Hey Guys! I Know I Promised Some More Wolverine Stuff. However, Over My Break This Week I Finally Finished

I was the person who requested the Logan saves Jean fic and THANK YOU.

I was wondering if you’re comfortable could you do a wilder one where Logan is more animalistic and he’s “hunting” the reader down in the woods? I was imagining mountain man Logan but it could be any. Can be noncon or fluffy and NSFW optional, depends on your preference.

Again, thank you so much! You’re fantastic!

Here you go: big bad wolf

I hope you enjoy this, I'm a bit rusty on smut but I tried lol

big bad wolf

Logan Howlett x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t push it,” he snaps. 

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

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡ 

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

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

big bad wolf - Diokophobia is the irrational and extreme fear of being chased.

starring: Logan Howlett as the monster in the woods

wicked influence - Daemonophobia is the intense fear of demons, demonic possession, and otherworldly influence

starring: Stu & Billy as our devoted men of the cloth

paranormal love - Phasmophobia is the intense fear of ghosts, haunting, and possessions.

starring: James ‘Bucky’ Barnes as our haunted leading man

haunted past - Mnemophobia is the fear of memories and past events

starring: Mike Schmidt as our underpaid hero

𝚂𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝

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

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Tensions rise as you continue to pull against Dutch's taut leash. You seem to be the only one who sees him for the trickster he is. Infuriatingly, that means you and Arthur butting heads about the man. But you don't expect your latest fight to end with him coming back to you nearly dead.

As much as you’d love to bask in the newness of whatever this is that you have with Arthur, the law has other plans. While the gang has grown comfortable, fat in their complacency, the Pinkertons have gotten closer. You are beginning to realize just how rare these moments of peace are in the life of an outlaw.

“I’m gonna sell her, I swear,” you tell Arthur angrily as you try and get a stubborn Lady to obey your commands. You finally feel comfortable enough to head back into Valentine, you know the woman he’d been with is gone, Arthur told you as much. You doubt he’d have any reason to lie about something as silly as that.  

Arthur laughs and leans down, smoothing over Diablo’s mane. “No, you ain’t, you like her too damn much.”

“You’re right,” you acquiesce. “I’ll sell her to a glue factory, instead,” Lady lets out a stubborn noise, flicking her head back and forth. “Unless you start to listen, you insolent little bastard.” Arthur brings Diablo to a slow trot while you relentlessly tug on Lady’s reins to no effect.

He watches you struggle, laughing as he hitches up Diablo. When Lady comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the road, he lets out an amused sigh and comes forward to take her reins from you. You hand them over easily, nudging the horse with your spur in retaliation.

He hitches her next to Diablo and rounds her to stand at your side, holding his hand out for you. You take it in your own, relishing his touch as he helps you down from your saddle. Your movements are still clumsy but you’re starting to get a little bit better at riding her. Even if she still refuses to listen to you. 

“If you stopped insultin’ her, I’m sure you’d get along better.” Arthur leads you towards the general store and you glare up at him. 

“Whose side are you on, Mr. Morgan?” He chuckles and leans down, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek. It’s chaste and near prudish, but you still find yourself flushing. 

“Not on anyone’s side, sweetheart. But if you want to start getting along with her, you’ll just have to learn to trust her.” You nod, not listening to anything he’s saying, too busy admiring how handsome he looks. 

He seems to realize what you’re doing, rolling his eyes and pushing you forward. A man’s voice booms through the air, interrupting the both of you. “Well, isn’t this a pretty picture?” You pause, turning to face the man watching you from the porch of the hotel. Men with large guns move around the side of the store and come to stand in front of him.

Your brows furrow, eyes roving across the street, suddenly noticing the stark lack of people out and about. You’d been so distracted by Lady that you hadn’t realized just how dead Valentine was. Something glints in the sunlight on the roof beside the hotel. You narrow your eyes, peering through the glare and seeing a man with his rifle pointed at you and Arthur. 

“I’m sorry,” the man calls out, sounding wholly unapologetic. Arthur’s hand tightens around yours and he drags you slightly behind himself. “I should introduce myself,” the man drawls. 

You take note of his finely tailored clothes, and the way he’s not fully leaning against the wall because he doesn’t want to dirty his suit. The pocket watch attached to his vest is real gold, something you haven’t seen a whole lot of in Valentine. He’s too prim and proper for a low-down town like this. He could easily have been one of the men from the city you grew up in, upper-class and elite. He’s not from around here and he seems to, at least, vaguely recognize Arthur. You don’t see this going any way but bad. 

“Leviticus Cornwall, I believe you’ve heard my name before.”

“God dammit,” Arthur curses under his breath, he nudges you further back in the direction of the horses. Your foot freezes in the air as you hear the familiar click of a rifle being loaded right by your ear. Swallowing hard, you risk the slightest glance back and see another black-suited man with the tip of his rifle pointed squarely between your eyes. 

Arthur sees him in his peripheral, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Cornwall. “I know what you want,” Arthur calls out, one hand raised in surrender, the other still holding yours. “But leave her out of it, she’s got nothin’ to do with any of this.” 

Leviticus laughs and tilts his head patronizingly. “If she’s with your ridiculous little gang, then she’s got something to do with what happened to my train.” Your eyes flutter shut, dread filling every crevice of your body as the realization finally sinks in. In your last days in the mountains, the men had gone off to rob a train. 

They’d mentioned the same name a few times but you’d never cared to pay attention to it. It comes back to you now. Leviticus Cornwall. He was here to collect what they’d stolen.  

“I know you are your master’s favorite little lapdog, so why don’t you go fetch Dutch for me and I won’t have my men splatter your lady’s brains against your boots.” Your nails dig into Arthur’s palms, body tensing with fear as you lean further into him. 

Arthur gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, keeping you firmly tucked into him. “I’m afraid neither of those things is gonna happen, Mr. Cornwall,” Arthur calls out to him. He leans slightly towards you, voice lowered so even the man behind you can’t hear, “When I tell you, make a run for the horses.” 

You so desperately want to look towards where you know Lady and Diablo are hitched by the saloon, but it would only give your plan away. Instead, you force yourself to focus on the man with the rifle pointed at you. You maintain eye contact with the barrel of his gun, refusing to look away. 

You try and force your heart to be silent and still, hoping you’ll be able to hear Arthur’s order over the rushing force of your blood. Arthur keeps a tight grip on your hand as the men begin to close in. 

“I’ll only say this once, Mr. Morgan. This will be your only chance to escape my wrath, alive.”

“Right,” Arthur moves you in front of him and you suck in a shuddering breath when you see just how many men surround you now. They’re everywhere, on the roofs of buildings, on horseback pacing the streets, and the worst of them have their guns trained right on you. “Well, I’ll say this,” he rips his hands out of yours and practically tosses you to the side. “Run!”

You don’t think, just blindly follow his orders and take off towards the horses. The shots start going off instantly, mud flying up around you as bullets narrowly miss you. You run in a wild pattern, trying not to be such an easy target. 

“The times of outlaws is over, Mr. Morgan!” Leviticus calls from behind you, voice tainted with wrath as it penetrates the air. “There’s no place for you anymore!”

You’re running with the instinct of a prey trying to outwit a predator who's actively snapping their maw. It feels futile, though, when you’re so wholly surrounded. Arthur comes up behind you, hand snatching up the back of your shirt and dragging you faster behind him. 

Your feet scramble to keep up with his pace as you make for the horses. The men seem to catch onto your plan faster than you’d hoped. One of them jumps in front of you but his body topples to the ground before he can say a word. When you turn, Arthur’s got his revolver out and the end of it is smoking. 

You’d barely even had time to process the threat before Arthur had shot him. You’d never seen what a quick draw he was in person before. If you weren’t feeling the breeze of bullets whistling past you, you’d have time to be impressed. 

You reach Lady and she’s already stomping and kicking her legs out, terrified by all the noise. You grab her reins, hands shaking as you try and keep yourself steady. You don’t have time to let Arthur help you up. You place your foot in the stirrup and jump, you’re barely seated before she goes flying. 

You lean forward, holding on tight as she moves like fire’s licking at her heels. “Come on, Lady!” You shout, not once looking back to see how many of them are after you. The sounds are getting closer and you swallow bile down as you risk a look over your shoulder. 

Arthur’s just behind you, turned in his saddle, and shooting at as many of them as he can. Lady lets out an odd squeal and your brows furrow, glancing back at her. You see a streak of red across her side and feel your blood rush to your head. 

They’d shot her. They’d shot your damn horse. You don’t even like her all that much, but right now she’s the only thing between you and a bullet through your head. Forcing yourself up, you slip the revolver out of your holster and turn like you watched Arthur do. It’s disorienting, feeling your hips rocking forward while you try and keep a steady aim behind yourself. 

There’s no way for you to know which of them actually managed to knick her. But if they can hit your horse, they’re not far off from hitting you. You don’t have time to take in deep breaths and settle yourself, you can only start wildly shooting and hope you hit one of them. You don’t care to spare your bullets, firing off without any real aim and spotting a few drop from their saddles. You don’t know if it's you or Arthur that claims the kills but they eventually start to slow down and the space between you all grows wider. 

Arthur tucks his gun away and rides up closer. “We need to get back to camp,” he shouts. You nod your head and follow along the path behind him. Your gaze drifts towards the wound across Lady’s side and you run your fingers through her mane as she races back home. 

You brush out Lady’s coat as you wait for Arthur to finish up with Dutch. Hosea had promised that Lady would be fine, horses were sturdy but she’d have to make it through a lot worse if she wanted to stay with the gang. You understood what he meant but you didn’t appreciate it. 

It’s only as you finish up with her that you realize what happened on the way back. You’d seen and, possibly, contributed to more killing and you hadn’t felt a thing about it. Not only that, Arthur had seen you shooting at men with no remorse. 

Your heart flips itself into a knot in your chest as you look over to where he’s speaking with Dutch. He was quiet on the ride back and you’d assumed it was because he was worried more people would show up. What if it was because you ruined your image for him? The only former lover of his you know about was a lady like you. But, now, he sees you as someone who’s perfectly fine riding around and shooting at men without question. What if he doesn’t want you now?

You swallow down the lump in your throat and try to get your fingers to still. You’d been shaking from the adrenaline for the last few minutes. Your blood is still rushing so fast you’re getting dizzy standing still. You try to convince yourself that it’s just the nerves of the day getting to you, but you’re not so sure. 

Arthur finally turns away from Dutch and heads back towards you. You give him a shaky smile but he doesn’t return it. Instead, his brows are set with anger and he’s glowering at you. 

You feel your stomach drop as you scramble for a way to explain why shooting at those men was so easy for you. “Arthur, I’m sorry-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands. Your face falls flat and you feel like you might throw up. Has he somehow found out about your husband? “I didn’t realize they’d hit you,” he reaches forward and you frown with confusion. His thumb brushes against your upper arm and you hiss. 

Off instinct, you swat his hand away, fingers stinging at the force. You glance down and notice blood soaking the sleeve of your shirt. One of the bullets had done a little bit more than graze you, leaving a deep gouge in your arm. “So you touch it?” You ask him, only now starting to feel the pain of the wound. 

He stutters over a defense before rolling his eyes. “Come on,” he sighs and places a light hand over your back. He presses you forward, herding you towards his tent. “Let’s clean it up.” He sets you down on his cot and begins rummaging through the chest he keeps next to it with all his supplies. Glancing up at you, he asks “What were you apologisin’ for?” 

“Oh, um,” you feel a bit silly now. You almost don’t want to say it but that doesn’t feel fair to lie straight to his face. “I feel sick that you saw me shoot at those men.”

His brows furrow and he pauses his rummaging. He glances around like he’s waiting for you to finish but you just shrug. “Oh,” realization dawns on his face and he looks a little stunned. “That’s it?”

“Well,” you stutter and stumble over your words as he walks over to you with a cloth and some alcohol. “Yes,” you finally land on.

He tips the bottle over, soaking the cloth in the liquor. “Darlin’, I’ve seen death more times than I can count to. I don’t care about a little shoot-out. I only care about you bein’ alive.”

He presses the cloth to your wound and you jerk back, hissing in pain. He mutters small reassurances to you, soothing you like a bucking horse. “You mean that?” You ask through gritted teeth. 

He laughs a little, kneeling and smiling at you. “Kill as many men as you like, sweetheart, just don’t point that gun at me.” Despite the aching pain in your arm, you find yourself smiling back at him. 

The new spot for camp isn’t awful. The town nearby isn’t much to write home about. Two families have been feuding here since before the war. They haven’t seemed to fully accept this new society you live in. And you’re sure that their crops thrive on Braithwaite and Gray blood rather than water.

You weren’t allowed to go into town with Arthur and the others. None of the ladies were. Dutch had said that the people here wouldn’t react well to so many unmarried women. Especially not women like Karen. She hadn’t appreciated the dig, but she hadn’t argued with him. 

You found it difficult to follow along blindly to Dutch’s whims. Sometimes it feels like you just traded one master for another. Your father, then your husband, and now you can’t do anything without Arthur constantly running to Dutch to get his approval. As much as you’d like to pretend you have a newfound freedom, you know that Arthur will never leave the gang behind. Dutch has practically brainwashed him into a loyal soldier. So long as you love Arthur, you’re stuck under Dutch’s thumb- and he knows it. 

“I said go and get another slab. How hard is that?” Pearson’s voice carries through camp, his tone tight and irritated. Your brows furrow and you turn in your seat to see what he’s fussing about now. 

“It would be a lot easier if I wasn’t havin’ to fight with a goddamn fool the whole time!” Sadie picks up a slab of deer meat and hurls it at the man. He throws his hands up, just barely managing to catch it in time. 

