#it's the damn rating pistol man.......

[daz4i]

ik that elation emanator sampo is a known (possibly confirmed??) theory but why did we all move on so quickly from remembrance emanator march

[grandlinedreams]

|| this man is an exposed live wire in my brain ok

|| notes: uhh prequel to [this] and [this], semi Canon compliant, pre-s1 but mentions of pre-war Cooper, I love the dynamic 😔👌✨️

|| warnings: hopefully IC Cooper, asshole x asshole dynamic we love to see it, weapons/supply dealer!reader, Canon typical violence, mention of blood/reader is injured kinda, spoilers? Abt Cooper's backstory, kinda enemies to friends/lovers

He doesn't know why he's here.

No, that's a lie ㅡ he does know why he's here, he just doesn't want to admit it. To himself, or to anyone else, for that matter. That he needs help.

Those fancy little bullets for his gun are hard to come by, few and far between when he can't get them by looting and places like Ma June's enjoy extorting as much as they can for so very little.

There's a difference between business transactions and highway robbery, even now. Which is why he's here ㅡ he'd gotten talk about a place that sold weapons and weapon-related supplies at a fair rate, and necessity had made him swallow his pride to go and find out for himself.

Which is why he's not just turning around and fuckin' leaving.

The building is crammed between two others, as ramshackle as the rest being made of recycled tin and wood that's rotted by time and rain in places, but still suggests a stability that won't crumble if somebody breathes too hard on it.

Cooper's spurs jingle as he walks, lost momentarily to the chime of something over his head when he pushes the door open. He looks up, forehead creasing.

Is that a bell?

Rusted but still in working order, it clatters again when he shuts the door, looking around. It's about as put together as any other kind of shop, an eclectic organization to it ㅡ a couple of rifles, a pistol or two, along with an admittedly impressive assortment of knives ㅡ but it's the shine of something on the floor that makes Cooper stop.

His head cocks as he studies the stain, the still-slick shimmer to it that makes him crouch and drag two gloved fingers against it, studying the residue. Coppery, with a hefty dose of some kind of chem to clean it, but still unmistakable ㅡ blood.

Well damn. He doesn't know what's happened here and he's pretty sure he doesn't care to, much beyond the fact that if the runner of this place is dead, that puts a damper on things. Or maybe not ㅡ if nobody's here, what's to stop him from taking what he wants?

"If you're thinkin' of stealing," comes a call that snaps his head up as it echoes from further back in the building, "I'd advise you not to. Less you wanna meet your maker, then I'd be happy to assist."

It's a flat bravado that both amuses him and piques his interest, and he leans against the counter to rap his knuckles. "Not stealin'," he drawls, "just wonderin' what kind of business model you've got if you make customers wait."

"The kind where patience is still a virtue, that's what." Foosteps, unhurried ㅡ and then Cooper is staring at you as you round the corner. You've got a jumpsuit of some indistinguishable color opened to rest around your hips, dingy tank-top underneath ㅡ and a stimpak in your hand. No doubt for the mess of your other arm, bicep wrapped with gauze that's already seeped into a bloom of bright red.

Well now. Cooper wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but you still manage to surprise him. Enough that he's staring, which makes you scowl.

"I know that look," you challenge, "if you think I'm easy picking, you'll get a new place to breathe from, courtesy of the hole I'll put in your head."

Cooper's head cocks. "Well now sugar," he says, "that's not very nice now, is it? Wasn't even thinkin' of that." He turns, jerks a thumb at the half-assed cleaning of the mess on the floor. "That's your doin', I reckon."

You nod. "Don't get trouble much," you say, "but when I do, I make sure to prove a point." You jam the stimpak into your arm, and he watches the tension melt from your shoulders. "Now, what can I do for you besides point out the exit?"

Well damn, Cooper thinks again. You've got a pretty face, but it's at odds with the attitude coming from that nice little mouth of yours. About as welcoming as a rattlesnake and probably just as quick to anger, from the way you bristle as he eyes you.

"Need supplies," he says, and you snort.

"What a wellspring of information you are. What kind of supplies?" You eye him, brow furrowing. "You're a bounty hunter, aren't you? Get your kind in here all the time." You tap a worn boot against the floor, hands now on your hips. "Hope you got means to pay for shit, because I don't do tab and I sure as fuck don't do charity work."

Cooper isn't sure if he likes you or he hates you. Bit of both, he guesses. The like is tentative and the hate is more solid ground, because he hates just about everybody. Makes it easier to do what needs to be done.

"Well, sweetheart," he leans into the counter, tips his hat, "depends on what you got to show me that's worth buyin'."

You stare, unimpressed by whatever angle he's going for. He's handsome, you'll give him that ㅡ but not much else. He also reminds you of somebody, with that hat of his and the way he talks ㅡ the low, drawn out drawl that you've only seen in those movies you manage to scrounge up here and there for your amusement.

Rolling your eyes, you hold up a finger and shrug your arms back into the jumpsuit, though you don't bother to zip it up. "Gimme a sec."

You don't know why you're doing this. Entertaining the notion that if you show him good enough product, he'll become a regular. You like regulars, but most of what you get seem to run on about six months worth of visits and then vanish.

Probably dead. Such is the way of the world, and it's still enough to get by. But you like new faces.

To his credit, he doesn't flinch when you slap the first pack onto the counter, followed by a second, and then a third.

"This is baseline stuff," you explain. "Your usual grade of bullet. Black powder, the standard kick." You shove the first pack at him, let him inspect the bullets. "Then you've got these."

The second pack shoved over, thin fabric parted so he can eye the neat little row of what would be hollow-point bullets if they didn't end with a tiny, pointed bulb of red glass.

"Explosive rounds." Your expression is unreadable. "They do the job, but they need special packing. Unless you wanna be blown up before the damn things even get loaded into the gun."

Cooper hums, eyes the bullet he holds up, the barely there shift of powder in the glass. He watches as you push the third over. "And these?"

"Same, but they pack even more of a punch. I'd recommend only shooting them at shit you want up in smoke." You shrug. "Or people, deathclaws, whatever the fuck you do out there."

Cooper studies you. "Where did you get this stuff? Thought bullets were hard to come by."

You give him a flat look of annoyance. "I make 'em myself."

Cooper stares, then smirks. Another little tip to his head. "Really now," he says, watches you bristle like a viper, ready to strike. Wonders if those fangs of yours pack a punch, what he'd need to do to get you to spit at him. "How 'bout you show me, darlin'? Wanna make sure what I buy is good quality."

You should tell him to shove it. Tell him to get the absolute fuck out of your shop, take his fuckin' yeehaw personality to someone else in the mood to deal with it ㅡ but you don't.

Instead, you sigh and tug the packages back, moving away from the counter. "Well c'mon then," you prompt, irritated. "Don't have all goddamn day."

The back of your shop is half a home and half a workshop, sprawled mess of equipment rusted with time but otherwise well maintained, smell of grease and hot metal and gunpowder that clings to everything.

You don't have to look back to know he's followed you, the jingle of his spurs as he takes his time, eyes missing nothing. The boxes of empty casings and empty glass bulbs ㅡ and the Mister Handy that's slumped in the corner, sparks spitting from it.

"Poor thing got shot first with that...situation earlier." Your voice is quiet. "Gotta fix 'im if I can."

Kind of funny, you sound sadder about the damn machine than the fact you'd killed someone over it. Then again, they'd been trying to kill you, so...eh. Justified, in your book.

The rest of the room is a haphazard attempt at something like a house ㅡ a couch with blankets on it, a short stack of books gone yellow at the edges, a coffee table ㅡ and sitting on it is a shitty little television, staticy and without color ㅡ but that doesn't matter. What matters to Cooper is that he knows what it's playing.

Your flitting around fades a little as he watches himself on screen ㅡ forever ago, a lifetime ago. Before the bombs, before vault-tec ㅡ when he'd been happy.

He'd loved his life, his family ㅡ and they'd loved him too.

"I've got enough stuff to make another round of flash-baㅡ" You stop, blinking at the way he's staring at the television. "Somethin' wrong? I know this isn't much, but it's my way of living, soㅡ"

"Stop your yappin'," Cooper rasps, and you glare as he shakes himself out of whatever reverie he was lost in. You scowl.

"Look, I know this doesn't seem like much of anything, but this is my business, and my shop." Your eyes narrow. "So try to be a little fuckin' nicer if you want me to sell you anything."

Whatever patience he'd had left promptly snaps like a bowstring as he snatches your arm, grips it tighter than he should. "Listen, sweetheart," he hisses, "what exactly is stopping me from just takin' what I want and leaving?"

Something whirrs behind him, distracts him just enough for the cool, sharp kiss of metal at his throat.

"Do it," you taunt, expression unreadable, grip tight on the blade you hold to his neck. "You're not the first one to try, and you won't be the last."

And there, Cooper notes, are your fangs, ready to sink into his skin. The two of you stare at each other for a good, long minute while the Mister Handy spits and sputters. And then Cooper huffs something like a laugh. "Glad to see you've got some bite to you, darlin', but I still think I could handle you."

A threat and something a little less hostile all in one, even as you yank your arm out of his grasp. "You couldn't handle me even if I came with a fuckin' manual," you snap back, but there's a playful gleam to your eyes. "You gonna buy anything or just lookin' to be a pain in my ass?"

A crooked grin tugs at Cooper's mouth. "Both."

ㅡ

The truce between the two of you is tentative. An understanding in the barest sense, because neither of you are dumb enough to pass up a lucrative, beneficial deal. He gets his supplies, you get caps. Simple.

You won't go as far as to say you're even friends, up until the point that you greet him on a visit with, "You know, you remind me of somebody."

He eyes you. "Really now. And who would that be, sweetheart? You workin' with more ghouls than just me?"

You snort. "Careful," you tease, "you almost sound jealous." Your tone quiets as you drum your fingers on the counter. "Nah, you remind me of that one actor, Cooper Howard."

Cooper stills. Watches you warily, turning a spent bullet casing over and over between gloved fingers.

"He played a cowboy," you say, nodding to yourself. "Talked like you do, too. Good movies, at least the ones I've gotten my hands on." You eye him, playful light to your eyes. "Wouldn't happen to be a fan of him too, would you?"

Cooper debates. He's not sure if you've put the pieces together and if you have, you're polite enough not to say it. He appreciates that, makes that fleeting temptation of putting a bullet in your head all the more temporary. He likes you. Be a shame if he had to cut ties.

"No," he answers. "I can safely say he and I are nothin' alike." Not anymore. He lets himself lean over the counter, too close to your face. Intimidation, maybe, or perhaps just because he likes being able to look at you like this. "Got anythin' else to tell me?"

Your eyes flick over his face, down to his lips as you lean a little closer, the suggestion of your mouth just shy of his. "Yeah," you murmur, quiet. "Next time you come by, work on your fuckin' manners."

[cinnbar-bun]

The Heartless Giant Pt. 3

Pairing: Crocodile x GN! Royal! Reader

Rating: SFW

Word Count: ~3.9k

Summary: You try to get the cigar for the giant, and uncover a few tidbits from the past that leave you with more questions than answers....

Notes: Smoking. Uhhhhh don't smoke if you don't want to I know I made it sound cool here but do recognize they're not that cool and also that you don't need to smoke. Reader is kinda convinced to try it once.

Part 1 Part 2 AO3

Taglist: @gingernut1314 @fanaticsnail @leafyturtle @pookiesnatcher @lolom

Procuring a cigar would not be difficult to achieve. Procuring a cigar that your father would enjoy, however,  was a different matter. You had heard your brothers discussing the outrageous costs of them before- they were so expensive and special that other royal or noble families had presented them as gifts or tributes to your father. He rarely ever smoked, but on the few occasions he did, it was always with those expensive cigars. 

You knew where he kept them, in a small, cedar humidor in his study on the third shelf. That was the easy part but taking them from the box would be difficult. The humidor was locked with a tiny key, a fact you knew after your brothers attempted to steal from his stash when they were young teenagers. Considering your father was almost always in his study, it would be hard to sneak in and look for the key.

For a moment, you thought about just giving the man in the cell a cheap cigar to stave him off. Surely, he wouldn’t know better, would he?  

You sighed and shook your head at your own foolishness. The man was in the lowest cells and could kill you without flinching. Why were you going to test his patience by giving him an obvious fraud? You walked past the door to the study, contemplating what to do next when your father stepped out of the office with a raised brow. 

“Ah, (Y/n), good afternoon,” he smiled as his eyes met yours. 

“Father, good afternoon,” you smile back, before the gears in your mind start spinning as an idea forms in your head. “What are you doing?” 

“Oh, I was just thinking of taking a stroll around the gardens. Care to join me?” He asked politely. 

“Sorry, I have to decline today. I was going to read,” you fib to throw him off. “May I see one of your diplomacy books?” 

Your father shrugged and motioned toward the door. “Feel free to, the books are always for you to enjoy.” 

You grin and thank him, waving him off as he begins to descend to the gardens. You close the door to his study and breathe a sigh in relief. What good fortune you had to have gotten the study clear so easily. You wait a brief moment to make sure your father doesn’t come back before you grab the humidor from the shelf and then rummage through his desk. On top is a bunch of files and reports talking about budgets and possible forecasts- rain should be expected soon as well as a bountiful harvest- and his “lucky” pen he adores so much. 

In the drawers is nothing but mementos of you and your brothers. Stationary. More pens. Clips, stamps, ink, folders, and old papers. No key. 

You sigh and get frustrated as you open the last drawer, gasping as you see only a flintlock pistol inside. The pistol is shiny, obviously well-kept and maintained. You’ve been into this office many times, yet you never knew such a weapon would be kept here. 

It made sense, you tried to assure yourself, but the fact your father always had this pistol and maintained it made a shiver run down your spine. You closed the drawer without a second thought, not wanting to think of the implications of such a thing being in there. 

Still, no key. You frantically looked at the shelves for any sign or hint of a key. Nothing. You glanced at the humidor and angrily tried to pry it open with force. Barbaric? Perhaps. It was similar to something your brothers would do, but you knew you didn’t have much time to waste if you wanted to get the answers your mind was screaming for. 

Damn that man and his need for expensive cigars!

As you were continuing to scuffle with a box, the door to the study opened wide as your father stood at the door. 

You gasped and flung yourself back, accidentally bumping into an armored statue that he had near his desk. You knew you had been caught, your hands were all over the crime scene and the guilty look on your face did nothing to give you even a semblance of plausible deniability. You nervously raised your eyes from the ground to look at your father, but instead of an angry or accusatory expression, he seems quite amused. 

