you won’t be able to handle a whole group on your own. The rest, except for one at the end of the bar, look like they’re about to tip right off their stools. 

The man at the end is well dressed, his suit finer and clearly more expensive than any of the others in here. He’s nursing his glass of whisky, the bottle by his elbow and only a quarter-empty. He holds a cigar between his fingers, the smoke curling up into the air around his head. The expression on his face isn’t particularly inviting, but he seems like the best shot you have at finding something that makes this whole trip worth it. 

Slipping from your spot, you drift towards his side, keeping only a stool between the both of you. The goal is to not draw too much attention to yourself. You only need something small for him to notice you, it can’t be obvious that you’re trying. Experience has taught patience in letting them come to you, not the other way around. Reel them in too early and everything falls apart. 

“Excuse me,” you call out to the bartender, a small tilt to your lips as you give him a dainty wave. The man beside you only gives you a brief look before turning back to his drink. But you notice the way he’s turned slightly towards you, most likely intrigued by what a lady like yourself is doing in a place like this. 

The bartender glances towards you with a nearly affronted expression. “Could I get a drink?” You force the pitch of your voice higher yet softer than it normally would be. You know the appeal of innocence and virtue to men like this, as disgusting as it is, it works. 

The bartender shakes his head, voice gruff, “Don’t serve women here. You’ll have better luck somewhere else.” 

“Well,” your shoulders slump and your face falls as you feign disappointment, “That’s a shame.” You feel the stranger watching you and turn like you’ve just noticed him. “I can’t exactly leave,” you explain to him. His brows perk, an invitation to continue even as he remains silent. 

Waving behind yourself, you point out Arthur. “I’ve stolen my daddy’s favorite toy. I can’t leave until he’s won me enough money for this pretty necklace I saw the other day.” There was a time when you actually spoke like this, even thought like this. It almost feels simpler, those days when the most important thing was having the prettiest dress in the room. Given the option, though, you would never go back. Not now that you can see the world so much more clearly. 

You’re entertaining him if nothing else. There’s a quirk to his lips as he listens to you talk. He doesn’t truly care what you have to say, but he likes the company. Turning towards the bartender he snaps and grabs his attention once more. “A drink for the signora,” your brows furrow together at the thick Italian accent. 

You’d heard once, through your husband, that more Italian immigrants seemed to be moving to bigger cities like St. Denis. Italian mobsters seemed to flourish here. You just hadn’t expected to find one in this bar. 

The bartender’s shoulders stiffen, his hands freezing in their idle movements of drying out a glass. You drop the ditzy look from your face for a moment, eyes narrowing in on the odd interaction. The bartender puts a glass before you, his hand trembling as he does. The Italian man watches it all with an eagle-eyed smirk. You can’t help but feel like you’re witnessing some show of dominance. 

The Italian man waves him away and he pours some of his whisky into your glass. “It’s bold of you,” he tells you, not offering further explanation. 

“What is?”

He smirks and takes a deep drag of his cigar. The smoke billows from his mouth like a cloud, wafting over your face and smothering the air around you. Your teeth dig into your lips hard enough to hurt as you struggle not to cough. 

His eyes rove over you and you feel like a diamond under the scrutinizing eye of a jeweler, being checked for flaws and value. “Coming in here unmarried and without your father knowing.”

“Oh,” you wave him off and giggle, your hand drifting towards the back of his arm. He looks smug at the touch like he’s won something. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you feel as though you’re being watched. Risking a glance over your shoulder you see Arthur already staring back at you. His eyes are practically slits when he sees the hand you have on the Italian’s arm.

You clear your throat and quickly take your eyes off of him. “Do you see how big my escort is?” You ask, practically talking down to him. “I don’t have to worry much when I’ve got him standing beside me. It’s just too bad,” you trail off as you reach for the glass beside you.  

“What?” He prods, straightening up as you take your hand off him. You take your time answering, pressing your lips to the rim slowly and taking a long drink. It tastes of bog and burns the whole way down, and you have to turn away to hide your pinched as you struggle to swallow it. Still, when you turn back to him you manage to look pleased. 

“To be quite honest, he’s touched. Got kicked in the head by a mule a few years back and isn’t good for much more than fighting and labor.” God, Arthur’s going to kill you if he hears any of this. You can’t risk looking back at him again, though. Right now, he’s nothing more than a prop. 

“Still, an unclaimed, beautiful,” he adds as though that makes you sound any less like a piece of land, “woman out and about like this. I can’t imagine your father’s pleased.” 

You titter, batting your lashes and shrugging. “What daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, I’ve got serious business to deal with in the city.”

“Right, your pretty necklace?” His tone is familiar, you’ve been hearing it all your life. He’s not listening to you, he doesn’t care what you have to say, he’s just imagining what you’d look like on his arm. Or under him. It makes your skin crawl but you’re not so stupid that you don’t use his attraction to your advantage. 