You stifle a laugh, figuring you should have known what was causing him so much grief. Sadie’s been having to follow his every order ever since Dutch changed her over from Mrs. Grimshaw to Pearson. You know it’s driving her mad, same as you, to do nothing but cook and clean all day. 

Even when she was married she had gone out hunting and fishing with Jake. They’d always taken care of your land, they were never house servants. She only knows how to cook because she’d had a husband to take care of, not an entire camp. 

You place your book down on the table before you and get to your feet. You figure you should step in before this gets nasty. Again. You’re worried Sadie might actually stab the man. You can see them both considering it as you approach. Neither of them are happy with the arrangement. Pearson thought he was getting a quiet assistant and Sadie just plain hates him. 

“Mr. Pearson!” You call out before they can say anything else. You lift your hand in greeting and he grunts noncommittally. “If you wouldn’t mind, I need Sadie’s help with a task.”

Sadie’s lip curls up at him and he crosses his arms, leaning back like he has any power to hold over you. “Oh, yeah? What would that be?”

You glance away, eyes down like you’re flustered. Your hand hovers over your stomach and you grimace, “I’m afraid it may be more feminine in nature.” His face blanches and he turns back to the slab of meat before him. 

“Get.” He waves Sadie away and refuses to look at either of you. 

You grin at her, holding your arm out and nodding towards the trees around camp. She chuckles slightly, looping her arm through your own and following alongside you. With Dutch and most other men out of camp today, you can afford to explore a little further than you might normally be allowed. 

“Has he been giving you much grief?”

Sadie rolls her eyes with a scoff and sets you with a deadpan look. “What the hell do you think?” She doesn’t actually give you a chance to answer and continues with an angered tone. “He seems to be of the belief that women are of better use quiet and obedient.”

“Well,” you tilt your head in consideration and nod. “Most men think that. We haven’t yet reached a point in society where women hold much power, Sadie. Do you expect a group of outlaws to be fighting for our rights?”

“I don’t want none of them fightin’ for me. I just want to be able to take a ride, go huntin’,” she throws her hands up and sighs, “somethin’.”

You realize you do have a slight bit more freedom than she does. Arthur often takes you into towns with him or, at the very least, on some rides for space away from everyone. She’s been holed up with all these strange people since they first rescued you. You purse your lips and give her a sympathetic look. 

You lead her further towards the grove of trees and hope some new scenery will help her calm down. 

Arthur’s white button-down shirt lay across your lap. Needle in hand, you check it over to make sure you didn't miss any holes or tears. Satisfied with your efforts, you get to your feet and walk towards Arthur’s tent. 

You don’t sew or fix anything up for the others unless they’re willing to pay. You find yourself doing this naturally for Arthur, without telling him. You're not sure if it’s because your finishing school teacher had ingrained into you the good qualities of a wife, or it’s simply because you want to. 

Part of you will always resent the fact that you can’t recognize your own actions versus your training. You try to keep those thoughts at bay most days, but sometimes, when you do something like this, it’s a little more difficult. 

Orange light glares into your eyes and you lift a hand to block it. Peering through one eye, you watch as the sinking sun sets against the horizon. Orange, red, and pink swirl and dance around each other to create a scene so perfect it almost doesn’t feel real. 

It makes you think of Arthur, of how he would draw it. He’s incredibly gifted with art, even if he won’t admit it. Even with a piece of charcoal, he manages to capture the life of the animals he sees or the people around him. 

After working a few odd jobs in camp, writing a letter for someone or doing some tailoring, you have some meager savings. You’ve been considering buying Arthur a proper drawing kit. You’re sure it would be foolish to spend it all on him, but you’d think he’d like it. 

The people in camp only think he’s good for shooting and providing muscle. As much as they care about him, they don’t see the value in some of his finer skills. And you know it affects him. Anytime you catch a glimpse of one of his drawings he immediately starts tearing his work apart, always calling it trash and a waste of time. You wish that he could see the beauty of his creativity like you do. But a skill like that isn’t rewarded around here and you know he’ll never truly understand just how much more he’s capable of than what he’s been told. 

Your gaze moves from the setting sun to the table in his tent. His journal rests on the edge and you frown. He doesn’t normally leave it behind. Reaching forward, you snag it off the edge and tuck it under his pillow. There are a lot of nosy people in camp, you doubt he’d want anyone getting their hands on it. While you fuss with that, you notice the picture on his table. Or lack thereof. 

It’s been a while since you’ve paid attention to the interior of his tent. Most of the time you’re here, you’re focused on him. But you can’t help and snoop, just a little. The picture of his mother is still there, along with a folded-up one of the gang. But the picture he used to keep of his former lover is gone. 

Curious, you take the shirt and turn towards the chest at the end of his cot. You bend over slightly, undoing the buckles and propping the edge up. 

You lay the shirt flat, straightening out any wrinkles, and your hand accidentally slips toward the turned-over picture frames beside his clothes. You lift the first one and find another one of his mother. Pursing your lips, you debate if you should dig any further. Glancing over your shoulder, you don’t notice anyone watching you or coming close. You bend over a little more and rifle through another frame. 

There it is- the picture of the woman buried beneath the rest. You don’t blame him for keeping it. You know how much she meant to him. You’re just curious as to why he went so far as to bury it below the rest. 

Someone clears their throat behind you and you let out a squeak, slamming the lid of the chest shut. You whip around and find Arthur leaning against the post of his tent. “Arthur,” you're breathless as you clutch at your chest, not having even expected him back in camp yet. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“No,” he lets out an amused huff, “I don’t imagine you did.” He nods towards his chest and you flush with guilt. “What’re you doin’ in there?”

You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and shrug innocently. “Just putting away a shirt I fixed up for you.” He moves away from the post and takes a slow step towards you. 

“And that’s all?” He looks completely serious, as though he’s about to start interrogating you, but you can hear the slight tease lingering at the end of his words. 

“Yes,” you lie, “that’s all.”

“Alright,” he stops in front of you and chuckles a little. “I’ll pretend to believe that. How ‘bout next time you want somethin’, you just come to me?” You nod your head and he steps around you. He takes his hat off and places it on the table, running his hands through his hair. 

“Actually,” you grin at him as he turns around, “there is somethin- wait, what is that?” You demand, pointing to the deputy’s badge on his shirt. 

He glances down with a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Bill went and got us deputized. Don’t know how, but Dutch seems to think it’s best if we want to stay here.” You try not to sigh at the mention of Dutch. He’s been getting stricter ever since the incident in Valentine and Arthur’s obeying him like a leashed dog. It’s beyond frustrating. 

“I can’t believe they gave you all badges,” you can’t help but laugh. The sheriff has got to be touched in the head to have looked at those men and thought they were anything but outlaws. 

“Buncha fools,” Arthur grumbles. He sees the look on your face, the way you bite your lip to keep any more laughter from escaping, and sighs. “Quit laughin’ at me, woman. What was I supposed to do? Say no?” You shake your head mutely and he rolls his eyes. “What did you want?”

“Right,” you clear your throat and let out one last huff of laughter before straightening up. “I need you to do a favor for me. Sadie’s been itching to get away from camp, especially from that old bastard Pearson. Could you take her out for me, tomorrow, or sometime soon? I’m worried she’s going to drive a knife through his skull if we don’t deal with this.

Arthur doesn’t look convinced, eyes narrowed and head tilted in a way that makes you think he’s going to say no. You risk a step forward, taking his hand in your own and pulling him close. “Oh, please, Arthur. It would mean the world to me.”

His eyes meet yours, and you widen them, giving him your best pleading look. He holds out for a minute longer than you thought he would before letting out a rough sigh. “Alright, alright, fine. But she better not cause any damn trouble, she’s got a worse temper than Bill.”

You can’t promise she won’t, so you just lean up and press a kiss to his cheek in thanks. He rolls his eyes and takes your chin between his fingers. He tilts your face up towards his, narrowing his eyes at you, “Come on, give me a real kiss,” you smile slightly and wind your arms around his neck, pulling him down to meet you halfway. You suppose there are worse ways to have to pay him back. 

Arthur and Sadie were both out on a supply run before you even woke up. By the time you’re properly dressed and cleaned, you can see the wagon cresting over the hill. Your eyes widen with alarm when you see Sadie with the reins, driving the horses even worse than you do. 

You know she’s driven a wagon before. You think she might just be trying to give Arthur a heart attack. You can hear them shouting at each other from where you stand and you snicker. You wonder if those two were separated at birth or something, they get along about as bad as most siblings you know. 

You go over to Arthur’s tent and rifle through his bullets until you find a few extra for the revolver in your holster. Eventually, you’ll have to start buying your own supplies. But he doesn’t seem to mind much. Either that or he hasn’t caught on yet.

You load the bandolier on your hip and walk out to meet them as they return. Sadie doesn’t quite park the wagon in time, nearly taking out Bill’s tent as she drives them back into camp. “Enough!” Arthur barks, ripping the reins out of her hands. “I am never lettin’ you drive again.”

“Didn’t know you were such a coward, Arthur,” she taunts, hopping out of the wagon. You find yourself grinning when you see the clothes she’s sporting. Pants, a new hat, and some fresh boots. You’re sure Dutch won’t appreciate her use of camp funds but you applaud her latest show of rebellion. 

You round the horses to greet Arthur as he gives Sadie a bewildered look. She hauls a sack of flour out of the back and tosses it at Pearson’s feet. “Have fun?” You ask airily as you greet him. 

He whirls around on you and points an accusing finger towards you. “I said no trouble.”

“She couldn’t have been that bad,” you admonish, swatting his hand away. 

He purses his lips in irritation and crosses his arms. “She nearly killed me drivin’ back. Women can’t drive!” You gape at him as he hops out of the wagon and begins storming towards his tent. “They can’t!” He shouts and you gasp, face twisted in a bewildered smile. 

“Arthur!” You admonish, chasing after him. He shakes his head, not looking at you. 

He scoffs and shakes his head, looking for all the world like a madman. “Think I don’t remember how you drove when we came down from the mountains?”

“You broke the wheel,” you throw back at him. With his shoulders nearly up to his ears, he continues his stubborn march towards his tent. “Oh, Arthur, come on.” You catch up with him and dart in front of him so he can’t get around you.  

“How about a ride to calm you down?” He looks to Sadie and then back at the wagon with a sickened look and you laugh. “On the horses,” you laugh and grab his arm, dragging him to Diablo and Lady. “Sadie ain’t the only one feeling cooped up,” you tell him. 

His low sigh sounds a little apologetic but you hadn’t meant anything against him. It was Dutch keeping you under lock and key. “I know, and I’m sorry about that. But we can’t risk too many of us bein’ seen.”

“Dutch can’t risk it, you mean,” you grab onto the saddle’s horn and swing up, glancing down at him. 

He frowns, mounting Diablo with more grace than you can manage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You bat your lashes and shrug, leading Lady towards the edge of camp. “Nothing really, just that it seems to be Dutch forcing us all to lay low.” You take the lead through the trees, ducking underneath a few low-hanging branches. “No one else seems to be as worried, or even know what’s going on out here.”

Arthur slows down and you’re forced to match his gait if you want to hear what he says. You turn back in your saddle and give him a questioning look. He’s looking at you in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s distant like he’s gazing at someone closer to a stranger than a lover. 

“You’re doubtin’ Dutch?” His voice is low, tone giving nothing away to you. 

“Well,” Lady shifts restlessly underneath you, seemingly sensing the change in your mood. “Not doubting per se. I just don’t think things are as dangerous as he makes them out to be. It just seems to be-”

“Do I need to remind you how you got that scar on your arm?” Arthur snaps, pointing towards the slight bullet wound left behind by Cornwall’s men. You blanch as he nudges Diablo forward, quickly surpassing you. 

“No Arthur, I think I remember getting shot at pretty damn well.” You’re getting angry now too, you really hadn’t meant much by the comment. But he had to realize how out of proportion Dutch was making everything feel. The “threats” surrounding you, the grand plan of escape, it was all too magnificent. 

“Look, you can’t be questionin’ Dutch like that. If we stop trustin’ each other or start turnin’ on each other, it’s all gonna fall apart faster than you can blink.” He slows slightly so you can catch up with him but it doesn’t seem as natural as it normally does. 

“That’s not what I was trying to imply Arthur. I’ve been in camp for too long. The world outside seems so distant to me. It’s just hard to believe we’re in any real danger.” You try to downplay what you said. Pretend you hadn't been suggesting exactly what he’s accusing you of. Playing the ditzy little lady used to get you out of trouble in the past, but now, he sees right through you. 

“Well, we are,” he snaps, “and you’d do your best to remember that. Just because you can’t see it, don’t mean it’s not real.” There’s a sense of finality to his words that tells you the conversation’s over. Whatever hope you’d had of a peaceful ride is gone. 

It’s a difficult pill to swallow, knowing no matter how much you care for Arthur, he’ll always pick Dutch over you. And worse, he’ll pick Dutch over saving himself. He’ll never understand just how much he’s worth, or how much he means to everyone around him. He’s a martyr through and through. Always prepared to make a sacrifice, even when it’s not needed.  

You tighten your grip around Lady’s reigns, eyes cast down as you follow along silently beside him. He leads you onto the path towards town and you wonder if you should just head back. You could lie, say you’re feeling sick, and be done with him for now. 

You’re already upset by how the day’s turned, no point in prolonging either of your misery. “Arthur,” you call out. He hums, turning slightly, just barely facing you. “I’m going to go back to camp.” 

He pulls on Diablo’s reins, turning him around so he can properly face you. “I thought you wanted to get out?” He asks, sounding on edge and a little snappy. 

You shrug dismissively, not bothering with an excuse. “Changed my mind-”

“Told you it’d be worth a pretty penny,” your brows furrow as a strong Irish accent starts talking a little further up the path. It sounds startlingly familiar.