“My, my, I didn’t expect you would be so bold as to snoop through my office like that,” he said with a low chuckle. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, knowing your cover has been blown. He hadn’t been gone long at all, barely even a few minutes, yet the way he snorted seemed to confirm everything he needed to know. 

“You were that desperate to smoke?” He asked. 

“No…” you begin. 

“Ah. Were you attempting to get them for your brothers?” Your father questions. Your eyes widen when you realize you couldn’t deny it, since he’d get more suspicious of your intentions. 

“Maybe,” you lie. 

“I didn’t take you for someone who wanted to smoke,” he rubbed his chin. “Then again, I guess it would be silly for me to assume you would remain the same as when you were a young child. Although, lying to me to sneak in did hurt me a bit.” 

“How did you know?” You ask. Your father chuckles again. 

“You and your brothers have been acting suspicious all day. I figured something must have been going on. I also know that you have plenty of books on diplomacy, many of which I already own here. You would not gain anything new, so I wanted to see what you were really planning.” 

You sigh, forgetting that your father- although a noble and gentle man- could be so observant and calculating in his plans. “Well, you weren’t called the ‘Hero King’ for nothing, I suppose.” 

“Now, now, I may be your father, but even when I was a young lad, I too liked to indulge in some bad behavior,” your father says, walking over to his shelf. “If you would have looked a bit closer…” 

He pulls out a red book titled A Key to Diplomacy and hands it to you. The book is rather light despite its size. 

“I don’t really need this-” 

“Just open it,” he sagely nods. You’re confused by what he’s trying to do before you open the book and find the inside of it is hollow. In the hollowed book, there is a small key. You pull it out and your father nudges his heads towards the humidor. 

“I had it hidden in there since I doubted your brothers would ever try to open a book like that.” 

You laugh at the absurdity of this situation as you open the humidor. Your father leans over to grab two cigars and a cigar cutter. 

“Two?” You comment, while your father begins to light one up. 

“I figured since you were so curious, I could allow you the chance to try one. Lord knows I need one.” 

He brings the cigar to his mouth while he hands you the other one. You watch as he inhales the tobacco and exhales a large puff of smoke. The smell is strong, wafting and covering the room in a short amount of time. It’s a bit intimidating, but you continue to watch. 

“Do you really feel better after smoking one?” You ask curiously. 

“I think I do. Maybe it’s the fact I’m doing something else besides paperwork that eases me. Or maybe I put it in my head that it does. I can’t be certain, but I can assure you that a nice cigar does relax me when times are tough,” your father admits, tapping the cigar against the ashtray. 

You look down at the cigar in your hands as your thoughts drift to the man in the cellar. Is that why he was desperate for a cigar of all things? Does it really ease his mind? 

“You’re off thinking again,” your father comments. 

“What?” You ask, focusing back on your father. 

“You’ve had a dazed look on you since the morning. Are you troubled by something?” He asked with a gentle and sympathetic look in his eyes. 

“Oh… no, I just was thinking of… things,” you try to say. 

“Do you wish to speak of these ‘things’?” “No, father. I’m sorry. I’ll get over it soon,” you reply. After all, once you get the man’s name then… perhaps you can rid him in your mind. Your father shrugs casually and smiles. 

“I understand. Do know that I’ll always be there to help you, dear. You are my precious child, a gifted one that I am lucky to have,” his face softens. The compliment makes your cheek flush and your lips curve upwards. 

“Thank you, father. I appreciate it.” 

“Anytime, my child. Now, since we have a few moments to spare, why not catch up with me?” 

The talk with your father lasts for a while, with you two discussing random topics of interest. He muses on his rebellious youth, admitting he was a troublemaker. He says he once enjoyed fighting anything and everything, a habit he was lucky to have grown from. 

“It might seem strange to admit, even whilst I charge headfirst to battle, but the best weapons one can wield… it is your mind and your heart.” 

“Mind and heart?” You say, unconvinced. You do value your mind, but something about the way he said that makes you curious. 

“Yes. If I had no conviction or love for my people and kingdom, there would be no kingdom left standing. If I was simply a violent tyrant who enjoyed blood for the sake of blood, there would be no happiness or joy in here. That is what separates humans from beasts. I love with all my heart, proudly and without fear.” 

You let his words sink in and mull over them. 

The giant below… does he count? Is he worthy of love? Can he love? 

“Do you think everyone is worthy of love?” 

“Now that’s a good question,” your father hums, looking less like the wise king and more like a regular man with every second of this conversation. “Perhaps they do. Perhaps they don’t. As the king, I make tough choices every day. I would love to be able to forgive and pardon everyone. I would love to have no enemies, no strife, no war- I would love for my position to simply cease from existence as we explore what the world has to offer.” 

Your eyes widen as you hear your father’s admission. “You don’t wish to be king?” 

“It is a heavy burden, my dear child. It weighs down on you constantly. And deep down, no matter how much I dream of being the ideal king, the best ruler, the kindest and noblest man in the world…” he stands up, pushing his cigar into the ashtray as he has his back face you while he looks out the large window behind his desk. The shadow of his figure covers you, shielding you from the bright light of the evening sun. He reaches his hand out to caress the suit of armor. 

“But you are that king, father. You are that- to the people, to me-,” 

“You do not understand, my child… once in a while, I think back to those battles, to those wars I’ve fought. I’ve slain and nearly been slain countless times,” he sighs. “I think of the way I was near death, near exhaustion, bleeding, bruised, broken. Sometimes…” 

He glances back to you, with a somber smile and blank eyes that sends a chill down your spine. “I miss it.” 

You gasp as your father’s eyes return to the warmth it once had as he sits back down. 

“I am not the perfect man. That has always been true. But I can do good, and as such, I choose to do so, no matter how the monster within me screams. I am a father, a king, and a leader- I no longer work for myself. I work for my people. And that means I must be stricter with myself.” 

Your hands tremble as you grip the cigar and look down at your lap. You don’t know what to think of what your father just said, admitting to the fact that deep down, he enjoyed battles and killing. The gun in his desk, was it for protection, or was it possibly for his desire to return to the days of his old glory? You try to exhale. Your father wasn’t so careless and bloodthirsty. Even though he admitted this, he had also said he restrained himself for his duty. 

And yet… why did the thought of his true nature repeat over and over in your mind? 

“(Y/n), are you alright?” Your father asks sweetly. 

“Y-yes. I am. I asked a question and you answered,” you try and force a smile on your face. “I never knew you thought that way.” 

“It does run through my mind on rare occasions. But I do not let it stop me from doing my duty. I truly do love what I do and my life. That is why I fight for it.” 

You nod along, eager to take a break from here. “Thank you, father. I think I’ll be leaving, now. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” 

“Oh, dear, you’ve made my day better. I enjoy talking with you and listening to you. It makes me feel I’ve done right as a father,” he grins. You feel guilt inside your heart as you glance at the cigar in your hand, knowing you only talked to your father in order to give this to his sworn enemy. 

“Father, here,” you give the cigar back to him, not feeling worthy of the smile he has given you. After what he discussed with you, perhaps it was best to drop the subject entirely. Your father, however, pushes your hand back to you and shakes his head. 

“I’ve no need for all of these cigars. Please, keep it, whether you intend to light it or not. At least as a memento of my trust for you.” 

Your heart clenches in your chest as you nod feebly. 

“Thank you. I’m happy you trust me.” 

Your father chuckles and hands you a cigar cutter and lighter. “For whenever and whatever you decide to do. I will always support you.” 

You grip the items in your hand and thank your father again before leaving to your room. 

Guilt, guilt, guilt- it eats away at your heart while your mind screams for you to not continue with your plan. There is no point, no worth, no use to seeing that man. Oh, but your heart… but what if he is different than what once was assumed? What if he was simply in need of love? What if all he ever needed was just one more chance? 

Do it. No, don’t. We don’t need to be in more trouble. 

But can’t we? Why would we? 

Oh, damn you! Don’t you see this is difficult? 

The two sides of you disagree and argue, until you huff in frustration and grab the items. 

Forget it, we’re going. 

You sneak back into the dungeons, not even noticing the chills due to your anger at your torn feelings. 

You’re an idiot, (Y/n). What good is this? Father said he trusted us, and now look what we’re doing!

“You think too loud,” a voice cuts through your inner thoughts as you look up to come face to face with the giant. He’s smiling, eyeing the things in your hands. 

“What do you mean?” You ask in an accusing tone. 

“You look as if you’re in a fight, dear. Are you always this lost in thought, your highness?” He mocks you. 

“Oh, quiet you, you’ve put me in a rather big bind. You should be thankful I’m even giving them to you,” you frown, holding the singular cigar and cigar cutter to him. He waves his hook dismissively while his one hand expertly cuts the cigar. 

“Yes, yes, thank you very much. My… your father really must have an eye for quality. These are perhaps the best cigars out there,” he says as he examines the cigar. He curls two fingers in a repeating motion. “Lighter,” he commands. 

You fumble with the lighter in your pocket and shakily try to ignite it. The man rolls his eyes at your incompetence and guides your hand with his hook to the cigar. The flame slowly roasts the cigar as he takes a deep inhale of it. He immediately throws his shoulders back and lets out a pleasured sigh. 

“Ah… oh how I missed this,” he mumbles, his body relaxing. 

“Well, are you going to keep your end of the bargain?” You fold your arms. 

“Patience. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were desperate to get to know me,” he teases, the smell of tobacco invading your nose. You grimace at the scent while the man revels in your disgust. His hook reaches through the bars again and tilts your chin up. He gazes down at you with half-lidded eyes and a wide smirk. “You look so stressed, your highness. Why don’t you relax?” “I’m not worried about that right now. Besides, I’m fine,” you huff. 

“Nonsense. Here, let me help,” he twirls the cigar around to you and holds it in front of you. You glance between it and him while he hums. “What? Never smoked before?” “No,” you admit to him. 

“What a shame,” he bemoans, going back to take a puff of his cigar. “And here I thought we were bonding something special. Although, perhaps it’s good you haven’t taken up such bad habits.” 

“Really?” “Yes,” he eyes you. “I wouldn’t want you of all people to end up like me.” 

“True. Why do you like to smoke so much? You could’ve asked me for anything, yet you chose a cigar of all things.” 

“It’s a hard vice to let go of. I once was free to do as I could. Forcefully being unable to pick up one whenever I chose drove me a bit… mad,” he laughs humourlessly. “I find it clears my mind. You look as if you desperately need that.” 

He faces the cigar to you once more. You feel your previous conviction falter when he gives you that eager look and nods his head for you to try it. 

“I guess once could not hurt…” you begin as you grab the cigar and put it to your mouth. You inhale a large amount of the smoke before you feel your lungs screaming. You remove the cigar quickly and cough out puffs of smoke, wheezing while the man pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“You really are too much, sometimes. You don’t breathe it in to your lungs,” he chastizes you, grabbing the cigar from you. “You breathe it in, hold it in your mouth, let the taste settle on you for a few seconds, then exhale. This is expensive stuff, not a cheap joint.” 

He shows you the motions and hands it back to you. You cough once more before trying it again, just the way he did it. You exhale some smoke, thankfully not choking, but not enjoying the taste. 

“I don’t get it. It tastes like crap.” 

“It’s an acquired taste. Maybe you should bring me another, and we could try again.” 

“Absolutely not, I’m not going to do all that again to try and smoke some lousy cigar. You still haven’t told me your name.” 

“Crocodile,” he casually states. “Hah, hah, how funny. Be serious,” you frown. He shrugs and continues to smoke. 

“Oh well. You don’t believe me.” 

“There’s no way you are named Crocodile. That’s a ridiculous name. Not to mention, that was once from the hero of-” 

“Alabasta?” 

“Yes! Alabasta! And that…” your eyes widen as you see his shoulders bounce due to his laughter. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I am. It’s not my fault you don’t take my word.” 

“Then why is a hero in this jail?” 

“Reasons. Reasons you will not know or understand,” his voice evens out, looking down at the floor. 

“What, am I supposed to give you something, then you’ll tell me?” “I’m afraid my motivations can’t be bought, my dear,” Crocodile admits. “Entice me with something, though, and I may change my mind.” 

“I don’t think I have anything ‘enticing’ to offer.” 

“Oh, that’s where you are wrong…” he leans in closer to you and eyes you up and down. “Perhaps another time.” 

“What? What are you-” 

“Mmm, nothing. It’s just a thought came to mind.” 

You roll your eyes at his vague words. “Never mind, I can see how someone as cruel as you ended up here.” “And yet you keep coming down to talk to me, dear. Why don’t you give me your name as well, since it’s obvious you are interested in me.” 

“I am not. I am just repaying the favor from before,” you quickly correct him. 

“My mistake, yes, that’s what’s going on.” 

“I don’t like your attitude!” Your face flushes as you fan yourself. “It’s (Y/n).” 

“(Y/n)...” Crocodile repeats, like a prayer. “I will admit, it is definitely a beautiful name. Far better than Crocodile, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“You think so?” 

“Mhm. (Y/n), it sounds like royalty. It fits you well, your highness.” 

“Thank you,” you mumble, unsure of why your heart is elated he was complimenting your name. 

“Would you look at the time, your highness,” Crocodile states after a few quiet moments. “You should be getting back upstairs. I’m sure your father would be wondering where you are. He wouldn’t want to find you messing around down here, now would he?” 

“Right,” you shake your head, pushing aside all the strange feelings inside you. However, despite him saying you should go, you find yourself reluctant to move from your spot in front of him. Crocodile chuckles and this time, reaches to you with his right hand. He strokes your cheek with his thumb and looks down at you. 

“You don’t need an excuse to visit me, your highness.” “Who said I wanted to?” you lie. 

“Perhaps I’ve mistaken your feelings again,” he plays along. “Although, you could always keep me company. It’s very lonely down here.” “No. You have nothing else you wish to share with me,” you retort. 

“I did say if you entice me, I might change my mind. And what is more enticing to a prisoner trapped here for life than a companion?” 

You shouldn’t do this. But then you see those dark eyes and you feel tempted to try and learn. 

“I can see that…” “You’re very kind, (Y/n),” Crocodile says as he removes his hand from your face. “Now run along. But don’t keep me waiting too long, dear.”

[brandyllyn]

Silk from their soul (08)

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Rated: Teen (series will be explicit) Words: 1.7k Summary: Where'd you learn to shoot like that?