An Italian man who can terrify a bartender with a single word, lurking in the dark corners of St. Denis. He seems like just the man you’re looking for. You play into what he wants, making your voice lighter, younger than it is, and leaning so he can see the way your corset perks up your cleavage. 

“Well, beyond the necklace. Though, that is just as important. I have this friend, Abby. Poor thing got born on the wrong side of life and had to do awful things for a living. Then, some no-good outlaw gets her pregnant. So, she’s stuck traveling with him now. And if that’s not bad enough, her poor little boy got stolen from her a few days back. I was hoping I might help her out somehow. Maybe send her a pretty dress.”

You shrug noncommittally as though it truly means nothing to you. He hums under his breath, putting his cigar out on the tray beside him. “I think I can help you out, signora. I’m having a party at my home tonight. I know a lot of,” he trails off, tongue licking across his lips like a hyena lapping at its maw. “Influential people,” he finishes. “If you’re willing, you can attend,” you’re about to agree when he adds one little stipulation. “As my date.”

“Oh, well,” you glance over your shoulder at Arthur now. He’s talking to some of the men around him but he’s still got one eye trained on you. When he sees you looking he frowns, turning to face you fully. 

You want to say no so badly. You don’t want to deal with another man like this for the rest of your life. In fact, you’d be much happier going back to camp and pretending none of this ever happened. But he might have the connections you need, not just for helping Jack, but possibly to help the whole gang. You swallow down your discomfort and force your most flattered smile. 

“I’d love to.” You answer, feigning a dreamy lilt in your voice. He pulls a fountain pen out of his jacket pocket and writes something down on a napkin. He slides it over to you and stands, taking your hand in his own he bends to press a kiss to your gloved knuckles. 

“My estate, signora, eight o’clock.” You watch as three men in different parts of the saloon all get to their feet and surround him. He nods forward and they march like proper soldiers, your eyes drift toward the guns on their hips and you let out a rough sigh. 

You take a glance at the napkin and see that he’s written an address on it. Wonderful, you’ve just gotten yourself a date with the mafia. You see Arthur out of the corner of your eye as he cashes out and gets to his feet. You bite your lip and frown, how in the hell are you going to explain this to him?

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Arthur snaps as you both walk into The St. Denis Tailor. 

“Arthur,” you bite your tongue, holding back the insult dancing just on the tip of it. “I’ve already told you that this is necessary.” He tilts his head with a disbelieving look and you throw your hands up in the air in defeat. “He might know how to get Jack back.”

“Yeah, but did you have to tell him I was your ‘daddy’s simple servant’?” He demands, taunting you with the rude words you’d used earlier. 

You take in a deep breath, preparing yourself for a real and true argument, just as someone clears their throat behind you. Turning, you find a sheepish tailor standing behind the register. He waves slightly at the both of you, face flushed from hearing you bicker on your way into the store. 

“Could I help you find something today?” You shoot Arthur a glare over your shoulder and approach the man with a tense smile. 

“I need a suit and a gown for an event tonight.” You start pulling out the money from your bag as Arthur scoffs loudly behind you. 

“A suit,” Arthur begins to protest. 

“Yes, a suit!” You snap, turning around and giving him a sharp look. “You want me to go to this alone?”

He crosses his arms and sets you with an aggrieved look. “Obviously I don’t, woman. But if I’m just your fool of an escort, why do I need to dress up?” He looks smug, as though he’s caught you in a trap of your own design. 

“Oh,” you’re close to stomping your foot like a child as you screw your face up at him. “You are impossible, Arthur. Do you want to find Jack or not?” He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he huffs and throws himself down on a seat by the door, refusing to meet your eye. 

You turn back to the tailor with a strained smile and slam the bills down on the counter. “A suit and a gown,” you reiterate, already knowing this is gonna be hell to get through with Arthur. 

The man takes the money, glancing between the both of you with trepidation. You pass him another ten and his face lights up. “Of course, madam, right this way.” He pulls back a curtain behind the counter and motions you both towards the fitting rooms. 

The tailor won’t have time to make a custom dress for you tonight. You’ll just have to hope he has something close to your size. Still, you find yourself browsing through the fabrics and laces he has laid out in the front. Your fingers drift over the more expensive silks and it drags you back to the parties you used to attend with your family. 

They were always filled with mindless drivel that was simply a cover for their true purpose. Conversations that always bored you were meant to probe your family for weaknesses. Being back here feels like throwing yourself back to the coyotes. Every face you pass, every conversation you hold, is carefully curated to present the image that person wants you to see. There’s nothing genuine about high society. 

“I don’t want that damn bow tie,” Arthur snaps at the tailor behind the curtain. You roll your eyes and take a seat near the fitting room. You should have just gotten Arthur’s size and picked the suit out yourself. You hadn’t realized how difficult he would be about this. 