“Those wagons are always worth the trouble,” Arthur’s quick to ride up beside you. He doesn’t hesitate as he takes Lady’s reins out of your hand and leads you both off the path. You’re silent as you follow him off the safety of the trail. He tucks you both behind some trees. You have just enough coverage that they can’t see you but you can still see them. 

There’s a sharp pain slicing up and down your back the closer the Irishmen get. You hiss through your teeth, shifting uncomfortably as they continue to talk. Arthur keeps his head low, hat tilted down and you follow suit. They pass by without much fuss and Arthur picks his head back up to watch them go. 

“O’Driscolls,” he curses and the painful familiarity suddenly makes sense. “We need to tell Dutch,” he says, already making his way back to camp. You follow him without much argument, as eager to get back as he is. 

Your heart sinks to your stomach, toiling in hurt the whole way. You know Dutch has instilled a paternal familiarity into Arthur but it hurts knowing the man you chose will always choose someone else. 

Pearson’s ambling back into camp just as you and Arthur arrive. You’re tempted to just go back to your tent but you follow Arthur, knowing he’ll probably need someone else to back up what he saw. “Dutch!” He calls out, interrupting whatever scheming conversation he’d been having with Micah. 

Dutch walks towards you both, Micah following slightly behind, coughing into the crook of his elbow. You grimace at the wet, choking noise. He’s been looking worse and worse everyday. The circles under his eyes are so dark he looks like he’s been knocked across the face.

“Something the matter, Arthur?” Dutch asks, eyes briefly darting to you before looking back at Arthur. 

“Saw somethin’ out on the road.” You cross your arms, mind drifting as you wait to be called into the conversation. You’re roughly jarred out of your reverie as a strong, clammy hand lands on your shoulder so suddenly you’re nearly dragged to the ground. 

The smell of sweat and moonshine sours your nose and nearly makes you gag as Pearson leans against you. “Gost ‘ome news,” he slurs, eyes barely open as he gestures vaguely towards Dutch. 

You struggle under his weight, doing your damndest not to fall into the mud. Arthur frowns and knocks Pearson’s arm off your shoulder. “Get off ‘er, you damn fool,” he grabs him by the bicep, roughly jerking him straight and relying on his strength to keep them both upright. 

“Now, Mr. Pearson, Mr. Morgan, I believe you both have news to share. Seeing as Mr. Pearson is close to toppling over into the mud, he can go first.” Arthur’s lips purse in irritation but he says nothing, only shakes Pearson to wake him back up. 

“Met ‘ome fine mens in the bar. O’durshels, wanna purl.” You narrow your eyes at him and your face twists with confusion. You’re not the only one, the other men around you already look tired of having to deal with Pearson’s inebriated state. 

Sadly, years spent married to a drunkard means you’ve learned the language of liquor quite well. “He met some O’Driscolls in a bar, they want to parley,” you translate, looking to Dutch. 

His brows set with something you don’t recognize and Arthur scoffs. “It’s a damn trap.”

“‘Course it is,” Micah snaps. “Don’t mean we can’t use it to our advantage.”

Arthur drops Pearson’s arm and the man goes tumbling face-first into the mud. He takes a menacing step towards Micah who only grins up at him. “We’d be a bunch of fools to go anywhere near this.”

“Arthur,” Dutch barks his name out like an order and Arthur pauses, still leering over Micah. “I believe Mr. Bell might be right.”

“Oh,” you glare at him, smiling with disbelief. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Those men are bastards,” you spit the word out with venom you didn’t know you possessed and step towards Dutch. Micah darts forward, protecting him like you’d actually try something. 

“Arthur,” Dutch warns lowly, intense stare set on you. Your skin crawls with the weight of his gaze. You feel like he’s pulling you to pieces, digging around to see which parts of you are weakest. He doesn’t have to say anything more, Arthur walks forward. He’s gentle as he grabs your arm, but he leaves no room for argument as he leads you away from Dutch. 

“Arthur,” you admonish. “You can’t be thinking about this.”

“I’m not,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Dutch. “But I ain’t got a choice.”

You laugh in disbelief and shake your head at him as he parks you beside his tent. “Of course you do. You’ve got the same choice as any of us. Just say no.” You’re praying that he sees sense, that he doesn’t go along with what is a clear trap. 

He only shakes his head and turns back towards Dutch. You should have known. Even if he knows there’s danger, he’ll ride in headfirst so long as someone else doesn’t get hurt. You feel something like disgust twisting you up and irritating the anger already present. 

You look towards Dutch and he’s already got his eyes on you. He doesn’t wear it plainly, but you see the satisfaction on his face as Arthur comes to stand beside him and leaves you. As if you were ever a threat to his authority. 

You turn away from them all, unwilling to watch them ride off as you storm back toward your tent. If they want to go be a bunch of fools, so be it. It’s not your business what mistakes men make with their freedom. 

It’s Sadie that wakes you, her hand on your shoulder, shoving you insistently. Your eyes are slow to flutter open, your mind racing to remember where you are and who you’re with. “What?” You slur, one eye open as you try to orient yourself. 

“They’re back,” she hisses, tossing away the blanket and getting to her feet. You sit up slowly, hands landing in your lap as you let your head sink between your shoulders. You listen to Sadie’s rushed footsteps as she runs away from the tent. 

You’re moving slowly as you rub your eyes, trying to force yourself awake. Whose back?

You try to remember the events of the day and then the realization hits you like ice. Your heart palpitates as you scramble to get up. You chase after Sadie, feet bare in the mud as you run to the entrance of the camp. You’re not looking to give Arthur a happy welcome back, you just want to make sure he’s okay. 

You see The Count’s white head parting through the trees first, then Baylock. You come up behind Sadie, peering around her to see if you can spot Diablo through the trees. You know it’ll be hard with his striking black coat, but you figure you’ll manage some hint of him, even through the dark. 

Dutch and Micah are slow as they amble up to you. Your brows furrow and there’s an intuitive gnawing feeling in the back of your mind. John comes out of his tent at the sound of hooves, moving to stand beside you. A few others join the welcoming party but you’re not paying any attention to them.

You move away from Sadie and take a step closer to the men now broaching the perimeter of camp. Your hand balls into the fabric of your night dress and you suck in a sharp breath when you realize they’re riding back alone. 

Red-hot anger hits you like a hammer knocking a blade into place. You run towards Dutch, not even waiting for him to be fully off his saddle before you start hollering at him. “Where is he? Did he have to stay behind? What’s going on?” 

Dutch holds his hands up, lips curled back in irritation as he skirts around you. “There were some complications,” Micah snipes as he jumps down from his horse. His lips are twisted up, humor coating his rotten voice. 

Your chest heaves with panic, heart tapping an odd pitter-patter as you try and process what the hell that means. 

“Complications!” You shout, uncaring for the way the others are staring at you. “Where the hell is Arthur?” Dutch tries to walk away from you, giving you a bewildered sort of look. He’s looking at you like you’re some sort of ranting madman wandering in from the woods. You may be ankle-deep in mud, wearing nothing but a nightgown, but you are not crazy. And you will not let him treat you like you are. 

You shoot forward and shove at the back of his shoulder. You catch him off guard and he stumbles slightly. You reach for him but Micah rushes forward, snatching up your left wrist before you can try again. You don’t see anything but red as you whip around and snap your hand as hard as you can against his cheek. 

You hear the sound your skin makes against his, see the bright burning mark on his face, but you feel no sting. You rip your wrist out of his hold and turn back towards Dutch. “You wicked little-”

“You left him, didn’t you?” You interrupt Micah’s low-brow insult and wait for Dutch to answer. He’s got a surprised look on his face as he takes you in. As if he hadn’t expected you to do anything but sit back and obey. 

His silence is the only answer you need as he tries to turn away from you again. “After everything he’s done for you! You just leave him!” You sound more heartbroken than he looks and it’s devastating. He left him to the mercies of O’Driscolls and he doesn’t seem to care at all. 

“We didn’t leave him!” Dutch shouts, voice cracking slightly. He snatches up your arm, dragging you away from Micah and trying to isolate you from the others. He’s pulling you to his tent, trying to keep you silent so you don’t cause a big scene in front of the rest of camp. You won’t let him do this, you refuse to let him keep his perfect mask of the unfaltering leader. 

You dig your feet into the ground and feel the cold wet rush of mud filtering around your legs as he tries to drag you forward. “This is childish,” he snaps, glaring at you and letting your arm go. You know there’ll be a nasty purple bruise where he’d held you but you could care less right now. 

“You didn’t leave him? What the hell do you call this?” You gesture around wildly, not fully comprehending that this isn’t just one bad dream. “You don’t understand the cruelty of those men. What you just left him to-”

“Excuse me?” Dutch’s voice is low now, no longer is he shouting. Instead, he stalks towards you in two easy steps. 

“Easy,” John warns, coming up behind you both. 

Neither of you pay him any mind. You take a step closer, nearly nose to nose with Dutch, refusing to be intimidated by him. “This isn’t your fight, Mrs. Rowe. These aren’t your people, how dare you-”

“Arthur is my people,” you interrupt, voice a deadly whisper. “How dare you leave him. Fearsome Dutch Van der Linde,” you taunt and his nostrils flair at your impudence, “can’t even keep his people safe. Tell me, if you’re such a great leader, a man who’s always got a plan- what is it? What is your great plan? How are you going to get my Arthur back from this?”

Dutch’s face blanches and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen anything genuine appear. He almost looks concerned. And not for himself or his image, but for Arthur. It makes you hesitate for a moment, startling a step back from him with a furrow between your brows. 

“I’ve got a plan,” he whispers, eyes wide like he’s trying to convince himself. He turns and looks at the rest of the gang, most of them having woken up while you’d been shouting. “I have got a plan!” He yells, turning back towards his tent and storming off. 

Micah follows behind him, shoulder slamming into yours as he passes. You grunt, tripping forward and glaring at his back. You wouldn’t mind putting a bullet between that bastard’s eyes. 

Your mind races with everything the O’Drsicolls had put you and Sadie through. Your skin crawls with the way their hands and weapons had felt against you. You swallow the bile in your throat and turn towards the horses. 

John is right behind you, having been lurking at the edges of your and Dutch’s fight. “Where’re you goin’?” He asks with a tired sigh. 

“Where do you think?” You snap, reaching for Lady. 

Charles calls out your name and you turn to see him standing behind John with Hosea. Out of everyone in camp, you’d think these would be the three men joining you, not trying to stop you like they clearly are. 

You scoff in disbelief, a sardonic smile on your face. “That's it?” you demand, a disgusted glare directed at each of them. “You’re just going to abandon him too?”

“We’re not abandoning him,” Hosea objects, taking a step closer. You flinch away from him and he frowns. “You don’t know these men-”

“The hell I don’t! I’ve got the scars from what they did to me. I barely survived it.” Hosea winces away from your words. 

“Dutch has a plan,” he tells you, but it doesn’t even sound like he believes himself. “We just need to wait.”

“What’re you going to do?” Charles adds, and it feels remarkably like they’re circling you, herding you away from your horse. “You don’t even have a gun and you’re just going to ride into an O’Driscoll camp.”

“I will,” you tell him, all the sincerity in the world backing you up. 

“And you’ll get yourself killed,” John snaps. “I want them dead just as bad, but you are only going to get yourself hurt or caught. We only need some time, we’re not abandoning him. But we can’t just go in guns blazin’.”

“When has that ever stopped any of you?” You snap. You feel all your anger, all your determination, slip right out through the bottom of your bare feet. You know from their faces there’s going to be no arguing with them. They’re just as bad as Arthur, just as blind. 

They truly believe that Dutch has any clue what he’s doing. How could you possibly be the only one to see the truth of what he is? He’s a conman, decorated as a friend, father, brother, leader. He takes whatever form he wants and he knows how to use it against those around him. There’s no plan, there’s no grand escape to some tropical paradise. 

“You’re not leaving tonight,” Charles tells you and you wish you had the energy to cry. You want to weep for Arthur. Here stood the people he would sacrifice himself for, and they aren’t going to kill a few O’Driscolls to save him. 

You let them lead you back to your tent and look toward the horizon. You’re not going to be allowed to leave this camp. And even if there was a plan to rescue Arthur, you’d never be told of it. All you can do is wait. 

You stay up all night, sitting by the fire and forcing yourself to tolerate the feeling of Charles watching you the whole time. You don’t know what it is that makes you look away from the flames and towards the trees, but something pulls at you. 

As the sun crests the horizon, you place your cup of coffee down and turn. Over your shoulder, barely visible, a horse struggles along the path. You squint, head tilting this way and that so you might be able to better make out what it is. You get to your feet and hear Charles follow you. 

“Oh, god,” you gasp, making a run for the horse just as the rising sun illuminates it. Arthur is slumped over Diablo’s head, blood soaked through his shirt. You don’t make it to him before he slips off the saddle and lands in the mud. Diablo stands over him, nosing at his neck and cheek. 

Charles races behind you as you slide into the mud, hands roving over Arthur’s chest until you find the burned-over wound on his shoulder. You press your fingers to his throat, holding your breath while you pray to feel the beat of life within him still. 

“Oh, thank god,” you whisper when you feel the faintest thud against the tip of your fingers. Charles kneels beside you and you both throw an arm over your shoulders, lifting Arthur to his feet. “Susan!” You scream the old lady's name until you see her stumble out of her tent. 

A few of the other’s still awake all stand, Dutch included. “He needs help!” You shout, Charles helping you drag him towards her. 