Series Masterlist My Masterlist

Three days go by and the Ghoul still hasn’t figured out what the fuck’s he’s going to do. He’s managed to redirect them to a farmstead that’s been abandoned for a good decade already. It was a decent enough place to hole up for the night, and kept them from heading straight toward her goal. Kept them closer to the stateline than not.

He needs to just fucking do it.

He knows her now, knows how she walks, how she thinks. She probably wouldn’t try to fight him when he finally told her about the bounty. More likely she would just deflate, that same sad look settling on her face as when they’d found a dead songbird on the path.

She’d still eaten it, but she’d nearly cried.

Something in him recoiled at the idea of putting that look on her.

Not like it mattered much. They had supplies enough, thanks to her haggling, and he wasn’t in a rush to move on to the next thing. The price on her head would set him for a while - his feet would start itching long before he needed to meet his needs

So what was the difference in spending a bit more time with someone who didn’t flinch every time they looked at him? Someone who teased him and acted like they were out for a Sunday stroll every damn day even with the rad roaches and the mole rats. Someone who, occasionally, made him remember the man he used to be.

It was fucking dangerous is what it was.

The man he was couldn’t survive in the wasteland. That man had a sense of honor, of right and wrong, that would abso-fucking-lutely get him killed. 

Get them killed.

Because she was soft cotton and flower petals wrapped in a pretty sun dress and without him she would have been dead a thousand times over by now, he just knew it. Someone had to make those choices, shoot a man in the face, to keep them both alive.

“You need to learn how to shoot.”

She turns to look at him as he says it, carefully clambering over a rocky outcropping. “I do?”

“If you plan to survive out here you need to know how to protect yourself.”

“And you think that means learning how to shoot?”

He grunts and quickens his pace so he can pass her, scanning the area until he sees what he’s looking for - a small ridge line with darker colored rocks buried in the sand about fifty yards away. He catches her by the waist as she tries to go past, spinning her until she’s directly in front of him and they’re both facing it.

“First rule is don’t ever point this thing at me,” he tells her, pulling his pistol and settling it into her hand.

“I thought the first rule is treat every gun like it’s loaded?”

“That’s the second rule.”

She chuckles and he feels it all the way down his spine. He shouldn’t be standing so close to her but he’d be lying if it wasn’t half the reason he’d decided to start this little impromptu lesson. Pulling his gloves off he tucks them into his belt.

“This one’s got a bit of kick so you should hold it with both hands.” He takes her left wrist and lifts her arm, wrapping her fingers around the hilt alongside the other. It’s exactly like a dozen movies he was in a lifetime ago, holding a woman in his arms while he showed them how to do some mundane task. 

They almost always ended in a kiss.

Gulping, he leans over her shoulder. “See that green rock over yonder? See if you can’t-”

The rock shatters.

The Ghoul blinks in the hazy smoke, staring at the hill. When he turns back she’s got her head tilted up to his, their faces inches apart. “The black with a white stripe next?” she asks before adjusting and pulling the trigger. The damn woman never even looks away from him, the rock she identified spinning down the hill in a cloud of dust.

“Did I hit it?”

“Did you-” Stepping away he takes his hat off, squinting at the ridgeline. “Why the fuck am I the one doing all the shooting?”

Grinning, you pass the gun back, carefully pointing the barrel down. “I don’t have a pistol.”

“Why the hell didn’t you buy yourself one?”

“If you spend too much money in one spot people get greedy. We were pretty much maxed out on survival gear.”

And she’d bought him chem instead. He gapes at her, trying to figure her out. Everyone had an angle, everyone was in it for themself. He’d known that for centuries now. And yet she still managed to surprise him.

Even more so when she nudges his shoulder companionably with her own. “Don’t be mad, I’ve had years of practice.”

He stares at her face, untouched by time and a fierce counterpoint to his own. His curious fascination shifts into a grudging respect. Where before he had found her interesting, an anomaly, knowing that she could take care of herself if it came to it made his body light the fuck up. She’s close enough he only has to shift slightly for them to be standing toe to toe - barely a breath between them.

Smooth skin is cool under his palm, her neck arching just so into the curve of his hand. It’s too intense, he can feel it, heat thrumming between them. And it’s not just him - her eyes are glazed, her breath suddenly coming in rapid pants. Not a kiss, a kiss would be too much, too much for her to handle his face and mouth that close.

No, he wants a taste instead. Of all his sense only taste remains as sharp as it once was - undiluted by the effects of time and radiation.

There’s no resistance when he tilts her head to the side, ducking down to run his tongue along the exposed skin. He doesn’t imagine the way she shudders, or that her pulse leaps beneath his lips.

He could bite her, gnaw the life out of her bones.

With a low groan he sinks his teeth into her shoulder, tasting the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her skin. His head is full of her scent, her body pulled flush to his own. Fuck his missing nose and ruined face, if he can’t taste the inside of her mouth right now he might just collapse right here in the dirt.

Nibbling his way back up her neck, he rubs his lips against her skin, nipping at her chin before swooping in to take her mouth. To tangle their tongues together and feel her moan how much she wants him all the way to his cock.

It’s a bucket of ice water when she jerks away, shoving against his chest and sending him stumbling a step backwards.

“No.”

Hunger nearly overwhelms him, hazy redness creeping at the edge of his vision. It’s not the Turning, not quite, but something rawer and deeper. He wants to throw her to the ground and rut against her - flip her to her knees and…

A quick jerk of his head and he comes back to himself. She’s a few feet away, chest heaving. There’s a red mark on her neck and he feels a rush of pleasure that he left it there. She looks a bit unsteady herself and he takes a gamble.

“I’ve been told a fair few times that no means no - but it seems to me there might be a bit of room for interpretation here.”

“No kissing,” she blurts out, seeming stunned by her own words.

“Anywhere?” He cocks his head, hooking his thumbs into his belt, “That takes a bit of the fun out of things, don’t you think?”

A hand flies up to cover her mouth and she lets out a strained laugh. It breaks the mood - whatever it was - between them, and he sighs as he steps further away from her.

“We’re gonna lose a crop we keep on like this, you ready?”

She doesn’t point out that he’s the one who called for the stop, nor does she mention that it was his actions that caused the delay. She keeps pace near him, not saying a word and he doesn’t bother to fill the silence.

Had he read her wrong? Her pulse had thrummed like a hummingbird under his hand but that could as easily have been fear. Maybe she had been terrified of him, too scared to stop him. He hadn’t tried to fuck anyone in over a hundred years - hell his cock hardly worked half the time these days. Maybe he’d fucked up.

Shit.

So much for his thoughts of having a bit of fun before turning her over. 

It was too bad, she was pretty and tasted like cool spring water and spun sugar. It was enough to make his mouth water. And she looked at him like he was still a man, not a monster. Then again, he’d been a hell of a lot nicer to her than he’d been to most people the last few years. Maybe everyone was as sweet if he was just a little kinder to them.

Sure, and he’d wake up tomorrow to find he was hairier than a yeti’s ass.

He pauses, staring at the horizon. The sun would set in about an hour and there weren’t nothing he could think of nearby to make camp at. Maybe a bit of fallen overpass? He’d take second watch and tie her up while she slept. Then he could explain things nice and easy in the morning and quit this stupid ass farce they were engaged in.

“The mouth.”

It was the first words she’d said in hours and he glanced her way with a scowl. “What was that?”

She won’t meet his eyes, looking pointedly away from him. “You asked, and I’m answering.”

It takes a moment for his brain to catch up. He just couldn’t kiss her on the mouth, that’s what she was telling him.

Well hell, he could work with that.

☢ ☢ ☢

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[arendaes]

Owlcatober Day 2 - Fake Names

Day 2 of the @owlcatober prompts also marks my first attempt at a Rogue Trader fic! I don't have much more to say beyond being nervous to post this, and hope you enjoy 😅

The Spice of Life (904 words)

Fandom: Warhammer 40000 - Rogue Trader

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Ship: Jae Heydari/Rogue Trader

Characters: Jae Heydari, Female Rogue Trader

Can also be read here on AO3

“I do so love your eccentricities, shereen. But tell me - is there any point to this charade? I do believe everyone on Footfall knows the esteemed Rogue Trader Von Valancius on sight by now.”

Imogen turned her head slightly, shooting Jae a wry grin. "Do they now? Well, I suppose that for this evening, they'll have to be mistaken. After all, the feared Rogue Trader Von Valancius wouldn't dream of stepping foot off her ship without an entourage, now would she?"

Jae's answering chuckle was genuine, if strained. "You joke, but even such an agreeable personage as yourself has enemies. Perhaps dallying about the decks of Footfall under a fake name is not the wisest course of action, all things considered?"

Imogen stopped short, turning around to face her lover. With a hand thrown across her chest in mock indignation, she said, "Are you suggesting that Kartalis van der Thorn is not a believable name for someone such as myself?”

Jae laughed, and she was pleased it didn’t sound too much out of pity. “It sounds like you picked that name out of a hat, my love.”

“Maybe I did. After all, the preparations for this little surprise did take me quite a long time. There wasn’t much left to come up with a convincing moniker.” As she said this, she turned to Jae, holding out her arm.

“Ah, yes, let’s talk about this surprise, shall we?” Jae flashed her a winning smile as she took her proffered arm. They began strolling down the deck like it was the finest garden in the Expanse and not the scum-ridden hole it actually was. “Whatever it is must be quite important, given you are forgoing our usual entourage to reach it.”

Imogen shrugged. “Yes, but that’s not entirely why it’s just the two of us today.”

"Well obviously my esteemed company is the finest the Von Valancius flagship has to offer, besides your own, of course. But somehow, I doubt that is solely what this little sojourn is about."

"Oh, do you? Well, I'll have you know -" Whatever she wanted Jae to know was fated to dwell in obscurity for the moment, as a large shadow stepped out from the column in front of them, causing her to trail off and raise an imperious brow.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, trying her best not to let the agitation she rightfully felt creep too much into her voice. They were supposed to be incognito, after all. Best to save the threats for when she inevitably had to out herself as the Rogue Trader. Which, judging by the way the man continued to stare at them, a vacant half-smirk on his face as he was joined by three others, was going to be sooner rather than later.

He didn't answer, just jerked his head in their direction. If it weren't for the weapons, she might have mistaken it for a poor attempt to crack his neck.

"Told you," Jae whispered under her breath as drew out her pistol. With a sigh, Imogen unclipped the chainsword at her hip. The damn thing was only supposed to be for show.

***

"Ashmags. This was my nice coat." As she said this, Jae brushed another stray piece of gore from her shoulder. "Well, I'd say the secret is out. Rogue Trader Von Valancius is on Footfall. Now will you tell me what is so important that we had to risk life and limb?"

"We're almost there," Imogen said, reaching forward to pick another red glob of Jae's shoulder, earning her a wrinkled nose.

"Will you at least tell me where we're going? Adore you as I do, you did also just put my life at risk."

"Why, Lady Heydari, where is this recalcitrant reservation coming from? I've never known you to be one to balk in the face of danger."

Jae chuckled, though it distinctly lacked anything that could be called mirth. "You have been a bad influence on me, I'm afraid. Now I find the thought of either of our lives being cut short to be a very unwelcome one."

"Hm. Well, I guess it's a good thing I actually know how to use this chainsword, then?"

At this, Jae stopped walking, turning to give Imogen an exasperated look. Whatever words were meant to accompany it died in her throat as she caught sight of what was behind her. The officer's deck of Footfall was decorated in candles and roses, an elegant dinner for two laid out at the table nearest the bay window. It almost would have been romantic, if not for the general griminess that pervaded Footfall. "Is...is this the surprise?"

With a glance behind her, Imogen said, "Oh, yes. It might not be the fanciest of setups -"

"You can say that again."

"But I thought perhaps it would be nice for us to get off the ship for a while. Just the two of us."

Jae drew closer to her, a genuine smile playing at her lips. "I do appreciate the effort, I will admit. Though next time, I would prefer we remain on the ship. Your quarters are much nicer."

Imogen wrapped her arms around her, pulling her closer. "All right. Though I believe there's an old Terran saying -"

Whatever this saying was, it was lost when Jae leaned forward and pressed her lips to hers, pulling her close as she could get her.

[novoaa1writes]

day 0

image source

pairing(s): softdark!natasha romanoff x gnc!reader, natasha romanoff & tony stark (platonic)

summary:

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Chemically-induced submission is all very well and good,” she mused, sounding vaguely preoccupied. You could still feel her gaze upon you, boring through your skull. “But I’d prefer to earn theirs.”

“Your funeral.”

Or: Natasha wants a pet. Lucky for her, she knows a guy who can help with that.

contains: non-con dynamics, pet play, dehumanization

[cross-posted on ao3]

word count: ~3,300

rating: mature

warnings: non-con dynamics, forced pet play, dehumanization, non-con bathing, referenced non-con body modification, referenced non-con medical experimentation/surgery, referenced physical and psychological abuse, discussions of administering post-op painkillers (morphine, oxycodone, anti-inflammatories, etc.)

notes: reader’s gender is not specified here, and as with every reader-insert i write, the reader is intended to be ethnically ambiguous! also, no use of y/n... i don't personally mind it much, but i understand it's typically preferred without

translation for russian terms in the end notes!

(previously named “build-a-pet”)

— —

Natasha had been on mission when she received the call. 

Burner #1—professional access. A select handful of people had the means to call it. Phil, Clint, Nick, Maria. Pepper, too. 

Burner #2—a separate, off-books agenda. Personal in nature. Accessible to none save for one individual. 

It was the second of the two that rang to signal an incoming call.  

Eyeing her target—Pavel Mikhailovich Novik, Bratyerstva head and prolific serial killer—intently through the tac scope, she brought the phone up to her ear and answered the call:

“Romanoff.”

“Gah! Always business with you, huh?” Tony Stark’s conversational—if not somewhat indignant—tone filtered through the speaker. “That’s no way to greet a friend.”

Were Natasha not otherwise occupied at the current moment, she might’ve scoffed. As it was: “A little busy, Shellhead,” she muttered, shifting her aim in time with Novik’s uneven stride as he made his way across a municipal street. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me what you’ve got?”

“I’m doing just swell, thanks for asking.”

He was a short, stout man. Novik, that was. Flat-footed gait, the kind that had long since ruined the arches of his well-worn shoes. Broad shoulders; barrel-chested torso. Thick dark hair cut short on his scalp and, in the case of his square-shaped jaw, removed completely—but permitted to grow to damn near cat-whisker length everywhere else. 