You’re certain he’s only mad about you going behind his back and getting an invite to the party. Not only have you involved yourself in the gang’s business, you’ve placed yourself directly in the middle of it. It’s not as though you’re eager to be getting involved like this. 

It’s just after what happened to Arthur, every time he leaves camp you’re starkly aware that there’s no promise of his return. Perhaps it’s given you this itch to be closer to him than normal, but you feel as though it’s a perfectly natural reaction after painstakingly caring for him for weeks. You and the other women had been the only thing to stand between him and death, you’re not willing to let Dutch throw him back into danger without a care. 

The curtain slides back and you straighten up, waiting for Arthur to come out. One shiny black shoe slinks out, slowly followed by his leg. “Honestly, Arthur, you act like this is a punishment,” you complain as he takes his sweet time coming out. 

“With the way this collar is choking me, it might as well be,” he snaps, finally stepping all the way through. Despite the way he roughly tugs at his bow tie, the suit fits him quite well. He could almost look like a gentleman if it weren’t for the sour expression on his face. 

Letting out a soft sigh you stand up and walk towards him, “You look handsome, Arthur, really.” He shoots you a doubtful look and you send him a teasing smile, swatting his hands away from the collar. You loosen the bowtie for him and he gives you a grateful look. 

A little bit of the tension ebbs away from you both, a bridge slowly rebuilding. “I feel ridiculous,” his tone contains just a tad less of the irritation from earlier. 

The problem between you is that each of you desires to protect one another. Arthur wants you as far as he can get you from the gang. You don’t want to let him out of your sight. Neither of you are ever going to give in, it’s always going to be a constant push and pull of stubborn desires. Pockets of peace can be found in a simple moment like this, but you worry that there’s always going to be a divide. 

“You certainly don’t look ridiculous sir!” The tailor calls out cheerfully, eyeing his suit on Arthur with pride. 

Arthur huffs out a small laugh, “Alright,” he relents, “guess I’ll take this one.” You pick a piece of lint off his shoulder and take a slow step back. 

“Your turn, madam,” the tailor parts the curtain for you and you give Arthur one last brief smile before stepping behind it.

It doesn’t take you long to find the dress you want. You don’t have many options so you choose the one that will fit, and the one that will hurt Dutch’s pockets the most- a rather exuberantly-priced ruby red evening gown. 

Red gossamer wraps around your shoulders and one of the more comfortable corsets you’ve ever worn cinches your waist. Red silk ruches around your hips and back to give you more curves than necessary. It broaches the line of scandalous but it’s one of the only options the tailor has for you. Admittedly, it would better fit a lady of the night, but your goal isn’t to make a good impression. You only need information tonight, what the people you speak to think of you means nothing. 

You pull the heavy fabric of the curtain back as the tailor stares with pride at his creation. Pulling the white gloves up your elbows you walk towards Arthur. “Well?” You hold your arms out, excitedly spinning to show off the back of the gown. You tip your head over your shoulder, anticipating a look of awe, a compliment, maybe even a kiss that will leave the poor tailor scandalized.  

Instead, Arthur looks you up and down, giving away nothing. You smile broadly at him, heart picking up the longer he’s quiet. The tailor peers around the curtain, brows furrowed as he glares at your companion. “Sir?” He prods. 

Arthur shrugs, “It’s a dress. Whaddya want me to say?” You hear the tailor gasp quietly in offense. 

“Well,” your lips thin as you laugh, it doesn’t quite mask the sting of rejection, but you try. 

You turn and look at yourself in the mirror. The woman staring back at you in the mirror isn’t someone you recognize. Circles under your eyes, wrinkles from squinting against the harsh sun, and skin that’s been wind beaten. It’s all so glaringly different to the woman you used to see. Months of muddy pants and cotton shirts have worn away the softer edges of your reflection, and this is the closest you’ve been to feeling feminine since the mountains. You’d been hoping for something less dismissive. 

“You sure know how to make a girl feel pretty, Mr. Morgan.” Your voice is sharpened by hurt and anger. His face slacks and he winces like he’s finally realized just how callous he sounded. You shake your head, whip the curtain closed, and step back. The heat of disappointment strikes hot in your chest. What did you expect? Outlaws don’t know the first thing about courting ladies.

“You look gorgeous, madam,” the tailor tells you as he hands you your other clothes. You force a weak smile in return. Compliments like his are weightless. What would they mean from someone like Arthur?

It would’ve taken so little to spare you a kind word or even an appreciative glance. It makes you think of your husband, how kind he used to be before he grew tired of you. He’d been a “proper gentleman” raised in the knowledge of how to court and care for ladies. That ended with him in the belly of animals. 

A lady and an outlaw, worlds apart in what they need and understand. How could a story like that end? 

You feel your throat tighten, stomach-churning, as too many fears hit you all at once. You’re lightheaded and unsteady on your feet as you wonder if the divide between you both is too wide to cross.

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 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

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