“Bring him over here!” She shouts, clearing off Arthur’s cot and motioning for you to lay him down. You stumble under Arthur’s weight, ankle rolling the wrong way as you struggle to keep up his limp body. Charles helps as much as he can but you can barely stay standing. Dutch runs over to you, you share a brief look before he slips Arthur’s arm off your shoulder and carries him the rest of the way to Mrs. Grimshaw. 

You turn towards the tent of women and by now they’re all up, watching everything with wide horrified eyes. “Tilly, help me,” you demand, rushing towards the water boiling for Pearson’s stew. She snaps into action, racing behind you and passing you a cloth to lift the scalding pot off the fire. You both carry it over to Mrs. Grimshaw and she barely spares you a glance, too focused on Arthur. 

You can’t look at him for too long, can’t bear to face the way his eyes stare up at nothing. He looks too much like the corpses you’ve seen. But you know you felt life inside him. You couldn’t have made something like that up. 

Mrs. Grimshaw slices through his shirt and hisses at what she sees. You move past Dutch and peer over her shoulder with Tilly. “Oh, you fool,” she mutters. You shake your head when you see what he’s done to his shoulder. You know he did the best with what he had, but gunpowder is a risky move to close up a bullet hole. 

If you’re not careful with how you treat his wound, it’s more than likely to get infected. Besides the gunshot, judging from the bruises on his body, you can tell he was beaten to within an inch of his life. He’d barely been there a day and they’d nearly killed him. If what they’d done to you wasn’t reason enough to want the O’Drsicolls dead, this was. 

“Susan,” Dutch whispers and he sounds so disappointed, “sit by him. Take care of him. Keep him alive.” You refuse to look at Dutch, dipping a cloth into the purified water and wringing it out. You pass it to Susan who only nods her head. 

Tilly draws the tent flaps closed, pushing Dutch the rest of the way out. Susan presses the cloth gently to the area around Arthur’s wound and his shoulder jerks slightly. “He’s burned himself up,” Tilly mutters, rooting through his supply trunk and ripping up some of his clean shirts for extra cloth. 

“Closed up the wound,” Susan mutters, “but we’ll need to watch for infection.” Her hand drifts down his chest, pressing down on one of the purple and yellow splotches along his ribs. His eyes shoot open for a moment, a pained groan coming from his cracked lips. 

“Broken rib?” You ask, rooting around in his table for some of the ointment Hosea had made for him. She hums an affirmative and you hear Tilly rip up some more cloth for binding. 

“It’s gonna be a long night, you best listen to every damn thing I tell you,” Susan snaps, not taking her eyes off of Arthur. You nod your head silently, pulling out the tin of salve and presenting it to her. Your eyes drift towards Arthur and you let out a shuddering breath, not willing to look at his broken form for more than a few moments. 

Susan helped the most the first night Arthur was back. It was because of her that he made it. Tilly and you assisted her the best you could. But she had the knowledge only a doctor should as she staved the infection away from his wound. 

She wasn’t capable of a miracle, but this seemed damn close. Still, even with all the work you’d put in, someone had to stay by his side at night, make sure he didn’t slip away quietly. You volunteered yourself, opting to let them watch him during the day while you slept. 

His recovery was a slow one. You have to make sure his ribs are wrapped tight enough to encourage them to heal again. You need to ensure he doesn’t flip around in his sleep and do any more damage to himself. More importantly, you have to do everything you can to keep his fever down. 

Despite the heat of the day, it seems worse at night. Sweat soaks through his clothes and blankets, he’s constantly twitching with shivers. You try and make sure the cloth along his brow stays cool, but he seems to heat them up like a fire. 

There’s no puckering green skin around his wound, none of you can figure out where the infection is stemming from. You don’t have the medicine he needs to fight it, only sheer will and prayer. 

You lean forward in your chair, pressing the back of your chilled fingers to his cheek. Same as the night before, it’s hot to the touch. You’re surprised your skin doesn’t sizzle as it touches his. His breaths come in short pants as you slip the cloth off his head and dip it into the bucket of water beside you. You wring it out and place it gently along his brow again. 

Standing, you perch yourself on the edge of his cot and peel back the bandages on his shoulder. It sticks slightly to the skin, yellowed and bloody as the skin works to heal itself. He’d done the best he could with the gunpowder, but all it had done was stop you from getting below the surface and healing what needed it. 

Your eyes are fighting to stay open after being awake all night. You know the sun will rise soon, that you’ll have an opportunity for rest. But you haven’t been able to sleep well, not since he was brought back. You nearly drift off and then you think of him dying while you’re dozing away. 

He might have made it through the first night, but there are no promises with things like this. Your hand slips into his and you let out a heavy sigh. You take in his sallow face, the gauntness of his cheeks, the circles under his eyes. His beard has grown longer than you’ve ever seen it, his hair nearly reaches his shoulders. You don’t recognize this beaten man below you. This isn’t the Arthur you know. 

You squeeze his rough hand in yours, “You better not stop fighting, you stubborn bastard.”  You feel a familiar burn in the back of your throat and look away from him, choking down your tears. You can’t cry over him again. You’ve done it so often your eyes have run dry. 

Just as you’re about to get up to leave, his hand twitches ever so slightly in yours. Your brows furrow and you glance down at his hold on you. It was nearly imperceptible, a barely there movement. You watch his arm carefully, seeing if anything else happens. When he doesn’t move again you dismiss it as your mind playing tricks on you. 

Again, almost as if he knows you’re going to leave him, his hand twitches. This time, you can’t dismiss it as a reflex or simply something your addled brain has conjured up. The movement is deliberate, purposeful, as if he’s trying to hold on to you in every way he can. His fingers squeeze your palm weakly, and a sharp gasp escapes your lips.

“Arthur?” you breathe, voice trembling as your heart skips a beat. You turn back to his face, ragged and pale, the shadow of the man he once was. But there’s something in the faint wrinkle of his brow and the uneven parting of his lips. It’s the most life you’ve seen in him in days.

You’re practically shaking as you move further up the cot. You stick yourself as close to his side as you can. “Oh, Arthur?” you plead, leaning closer, searching desperately for any sign that he’s still fighting. A low mutter slips from his cracked lips, the sound so faint it’s almost lost in the silence. You freeze, straining to hear, your breath caught in your throat.

You’re so close you can feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest against yours. His lips move again, his ribs quaking with effort. It’s a whisper, barely audible, but you hear a cracked version of your name slip through his lips. 

This is the most you’ve gotten from him in days. There had been moments where, as hard as it was to accept, you’d begun to realize he could be dying. His lips move again and if you weren’t watching him so intently, you might have missed it.

Your heart shatters and mends all at once. “Arthur,” you choke, nearly crying with relief. Your body slumps over his with the relief that he’s not been lost to you yet. You clutch your hand in his as though sheer will can keep him with you. For a moment, the unbearable weight of your fear is lifted.

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as you press your forehead against his. “You’re still here,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Just keep fighting for me.”

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t have the strength, but his fingers twitch again, his grip just a little firmer. It’s enough for you. You hold on to him like he’s your lifeline, and in a way, he is. You can’t let him go, not now. “I’m here, Arthur,” you promise, voice shaking but just steady enough for him to understand you. “I’m not going anywhere. Just, don’t leave me. Please.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a flicker of hope in the darkness. It’s fragile, so fragile, but it’s there.

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to start coming back around. Most nights, he’s still groggy and spends more time asleep than awake, but the fever has broken, and that’s enough for you.

You no longer go to sleep every night worrying he won’t be there in the morning. Now, when you check on his tent, you find him waiting for you, even if it’s with little more than a tired glance and a hoarse word or two. Tonight is one of those nights. He doesn’t have much energy for anything beyond picking at some stew and lying down, but you don’t mind.

You stay by his side, fussing over him as you fluff the pillows behind his head. He’d teased you the other day, comparing your fretting to Mrs. Grimshaw. You’d laughed, too relieved he felt well enough to joke to take offense. The memory makes you smile as you smooth the blankets over him.

“Quit,” he mutters weakly, swatting at your hands.

“Oh, hush,” you retort, tone light as you sit back down in the chair by his cot.

His hand catches your wrist before you can settle. When you glance down, you find him peeking up at you through one half-lidded eye, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Come on,” he mumbles, tugging gently.

“Arthur, I’m fine right here,” you reply, hesitating. His cot isn’t exactly spacious, and you’re worried about jostling him or hurting his still-healing ribs.

He doesn’t answer, just tugs again with what little strength he has.

“Oh, alright.” You laugh slightly and shake your head. “You’re so stubborn,” you grumble, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. Carefully, you climb onto the cot, curling into the space he makes for you on his good side. His head tucks into the crook of your neck, his arm settling around your waist like it belongs there.

You comb your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, thinking that maybe you’ll cut it for him when he’s stronger. His breathing slows against you, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He’s nearly asleep when he rasps out a question, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Why didn’t they come?” He rasps against your shoulder, nearly asleep as he asks.

Your hands still in his hair, and the quiet around you feels suddenly heavy. His arm tightens around your waist, as though he senses your hesitation. You close your eyes and draw in a shaky breath.

How are you supposed to answer that?

You could tell him the same tired promises Dutch fed you, that there was a plan, that he was never really abandoned. But you’ve been here, tending to him alone for days. You’ve watched Dutch only appear when Arthur’s too far gone to notice, his visits perfunctory and brief. And you know, deep down, what Arthur would never admit, if he keeps believing Dutch’s lies, it’ll kill him.

You swallow hard and take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Arthur,” you whisper, voice trembling but firm enough to hold his attention. “You’ve given Dutch everything, and he left you there. He left you to die.”

You hear him exhale, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. His grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” you continue, leaning closer so your words sink in. “I just- I need you to know the truth. He’s not the man you think he is. He never was. Please, Arthur, when you’re strong enough, tell me we’ll get away. We’ll leave this all behind before it’s too late.”

You fall silent, letting your words settle in the quiet. He doesn’t respond, his breaths deepening as sleep overtakes him again.

You tighten your hold on his hand and rest your forehead against his temple. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “You deserve better.”

You doubt he’ll remember this when he wakes, and maybe that’s best. But you had to say something, you had to try. It feels wrong, though, to try and twist Arthur’s loyalty. You’ve barely had a chance to know either of them the way they know each other. 

Still, you can’t shake what you’ve seen. Dutch’s words, his cleverly painted lies, they turn into nooses, and he’s got a rope around everyone in camp. You know his kind, once he sinks his claws into someone, there’s no letting go. 

You glance down at Arthur’s face, softened and unguarded in sleep, and your chest tightens. He deserves to be free of Dutch. At the very least, he deserves to see the truth and to live for himself instead of chasing someone else’s dreams. 

Doubt still creeps alongside you. Did you have a place to say anything at all? 

You brush a hand through Arthur’s hair one more time, listening to his breaths as they even out. Curling closer around him, you drift to sleep with your heart heavy, praying he sees the truth when he wakes. 

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.

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

@m1stea @pokiona

CLAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE PART FIVE WAS A MASTERPIECE AND I WANNA PUNCH COOP IN HIS STUPID WRINKLY FACE AND THEN KISS HIM IM SO EXCITED FOR PART 6

Well based on that I think you’re gonna like part 6 lol

I am so sorry you guys!! I have been trying to get this last chapter of Hell Hath No Fury written but I am very sick. I just went to the doctor today to get some meds, so fingers crossed that will help. The chapter itself is nearly done but I’m not going to finish this series off with a half-assed chapter that is barely comprehensible because I was high off NyQuil when I wrote it. You guys have been so patient and such amazing readers already, if you just give me a few more days I should have the end of this story ready for you

(maybe you’ll get an epilogue too ❤️😉)

I HIT A 1000 FOLLOWERS OHMYGOD SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

I LOVE YOU ALL ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

I think as a fandom we can all agree and say the movie is not canon, it never existed, it never happened

good night :)

Alter ego strikes again

𝘉𝘰𝘺'𝘴 𝘢 𝘓𝘪𝘢𝘳

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ ᴋᴇɴᴛ x fem! reader

「 ✦ A/N ✦ 」 I don't know what has creeped into my brain, but I've started rewatching the show and I literally wrote this in a day.

✬ summary ✬ Finally taking the plunge and ruining your friendship with Clark, you go on your first date but the next day he's acting like a whole new man. Not a good one. You don't know if your relationship can recover from his cruel behavior, but he's not going to give up so easily.

For the nth time, you stand before your mirror and find yourself dissatisfied. No outfit is right, each one is too little, too much, too slutty, not slutty enough. You haven’t even started on shoes yet, you would be in the grave before you were ready for this date. Throwing yourself down on your desk chair, you start tugging the stockings down your legs. 

You’re not sure why you thought tights would work during the peak of a Kansas summer, but you’re clearly not thinking much at all today. Head propped in your hand, you slump against the edge of your desk, fingers running idly over the scattered makeup on the surface. Even that hasn't gone right, your normal safeties failing you when you need them most. 

Maybe this was all a sign from the universe. You and Clark have been friends since you could walk, what if this stupid date was going to ruin everything between you?

Sighing, you reach for the only framed picture in your room. It’s silly, something Martha took when you were both too busy playing to see her. You and Clark, freshly five, sit around your old purple play table, the both of you covered in glitter and rocking some of the biggest tutus you’ve ever seen. You’re yelling at him in the picture, probably telling him to put his pinky up when he drinks his tea, and he’s just grinning at you.

It’s funny how that smile never changed. Something warm unfurls and blooms in your chest the longer you look at the picture. It’s Clark, he doesn’t care what you wear or if you’ve put on makeup or not. You both loved each other long before that was ever a problem, and it’s not going to start being one now. 

Sucking in a deep breath you put on the first outfit you’d picked out, a simple white sundress. You rarely get to wear it, anyway. Might as well test it out now. You check the mirror one last time just as someone knocks on your bedroom door. 