A wheat-link chain hung loose around his short neck; the chunky watch on his hairy wrist gleamed when it caught the light. Both solid gold.

He was dressed nicely enough in a red button-down that looked soft as satin, and charcoal black trousers with a matching blazer to boot.  

Natasha had to bite back a disapproving hum as he strode into the establishment—a pub, no less—and hoisted himself up onto a barstool with little ceremony. 

He was armed, of course, but only barely; a pistol in one inner coat pocket, a switchblade in the other. He also wasn’t entirely clueless, as evidenced by his company: a pair of stern-looking men who stood flanking him on either side, the material of their cheap polyester suits straining to contain their hulking figures, jackets bulging with poorly-concealed semi-automatic weapons. They watched the bartender like hawks as he set a clear bottle—Dębowa—and an empty glass in front of Novik before promptly scurrying away.

They turned their matching glowers away from their boss as he began to drink, surveying the small, dimly-lit pub with heavy-browed suspicion.

It was a clear message. A bit garish for Natasha’s tastes; but clear nonetheless. 

As it was, she barely had to shift herself any further to catch him in her crosshairs through a series of high, rectangular windows lining the interior of the grimy pub. 

All bark, no bite. 

A far less jaded woman might have snorted. 

A far less jaded woman Natasha was not. 

“… Long story short, we’ve made some serious progress. I want to check in, though, if you could swing by for a quick visit. We’ve only got a short window before some of these alterations are irreversible. Plus, I figured you’d want to see them.”

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, her pulse thrumming wild and fast beneath her skin. “You figured right,” she managed to answer, her mouth dry. It was all she could do to keep Novik unharmed in her crosshairs, her finger from squeezing the trigger. 

“So, when can we expect you?”

Natasha flit her gaze to the clock face fastened atop a tall, spindly spire on the nearest street corner, then back to Novik. “Give me six hours.”

— —

“Boss, three reports intercepted from secure, heavily-encrypted channels. All high-profile killings, all on European soil.”

Tony Stark, though intrigued, did not look up from the task at hand: himself perched adroitly along the rim of the tub, lathering your naked body in sweet-smelling soaps; you, slumped uncouthly in the cradle of the bath, glaring up at him with defiant eyes and murder in the tick of your jaw. 

“Time window?” he questioned after a pause, lowering one sudsy hand to knead at your lower belly and grinning wolfishly when you couldn’t smother a quiet whine. 

“Six days.”

“Locales?”

“Qormi, Malta; Kutaisi, Georgia; and Gomel, Belarus.”

Stark hummed in lieu of answer, a vaguely preoccupied look in his narrowed gaze. His large, calloused fingers didn’t cease their humiliating ministrations over your quivering belly, making you pant in an effort to hold back a low, guttural trill. 

“In that order?”

“Yes, boss.”

You hated him. You fucking hated him. 

“Walks like Natasha, quacks like Natasha…” he trailed off, giving your belly one last squeeze before withdrawing slightly to cup your other hip with his palm. “Probably Natasha.”

You’d only just begun regaining your strength following the latest procedure, though not nearly enough to do anything other than glare.

Stark slanted his gaze back over to you. If he was at all cowed by the force of your glower, he did well not to show it. “You’re adorable when you’re plotting my demise, y’know that?”

It took everything within you not to roll your eyes.

— —

“So, how was White Russia? Eat any draniki?” Stark questioned as he settled bodily into an armchair, gesturing for Natasha to seat herself on the settee across from him. 

She did, her features calm and impassive. Her shrewd gaze flit to you once, but was quick to refocus. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“C’mon, give me something,” Stark carped, huffing petulantly. You couldn’t see his face from this angle, only the back of his head and a bit of bearded cheek, but you imagined he was probably pouting like a third grader. “For old times’ sake?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Guilty as charged,” Stark quipped. “Though, I suppose I can’t say the same for Novik. He didn’t even get a trial.” 

Natasha’s placid expression did not falter. “Who?”

“You know what, I’m just gonna give you this one—”

“Generous.”

“—but only because we’ve achieved a mind-blowing amount of progress within the past couple weeks. Like, seriously: mind-blowing.”

You felt yourself shudder at the reminder. Progress, indeed.

“Oh?” Natasha queried lightly, brows raised. Once more, her gaze dipped to you… and stayed there. 

You ducked your head and averted your eyes, cheeks aflame. You’d grown accustomed to being naked around Stark—mainly because you didn’t have a choice. But Natasha… 

For the first time in years, you found yourself missing your long hair, the way you could cower behind it at a moment’s notice. Now, you were exposed. Vulnerable. 

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Chemically-induced submission is all very well and good,” she mused, sounding vaguely preoccupied. You could still feel her gaze upon you, boring through your skull. “But I’d prefer to earn theirs.”

“Your funeral.”

Natasha’s lips twitched, though she remained silent. Then, after a beat or two— “Your progress?” she prompted.

“Right, so, here’s the run-down…”

— —

You’d tuned out for the most part as Stark began his long-winded, vainglorious speech to Natasha about his—your—successes since last they’d spoken. Much as you understood it was likely prudent to listen in, acquire a little more knowledge on what exactly he’d done to you, you’d also been there long enough to know that it probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyhow. 

Natasha would do with you as she pleased. Stark, too, provided Natasha was the one asking. 

In the beginning, that intrigued you. Made you want to learn more about them and their dynamic; to understand why it was what it was. You didn’t get why Stark would run, jump, and heel for the likes of her—intimidation factor notwithstanding. 

By this point, that intrigue had since dwindled, if not dissipated entirely. It was what it was; consequently, they were, too. 

You were still angry and strong-willed and a far cry from broken, but you weren’t stupid, either. Just because they treated you like a chained-up dog didn’t mean you had to gnaw off your own limbs in a desperate bid to escape like one. 

And, besides… it wasn’t often you got moments like these. Moments where you weren’t being poked and prodded and shot up with God knows what. You were collared, sure, your body riddled with all kinds of aches and pains, but none of it held a candle to the agony you’d known in days past. 

Lost in your head though you were, months’ worth of training ensured you didn’t miss the moment Natasha called you over. 

“Ко мне,” she spoke, pitching her voice just above appropriate speaking volume.

It was like someone lit a fire under your ass. The second you heard it, you shot up on all fours. Pain came fast on its heels, but you grit your teeth and bore it, swallowing down a cry as soreness shot through your hands—you flat-out refused to call them ‘paws’—like wildfire. Every heightened reflex stood on high alert. Your back, too, felt like it was on fire, spinal column alight with tenderness. 

Still, it wasn’t nearly so bad as it’d been a week back, when you awoke in observation all bandaged up and so acutely in pain, you feared it might kill you. You also knew better than to dawdle. Clenching your jaw tight, you shuffled forth on sore palms and bruised knees. Your muscles burned. 

You were grateful to feel the tip of your nose graze Natasha’s jean-clad knee, signaling a justifiable stopping point. 

“Молодец,” she praised, her voice pitched an octave (or two) higher, and you felt like singing. 

You even arched your poor, aching back in a shameless effort to attract… well, something, you supposed. Head pats, perhaps. An open-handed stroke down your spine, even.  

Damn that animal, desire-seeking hindbrain.

Fortunately, Natasha seemed to understand. Her palm met the nape of your neck, slender fingers curling their way into the mess of hair at the back of your scalp—God, but that felt divine. A mounting hum in the back of your throat was all the warning you got before—

Fuck. Immediately, you clamped your mouth shut, and the sound—along with the pleasurable vibrations—stopped altogether. 

Not again. 

“Ah-ah-ah, puppy,” Natasha tutted, her free hand descending to squeeze your nose tight—effectively cutting off your air supply. And still, the other remained; combing through freshly-washed hair at the base of your skull, occasionally scritching your scalp with the tips of her blunt nails until the insides of your throat quivered and your jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. It was all you could do to keep from opening right back up and giving her a nice long purr. (Which, you’d deduced, was exactly what she wanted.) “None of that.”

She was using English now, you noticed. 

And, just like that, the realization hit that she hadn’t been before. 

Now, you could… you could hear her words and understand them, and from that understanding know their meaning. Before, it was like… like hearing the words and knowing what they were supposed to mean, then acting accordingly. You couldn’t take apart the syllables, the letters in your head, not like you could with English. 

P-u-p-p-y. That spelled ‘puppy.’ When you tried to conjure the word she’d used to summon you over, there was just… nothing. A blank space. A short one, telling you you knew the approximate length of the word you were looking for, but… empty. 

Your gaze darted to Stark, who just slouched back in his cushy armchair looking immeasurably pleased with himself. At any other time, the mere sight would’ve been enough to spark some measure of annoyance within you. 

Now… Now, all you could feel was fear. 

He didn’t do that, did he? He… he couldn’t’ve. 

All the rest of it: the obedience, the meekness—that? That was conditioning, plain and simple. You weren’t exactly a PhD, but it didn’t take a genius to note down from the very start that some behaviors got you alone time in a small, dark room without food or water or sunlight for days on end, and others got you… well, not that. By a certain point, you would beg him to yell at you, choke you out, take you over his knee and spank your ass raw when you misbehaved; something, anything, so long as it wasn’t that. 2 times out of 10, he’d take you up on that. As for the other 8… well. 

But this—implanting knowledge in your subconscious, tuning it to mimic compulsory behavioral urges, all while you remained none the wiser? That was a hell of a lot more complicated than reworking your spine, or tweaking sensory receptors, or even altering your vocal tract to make that obnoxious purr. 

It was like he’d rewired your brain. 

You didn’t even notice that you’d since relented: gasped out what little breath remained and began wheezing, all doubled-over, sucking in new breaths of air like a half-drowned cat. Though, you sure as hell noticed how that rattling, restless, vibrating sensation arose in your throat with every shuddering inhale; how, on every exhale came exactly what you’d feared—that pathetic, trilling purr. The one that warmed your body from head to toe while simultaneously making you wish you had never been fucking born. 

God, but Natasha’s hands were like magic…

Your head still spun. Was it from the oxygen deprivation, or the realization that Stark had been inside your head? Probably both. 

Terrified, dazed, and overwhelmingly confused, it took you some time to re-center; tuning back into Stark and Natasha’s conversation, if only to posture yourself accordingly. You could figure out the rest later, you reasoned.

“… The spinal alterations don’t inhibit their ability to stand upright, by any means, which is the exciting thing,” Stark was saying, damn near perched at the edge of his seat—almost vibrating with renewed vigor. Weirdo. “They just enhance their natural capacity to remain down on all fours and go about their day for extended periods of time: a day, a week… hell, indefinitely! Which, for humans, would be pretty much unthinkable. I mean, can you imagine?”

Without allowing a moment’s pause for Natasha to respond (which you’d come to understand was quite typical), Stark wasted no time in steamrolling on. “‘Course, the process of transplanting new bones was rather tricky, and we had to do a couple of them more than once. Dr. Cho estimates a week—at most—before they’ve healed enough to allow for more… strenuous physical activity.”

Natasha snorted. Her hand had long stilled its pleasant ministrations in favor of resting inert at the base of your skull, slender fingers curled loosely around your nape. You felt how they twitched and tightened their grip ever-so-slightly when Stark spoke of what he’d done to your spine. “Are they in pain?” 

Funny. If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought she cared. 

Stark raised a brow. “Ballpark?”

Natasha must’ve nodded, or dipped her chin in confirmation, because a beat later, Stark spoke again.

“Imagine you got ripped open, rearranged, then stitched back up,” he summed up. “Twice.”

Dimly, it registered within you to be struck by his forthrightness, though you did not dare mistake it for empathy. 

Natasha was quiet for a beat. “Sounds about right,” she said eventually. 

“It doesn’t have to be this bad,” Stark offered, though there was a curious shift in his intonation, this time; a knowing and almost resigned look in his eye that made you wonder if he and Natasha had had this conversation before.

The way Natasha’s hand twitched, blunt nails digging into the skin of your nape, was answer enough. 

“Were I their doctor, I’d be prescribing some serious pain meds,” Stark continued on dryly, making a show of tilting his head and gazing off into the distance as though he was deep in thought. “Morphine, oxycodone—“

“No.”

“—maybe a local anesthetic or two,” he mused, beginning to count them out on his fingers. “Anti-inflammatories. Anticonvulsants. Something for the anxiety, even—”

“I wanted a pet, not a vegetable.”

Stark’s lips twitched—though with exasperation or humor, you could not tell. “Do you realize how quickly even the most powerful anesthetics will metabolize through their system? They’re not human anymore, Red. At least, not entirely.”

Now, that piqued your interest. 

“Neither am I.”

“It’s different for them. You know that. You got Erskine’s serum. Some unrefined bootleg variant, granted, but that man was nothing if not brilliant. Everything he touched, he turned to gold.” Stark spoke of him—this ‘Erskine’—as though he put the very stars in the sky. You wondered if he was truly brilliant, or just insane. You wondered if for Stark, there was any difference. “As for them… well.” He gestured vaguely towards you. “They got some anthropomorphic whack job’s bone marrow.”

You blinked. You got what now?

“He has a name, you know,” Natasha commented archly, the earlier indignation having dissipated from her tone. 

“Point being—I’ve met the guy. He’s seriously unhinged.” He paused there, as if expecting Natasha to argue. When she didn’t, he steamrolled on: “I had F.R.I.D.A.Y. scavenge some digitized medical reports and psych evals from his time at the facility, along with anything else they could piece together after he escaped. Violently, I might add.”

“I won’t say he’s devoid of empathy, or a moral compass, because we both know that that’s not true,” Stark explained, then muttered under his breath: “Even if his senses of both concepts are seriously skewed.”

“Tony,” Natasha interjected, a note of warning in her voice. 

“Just listen, alright? I’m getting there.” Stark huffed out a sigh, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “My point is that he wasn’t like that, at the start. He was no saint, to be sure, but he wasn’t like that. It wasn’t until they started a particularly ill-inspired series of ‘tests’—though I’d argue a better term would be ‘torture sessions’—to assess his healing capabilities that he really started losing his marbles.”

You head was beginning to spin. Your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. Who were they talking about? 

“See, because his capabilities—extraordinary as they were—weren’t superhuman. They didn’t transcend healing itself, let alone make it any less painful to endure. In fact, I think they actually concluded that it was made more painful by his body’s ability to undertake those processes at such an expeditious rate.” Stark breathed out another heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he could feel a headache brewing. 

He wasn’t the only one. 