Clark calls out your name on the other side, sounding hesitant. “Sorry, um,” he chuckles and you can picture the way he must be nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “I got here a little early.”

You dart away from the mirror, kicking all the clothes under your bed. You slide the makeup into your desk drawer to be dealt with later. For now, you just need to make sure that he doesn’t see what a hot mess your room is. 

Sucking in a deep breath, you tug the hem of your dress down and shake off your worries. This is Clark. Your Clarkie, the boy you’ve tormented since you were a toddler. There’s nothing to worry about. 

“You’re always early, Clark,” you tell him with a soft smile as you open the door. 

His eyes widen slightly as he looks down at you. You did purposefully pick a dress that would emphasize certain aspects of yours. The pink flush on his cheeks is entirely worth it. Your eyes are drawn to the bunch of flowers in his hand and you grin. “Are those for me?” You gush, opening your door wider for him to step inside. 

“Yeah,” he holds them out to you, blue eyes stuck on yours. “I thought you might like them.” You bring them closer to your face, taking in the faint scent of the roses. 

“I love them, thank you,” you find yourself unable to stop smiling as you drop the roses in a glass of water by your bed. After building up your hopes and anxieties for a week because of this date, you're struggling to calm yourself down. 

Turning, you find him already looking at you with a soft smile that calms your racing heart just a bit. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a while,” he tells you, taking a step closer to you. His hands find your own, pulling you into him. “Not just the date,” he amends, smile stretching wider. “Asking you out. I think our friends were getting sick of listening to me talk about you all the time.”

You laugh, “I think they were getting sick of both of us. I feel so oblivious that it took me so long to realize you felt the same way.” 

He huffs, though his tone remains good-natured, “How do you think I feel?”

“Well,” you lace your fingers with his and step closer, “we’re doing it now, that’s what matters.” He ducks down and you feel your breath stutter, but he only leaves a brief kiss on your cheek, pulling back with a sheepish expression. A gentleman through and through. 

You’d never thought that knowing Clark for as well and as long as you have could be a bad thing. But now, sitting in The Talon and awkwardly dipping your fries in ketchup just to have something to do, you’re starting to realize it is. Being with each other nearly every day leaves you wanting for conversation. You both are already so caught up on what’s going on in each other’s lives that you’re struggling not to just bring up the weather. 

Clark groans and you startle, the noise breaking through the thick silence between you. He leans back in the booth, head resting on the edge and you find your eyes drawn to the strong muscles of his neck, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. 

Clearing your throat you glance away from him and push your plate away. “I didn’t want it to be like this,” Clark mutters, more to himself than you, but you hear him anyway. 

“It’s, well,” you pause, struggling for the words. Letting out a self-deprecating laugh, you shake your head. “I just don’t know what to do when we’re like this,” he peeks an eye open and you gesture between the two of you. 

His lips quirk up and he straightens once more. “I feel like I should be able to talk to you, same as always. But I don't know what to say, I don’t want to risk messing this up.” He trails off, glancing away from you and swallowing roughly. The same dreaded panic you’ve been feeling all week is thick in his voice. 

“Clark,” you utter his name lowly, reaching your hand out across the table. He’s slow to meet your eyes. “I feel the same way. We’re being stupid because I know that nothing you could say is going to change how I feel about you.” You narrow your eyes, taking on a teasing tone, “And you better feel the same way,” you scold. 

He huffs out a laugh, larger hand enveloping yours entirely and squeezing gently, “You know I do.”

You shrug, “Then we’re just being stupid, again,” you add, rolling your eyes. 

His eyes light up with mischief, a smile spreading as he stands from his seat. You jump back slightly, surprised by the sudden movement. “I’ve got an idea, come on,” he holds his hand out and you take it once more. 

You let out a surprised laugh as he takes off, dragging you out of the Talon behind him. “Where are we going?” 

He pauses for a moment, looking over his shoulder at you. It awes you, just how handsome he is. “It’s a surprise,” he winks and tugs you closer. 

“Your surprise is… the school?” You frown, taking Clark’s hand as he helps you down from the truck. 

“No,” he defends, shooting you a sarcastic look as he closes the door behind you. “We’re sneaking onto the field, like we used to. Maybe a little jog down memory lane will help,” he gives you a cheesy smile and you feel like you might melt.  

The sun hangs low on the horizon, its fading golden hues painting the sky in soft oranges and purples. The light catches in Clark’s hair, casting a warm halo around him. Sometimes he seems so overwhelmingly perfect that you wonder if you’ll ever be enough for him. Even when you were beginning to give up hope, he comes up with something so sweet, so thoughtful, that all you want to do is kiss him. 

Swallowing down the urge, you place your hand in his and let him lead you around the side of the school. “You know, we only used to do this to mess with the football players,” you tease. “Hard to do when you’re on the team, Clarkie.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Hey, we can still tear the seams on their jerseys- just not mine.” He throws you a grin, and it sends a rush of warmth through your chest.

The familiar path behind the school is darker now, but your steps fall in sync like muscle memory. The fence around the field looms ahead, a little more daunting than normal. It’s harder to climb in your dress, but Clark gives you a boost. One so strong you nearly fly over. 

Landing with a huff, you turn to glare at him as he pulls himself over with ease. “Too much torque in the thrust, Clark,” you grumble, brushing off your hands. 

He chuckles, throwing an arm over your shoulders as you both step onto the field. “Come on, we should get down there before the sun’s gone.”

Dew from the grass seeps its way into the thin fabric of your shoes as you walk toward the center of the field. The bleachers stand empty, the goalposts stretch high into the deepening sky, and for the first time tonight, you feel like you can take a breath. 

Clark shrugs off his jacket, laying it out on the grass and motioning for you to sit. You hesitate for a moment, but then you look down at the white fabric of your dress and decide you’re okay with sacrificing Clark’s jacket.

Clark lowers himself beside you, leaning back on his palms as he gazes up at the sky. The last streaks of sunlight fade, and one by one, the stars blink to life above you. You’ve always thought the sky above Smallville was different than anywhere else. As if the stars were reaching out to you. Considering your track record with meteors, it doesn’t seem that far off. 

For a while, neither of you speak. The quiet is comfortable, not at all like the stilted silence you’d felt in the diner. You’re content just being here with him, under the vast, endless sky. 

Clark is the first to break the peace. He shifts beside you, drawing in a slow breath as he disrupts the silence. “I’ve,” he hesitates on the word, “cared about you for a long time,” he admits, voice low and steady. “Longer than I ever told you.”

You glance over at him and find his gaze fixed on the stars. His jaw is tense, like he’s bracing himself for you to tell him this was all one big mistake and you’re better off as friends. A smile pulls at your lips at the ridiculous thought and you reach toward the small space between you both. Placing your hand over his, he finally looks at you. 

“I know things are,” he pauses, “a little weird between us right now.” He looks at your hand and flips his palm so he can lace your fingers together. “But I don’t want to lose what we have. If you’re willing to make it work, I am too.”

Your heart stutters, and for a moment all you can do is stare at him. At the boy who’s always been there, the boy who, despite everything, still makes your heart race. Your smile spreads, “Of course I’m willing,” you whisper. 

His breath hitches, and then he grins, the same grin that will never fail to make you lightheaded with infatuation.

Clark was meant to be here an hour ago. You’d made plans to go to a screening of some old movies at the theater. Sitting on the steps of your front porch, head propped in your hand, you look out at the farmlands around you. He only lives a few minutes away from you, you can’t fathom why he would be so late. 

You’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, he’s not the type of guy to just leave you hanging. But there’s something humiliating about sitting out here all on your own. The wind has already fussed and ruined the hairstyle you’d so meticulously worked on. You’d already missed half of one of the movies. And the sun is beginning to set. 

Part of you is begging to just go inside and give up, but you're more stubborn half won't give in. Clark isn't like this, he wouldn't do something like this without good reason. 

A rumble sounds down the highway and your head perks up, crestfallen look replaced with something more hopeful. Getting to your feet, you grimace at the pins and needles tingling down your legs. Walking down the steps and getting a good look at the approaching motorcycle, your stomach plummets. 

Not Clark, then, though it’s odd to see someone beside you or the Kent’s driving on this stretch of road. Your hand tightens around the hem of your tank top as the motorcycle begins to slow as it approaches your house. Heart picking up, you take a step back toward the safety of the porch. 

Maybe they just need directions or maybe…

Your brain breaks for a moment as the rider pulls into your driveway. 

Maybe they’re Clark. 

Your jaw drops as he shoots you a smarmy grin, getting off his father’s bike and striding toward you with a swagger you’re unused to. “Hiya, sweetheart." You take a step back from him, brows furrowed. 

“Clark,” you spit his name out in shock, eyes darting between him and the bike. Knowing that he’s not dying somewhere in a ditch, your anger at being left waiting surges forth. “You’re an hour late because you were busy stealing your dad’s bike?” You demand, trying to ignore just how good he looks leaning against the post of your porch in that ridiculous leather jacket. 

“Sure,” he chuckles and rolls his eyes, brushing past you and heading back to the bike. “That’s why,” he snaps, like you’re slow. He straddles the bike and nods you forward. “You coming or not?”

Sucking in a sharp breath, you glance between him and the front door of your house. Again, giving him the benefit of the doubt, you choose to get on the back of the bike. Maybe this is all just one big act that he’s putting on to surprise you with something at the theater. 

He turns the key and you frown, “Helmet?” You ask weakly. He doesn’t respond, just laughs and peels out of your driveway. You squeal, grabbing on tight to his waist and burying your face in his back. 

This isn’t an act, and this definitely isn’t Clark. But whoever he is, you just got on the back of his motorcycle like an idiot. 

With every turn and rev of the bike, you prepare to feel the pavement beneath your palms. Still, as reckless and nauseating as his driving is, he manages to get you here in one piece. Though, where here is, you’re not sure. 

Clark swings off the bike effortlessly, grinning over his shoulder at a group of girls walking into the building behind him. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, about the way your hands still tremble from the ride. You’d been too busy clutching onto him for dear life to pay any attention to where you were going and you’re starting to regret it. 

The building is nothing more than dirtied brick, the faded neon sign above the door advertising beer and live music. The bass thumps from inside, vibrating the gravel beneath your feet. From within, you hear jeering shouts, the telltale sounds of a crowd on the verge of chaos.

“Clark,” despite his odd behavior, you still find yourself stepping toward him and holding tight to his hand. The sheltered life of Smallville hasn’t exactly prepared you for backwoods, seedy bars. “Where are we?” You peer up at him and the glint in his eyes makes your stomach clench with trepidation. 

“Oh,” he laughs, tugging you toward the entrance, “you’re gonna like this,” he swears. Despite the way you dig your heels into the dirt, he keeps pulling, giving you no choice but to follow him into the bar. 

The air changes as you step inside, it’s worse than you thought it would be. Thick with heat and smoke, it pulses with the heavy bass of a song you don’t recognize. Multicolored lights flash across the writhing bodies on the dance floor. The scent of spilled beer, sweat, and something sticky clings to the air. 

Your fingers tighten around Clark’s arm as he moves forward, practically wrapping yourself around him. He weaves through the crowd like he belongs here. If you let go now, you know he wouldn’t stop, he’d just keep going, leaving you all alone in a place you want no part of.  

Clark drags you to the edge of the bar and slips a crumpled twenty across the counter. Wordlessly, and without checking for IDs, the bartender slides over two beers. Clark grabs one and to your utter shock, tilts it back, downing one long gulp. 

“You gonna stand there watching me,” he challenges, “or are you finally going to let loose and have some fun?”

“No, Clark, I’m not drinking. And neither should you! You’re driving us back,” you snap, eyes darting around the seedy crowd. 

Settling the half-empty bottle on the counter, he smirks, “Relax. We’re here to have a good time,” his tone almost sounds like a threat. Have a good time or else…

His gaze flickers toward the dance floor and your heart sinks at the mischief in his expression. “And I know exactly how to help you loosen up.”

Again, he gives you no time to protest or even form an opinion before he grabs you and pulls you toward the center of the dance floor. You feel like a leashed dog, no choice but to obey. 

The music shifts into something darker, slower, a sultry beat thrumming through the air. It charges the atmosphere of the dancers and the crowd sways, bodies pressed tightly together as they move with the rhythm. 

“Clark,” you glance around at the writhing bodies and swallow thickly. “I don’t-”

“Just one dance,” he cuts you off smoothly, voice low and coaxing. His lips curl up in a gentle smile as his hands find your waist. His grip is tight but not uncomfortable as he helps move your hips into the rhythm of the song. “Trust me.”

You hesitate, but it’s easier than you thought to simply fall into the slow, lazy grind of the dance. Your body moves in sync with his, despite the apprehension tightening through you. There’s something wrong with him, that’s clear enough. This isn’t the Clark you know, this is some bold, almost predatory version of him. 

One of his hands drifts up from your waist, dragging the hem of your thin tank top up slightly as his fingers brush against the nape of your neck. A shiver runs down your spine as his grip tightens, tilting your head back. You press your hands against his chest, eyes rounding in confusion. 

“Clark,” you whisper his name, breathless from the proximity. “What are you-”

He cuts you off, voice rough and breath warm against your lips, “Finally taking what I want.” His head dips down, lips capturing your own. It’s not the soft, gentle first kiss you’d always imagine you would share with him. This is hard, demanding. 

He’s claiming you, marking his territory as he slips his hand lower on your waist. He pulls you flush against him, hips pressing against yours. A heat slowly spreads in you, but it's overshadowed by the overwhelming feeling that this isn’t Clark. 

You push against his chest and you know he lets you go, the situation still under his control. He backs off with an irritated look, eyes narrowed down at you. 

Your breath comes in quick, uneven gasps as you stare up at him. “What the hell, Clark?”

“What’s your problem?” He snaps, hand flexing around your neck before dropping to his side. 

“You,” you hiss, eyes narrowing. “You’re not yourself, Clark.”

His jaw tenses, fists clenching by his side as he takes a step back from you. “Why? Because I’m finally doing what I want?” His voice is sharp, it bites at the fraying edges of your patience. The music around you picks up pace and somebody slams into you from behind. 

With a pained gasp, you stumble forward, rubbing the sore spot where their elbow had slammed into your ribs. Clark watches it all with a bored look. Gone is the gentle, considerate boy you’ve known your whole life. This boy before you is reckless and selfish, you don’t want anything to do with him. 

His attention flickers past you and you turn to follow his gaze. A pretty blonde sways in the middle of the dance floor, hips moving gracefully as her laughter rings above the music. Without a word or a second glance, he steps around you, striding toward her with the same effortless confidence he just used on you. 

Frozen by disbelief and anger, you watch as he slides a hand around her waist, murmuring something in her ear that makes her giggle. The crowd shifts again, blocking your view of the two. It’s for the better as you suck in sharp breaths, trying to keep the tears at bay. 

A lump clogs your throat and you rush toward the back of the bar, hoping there might be a bathroom to hide in. You just need a second away from the sweat and noise of the dancers. You stumble through a stained door and slam it closed behind you, wiping desperately at the tears rolling down your cheeks. 

After splashing cold water over your face and simply standing in there for a few minutes, you finally feel stable enough to go back outside. You’re just going to ask Clark to take you home and then you hope you never have to see him again. 

But when you return to the dance floor, heart still pounding its way up your throat, you can’t find Clark. You can’t even find the blonde. He’s acting like a jackass, but there’s no way he would just leave you. 

Right?

You rush outside, your stomach dropping like a stone when you see the parking lot. The motorcycle is gone. 

He left you behind. 

“Thank you,” your gaze stays trained on your hands, not ready to look at Lex. You feel his stare boring into the side of your head before he turns back to the road. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad you called me instead of trying to get home on your own.” He pauses, hand tightening on the steering wheel as he takes in a deep breath. “But what were you doing in a place like that?”

You slump in the passenger seat, rubbing a tired hand over your face. All you want to do is go home and wash this night away. You’re hesitant to tell him the truth, knowing he might give Clark hell for leaving you there. A part of you is still primed to protect him, but the other part, the one that was just left behind, can’t care. 

“Clark,” you tell him and his head whips around so fast you’re surprised you don't hear it snap. “He was acting weird tonight. Took me there and then left with another girl.”

“Are you serious?” He demands, sounding angry on your behalf. Right now, though, you don’t have the energy for anger. “Clark wouldn’t do that.”

You suck in a deep breath and finally look at him, “The one I know wouldn’t,” you offer vaguely, ignoring his confused expression. “Honestly, I just want to get home and never talk to him again.”

Lex chuckles a little, “You don’t mean that.”

“Try me,” you snap, glaring out the window. You’re debating calling Clark’s dad and telling him that Clark took the bike. If not just for petty revenge. Just the thought of it makes you feel tired. 

“I’m sure,” Lex starts, already sounding like he doesn’t believe himself, “he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for what he did.” You roll your eyes, giving him a deadpan look. His hand lifts slightly off the wheel in surrender. “There’s no excuse,” he amends.

“No, there’s not.” The car rolls to a stop and you look out the window, surprised to already be at your house. The porch light is off, your parents must already be asleep. “I really can’t thank you enough,” you tell Lex, offering him a weak but grateful smile. 

He waves you off, “Forget it, I’m glad I could help. If you ever need anything else…” He trails off, leaving the offer open-ended. 

You nod, opening the passenger door and stepping out. You’re just about to close it when something occurs to you. Clark always gives you a ride to school, you’re not going to have a way to get there after tonight. 

“Oh,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose in irritation. 

“What’s wrong?” Lex looks concerned and you offer him an apologetic grimace. 

“I actually do need something,” you tell him, sheepish and pleading. 

Clark wakes up with a fog clouding his mind, a dull pounding behind his eyes. Vague flashes of memory flicker through the haze. The sound of your upset voice, the thrum of music, and the feeling of your body pressed against his. It makes his cheeks flush with warmth, but none of it connects for him. Everything’s one frustrating blur. 

But he can figure that out later, his gaze drifts toward the clock on his nightstand and his eyes widen. He leaps off the bed, nearly tripping as he gets wrapped up in his sheets. He was meant to pick you up ten minutes ago. 

Clark throws on the first clothes he finds, raking a hand through his messy hair as he bolts down the stairs. His backpack is nearly left by the door as he rushes out. If he could, he’d run you to school. It would be so much faster, so much easier. But that would require explaining why he could do that, and he doesn’t think you’d appreciate him springing the truth of his abilities on you this early in the morning. 

You’re not exactly a morning person. 

He speeds down the road, the truck’s tires kicking up dust as he pulls into your driveway. Throwing the truck in park he doesn’t even bother cutting the engine before leaping out. Two steps at a time, he bounds up your front porch and knocks firmly on the door. 

His foot taps against the wood of the porch as he checks the watch on his wrist. If you hurry, you might both be able to make it to first period on time. After a minute of silence he knocks again, but he’s greeted with the same silence. 

He steps back, brows knitted together, and his gaze flickers toward the front window. He ignores the feeling of being a complete creeper as he peers through the glass. The house looks unnaturally still, none of your usual morning mess as you rush to get ready on time. The lights are off and he can’t hear anything inside. 

Your parents are usually gone before you even wake up. He can’t think of anyone else who would give you a ride. Or why you would even have anyone else drive you. A strange unease coils in his stomach and another brief memory flashes through his mind. It’s not much, just a pretty blonde smiling up at him. 

Jaw tightening, Clark turns back to his truck, climbing inside and heading straight for school. He’s sure everything’s fine. You probably had Chloe or Lana pick you up. Still, even with him being ten minutes late, he’s not sure how they would have gotten to your house before him. 

Pulling into the parking lot he frowns, greeted first thing in the morning by Lex’s ridiculously overpriced sports car. It’s parked right in front of the entrance and he wonders what business Lex would have at the high school. 

The passenger door opens and you step out, your bag slung over one shoulder. You turn to Lex, smiling as you give him a sweet wave. Clark watches it all with his shoulders tensed as something sharp and hot twists in Clark’s chest. 

He watches as Lex pulls out of the parking lot, jaw clenched in irritation. He throws the truck into park and gets out, heading toward the front doors. Inside, the hallways seem more crowded than usual but he still manages to make you out almost instantly. 

You’re at your locker, pulling out books as if nothing’s wrong. As if you didn’t get a ride with Lex Luthor and ditch him for seemingly no reason at all. 

Clark makes a beeline for you, tightening his grip on his backpack as he stops beside your locker. “Hey,” he calls, forcing a smile. “Did I miss something? I thought I was picking you up this morning.”

You don’t even bother looking at him, eyes stubbornly pointed forward. “Guess I made other plans.”

The coldness in your voice stops him in his tracks. His stomach drops, smile faltering as you continue to pretend there’s anything more for you to grab from your locker. “Okay…” He exhales slowly. “Did something happen?”

You slam your locker shut and he jumps. Whipping around to face him, your eyes are dark with anger as you glare up at him. “Really?” You snap and his eyes widen in surprise. “This is what you’re doing, pretending you don’t remember?”

Clark blinks, thrown off by the heat in your voice. “I-”

“Forget it,” you cut him off. You shake your head, looking tired. “Just leave me alone, Clark. Seems to be something you’re good at, anyway.” You whip around, storming off down the hall and leaving him reeling. He wants to go after you but you’re already slipping into your English class and he knows there’s no way he’ll be able to talk to you in there. 

He hovers in the hallway, stunned. What the hell happened last night?

His mind races, grasping at the fleeting memories. There was a bar, he’s not even sure how he found that place. He was dancing with you and then kissing you. His eyes widen at that, grimacing at the blurred memory of your rough first kiss. He’d been hoping for something a little sweeter than some backwoods bar. 

He remembers you being angry at him but that’s it. There are holes and gaps that he can’t remember no matter how hard he tries. There’s only one thing that could explain the reckless behavior, the memory gaps, and the way he felt like someone else.

Red kryptonite. 

His heart sinks and his head falls into his hands. He hurt you and probably scared you. You don’t even want to look at him now. Straightening up, he runs a hand through his hair and tries to think of a way to fix all of this. 

He’s not sure he can, not when he can’t even remember what he’s done to you. 

Admittedly, ambushing you outside of class probably wasn’t the best way to go about this. But he needed to make sure you couldn’t run from him. You walk out the door, books clutched to your chest, and head down. 

Clark falls into step beside you and you briefly glance up, rolling your eyes when you realize it’s him. You pick up your pace, clearly trying to put space between the both of you. “Wait,” he calls, stepping in front of you. “One chance to explain, please.”

You stop in the middle of the hall, uncaring to the students parting around you. “Clark-”

“I don’t remember everything,” he admits, voice low and desperate as he pushes through your objection. “But I know something happened. And I need to fix this.”

Exhaling sharply, you can’t seem to meet his eye. “There’s nothing to fix.”

That can’t be true. He won’t let that be true. “Please,” he presses. “Just… one chance.”

For a moment, you hesitate, teeth pressing into your lower lip as you take a step back from him. “Fine,” you relent, sounding wholly reluctant. “We’ll talk after school.”

Relief floods through him and he finally manages a real smile for the first time all morning. “Okay,” he utters, trying not to sound surprised. “Great, I’ll drive you home, and-”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “Lex is giving me a ride,” he opens his mouth to protest and you shoot him a sharp look. His jaw snaps closed and he sighs. “I’ll meet you at your house later,” you tell him, leaving no room for argument. 

His stomach twists as you turn and walk away. Lex, he scoffs and shakes his head. When did the two of you get close? One bad night and you’re already done with him?

The thought should fill him with anger, but it only makes his worry grow. Whatever he had done last night must have been truly awful. He hates that there’s a chance he won’t be able to fix this. But what makes it worse is knowing that it’s all his fault.

Clark’s in his room when he hears you pull up to the house. He doesn’t waste any time as he heads down the stairs. “What happened to ‘I never want to see him again?’” Clark has no shame as he listens to your conversation. He doesn’t appreciate how comfortable Lex sounds teasing you. 

“Yeah, well,” your voice loses its muffled edge as you open the passenger door. “I deserve an explanation.”

“Call me if you need anything,” Lex tells you as Clark opens his front door. Rolling his eyes, Clark jogs down the steps of his porch, heading toward you both. You turn over your shoulder, smile falling as you nod your head in greeting. 

Clark’s waited forever to finally tell you how he really feels about you. Years of pining all led to that one moment where you told him that you feel the same way. He’d finally gotten a chance with you, to be with you like he always wanted. He’s not going to let last night ruin everything. 

“Thanks, Lex,” you mutter, closing the passenger door and marching toward Clark. Lex lingers for a moment and Clark sends him a stiff smile and wave. Lex returns it with a smirk before driving off. 

“So,” arms crossed across your chest, you glance up at him with barely veiled apprehension. “Are we going inside?”

Clark glances back at his house and shakes his head. He holds his hand out to you and you give him a wary glare. “Please,” he asks, and after a moment you place your hand in his. He smiles and leads you to the barn. 

Call it nostalgia, call it desperation but whatever compelled you to actually hear Clark out can go bite it. He abandoned you at a club in a town you hadn’t even heard of. To go be with another girl, no less. You shouldn’t have even stopped to listen to him in the hallway. It’s a lack of self-respect, really. 

But there was something in his eyes that compelled you to stay. Last night, he’d been a stranger wearing Clark’s face. This morning, you saw the earnest sincerity you always do when you look into those pretty blue eyes of his. Giving in was an inevitability. 

Walking the familiar path to the barn you’re struck with a feeling almost like grief. Whatever could have bloomed between you and Clark feels like sand falling through your fingers. Unless he’s about to open those doors and reveal an evil twin, you’re not sure you could ever forgive him. 

Clark glances over his shoulder at you, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He throws the doors of the barn open and you roll your eyes at the dramatics. You slip past him and head inside, stopping short once you see what he’s done. 

Fairy lights dangle above the loft, illuminating what looks like a poorly built blanket fort. Christmas lights he clearly stole from his mom are hung haphazardly from the rafters. You can see the effort he put into making the barn feel special, even if the execution is lacking.

It’s the nostalgia of it all that makes you smile. Summer’s spent camping out in the barn, hidden away under blanket forts, and trying to scare each other with your bad ghost stories. It’s a time capsule of your childhood. And you know what he’s trying to do, how he’s trying to soften the hard edges of your resentment. You hate that it’s beginning to work. 

Clark heads up to the loft first, glancing over his shoulder and motioning for you to follow. You sigh, face blank as you work to keep up the cool exterior you feel slowly melting away. He offers his hand as you reach the top, and after a beat of hesitation, you reluctantly take it. 

Clark pulls you forward and keeps your hand in his as he leads you to sit down across from him. Sinking back into the plush pillows and blankets you prop your head in your hand, watching him with a bored expression. Sucking in a deep breath, he rubs his hands along the surface of his jeans, avoiding your eyes for a moment. 

“I didn’t want our first kiss to be in some bar.” He chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck before finally meeting your eyes. “I didn’t want our first anything to be there. I wanted it to be somewhere like this, somewhere that actually meant something to us.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows. Then he leans closer, reaching across the space between you, his fingers curling around yours again. The warmth of his palm is comforting, even if you don’t let him see that. “I don’t want to lose my best friend. I don’t want to lose you, you have to believe me. What happened last night, it wasn’t me.”