“He nearly went insane, Natasha. Joking aside, it almost beggars belief that he’s as high-functioning as he is,” Stark asserted, no longer pulling his punches. “I know you don’t want that for them.”

It was silent for a beat… Then two. 

“Fine.”

Stark promptly quieted, renewed interest sparking itself alight in his gaze. “What was that now?”

“I said, ‘Fine.’”

A slow grin spread across his clean-shaven features. 

“No opioids,” Natasha was quick to amend. “Nothing addictive. Just… anything that’ll help more than it’ll hurt.”

Silence for a beat. Then two. 

Stark squinted at her. “You sure you and that bleeding heart of yours are up for this?”

Natasha’s grip around your nape tightened even further. “Shellhead,” she gritted out, her tone hard as weathered steel. Even the sound of it was enough to send chills down your spine. 

Stark, in contrast, was not at all similarly affected. He simply tilted his head to one side and made a show of continuing to appraise her with shrewd, assessing eyes. Then, finally: “You should try yoga.”

— —

end notes: L O fucking L

also the anthropomorphic whack job they’re talking about is logan (wolverine) from x-men, in case you’re wondering 

edit: i’ve since written a continuation of this, linked below!

translation of russian terms (with stresses bolded):

ко мне | ko mnye | “come”

молодец | molodyets | excellent, good

sources:

“organized crime in eastern europe” | to be so clear, i just made up “bratyerstva” from the term “братство” (bratstvo) which means “brotherhood” or “fraternity” in bulgarian, macedonian, russian, and serbo-croatian dialects. it is also the name of a ukrainian political party (ukrainian: братство, romanized: bratstvo), but it is not an actual belarusian word. it also bears some resemblance to братва, a slang term used to refer to criminal gangs in russia and other ex-ussr states. honestly, the closest you’d probably get to an actual word with this would be the polish “braterstwo” (brahterstvo) which also means “brotherhood” or “fraternity.” (however, in some informal contexts, the term “братерство” has been used in ukrainian dialects to convey synonymous meanings.) anyway, this is a brief snippet (~10 pages) from an academic article about organized crime in eastern europe, if the precedent behind all that intrigues you. i thought it was pretty informative!

white russia | another name for belarus, though there’s some controversy/nuance to that (and big surprise, it’s got everything to do with russia). this links to an article from euronews talking about... all of that

draniki | an immensely popular dish in belarus. they’re basically potato pancakes. several other european countries have close equivalents. 

— —

next part: come, sit, stay

link to masterlist

[sir-walton-goggins]

All That Matters

4.312 words

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character

tw: graphic torture, canon-typical depictions of violence and gore

credit for the header as always goes to the lovely @raevennsge, Arthur pic credit is mine

“Where is Arthur."

Kris’s heart sank into her stomach, burning through it like a hot ball of lead.

Dutch and Micah rode back into camp.

Something was off.

"Where. Is. Arthur" she gritted through her teeth.

"He didn't meet us at the fork in the road." Micah replied.

She ignored him, not being able to shake the horrible feeling that her husband was in danger. 

Dutch's pleas went ignored as Kris wielded a rifle on her right shoulder and jumped onto her mare, Cloud. The woman’s ears were buzzing, heart beating in her ears like a mad drum, vision focused only on the stretch of road in front of her. One thought on her mind:

“I need to save him.”

Hosea watched her silently from his cot, book open on his lap ignored, bowing his head silently.

"Dutch, I told you it was a trap."

Lately his words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Not to Kris, though. She practically had begged Arthur to stay. But he was still Dutch's shadow, and as pulled by an invisible thread, or rather, an invisible noose, he followed along.

The mind of the gang followed her horse galloping away, eyebrows knitted into a worried expression. His son was in danger.

"Dutch, we need to go get him!"

The leader opened his mouth to speak, but the mustached gunslinger preceded him.

"Oh, old man, let's not get ahead of ourselves!" He approached, hands in the air in a ridiculous attempt to look harmless.

"Arthur is just fine. He's probably out gallivanting and rolling around in the dirt like he usually does" he grinned. He never let the opportunity to make fun of him go to waste.

"That girl is gonna get herself killed, for Christ's sake!" Hosea snapped, begging Dutch to listen.

The wanted man took a long drag of his cigar, his eyes shifting in conflict. Hosea stared at him like he lost his damn mind. Where did his determined and protective partner in crime go? He was somewhere behind those brown eyes, he knew it. But he was fighting a battle unbeknownst to anyone in the gang, even to him, who knew him so well. Or, at least, he thought as much.

"He'll be back" was the leader's lapidary statement. Cigar smoke engulfed Hosea’s face, making him cough repeatedly.

The evening was turning windy, making Kris's eyes water and she wondered if she was actually crying. She felt out of control, like everything she had was slipping away from her hands with every second Arthur was away from her. The horse sped up, the woman bouncing rhythmically on the saddle, reins in one hand, the other wiping some tears away from her face.

"Please, Arthur, be alive" she repeated, mumbling the words like a prayer.

She rode to the spot where the three men had met Colm O' Driscoll, pistol drawn and ready to fire. But the place was deserted, if not for a single lost deer wandering the plains. The prey animal lifted its head up to stare at Kris with its big doe eyes. Staring back, she saw Arthur’s own eyes, the words he left her with before disappearing resounding in her head.

“I’ll be just fine, darlin’.” He hid his nervousness behind a sweet smile, crinkles around the ocean eyes she so bitterly missed. He knew something was off, she had sensed it.

‘Should’ve never let him go.’

The woman put her revolver back in its holster and examined her surroundings. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the events of earlier that day: the three men dismounting, the plan taking shape, Arthur’s role in it. Since he was called on missions either for protection or intimidation, Kris assumed he was ordered to protect Dutch and Micah from afar, since they could never trust a dirty snake like the O’Driscoll leader. He was the best shot between them, after all. Mrs. Morgan’s eyes landed on a nearby hill: jackpot. Perfect place for a sniper.

The sandy dirt of the hill had hoof marks imprinted in it, so she eagerly followed them to the top, watching her back the whole time. She feared another ambush from the Irish bastards. Yes, 'cause it had to have been an ambush. The O'Driscolls would never offer a parley. How did she know? Because Colm was a vindictive piece of shit. Eye for an eye. His brother for Annabelle. He wasn’t gonna stop there.

It was starting to get dark, the pink horizon steadily drowning in shadows, entirely swallowed up in blue and black. The view from the high ground was hauntingly beautiful, but Kris felt a heavy presence nearby and a cold gust blowing through her heart. The new moon rendered the night sky even more sinister and pitch black. She took out her lantern and turned the knob to light it up. As soon as she did, a murder of crows rushed menacingly over her head, spooking her. They were heading north. She followed their trajectory: it led her straight to the warm light of a campfire in the distance.

Kris Morgan released a shaky breath; Arthur had to be there. He had to.

‘Please, don’t let the crows be a bad omen.’ 

“He’s alive, he’s alive” she whispered, trying to build up her courage and not give in to despair. Arthur needed her, there was no time for weakness.

She pointed the oil lamp to the ground, examining it closely. There were signs of a struggle, a big hollow mark dragged out and several foot prints all over it. The depression was large enough to have been made by a man about Arthur’s size. The woman’s breath sped up, her chest hurting at the thought of his darling being knocked unconscious and overpowered. It was a feeling she wasn’t used to: Arthur Morgan was as strong as an ox, he was the one who incapacitated others. Imagining him vulnerable made her stomach knot into himself tightly, leaving her out of breath.

She shook away the thought and resumed her inspection. The dirt was smooth where the body was being dragged away, leading downhill on the opposite side. Kris followed it down to the base of the hilltop, where the marks stopped.

Noticing the open nature of the cliff, it was plain to her that Micah had only brought Arthur to have him kidnapped. Her husband was probably so focused on protecting him and Dutch that his back was left completely exposed to attacks. The mere thought of this being staged filled Kris with murderous rage. Oh, when she returned back to camp, there would have been hell to pay.  And she wasn’t coming back empty handed, no fucking chance. 

Desperately trying to keep her emotions at bay, Kris sneaked towards the camp up ahead. But first, she called her mare over.

“Stay, Cloud” she commanded, taking her rifle from the saddle.

She was like a cat, quick and nimble, her dark hair blending into the dark landscape perfectly.  She stopped behind a big boulder and scoured the area with her binoculars:

A few tents, a wooden shed, doors to an underground basement and a single campfire. Luckily, it seemed to be a small camp. She could handle it.

“Dumb bastards gonna regret their choices very soon” she thought, murder on her mind, gripping the binoculars harder.

All seemed quiet, apart from two drunken bastards laughing their heads off by the shed, checking some guns that looked vaguely familiar and playfully pointing them at each other, making shooting sounds with their mouths. Kris zoomed into one of the weapons and exhaled rapidly. She recognized the engravings on the grip: those were Arthur’s pistols.

“He has to be here” her mind consoled her. At least she found him. But where did they keep him?

She didn’t have to wait long for the answer: as soon as she thought it, two men slammed the basement door open and emerged dragging a large feller forward.

“Arthur!” she almost screamed, but it came out choked and painful. She wanted to run over, kill the two bastards point blank, fire at the drunkards by the shed and just be done with it. But she had to be smart about this. She didn’t want her husband to pay the price for her stupidity.

She followed his steps through the binoculars. God, he looked rough: they took his clothes off, leaving him in just a union suit. He stumbled forward heavily, like he was injured, and his features were contorted into a mix of pain, fear and anger. This man towered over his perpetrators, and yet he was so fragile, like a wounded bear attacked by a pack of wolves. Suddenly, they pushed him and almost sent him tumbling on the ground. Instead, he crashed against what seemed to be a large wooden tub of water. A bit of it splashed out the side on impact.

Since they stupidly didn’t tie his hands up, Arthur turned around and tried to fight back, punching one of the O’Driscoll boys to free himself from his grip. The other one reacted just as quickly, hitting the kidnapped man on the back of his skull with the butt of a gun. Kris winced, phantom pain hitting her in the same spot. Tears burned behind her eyes as her husband collapsed on the ground, red blood staining his blond hair.

She held her breath until she saw him move, slowly and disorderly, but moving. Colm’s henchmen grabbed a stunned Arthur and pushed him towards the tub. The last thing Kris saw before bolting towards the camp was one of them putting a white hood over his head and fastening it with a rope.

Panic settled into her whole being. “Shit, shit, shit.” She had to act fast.

Kris reached the back of the shed, scouting the grounds attentively. She located the two men who were playing with Arthur’s guns earlier: they were far enough apart to be taken out stealthily.

Creeping behind the first victim of the night, Kris drew her knife slowly. She jumped up, locking the bandit’s neck with her forearm and plunging the blade deep into his throat. Before he even fell to the ground gurgling and choking on his own blood, Kris was already tailing the second feller. This one was taller, so she took advantage of her lower position. With a swift kick behind his knees, the man fell on the ground with a gasp, the air knocked out of his lungs when the woman sticked the knife into his temple, pressing and releasing it as a gush of warm blood stained her hand. 

“See you in hell, fuckers” she murmured, releasing the tension with a short exhale.

The sound of splashing and roaring laughter alarmed her, so she turned around, searching frantically for Arthur. What she saw made her freeze in horror.

While one O’Driscoll held Arthur down with his whole weight, locking his arms behind his back, the other plunged his hooded head into the tub, keeping it down until he squirmed violently, on the verge of drowning. The he pulled him out, Arthur gasping and sputtering and coughing, only to stick his head back into the water, over and over again. The two were talking and laughing maniacally, but Kris didn’t even register it. Both her vision and hearing was focused on her husband being tortured, his desperate sounds unleashing something primal in her that she had never felt before. Everything went white, a blind rage enrapturing every fiber of her being. Before she even knew what she was doing, she was drawing her rifle, directing it at the torturers. 

All reality froze in that instant, slowed down as if coated in honey. Every movement felt heavy and automatic, white-hot rage taking over Kris’s central nervous system, sending impulses to the nerves, urging her fingers to manipulate the trigger.

Two shots to the head. She didn’t miss.

The second blast echoed in her ears, unbearably loud, making the white veil lift off reality, and she gradually resumed control of her own body.

Arthur sprung backwards, choking and sputtering water as his hands clawed at the completely soaked cotton hood, struggling to remove it. The water had made it stick to his head like a glove, the fabric getting into his mouth and nostrils, making it impossible to breathe.

Kris slung the rifle over her shoulder and rushed over to him; she gripped base of the hood, lifting the rope that closed it and pulling it desperately upwards. It started to budge after a few pulls, Arthur’s struggle becoming more and more violent as more oxygen left his lungs and terror took ahold of him. Finally, it came off with one last desperate, violent pull.

Arthur inhaled sharply, erupting into a coughing fit as too much oxygen filled his severely deprived airways. Kris reached out to touch him, like she needed proof that he was really there, in front of her. Alive.

She checked him for injuries: he had a bullet wound in his left shoulder, the blood barely visible on the red union suit they left him in. It looked pretty serious: it must have been a double barreled shotgun, because the gash was huge. The cotton had melted into the skin, fusing with the charred edges of the wound and slowing the bleeding up a bit. The risk of infection was very high.

“You came” Arthur managed to speak hoarsely. He seemed surprised that someone actually came to rescue him.

Kris hugged him, careful to avoid his wound. “Of course I did”, she whispered, choking up.

Arthur wrapped her in his arms, but gasped in pain as his shoulder muscles contracted. He was rapidly reminded of the gravity of his injury and let his harmed shoulder slump to the side, right arm cradling his left deltoid in an effort to reduce the sudden pain.

“We need to get you back to camp” Kris urged, wide-eyed, inviting her partner to lean on her.

Arthur looked back, taking in the torture grounds before leaving: multiple men on the ground, slit throats and burst heads in pools of brains and blood; the nightmarish hood, which disturbingly still retained the shape of his face, was floating in the tub like a dead fish. The campfire burned furiously, fueled by shreds of cotton thrown in it, now as black as coal. He recognized his own clothes.

Kris walked in front of him, kneeling down to grab something by the entrance of the tool shed. Arthur limped over there to have a look: it was his gun belt and all the weapons he carried during the ambush. His wife helped him tie the belt around his waist and handed him his rolling block rifle. His dignity back.

Arthur held it, savoring the familiar feeling of wood and metal in his hands. He swung the weapon on his unharmed shoulder, but the movement was enough to send a sharp stab of pain directly through his flesh again. He groaned, clenching his teeth so hard they hurt and he went as pale as a sheet. He struggled to breathe, his limbs slowly becoming numb, his heart-rate slowing down. He could tell he didn’t have much time before passing out from blood loss.

“Shit,” Kris exclaimed, noticing his rapidly worsening condition. “We need to leave!”

With the loudest whistle she could muster she called her horse over. Cloud galloped into camp diligently, neighing and shaking her mane furiously upon seeing the lifeless bodies on the ground. Kris helped Arthur get on the horse, struggling to support his weight. She then mounted in front of him and took the reins. 

They were halfway home when Arthur started to lose consciousness. His grip on his wife’s waist grew weaker, his head heavy, slurring his words.

“Arthur? How are we doing?” Kris asked anxiously.

“Dunno… how much” Arthur tried his best to articulate, “…I can hold on” he coughed, breathing raucously. His eyes felt heavy and the world was becoming darker by the minute. He was in and out of reality, lights flickering on and off, a mysterious veil clouding his vision.

“Please, hold on honey,” she encouraged him. “It ain’t much longer now!”

Kris spurred Cloud on, going as fast as she would take them, hoping Arthur would keep holding on tight behind her. She rode and rode and rode until she saw the familiar camp entrance through the woods, sighing with immense relief as Arthur clung to her with all the strength he had left.

“Charles! Sadie! Someone, help!” Kris screamed her lungs off long before approaching camp, urgency and distress rendering her voice shrill. 

Arthur moaned and grunted, finally letting go of all the efforts to stay vigilant. His body slumped over and he fell unconscious. Kris barely had the time to get off the horse to try and catch him, but he was too heavy and he almost fell on her. Luckily, Charles had heard her call and was already behind her, ready to catch his friend. A few others rushed over to help them carry Arthur over to his cot.

Kris made her way through the small crowd that had formed around his wagon. She checked his breathing and heart-rate, which were both slow, but regular. Arthur was gradually starting to regain consciousness now, breathing faster and trying to speak, only incoherent, jumbled words coming out.

“You’re gonna be okay, dear. You’re safe now” Kris cooed, stroking his hair tenderly. Arthur opened his eyes and was met with the worry and love in his wife’s. He rolled them back shut, way too fatigued to keep them open. He smiled.

“Thank you” he muttered, trying to squeeze Kris’s hand, but too weak to.

“Ms. Grimshaw, can you please have someone tend to his wound?” she asked, pointing at Arthur’s bleeding shoulder. “It’s pretty bad.”

The older woman saw all the fiery determination of a loving wife in Kris, all the pain and anxiety she was suppressing for Arthur’s sake. It was such a familiar feeling for her. She nodded, pulling herself out of the shock of seeing her adoptive son gravely hurt.

“Of course.” As she ran to get the doctor, Dutch and Micah approached the small group gathered at the man’s bedside.

“Arthur, my poor son!” Dutch lamented, filling Kris with disgust. What a shameless farce.

Arthur groaned, shifting his weight on his right side. “I told you it was a trap, Dutch” he growled, pushing the pain down and letting the anger resurface. He allowed this to happen.

Fury and bitterness enveloped him so intensely, he managed to send the pain to the backseat for a moment. Sitting up to face his mentor, he spoke, his tone the lowest Kris had ever heard:

“You let my wife risk her life for me.”

Extreme pain and anger were making him delirious, but this he saw as clear as day: Kris put herself in danger to rescue him. Dutch didn’t come looking for him after he didn’t show up at the meeting spot. He let his wife go after him alone.

Everyone fell silent, two sets of furious eyes and several shocked ones pointed at Van Der Linde, who stood there like a salt statue, his expression indecipherable.

“Micah planned this, didn’t he?” Arthur pressed on, rage white hot, pronouncing Micah’s name with pure disgusted disdain. “He was the only one who thought it was a good idea.”

The accused man dropped into the conversation with his usual fake apologetic tone. “Hey, cowpoke, no reason t-“

“SHUT THE HELL UP!” Arthur erupted, coughing and wheezing as the pain abruptly came back to torment him, leaving him no choice but to back down and rest. Kris helped him get back into a comfortable position.

“I’ll deal with this, Arthur” she promised sternly. Then, turning to the crowd:  “I want everybody except the doctor and Ms. Grimshaw out of here. Now!”

Nobody wanted to further aggravate an upset wife, so they all scrambled back to their cots or scattered throughout camp.

Dutch turned his back to leave like everyone else, but Kris stopped him.

“Oh no, you stay here. I need a word with you.” Her tone didn’t admit reply. Van Der Linde slowly turned around, lighting himself a second cigar.

“Miss, I-“

Kris corrected him, vitriol in her voice. “Mrs. Mrs. Morgan.” She emphasized each letter deliberately, her patience wearing dangerously thin.

Dutch recognized his misstep, so he resorted to fawn and praise, like he always did. Still, he strangely refused to acknowledge her title.

“I’m so sorry about this, Kris. You were so brave, to rescue Arthur and bring him back to us in one piece.”

“One piece?!” she retorted, in complete disbelief. “Does my husband look in one piece to you?!” she gestured towards Arthur, laid down on his cot while the doctor examined him. Susan watched over them both.

Dutch raised his hands, softening his tone. “We’ll take care of him. This won’t happen again.”

Kris had grown tired of this man’s empty promises. “You say that, but how long until he’s lined up for the next stupid, deadly, useless mission? Huh?” her voice was starting to crack, the pent up emotions of the whole day taking their toll on her. “What then?”

“Were you going to come for him?” she asked softly, too tired to hold back tears now. “Be honest, Dutch. Were you?”

The dark-haired man stared blankly in the distance, over Kris’s shoulder. The charismatic leader finally had no words. They bolt jolted at the sudden scream that resounded through camp. The doctor was removing the bullet from Arthur’s shoulder, Susan holding his hand like a doting mother, whispering words of comfort to her surrogate son.

Kris dried her tears on her blood stained shirt. Arthur’s blood. “Dutch,” she called, voice shaking. “look at me.”

“Do you still have faith in me, Kris?” he asked, all of a sudden emotional. “Like when you did when you were an orphan on the street, and I took you in as my own daughter?”

Kris looked up at him, tears dry on her cheeks. 

He knew that would make her feel guilty. 

He knew she had no choice but to join, and that she had been grateful. 

He also knew how much Arthur came to mean to her. 

Did she still have faith in him? Her mind was way too tired now, her emotions too jangled up to verbalize them. She shot her mentor a doubtful look and left him there.

Kris went to sit by Arthur’s cot, head buzzing with too many thoughts. The doctor had just finished bandaging him. Seeing her approaching, Susan promptly gave her the seat next to her husband.

“The doctor says we need to change his bandages frequently to avoid infection, but he should feel fine in a few weeks” she reassured Kris, laying her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.

Kris smiled, grateful that the worst had passed. “Thank you, Ms. Grimshaw.”

Susan nodded and gave the couple some privacy.

Arthur was understandably tuckered out, so Kris just sat on the chair next to him and held his hand as he slept.

“You’re gonna be okay” she said, more to herself than to him. She would have never admitted it, but seeing Arthur like that stressed her out to no end, a profound anxiety shutting her stomach down and keeping her awake.

And awake she sat, all night, checking Arthur’s breathing from time to time and changing his bandages every few hours.

Arthur woke up the next morning at the crack of dawn to see his devoted wife slumped forward on the chair, head bowed and fast asleep, still holding his hand. He smiled: she looked so cute when she slept. Poor baby looked exhausted, and yet she never left his side. God, how did he get so lucky? A brute like him hardly deserved such devoted loyalty like the one she showed him. If it wasn’t for her, who knows what would’ve happened to him. He loved her with all his soul, provided he had one to begin with. 

Sensing his eyes on her, Kris woke up, taking a while to adjust to her unusual surroundings.

“Good morning, beautiful” Arthur squeezed her hand and immediately winced, the effort making his wound wake up as well.

“Beautiful?” she huffed, sarcastic. “I’m tired, dirty and covered in blood!”

“Did I stutter?” he replied, inviting her to get closer. She obliged, sitting directly on the cot and leaning in to kiss him. It was the softest kiss, tender and intimate. It was a ‘I’m glad you’re alive’ kiss, savored slowly by both of them.

“Did you talk to Dutch?”

Kris shifted her weight from side to side, reminded of the uncomfortable conversation between them last night.

“I don’t want you to worry about this, not until you’re fully recovered.” She ordered, gently kissing his cheekbone. Arthur sighed.

“If I am gonna make it, that is.”

Kris repressed the urge to elbow him in the ribs. “Arthur Morgan! Of course you will” she scoffed. “Or I will descend into hell just to drag your sorry ass back here. Hear me?”

Her husband chuckled softly, then grimaced. “Oh, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“Sorry” Kris grinned, suddenly overcome with a deep-set, warm relief. They were back in camp, having their usual banter. They were together.

“So, what do you need? Water? Something to eat? Do you want me to read for you?” she yawned so intensely that she was left disoriented for a second.

Arthur shook his head. “I want you to get some sleep, first.”

“Ugh. Fine” Kris protested, Susan already coming back to take over. 

“I’ll be back, honey” she cooed, leaning down to kiss Arthur’s lips again. 

“I’ll be right here.” he smiled, seeing her off. 

[moodybluezzz]

A Drunk Man's Waltz - Leone Abbacchio x Reader

[Content: fluff/mildly suggestive, jealous Abbacchio (out of character?), alcohol, Y/N with fem pronouns]

[Word count: 1.8k]

It was night at Bucciarati's house, and the whole gang was gathered after another successful mission. You were relaxing on a velvety couch in Bruno's living room, enjoying the liveliness in the air.

Dishes clinked and food simmered as Bruno and Abbacchio prepared dinner. A classical tune echoed softly from the kitchen - Moody Blues was leaning against the counter, playing back an assortment of songs while the two worked. You recognized some of the songs from the few times you'd playfully stolen Abbacchio's headphones. Unfortunately the music was nearly drowned out under the bickering of the others as they tried (and failed) to set the dining table as a team.

Bruno's house had become like home for the gang, with lots of room for hosting lunches, dinners, and even sleepovers (when Narancia and Mista begged for one enough.) Despite the fact you had only been part of the team for a few months, they welcomed you warmly. "La mia casa è la tua casa," Bruno had said the first time you joined them for dinner. You could tell he loved nights like these, and so did you - it certainly made things entertaining.

Something shattered on the floor in the dining room. "DAMMIT, NARANCIA! We'll be eating straight out of the pots and pans at this rate!"

"It's not my fault these fancy plates are so slippery!" Narancia pouted. Fugo facepalmed and went to search for a broom and dustpan. You glanced at Mista, who was grinning from the other side of the couch, and giggled.

Bucciarati peeked out of the kitchen doorway, smiling. You could tell he didn't care one bit about the mess. He was just happy everyone was here. Abbacchio continued cooking in his place - from where you sat you could just barely see Moody Blues morph into a replacement Bucciarati, who promptly continued stirring and seasoning one of the dishes. You couldn't help but find something about it adorable.

Finally the two emerged from the kitchen along with their stands, their arms full with platters of food and even a bottle of fancy wine. "Dinner is served!" Bucciarati exclaimed. Abbacchio smirked - it was a rarity, but he seemed proud of himself. You gazed in wonder at the full Italian meal being laid out on the table.

Narancia's face lit up just as much as yours. "This is amazing! Where did you guys learn to cook so well!?" Bruno smiled warmly.

"In my case I suppose my father taught me everything I know about good food! Thanks to him I learned to cook for myself from a young age. I can teach you some of our recipes sometime if you'd li-"

"MISTAAA! WE'RE HUNGRY, WHAT'S THE HOLD UP!?" The Sex Pistols perked up, seemingly out of thin air (like always.)

"Alright, alright! Let's dig in! The food looks damn good, really!" Mista lifted his silverware excitedly.

And so the table filled up with plates of steaming pastas and carefully seasoned breads, and glasses of sweet red wine. Abbacchio sat directly across from you, watching intently as you lifted your fork. You were wowed at the first bite - the food tasted just as good as it looked! The others chatted happily as they began to eat. You looked up, locking eyes with Abbacchio, who quickly focused back on his plate. Had he been staring?

You continued eating. But sure enough, after stealing a few more upward glances your eyes met once again. This time Abbacchio's brows furrowed - you decided not to keep pushing it. You stared down at your food, twirling spaghetti around your fork.

"Y/N? Y/N!"

You finally tuned back in to the rest of the table's conversation. Narancia had been trying to get your attention for a while, it seemed.

"W-What? Sorry, I spaced out…"

Narancia grinned. "Jeez, Bucciarati, I knew your food was good but I've never seen someone get THAT into it! You must've really knocked her socks off like always~"

"H-Huh!?"

Abbacchio suddenly stood from his seat, everyone's attention shooting his way. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he hesitated.

"-Tch."

He stormed off, leaving a dumbfounded look on everyone's faces.

"What's up his ass?" Mista frowned. "Hey, the bastard took the whole bottle of wine with him too!"

Everyone turned to Bucciarati, but even he appeared to be clueless. And ever-so-slightly embarrassed.

"I have to go to the bathroom…" you muttered, trailing Abbacchio's path. He must have gone outside.

You opened the back door a crack, and sure enough, there was Abbacchio, sitting tense on the patio steps. He took a long sip from the bottle in his hand. You slipped through the door and shut it gently behind you. He glanced over his shoulder with a stare colder than the nighttime air.

"What are you doing out here?" He groaned, leaning over and resting his head on his free hand. "First you keep staring at me and now you're following me, what's next?"

You shuffled nervously. "Well, technically you're the one who was staring first…"

Abbacchio clenched his teeth and turned sharply away, his platinum hair whipping over his face. You swore you could see blush flood his face before it was buried beneath the strands. "L-Listen punk, you don't understand anything. Narancia sure as hell doesn't understand anything…"

You winced. "Are you upset about what he said? About Bucciarati…"

He slammed the bottle down with an empty thud and lifted himself from the patio. He turned to face you and grasped your collar, pulling you close to his face. You could smell the wine on his breath.

"It's always… Bucciarati this, Bucciarati that!" Abbacchio slurred. "I tried with dinner– I tried for you, I watched and waited and they still think you're falling head-over-heels for Bruno!"

You stared at Abbacchio, his eyes burning with jealousy and something else you couldn't quite place.

"I-I don't understand-"

He let go of you sharply. "-Tch. It doesn't matter. Why not test this theory ourselves?"