Your expression hardens and you yank your hand from his, putting distance between you. Clark’s face flickers with hurt, but you ignore it. “Why should I believe anything you say, Clark? What happened last night was an eye-opener. Clearly, we’re better off just being friends.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, looking like you’ve just punched him in the gut. “You don’t mean that,” he murmurs. 

“Don’t I?”

Clark drops his head into his hands, fingers threading through his hair. His shoulders curl inward, and for a long while, he doesn’t speak. The silence between you stretches, thick with unspoken words. 

Maybe it would be better for you to just leave. Some space might do both of you good, and help you come to terms with the truth of it all. 

This was never going to work. 

Clark exhales slowly, then straightens, blue eyes meeting yours with an intensity that catches you off guard. “Alright,” he nods, some internal battle going on that you’re not privy to. “Stand by the window.”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head. “What?”

“Do it,” he tells you, tone firm, and you find yourself struggling for a reason not to listen. Finally, with a reluctant huff, you get up and go stand by the window. 

The golden fields stretch before you bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. The wheat sways gently in the evening breeze. Utterly boring and un-fascinating. 

You roll your eyes, “Clark, I swear-” 

A distant whistle cuts through the air. You whip around, expecting to see Clark behind you and instead find the loft empty. Your stomach tightens and you turn back to the window. A flicker of movement catches your attention, “What the…”

You press against the window, squinting at the field below. That’s when you see him. A very small Clark waves from the middle of the wheat, far too distant for how quickly he got there. Your breath catches and you find yourself waving back without thinking. 

There’s no possible way he crossed all that in under thirty seconds. 

But he’s not satisfied with just an impressive show of speed. Clark disappears and then reappears right below the barn window. Only, he’s not alone. 

Above his head, with terrifying ease, he’s holding a goddamn tractor. Your heart slams against your ribs. “Clark!” You shout, terrified this little stunt of his is going to end with him sandwiched into the dirt. He sets it down casually, as if it weighs nothing. 

A gust of wind pushes your hair forward and you turn sharply. Clark stands behind you now, cheeks flushed, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “What the hell was that?” You demand, eyes darting between him and the tractor outside.

“It’s what I wanted to tell you. What I’ve always wanted to tell you,” he concedes, his smile faltering slightly, his voice tinged with something vulnerable. 

Still stunned, you sink onto the couch as he begins to explain. About the crash landing. About his powers. How he’s different.  

Your best friend- your almost-boyfriend, is an alien. 

Of all the things racing through your mind, only one question comes to mind. “Why have you never told me?” You don’t ask him if he was from Jupiter or Mars, or if he’s got a secret eye hidden somewhere. You just want to know why he didn’t think he could trust you. 

Clark hesitates. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore. That you’d see me as some freak.”

You snort, “You’re an idiot is what you are.”

 His head snaps up, blinking at you in surprise. “Clark, why would I ever care about what planet you’re from?” You shake your head, a smile creeping onto your lips as you shift forward, kneeling in front of him. Your hands find his, squeezing slightly. Then, hesitantly, you reach up, cupping his cheek. A smile spreads across your face as he leans into the touch. “I care about you, not about what rocket you crash-landed in.”

“More of a pod,” he corrects and you shoot him a sharp look that makes him laugh. He sobers quickly, smile fading, “I understand if you can’t forgive me for last night.”

“Well,” you muse, tilting your head. “It wasn’t really you, right? It was that krypto- karo-”

“Kryptonite,” he grins a little at the way you stumble over the word. “And, yes, it was. I would never purposefully hurt you, but it’s not an excuse.”

“It’s actually the only acceptable excuse,” you tell him, rolling your eyes playfully. “That or evil twin.” Clark’s eyes widen slightly and you narrow yours. “Do you actually have an evil twin?” You shake your head, “Never mind, we’ll talk about that later.”

You glance up at the twinkling lights strung above, the warm glow making the loft feel impossibly soft, impossibly safe. “Clark?” You ask and he hums, already looking at you when you glance back at him. “We can always try that first kiss again.”

His smile, soft and sweet, mirrors your own. As you lean in, his arms circle your waist, pulling you gently into him. Your fingers thread through the soft tresses of his hair as his lips brush against yours, soft, lingering, right. 

This. This is what you knew it would feel like. This is home and safety, everything good in your life. You smile against Clark’s lips knowing that no matter what evil twins or toxic rocks come at you, you’ll face it together.

end. — I do not own the characters or the TV Show Smallville, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © scribes-of-valar 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Broken Machinery

Intermission

To be read after part five

Series masterlist

Connor RK800 x fem!reader

“Oh, no.”

“Is something wrong, detective?” 

“Yeah, something’s wrong.” You didn’t wait for Connor to open your door, you got out of the car and began heading towards where Hank was sitting. Connor closed the car door behind him and followed after you.

You hesitated behind the Lieutenant, your hand hovering over his shoulder as you stood behind the bench. You stood like that for a minute before you finally dropped your hand and turned around. There was a defeated slope to your shoulders as you sat down on the roundabout, staring out at nothing. 

Connor kept an eye on you while he walked over to the Lieutenant, there was already an empty bottle beside him, and he was starting on a new one. “Nice view, huh? I used to come here a lot before…” He paused, “You remember that, Y/N?”

Your voice was quiet, barely louder than the falling snow. “Yeah, I remember.” Connor looked between the two of you, neither of you were very interested in the idea of ‘opening up.’ However, the Lieutenant had been drinking, perhaps he would be more loose-tongued. 

“Before what?”

“Hm?”

“You said, ‘I used to come here a lot before.’ Before what?”

Hank stared down into the bottle, slowly swirling it before taking another sip. “Before… Before nothin’.” Your foot scraped across the ground as you twirled yourself slightly on the roundabout. Your posture was closed off, not defensive, just closed off. He would have no luck with you. 

Connor figured now would be a good time to ask the LIeutenant a question that had been bothering him. While things were obviously tense, there was a tranquility on the bridge that Connor rarely experienced around Hank. 

“Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”

Hank turned towards Connor, “Do all androids ask so many personal questions or is it just you?”

Connor didn’t think Hank would appreciate the truth behind his desired answer to that question. Plus, you had warned him recently to keep any thoughts that had been causing conflicts in his software to himself, that it would be safer for him. 

“I saw a photo of the detective and a young child in her bedroom.” Hank turned around and gave you a long look when Connor mentioned that he was in your bedroom. His brows were furrowed when he turned back to Connor. “The boy, it was your son, right?”

“Yeah… His name was Cole.” Connor already knew that, but telling the Lieutenant that wouldn’t do any good. “And the girl in the picture had been my daughter, not anymore.” Connor turned towards you at the sound of a sniffle, but your back was to the both of them as you had spun to the opposite side of where they were standing. He could vaguely make out the shape of your shoulders shaking through the snow. 

Connor needed something else to think about, his humans were too emotional, too complicated. It was in turn making his mission more complicated. “We’re not making any progress on this investigation… The deviants have nothing in common. They’re all different models, produced at different times, in different places.”

Hank didn’t seem truly interested in what Connor had to say, but he entertained his musings nonetheless. “Well, there must be some link.”

Your voice was still quiet, but you spoke up loud enough for both of them to hear, “rA9,” Connor waited a moment to see if you wanted to elaborate on your thoughts. You remained silent. 

“They do share a similar obsession, it’s almost as if it’s a myth. Or a god to them. Like it’s something they invented that wasn’t part of their original program.”

“Androids believing in God… Fuck, what’s this world coming to?”

“You seem preoccupied, Lieutenant… Is it something to do with what happened back at the Eden Club?” Your head perked up slightly in the background and you angled yourself so you could hear their conversation more clearly. It seemed his actions at the club hadn’t confused only him. 

“Those two girls, they just wanted to be together… They really seemed in love,” the idea appeared to distress the Lieutenant. 

“They can simulate human emotions, but they’re machines. And machines don’t feel anything,” perhaps reminding the Lieutenant of that fact would ease his troubles and make him a more agreeable partner. Towards both Connor and you. 

“What about you, Connor?” You had finally made your way over to the bench, keeping a clear distance between yourself and the Lieutenant. 

The Lieutenant finished his drink and stood from the bench, “Yeah, you look human, you sound human, but what are you really?” Both pairs of eyes were boring intently into his. 

Whatever he said next could make or break the trust he had been building back up, he looked towards you. He knew what you wanted to hear, he knew exactly what to say that would make you warm up to him again. But he had promised, he had promised to be honest and not to manipulate your emotions. 

For some reason that meant something to him. 

So, he went with what he felt was the truth. “You know exactly what I am.” Your face dropped and Hank’s got angrier. “In any case, I don’t see how that’s relevant to the investigation.”

“You could have shot those two girls-“

“But you didn’t.” It was a bit unnerving to have you and the Lieutenant finishing each other's thoughts. Perhaps this is a method you used on perps when you interrogated them, corner them and trap them into the truth. 

“Why didn’t you shoot, Connor?” Hank shoved him back and you stepped forward, stopping yourself for a moment and letting everything play out. “Hm? Some scruples suddenly enter into your program?”

He looked towards you again, you had moved a step closer. He could practically see what you were thinking. 

Tell the truth. Please. 

“No… I just decided not to shoot, that’s all…”

“Oh, Connor,” he thought you would be happy, he told the truth. Instead you seemed incredibly sad and he didn’t like that. Your eyes widened and then your eyebrows turned down in anger at the sight of Hank pulling his gun. “Hank, what the hell are you doing?”

He ignored you, seemingly having only enough mental capacity to focus on one thing, Connor. “But, are you afraid to die, Connor?”

“I would certainly find it regrettable to be… interrupted… before I can finish this investigation.”

You were slowly moving closer to the two trying to figure out how to stop Hank. “Put the gun down.”

“What will happen if I pull this trigger? Hm? Nothing? Oblivion? Android Heaven?”

The idea of Android heaven was preposterous, but that wouldn’t get Hank to put the gun down. He needed to do it soon as you seemed ready to jump in between the two of them. “Where does all this anger come from, Lieutenant? Some unresolved trauma in your past?” He knew the answer, it was Cole and whatever had caused the rift between you two. 

“Connor, stop.” You had stopped trying to intervene now, staring at him with hurt swirling in your eyes. 

“You think you’re so fucking smart,” his finger tightened on the trigger. “Always one step ahead, huh? Tell me this, smart ass… How do I know you’re not a deviant? The way you hover around Y/N, your mercy towards those two girls back there…”

“I self-test regularly, I know what I am and what I am not.” 

That wasn't truly an answer but it seemed to work for the Lieutenant. His hand shook before the gun fell back to his side. Hank moved back towards the bench, picking up another bottle. 

You watched him walk away, “Where are you going?”

“To get drunker… I need to think.” Both you and Connor watched him get in his car and drive away. 

You rocked back on your feet and tucked your hands in your pockets. 

“Guess we’re walking home.”

“DAD!” 

You couldn’t see.

Why couldn’t you see? 

There was a red film over your eyes and when you went to rub it away, you couldn’t move. There was something digging in your cheek, glass judging from the pile of it next to your face. What was going on?

You don’t remember what happened, the last thing you remember was getting into a fight with Hank about joining the force. He didn’t want you to, he thought it was too dangerous. 

And then there was something loud. 

A scream

You screamed

Why?

Because there was a noise, an awful noise, like metal scraping on pavement. 

What the hell happened?

“Cole! Cole, wake up!”

Your hands were pinned under your body, half of you was on asphalt, and when you tilted your head down you saw your legs on the grass. There was a strange warmth running down your face, you could see bone sticking out of your calf and blood pooling beneath it. 

There was a strange calmness as you tried to move your legs and failed. In the back of your mind you knew that wasn’t good, that your life was about to be changed forever. But you couldn’t break through the fog in your mind long enough to freak out.

You lifted your hand and dragged your arms out from underneath you, your skin catching on the pavement. There were two shapes in front of you in the middle of the road. Your vision was still blurry but you could recognize the close cut hair of your dad, and he was holding something small in his arms. 

It wasn’t moving, you felt like it should be. 

There were bright lights and smoky smells surrounding you, hands were tugging at your arms, but all you could see was the stillness in Hank’s arms. The small shape that should be moving, but wasn’t.

Again that small voice in your head was screaming, in pain or in anger, you weren’t sure. 

Nothings ever gonna be the same, is it?

“Y/N! Y/N!” Your hand lashed out, and connected with something hard.

It was hard to see in the dark, but you could make out the vague shape of Connor standing in front of your bed. “Connor?” Your voice was hoarse from being quiet for so long. 

“You were having a nightmare,” he reached out and turned your lamp back on. Your eyes momentarily closed from the shock of the brightness. “Are you okay, you sounded upset?”

You sat up on your bed, your head in your hands, the dream slowly coming back to you. “It was that night.” Connor’s jacket was gone, his sleeves rolled up. Normally the sight would have made you a little irrational but you were still feeling emotionally wrecked. 

He sat next to you on the bed, “What night?” There was a comforting hand on your shoulder, his thumb moving in slow circles as he worked to calm you down. 

You could barely hear your own voice as you whispered, “The night Cole died.”

“Why can’t I feel my legs?”

“Please try and remain calm-”

“Where’s my dad? My little brother was with us. Have you found him? Are they okay?!”

The MP600 paramedic stared down at you blankly, it’s human counterpart looked worried as he wrapped the gash on your leg. “Answer me god dammit! Why won’t you look at me?”

The paramedic’s movements stopped for a moment and he looked at you, finally. You immediately wished he hadn’t, you wished he would just go back to pretending you didn’t exist. You knew the answer by the look in his eyes. 