Abbacchio turned away as he brought out Moody Blues, which swiftly grabbed your hand and twirled you in a circle. When you regained your footing and looked back at the Stand, you found yourself face-to-face with Bruno.

A copy of Bruno.

Your eyes widened. The Stand took both of your hands now, playing back a smooth waltz and guiding you slowly into a dance that for some reason, you just couldn't bring yourself to break out of. You blushed as Bucciarati's figure held you close, leading you back and forth with a surprising level of grace and careful footwork. Deep down, is this really what you wanted? Abbacchio stood close by, glancing over his shoulder and trying to figure that out for himself as well.

As the sweet song came to an end, Bucciarati - no, Moody Blues - pulled you in close one last time, your bodies pressed close together as your chest heaved with nervous breaths. The recreation of the boss's sky-blue eyes held yours with a seemingly unbreakable gaze.

But they're nothing compared to the gold-purple ones that caught you earlier.

"No!" You turned your head sharply away. A look of frustration passed briefly over the Stand's face before it broke its hold, merging back to Abbacchio in an instant. The sudden lack of support left you stumbling backwards and landing gently on the patio floor, right at the tall man's feet. He scoffed, his arms crossed and head down. You stared up at him, speechless. After a moment he sighed and reached down to you. You hesitated before taking his hand. Abbacchio lifted you strongly, gazing off into the darkness of the yard.

"Abbacchio…"

It was quiet, save for the sound of the breeze.

"That was your favorite music, right?"

Abbacchio stayed silent.

You dared to step closer. "That wasn't a copy of Bucciarati's moves, was it? You may have replicated his body, but everything else, that was all you, I can just tell…"

You reached for his hands and turned him toward you. The light from the house illuminated his face warmly. This time the blush was clear as day.

"Dance with me, Abbacchio."

Despite the hint of nervousness in his eyes, he wrapped one arm around your back and held your hand close to his chest with the other. And just like that, you were swaying back and forth together, stepping from the patio into the open yard. The moon acted as your spotlight, illuminating the yard just enough to keep your step. For having drank at least half a bottle of wine, Abbacchio guided you surprisingly steadily.

"Listen, I'd never disrespect Bucciarati…" he mumbled. "I look up to him. Everyone does. So don't go telling anyone about all this, okay?"

You nodded, smiling softly. "I look up to him too. B-But not in the way everyone seems to think…"

He held you still and leaned toward you now, his violet eyes looking you up and down just like at the table. Your face felt like it was on fire, and Abbacchio noticed. His gaze softened as he kissed your cheek.

"Sono io che vuoi?" he whispered in a low, sweet tone.

You shuddered as his lips pressed against yours. Before you knew it Abbacchio was all over you, pushing you down onto the soft grass as he kissed you like he'd never get to again. You wrapped your arms around his back, grasping at his dark overcoat. You closed your eyes, praying no one would wonder what was taking you so long.

Now this, this felt right.

Abbacchio pulled away to take a breath, his face alight with a look you'd never seen before. You could practically see the want burning in his eyes.

"A-Abbacchio, we should get back inside, what if the others…"

"Mm. Fuck." He turned his head toward the house nonchalantly, wiping his mouth with his wrist. His lips left a dark streak along his skin. "You stay here, I'll head in first. Last thing we need is Narancia or Mista getting suspicious." He stood and stumbled inside almost as quickly as he'd left before.

You remained flat on the ground, staring up at the stars. Your heart was still pounding. After a few minutes you heard the door open across the yard. You turned to see Narancia peeking out. "Oh, you are still out here!" You lifted yourself up and he jogged across the grass, crouching down next to you. "Hey, I'm sorry about earlier, Y/N, I didn't mean to make you mad! Or Abbacchio…even though he's always kinda mad…"

"Don't worry about it," You reassured him with an embarrassed smile.

"So are you gonna tell me why you're in the middle of the yard!? Did something happen?"

"N-No, no! Don't worry about it…" You scrambled. Narancia seemed amused.

"Well, uhm... Here, before you come inside," Narancia fumbled around in his pockets and handed you an orange handkerchief. You took it, puzzled.

"Thanks?"

He grinned awkwardly before heading back, his hands stuffed in his pockets. You stared at the cloth before dabbing around your mouth and cheeks. Was there grass on your face or something?

When you looked down at the handkerchief, it was covered in purple lipstick.

[swaps55]

Mezzo - 05 - Glass of Gasoline

Pairing: mshenko | Rating: M Tags: Canon-typical violence, trauma, dealing with your problems poorly, body autonomy struggles   Summary: The twists and turns of ME2, through the eyes of everyone but Commander Shepard. Chapter Summary: Omega lets Sam Shepard off the chain.   Thank you to @sinvraal for betaing!

Chapter 5: Glass of Gasoline | Read on Ao3

02 November 2185, Omega Nebula, Sahrabarik System, Omega

Shepard shouldn’t be struggling with biotics. The implant insertion had been flawless. Every scan showed it was communicating with his nervous system exactly as designed. If anything, the biosynthetic fibers used to repair his nervous system should improve his ability to tap the gravity well, and the advancements in implant technology should increase the strength of his fields considerably.

He shouldn’t be struggling.

Perhaps this should not be troubling Miranda more than Shepard nonchalantly agreeing to stroll across a bridge dressed as a mercenary, in plain view of a vigilante shooting anyone who comes into scope, but thankfully Archangel isn’t stupid. The moment Shepard puts a shotgun into the back of a Blue Sun and opens fire, not one sniper bullet strikes his shields.

Archangel is indeed in trouble, just as Aria told them, and those who are drowning tend not to question lifelines.

Except Shepard, who has questioned everything Miranda has offered. Her attempts to ask about the implant’s performance have been swiftly rebuffed, but she can feel every futile twist and churn he makes in the gravity well. At best his corona is no more than a pale glimmer, a weakening flame desperately seeking oxygen.

It was perfect. You were perfect.

Well, not quite. The scarring still remains. Easily repairable if she still had access to the Lazarus lab, less so on the Normandy, but still possible. A few more weeks, and that, too, would have been rectified. There would have been no visible sign of her work. 

Damn Wilson and his short sightedness.

Shepard has been right at her fingertips for two years. Height, weight, body temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, metabolic rate, all of it. She is more intimately familiar with the body of Sam Shepard than she ever will be with a lover.

But she has no baseline for him.

Even without the biotics, he still fights like the Alliance’s hero. Alliance Ns are a sight to behold, and all of Shepard’s muscle memory remains intact. He is swift, brutal, with no fanfare or showmanship. Just a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips that chills her right to the bone whenever she glimpses it behind his faceplate.

Miranda is well-equipped to handle herself but she is no soldier, and this is a battlefield. For all her skills and all her training, it is Jacob and Massani, the former Blue Sun with a grudge they had recruited upon arrival at Omega, who carry the weight of the fight.

She checks the right corner as they enter the ground floor of the shipping warehouse where Archangel chose to make his stand, gagging at the sickening rot of death inside. Blood stains the floor, some blue, some red. A row of bodies lie hastily covered under tarps. Scouring mars the walls, with overturned furniture forming a hasty barricade. 

She is so caught on the sight of it all she doesn’t spot the mercenary on her left until Shepard yanks her out of the way and unloads with his pistol. A body hits the ground with a thud and a squelch. She didn’t see him switch to the pistol from his shotgun. Surely there hadn’t been time. But the man who would have killed her now lies in a pool of his own blood, and Shepard is already moving up a set of stairs towards Archangel’s perch on the second floor, her brush with death already forgotten.

“Massani, watch the entrance,” he barks over his shoulder.

“Goddamn right,” Massani replies, checking his heat sink. Combat is comfortable on him, like being in his armor is more natural than being out of it. But he still wears it, unlike Shepard.

Shepard becomes it.

Read from the beginning | Read the rest on Ao3 | The Mezzo Playlist

[spicycinnabun]

Delivered

WC: 3031 🥠 Rated: T 🥠 on Ao3

Somebody was banging on the front door.

“Who the fuck is there?” Mickey barked from the bathroom.

He had just gotten out of the shower and wasn’t expecting anyone to show up at the house tonight. Unexpected visitors were never a good sign. He wrapped a towel around his hips and held it closed, exiting the cloud of steam.

“Delivery!” came the reply, muffled behind pine.

“Ain’t ordered no delivery,” Mickey muttered, tromping to the door. His feet left wet patches on the carpet. He hadn’t even dried his hair yet, so it was dripping too, as he grabbed his Glock from the side table. Mickey opened the door without checking the peephole.

Sure enough, a delivery guy was standing on his porch in a green baseball cap and a tight grey t-shirt.

He looked startled for a moment, probably by Mickey’s appearance and the pistol in his hand, but he recovered with a (friendly?) half-smirk. “Order from Wok Around The Clock for Mickey?”

Mickey eyed the guy, trying not to focus on the broad shoulders or the sculpted chest. “Yeah, I’m Mickey, but I didn’t order any shit from—” he cut himself off, gesturing towards the logo on the guy’s shirt, “there.”

He’d ordered from Wok Around The Clock plenty of times—usually, he went and picked it up himself—but he was never going to repeat that stupid fucking name out loud.

“Well, someone did, and they used your name and address.” The guy held up a brown paper bag that was stapled shut and spattered with grease. “You might as well take it. It’s just going to go to waste otherwise. And hey,” he joked, “free noods. Doesn’t everybody like those?”

Mickey stared at him.

The guy ducked his head. With his cap obscuring his eyes, Mickey just saw the slightly pink apples of his cheeks and a magnitude of freckles.

“It’s already paid for? Guess it would be foolish of me to pass up free grub,” he admitted, putting the Glock back onto the side table. He snatched the bag from the delivery guy’s fingers, peeking inside. “What’s in here?”

“Chow mein with extra beef, egg rolls, and Ian.”

Mickey’s brows furrowed. “The fuck is Ian?”

“My name. Thought you’d wanna know.”

What the fuck…?

Mickey’s head whipped up, and his face heated unexpectedly. “Why, you want a fuckin’ five-star review on your app or some shit? Already told you I didn’t order, man. I can’t do that.”

Why hadn’t he just slammed the door and started enjoying his free noods—noodles—already, damn it?

“No…” Ian laughed. He finally lifted his head, and the light caught his eyes. Green and sparkling with amusement.

If Mickey didn’t know better, he’d say Ian was checking him out, too. He was still wearing that half-smirk that was turning into a (more than friendly?) full smirk the longer Mickey looked at it.

But Mickey did know better. People didn’t do that to him. Guys didn’t do that to him. Especially not guys like… this. Attractive, tall, kinda alien-looking ones.

“I don’t need a review, but if you have any complaints, I can give you my number.”

Mickey let go of his towel in disbelief. It nearly dropped off his hips until he hastily grabbed it again with a scrunched fist. Ian’s eyes tracked the movement. “The fuck you just say?”

Had Mickey gotten water in his fucking ears that was disturbing his fucking hearing? Or…

“If you have any complaints—about the food, the service, anything—Wok Around The Clock would love to hear them,” Ian replied smoothly. He took a pen out of his pocket (like some fucking boy scout), uncapped it with his teeth, and wrote something down on the side of the bag that Mickey was still holding. “Or if you want to talk to us in person, we’re just… a wok around the block.” He winked.

Winked.

Mickey let it happen. The bad joke, the—the whatever this was. He was so flabbergasted that he had turned into a fucking statue.

Faced with Mickey’s silence, Ian finally started to look a bit sheepish. He capped his pen and slid it back into his jeans’ pocket. “Okay. Well, enjoy your meal. See ya.”

He ducked away before Mickey could pick his brain up off the floor, getting into a black pickup truck parked on the street. It growled to life, and he lifted his hand to wave at Mickey before speeding off.

Mickey stood there staring until one of his neighbors, Connie, walked by with her beagle and a little girl. Both the girl and beagle were on harness leashes, and Connie looked like she had gone one too many rounds with a tanning bed, all red and splotchy.

She stopped when she noticed him, yanking the leash straps and making the little girl squeal as she was pulled back. “Hey, Milkovich, nobody wants to see your tits! Go on back inside before you scar my neice with your pervert peep show.”

“Lookin’ at your overbaked lasagna of a face every day, I’m sure she’s already scarred for life, Ms. Hannigan,” Mickey said. He closed the door on her middle finger.

*

After he was dry and dressed, Mickey settled on his couch in front of the coffee table and took a few big, healthy shots from a bottle of whiskey to shake off some nerves he had no idea why he even had. Then, once sufficiently buzzed and relaxed, he started devouring the free food that was mysteriously his usual order—Chow mein with extra beef, egg rolls, and Ian.

Christ, Ian wasn’t part of his usual.

Weird fuckin’ guy.

Weird, big shoulders, perfect for hanging onto.

Weird, sweet face that was kinda nice to look at?

Mickey’s teeth clacked against his fork. He felt warmth creep up his neck as his eyes strayed from the TV playing an old Friends rerun to the handwritten phone number on the side of the bag.

468-7883

Call me ;)

Call him. Like hell Mickey would call him. And that fucking winky face. That was suspicious, right? Why was it there?

His rescue kitten, Lucifur, took the opportunity to swipe a packet of plum sauce from the table and start playing with it on the floor while he was distracted.

“You think he was hittin’ on me?” Mickey asked him.

It was possible but… unlikely. The guy hadn’t seemed fruity at all. Didn’t do any weird shit with his voice or hands. Not like any of the fags Mickey had ever come across. More like him. Like, regular.

Lucifur ignored him, continuing to roll around happily with the packet. Mickey leaned over to grab it from him before he tore a hole in it with his claws and got plum sauce everywhere. He got scratched for his trouble but headbutted a few seconds later.

“Little shit.” Mickey scooped him up and stroked him affectionately. “You don’t got any opinion on this?”

Lucifur closed his eyes and purred, his whole body vibrating. Mickey leaned back, and Lucifur walked up his chest, curling up in the crook of his neck. Mickey couldn’t prevent the soft smile that bloomed across his face. “Guess not.”

Between the booze, the full belly of food he now had, and the tiny black fluffball of doom warming him from the inside out, Mickey could have fallen right to sleep.

He unlocked his phone instead, pulling up his contact list and adding a new one. He named it Complaint Dept. and shot off a text before he could talk himself out of it.

Yo I got a complaint about my order

Not enough beef

He dropped his phone onto his chest without waiting for the Delivered message to show up.

On the TV, Chandler said, “Oh please, could she be more out of my league?”