The look that told you he’s had to break this type of news to someone one too many times, there was no hope, no light, nothing there to comfort you as you rode to the hospital, silently sobbing into your hands from both pain and anguish. 

Words were going in and out of your head, the sound of the heart monitor was background noise to the doctor speaking to you. You still hadn’t seen Dad, or Carla, or Cole.

No one was there to hold your hand as you were told you might never walk again. 

That a nerve had been damaged in your spine that might result in lifelong paralysis. 

“Y/N? Y/N!” Carla rushed into the room, sweeping you into a hug. You ignored the pain in your ribs and the clear absence of pain in your legs as you returned the embrace ten-fold. “Oh god, I was so worried, no one’s telling me anything. I wasn’t even sure you were alive until an android told me where you were.”

You were crying into her shoulder, so grateful for a familiar face that wasn’t a cold doctor or a frantic nurse. 

“Where’s dad, is he okay? Cole?” Carla pulled back, brushing some stray hairs from your forehead as tears lined her eyes. 

“Your dad’s okay, he’s just getting patched up. Cole,” her voice broke and your heart crumpled. “Cole’s in surgery, they have an android working on him. On my son.”

Disbelief colored your features and you could hear your heartbeat pick up on the machine. “What, why?”

She shook her head and went back to tenderly brushing the hair out of your eyes. 

Carla had came into your life after Hank, she’d cared for you and you loved her but she’d never been your mother. Now her only child was in the hands of something that wasn’t alive, it couldn’t feel empathy. If it failed its mission it wouldn't keep pushing to save Cole like a human might, it would simply give up. 

There was a horrible feeling in your gut, burning and twisting around your insides until you became physically ill. You threw up all over yourself. Carla rubbed your back as the nurses came in and cleaned up. You held each other as you both cried. 

It wasn’t until Hank walked in did you realize just how worried you had been for him. 

“Dad,” his eyes were vacant as he walked into your room. There was no relief like there was with Carla, he stared straight through you. “Dad?”

He shook his head, an empty smile on his face. “Hey, kiddo.” The nickname felt wrong, sounded fake. He just stood in the doorway of your hospital room. 

“Hank, what are you doing?” Carla seemed to pick up on the strange behavior too. He stared at you a moment longer, there was a gash across his eye and a bandage wrapped around his arm. 

It seemed he’d escaped unharmed compared to you and Cole.

The thought came with such a burning amount of rage and hatred it startled you. 

Hank walked out of the room, “Hank!” Carla looked at you, giving your hand a comforting squeeze. “I’ll be right back honey.” You didn’t see either of them for another four hours. 

“I’ll never forget the sound of her cry, Connor. It echoes around in my mind when everything’s too quiet.” 

His hand squeezed yours as he pulled you into his side.

There was a strange wailing, the noise woke you up. It ripped through the hospital and shook its foundation. Your entire body stilled at the raw visceral pain in the noise. It was terrifying, like you were being held down by some unknown force as you tried to get up. 

Then you remembered, your legs were the deadweight holding you down. The thought left you choking back a sob.

Why could you still feel an ache in them, an itch you couldn’t scratch?

There was another horrible noise and you finally forced yourself to roll over. There was a wheelchair waiting for you next to the bed, you almost threw up at the thought of having to use it. Something stopped you from completely flopping off the bed. 

You ripped the IV out, “Fuck!” That looks so much less painful in the movies.

You put the guard rail down and finally managed to get into the wheelchair. Your arms were still sore from the impact they took, you pushed through it as you rolled down the hall. 

Your room was close enough to the waiting room that it didn’t take too long to see who had been screaming. The entire time your heart was begging you to turn back around, to just get back in bed and rot there. That, that would be better than whatever you were about to see. 

Some nights, you wished you had listened. 

Carla was on her knees, clutching onto Hank as the doctor spoke in low tones. You barely held back the bile at the sight of their faces.

Hank, you’d never seen him like that before, so lost, so unsure of himself. Like every grain of goodness and light and hope inside him had just been ripped out and run over. 

Carla was a shrieking animal on the floor. You knew what that meant. 

Cole was gone. 

“My condolences,” you nodded, eyes on your hands so you didn’t have to look into the eyes of whoever was mourning. You couldn’t do it anymore, you couldn’t deal with the pity as they looked at your wheelchair and then at your father who was still sitting in the pews, bottle in hand. 

You felt hands on your shoulders and looked up, Carla’s once kind eyes, now sad, were staring down at you. “It’s time.” You nodded and she started rolling you towards the taxi waiting at the curb. 

Time to bury your baby brother. 

Time to bury your heart. 

TIme for the final nail on the coffin of what used to be a happy family. 

“He was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Hank’s eyes found yours from where he was giving his speech.

The bottle had been disposed of before he joined you in the taxi. You didn’t know if his eyes were red from the drink or from the tears currently pouring out.

“He was so young, so much potential and it was just ripped away from us! From me.” You looked away, wiping your eyes. “How dare you?” 

Your head shot up, looking for who he was talking to. You would assume God, if it didn’t sound so pointed. “How dare you sit there and fucking cry?” 

No, please no.

He was staring at you, finger pointed at you. “You’re alive and hes dead and you’re fucking crying?!”

“Hank, that’s enough.” He shoved Jeffery off of him, if he wasn’t mourning, the captain probably would have taken his badge. 

“No! He’s gone because of you! And you sit there crying like you have any right too?” There were gasps going around the people surrounding the coffin. You and Carla were the only ones who weren’t surprised. 

You’d heard this drunken rage a hundred times since the night of the accident. 

Hank stumbled towards you, “I wish you had been the one who died.”

Your chest caved in and your heart shattered at your feet. The rest of the funeral was a high-ringing blur of pain.

Carla didn’t stay long. You didn’t blame her. 

But you didn’t have the luxury of leaving.

Your admittance letter to the academy stared at you every morning as you wheeled yourself into the bathroom. For months you stewed in misery and depression, you didn’t go to PT and you cried yourself to sleep every night as you heard Hank’s drunken raging outside your room. 

Sumo would climb in your bed and snuggle you on the really hard nights. 

The only reason you kept going was because if you died no one else would be there to love him or feed him. 

You wondered sometimes, if it was your fault. Had you really been so distracting when you were arguing with Hank that he had crashed?

Had it not been for you making him pick you up from a friend's house right after Cole’s karate lesson, they wouldn’t have been on that road. 

Maybe things would be better off without you.

“Get up!” A pillow hit you in the head, you buried your face further into your sheets, now more used to the dead weight beneath your waist. Another pillow, a familiar scent attached to this one. 

“Carla?”

“That’s right, get your ass up.” Hank must be gone, he’d gone back to work a little while ago, it meant you had the mornings to yourself. You sat up and stared at her in wonder. 

Carla had helped you for as long as she stayed, picking you up off the floor when you couldn’t make it onto the toilet in time. Bathed you and helped you get fed. After she had left there were a lot of humiliating mornings of sitting in your own filth because you hadn’t been able to get on and off the toilet on your own. 

You’d stopped trying after a while, just held it until it was too painful to keep it in. Stopped eating and drinking. You knew you looked awful, hair unwashed, and barely any meat left on your bones. 

“Ay dios mio,” Carla sat down and clutched you to her chest, embracing you despite the stink and the lack of enthusiasm on your side.

Eventually you managed enough strength to hug her back, the moment a painful reminder of the night your life ended. 

“Carla took me to physical therapy, helped me find a place on my own and figure out how to navigate my new life.” Your hand was holding Connor’s, you had been tracing shapes on it for a while now as you spoke. 

He was just staring at you, letting you talk it all out. “She helped me find a therapist, a lot of my physical problems were the result of mental blocks. That’s not to say I was magically healed once I realized I was traumatized, it was at least a year before I could stand with support.”

“Where are you going?” Hank was sober, rare these days. 

You had borrowed Carla’s van, she’d left an hour ago knowing Hank would be home soon. A box was in your lap as you wheeled yourself to the door, Hank was standing there, Sumo’s tail wagging happily beneath him. 

You could feel your face drain of color as you stared up at him. This was your last box and you’d really been hoping you would be able to get Carla’s van out of the driveway before he got home. “Um, I’m leaving.”

Hank closed the door behind him, you cried internally, knowing this would go bad. He threw his jacket on the table, his bag landing next to it. He reached for a glass and you started wheeeling yourself backwards, but he only got some water from the tap. 

“Was that Carla’s car outside?”

Your throat felt like sandpaper while you answered, “Yeah, she took me to physical therapy today, said I could borrow it. Self-driving, so I don’t have to worry about the pedals.” He already knew that, but you needed to say something to fill the silence. 

“How’s that going, the physical therapy?”

“Fine.”

This house is no longer a home. 

The thought nearly had you doubled over in grief. You didn’t think it was possible to lose so much in one night, but you should know better. It had already happened to you once. 

Maybe Hank was right, maybe you were a curse, a burden on any family you were involved with. Everyone you loved was doomed to die or leave. 

“I’m getting some feeling in my leg’s back. I can stand for about thirty seconds,” he turned back towards you, arms crossed and staring down at you. He hadn’t shaved in a while and his hair was starting to grow out of its usually cropped style. He was gaining weight too. 

“Thirty seconds?”

You flushed, feeling the need to defend yourself, “It’s a lot for someone who was never supposed to walk again.”

He nodded and the silence suffocated you. He was only twenty feet from you but he felt miles away. Like there was a never ending divide between the two of you. “I’m moving out.” You needed this to be done. You’d survived this heartbreak before, you would do it again. 

His gaze shot back to yours, “What?”

The hurt in his voice made you wish you had delivered the news more gently. “I found a place, it’s only a couple minutes away, rents cheap-”

“You don’t even have a job.” 

“Fowler helped me out, he’s letting me do some filing before I can retake the academy’s exam.” If I can retake the academy’s exam. Recovery wasn’t promised. “It’s enough for food and rent.”

“Were you going to tell me?” Were you? You had been planning on just leaving a note and going. 

“I didn’t think you’d care,” Hank scoffed and this time the glass he filled was with whiskey. By the time he turned around you had already left, the last of your things packed away in the car. You’d seen him running out onto the driveway as the car had taken you to your new home. 

There was a painful chasm in your heart at the sight of him watching you leave.

“I walked today, on my own, I didn’t have to use the bars or anything.” Your fingers fiddled with the edge of your comforter as you spoke to Carla. “I still feel like it’s not enough.”

“Más vale maña que fuerza, your physical body is not more important than your spirit, Y/N. If you can’t celebrate the small victories you're never going to heal. That’s a lot. I’m proud of you.” 

There were tears in your eyes and a thickness in your throat as you said goodbye and hung up. 

Fowler had been keeping you and Hank as separated as possible, different shifts, different days. But there was still the rare interaction. The both of you in the kitchen at the same time for coffee, Hank having to witness Gavin’s horrible attempts at flirting.

Sometimes when Gavin would give you a particularly bad pick-up line you and Hank would share a look that made your chest ache with a phantom pain of when you could laugh together about things like that. 

He looked pained every time he saw your cane. 

“On my honor, I will never betray my integrity, my character or the public trust. I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions. I will always maintain the highest ethical standards and uphold the values of my community, and the agency I serve.”

Carla was waiting for you with flowers after you were sworn in. She took you out to dinner and tried to distract you so you wouldn’t notice who was missing. She’d said goodnight and dropped you back at the station so you could grab your stuff and get your car. 

“You did it.” Hank was waiting at your desk, his coat in his hands.

“I did.”

“I’m,” sorry? Proud of me? You were honestly getting pissed off he was even talking to you. Months of radio silence and now, now, on your big night he wants to talk.

“Congratulations.” 

You scoffed, “Thanks, your heartfelt words mean so much to me, dad.” Perhaps it was cruel, perhaps you were being petty. You didn’t care, he was reopening the wound in your heart and it was weeping.

You’d worked so hard and for so long to heal yourself, you wouldn’t have him ruining that progress for you simply because he was, what? Bored? Trying to ease some guilt? 

“Hey, I’m trying, okay?” Fuck that and fuck him.

“Damage is done Hank, too little too late. I’m done with you. You turned into the person you saved me from.” Maybe that was too much, comparing him to the abusive shitbag that was your foster father. You told yourself you didn’t care, but the tears in your eyes at the sight of his distraught expression betrayed you. 

He walked away and while you were weak and in pain Gavin had appeared, asking if you were okay. 

You weren’t proud of what you did that night with him, of what you gave to him.

“Hank? Hello?” 

You’d made detective today, and Fowler, in his limited wisdom, thought Hank would be a good partner.

You know it hurt for him to see his best friend change so much, but seriously? 

Hank?

“You used to call me dad, you know that?”

Drunk. Again. Why’d he call you?

Why did you come?

“Come on, up you go.” You helped him to his feet and managed to get him to the couch before you collapsed under his weight. 

“When’d you stop being my little girl?”

Your heart clenched, but it was a distant pain, not as bad as it used to be. “When you stopped being my dad.”

Hank swung out in a dramatic gesture, just barely missing you, “That’s ridiculous. I never stopped, you, you’re not the same anymore.” You could say the same, but there’s no point in arguing with him when he’s like this. He leaned in close, examining your features. “You’re not her. You’re not my daughter, she died. She’s gone. This person, this you, I hate. I hate you because of what you took from me.”

There were tears clawing their way up your throat. Yet you still untied his shoes and grabbed him a blanket.

You still took care of him. 

“Get out! Get out of my house! It’s your fault they’re gone, I don’t want you around!” He threw his bottle, it just barely missed your head. Sumo started barking and he started grabbing more things to throw. You ran out the door, his drunken screams still following you. 

You ran and you kept running. 

At least you could do that. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

A/N: Is she talking to Connor, or to Hank?

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.