“He ain’t out of my league. He’s a fuckin’ delivery boy,” Mickey argued, defensive for no reason and talking to the TV like a fucking psycho. He really needed to get out more.

Lucifur mrrr’d like he agreed with that thought, tucking a paw beneath the collar of Mickey’s shirt and extending his claws to knead Mickey’s collarbone. Mickey let out a curse at the pinpricks in his skin but didn’t stop their assault.

His phone lit up with a notification. Mickey tilted the screen towards his face.

Complaint Dept. (now)

Oh really? I’m sure I can fix that. How much beef do you need, Mickey?

Mickey snorted and tapped on the notif to open the message, semi-drunk fingers fumbling over the tiny keyboard. He started this shit. He might as well play along.

It was also a good sign (why?) that the guy immediately knew it was Mickey. That meant he wasn’t a fuck boy who hit on every Tom, Dick, and Harry that he delivered food to. Probably.

How much you got?

I’ll take it all

Delivered

If they were talking about what he thought they were talking about, he was like seventy-five percent sure now that they were flirting.

Most guys can’t take everything I’ve got. You sure you can?

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. Okay, ninety-five percent sure.

Guys you been with sound like complete pussies

Delivered

That was probably a lie, too. Outside of porn, the majority of guys were less than average or average in the dick department. (Hell, Mickey included.) And the small handful of guys that Mickey had fucked had talked a big game, but when it came to actually whipping it out and performing… eh. Disappointing. In size and delivery. So much so that he’d actually stopped one mid-fuck and topped him instead.

He got a response a few minutes later. It was enough time for him to reach out for his pack of smokes on the coffee table and light one up, blowing the smoke away from Lucifur.

What are you doing right now?

Mickey bit his lip. Was that supposed to be a sexy question? Was Ian trying to sext with him or some shit? Should he send a picture of his dick?

“Nah, too desperate,” Mickey decided. No way was he about to give the guy a personal penis portrait to hang up in his bedroom.

He opened his camera app and reversed it, angling the lens above himself. He missed the shutter button on the first try and nearly dropped his phone on his fucking face, but he got it on the second try. All that was included in the shot was his chest, Lucifur, the lower half of his face with his cigarette caught between his smirking lips, and his left hand, middle finger aloft.

Chillin with this villain

No free nudes for you, sorry

Delivered

Mickey watched the screen. It didn’t take long for those three dots to start dancing.

I’ll take a hot guy with a kitten over a dick pic any day of the week.

Mickey’s stomach swooped, brows furrowing. Hot… Him? Nobody had ever called him that before. Dirty guy? Sure. Smelly guy? Definitely. But hot guy? That was fucking new. Slowly, his brows smoothed out, and a gay-ass smile spread across his face as he read the sentence a few (dozen) more times. He was glad not even Lucifur was awake to see this. Shit was embarrassing.

Ian asked him a few questions. The kitten’s name, where he got him, and if Mickey had any other pets. Mickey was baffled why the guy gave a fuck, but the whiskey was making him more open to conversation, so he answered and even asked one of his own.

You got any?

Delivered

A picture of a German shepherd popped up on his screen. Its upper half rested on what Mickey assumed was Ian’s lap, and its head was lifted towards the camera, tongue lolling out happily like it had just finished playing for hours. It wore a blue collar with a shiny gold tag, and an alligator-shaped chew toy was between its paws. A big, freckly hand was buried in its fur, in the middle of ruffling its ears.

My girl, Lyla. Retired military K-9 unit. Best dog in the whole country.

Well, shit. Mickey’s smile grew a little. Fact that Ian was an animal lover might’ve been attractive as hell. He ashed his cigarette in the tray and picked up the whiskey bottle.

Cute

Bet you spoil her to death

Delivered

Mickey looked at the picture some more. He could see a dusting of hair all over Ian’s corded forearm. Why were the visible veins in his hand kinda hot? The hair was orange-ish, coppery, too. He was a redhead. Fuckin’ hot. Mickey nearly spit out his whiskey when the next message appeared.

You wanna sit on my lap next? I could spoil you too.

Mickey swallowed wrong and coughed, putting the bottle back on the table and thumping his chest. Lucifur let out a mew of complaint as he was disturbed. Mickey’s heart went haywire as he reread the message. It was a dumb joke, he knew, but hell. Ian sure was shooting his shot.

Mickey could flirt back.

Sure you could

Delivered

Okay, maybe he couldn’t.

You don’t sound convinced. I can fix that too.

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting another whiskey-fueled blush. More like he didn’t know what the fuck to say.

Think you might be all bark

No bite

Delivered

A dog joke. Nice, Milkovich. Real flirtatious.

Oh, I bite. If you ask nice. Sometimes I even like it…ruff. 🦴️

Despite himself, Mickey laughed. What a fucking nerd.

Lucifur, having had enough of Mickey’s constant jostling, hopped off him, tiny tail flicking. He meowed demandingly until Mickey scooped him up by the belly and lowered him to the ground. Mickey watched Lucifur scamper to the kitchen, making sure the little idiot didn't brain himself on the corner of the wall, before focusing on his phone again.

The TV had already moved on to another sitcom. This time, a rerun of How I Met Your Mother was playing.

Do those awful fucking jokes ever get you any ass?

Delivered

The dots did their dance.

Only the coolest guys like my jokes. Are you cool, Mickey?

On the TV, Ted said, “Shouldn’t we hold out for the person who doesn’t just tolerate our little quirks but actually kinda likes them?”

Mickey pulled his lip into his mouth, grinning. He guessed he could stroke the dork’s ego. Just this once.

Coolest motherfucker you ever met

Delivered

Nothing happened on the screen for long enough that Mickey got up and cleared the coffee table, packing up his leftovers and putting them in the fridge for the next day. He noticed a lone fortune cookie in the bottom of the bag as he was about to crush it up and put it in the trash, so he fished it out.

He also refilled Lucifur’s kibble and replaced his water with some fresh stuff from the tap since the little guy was howling in front of his bowls like he hadn’t eaten in three goddamn years. Never mind he was only five months old and had eaten a can of wet food only two hours ago.

Mickey was a bit unsteady on his feet and just drunk enough that his dumb fucking smile was still plastered across his face as he cracked open the fortune cookie and unrolled the little piece of paper.

“The greatest risk is not taking one,” Mickey read out loud, smile disappearing. “You callin' me a coward, bitch?”

Great, now he was talking to fortune cookies.

His lucky numbers were…

4 6 8 7 88 3

That looked familiar. “You can’t be fucking serious!”

Mickey squinted, dropping the fortune and fumbling for his phone to double-check, but he nearly had a heart attack when he saw the notification waiting for him. His ass hit the couch again as his world went loopy.

Complaint Dept. (2 minutes ago)

Does that mean you’d agree to go out on a date with me?

…Ian, the delivery guy he’d just met, wanted to take him out on a date?

Not a hookup. Like, a real fucking date? With fuckin’ conversation and shit?

Mickey was not sober enough to answer that, but his fingers were moving before his brain could catch up.

Don’t really do dates

Delivered

Had never done it, was the truth. Not even with a woman. Not even with Svetlana.

What kinda date?

Delivered

He was out of his fucking mind. He shouldn’t have asked that.

The dots danced again.

We could go for a drink?

Or something sweet? I know a great ice cream place.

“Christ.” Mickey covered his face with his palms. His heart was racing like his dad was about to rise from the grave and burst through the door with an AK-47 pointed right at his head. Mickey peeked out between his fingers when his phone pinged five more times in quick succession.

But it’s okay!

If you don’t want to.

No pressure.

Though you will be missing out on some great comedy.

I have a whole arsenal of puns you still haven’t heard.

Over the years, Mickey had never talked to anyone like this. There was never an opportunity for someone to flirt with him or ask him out. He was short and to the point. None of his one-night stands had even made it to the morning. Out of his bed before the sun rose every time—if they even made it to his bed in the first place. Even chit-chat was kept to a minimum.

His door had been slammed shut and bolted with his back pressed hard against it, fueled by fear, since he was a teenager.

But maybe now it was finally open. Just a crack.

“Go to hell, you fuckin’ prick,” Mickey muttered, picturing Terry’s rage-filled face. His thumbs tapped out a message.

That’d be a shame

Won’t scream for it, but I do like ice cream

Delivered

You don’t have to scream for the ice cream.

But you might scream for me. ;)

Mickey sniffed, then blew out an amused snort. Fucking winky-faced cheesy fucker.

Yeah

Guess we’ll see about that

Delivered

[katyawriteswhump]

The Highwayman, the Stableboy & the Christmas Bride (Stobin/Minor Steddie)

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles Day 17--Platonic Stobin Day. When Robin is forced into an arranged marriage, she and Steve take drastic action...

WC: 939. Rating: T.

CW: none really. Tags: Historical AU. Minor Steddie. Crossdressing. A bit silly.

***

Lady Roberta burst into the stable-block, petticoats trailing in the muck. She flung her arms around Steve: “It’s horrible enough that I’m marrying a man three times my age—and that he’s a man! Why does it have to be at Christmas?”

“I suppose Lady Buckley was trying to soften the blow.” Steve rested his cheek on her hair, rubbed circles on her back. In all their years of friendship, he’d never seen her so distraught. “Surely Lord Hootenanny’s fortune cheers you?”

“I couldn’t care less.” Robin sniffed hard, in her wonderfully un-ladylike manner. “Maybe you can become his stableboy and leave with me?”

“I suppose you’ll still require a snot-rag, but… uh…” The tremble in his voice betrayed him. She peeped up, wiped her eyes—pushed his hair from his brow and gasped. 

Damn. He’d wished to conceal his latest bruise.

“What happened?”

“Your fiancé’s boot collided with my face. Apparently, his stirrups weren’t shiny enough. I don’t think he’s going to want me.”

The determined jut of her chin was as distressing to Steve as her tears. “We must run away. There’s no other choice.”

“You say that every week. We’ll be caught, and you’ll have to marry him anyway.”

 And I’ll be flogged to within an inch of my life. Or, just as likely, hanged.

“If we don’t run, we’ll never see each other again. I’ll miss everything about you—even the stink of the horses. You’re my best and only friend.” Her head sank to his shoulder again. “But I don’t want you getting hurt.”

I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt. Or of you living in the power of that violent bastard.

He groaned softly. She was right. They had no choice.

***

After midnight struck, he scaled a rope to her window. She threw up the sash, and he scrambled through. He thrust at her the bundle he carried, which had made climbing harder than usual: “These riding britches should fit you fine. You got the gown for me?”

She gestured to some crinolines on her four-poster bed. “There you go—one of my maid’s. I adjusted it myself.”

While she changed in her closet, he slid the gown on. It slipped straight down and puddled around his boots. “I see your legendary needlework has not improved,” he grumbled. She emerged, looking delighted and dashing in her britches.

As she pinned the gown about him, however, her hands trembled, and terror gripped him too. Lady Roberta would hopefully pass for her twin brother under the shadows of night. Her rogue of a brother was often seen sloping around with serving wenches—hence Steve’s heinous disguise. The plan after that, nevertheless, was fraught with even greater danger. 

Riding together on her brother’s horse, they made it through the village. Steve cursed the skirts that forced him to sit before her, side-saddle, with the pommel gouging his thigh. Once into the forest, a full moon lit their path, ensuring they remained vulnerable prey to pursuers from Buckley Towers, or…

Robin gasped, hastened their trot. 

“What is it?” asked Steve.

“Pursuers. Only one, mayhap. We can out-speed them.”

His heart lurched miserably. “Are you insane? On a steed carrying two? Sweet Jesus, I feel my neck stretching already.”

“If we die, Steve, I vow we die together.” 

He clung, white-knuckled, to the saddle. Robin pushed into a gallop. Their pursuer proved not only faster, but knew the terrain better and overtook them. Soon, a vast stallion and its rider blocked the track, silhouetted against the moonshine. Could this be a henchman of Lord Hootenanny, who would flay Steve alive on the spot?

“Get out of our way, or I’ll blow your brains out!”  That was Robin, who’d whipped out… “I stole one of Papa’s duelling pistols,” she whispered.

“Maybe you should first ask if I be friend or foe?” came a reply that set Steve’s heart hammering more excitedly than ever.

“This is your last chance!” Robin sounded desperate, out of her mind. “Let us pass, or—”

“Robin, no!” He grabbed her arm. Her shot flew wide. The blast and recoil sent them tumbling from the saddle of the spooked horse in a cloud of choking gunpowder. They landed in the mud, in a tangle of his petticoats. Ow, ow, ow! My ribs! The whalebone corset had been a terrible idea. His ears rang with the crack of the pistol, and the sound of a familiar laugh.

“Eddie?”

“Stevie, my lad, I thought it be you. Why are ye banged up like a doxy?”

“You know him?” asked Robin; damn, he was glad she was alright. “What’s a doxy and why are they banged up?”

“He wants to know why I’m dressed like a whore.” Steve took Eddie’s hand, who dragged him to his feet. Steve offered Robin the same assistance but found her scrambling up, unaided. “Meet my lover, Robin. Hellfire Eddie.”

“The infamous highwayman?”

“One and the same.” Steve turned to Eddie. “I didn’t think you’d get my message so soon.”

“My spies act fast,” said Eddie, slapping Steve’s padded derriere.

“Not in front of a lady!” seethed Steve.

Lady Roberta, however, looked pleased as punch. “Can we join your gang? Oh my goodness, I can become a notorious highwaywoman!” She flung her arms around Steve and smacked a kiss on his cheek. “Steve, this is singularly fortuitous. Our lives can start over.”

“Till we ALL get hanged,” mumbled Steve.

Eddie insisted Steve rode with him, rather than Robin, for the journey back to his thieves’ lair. 

“Then out of that ridiculous finery,” husked Eddie. “You know I like to wear the petticoats when I plow ye.”

***

Thank you for reading :)

[vicomte-raoul-de-chagny]

for fucks sake jeffrey stop messing with the poor man and give him the damn antidote or I'll sneak into your room and steal it

What- who- I don't understand what's going on!

[His hand holding the pistol is shaking erratically at this rate, and he starts to cough violently, clutching his stomach in agony.]

Please... Please.

[ourlittleforever]

Blue Moon

Boone/Courier

Rating: T

Words: 3351

Kinda-sorta pre-relationship fluff, for feelings that are a long way away from being fully explored.

Also on AO3!

Note - There are some sections of dialogue taken directly from the game, like when Boone is describing Carla's death, the Bitter Springs massacre, etc. I just felt like what was in the game was perfect and any attempt to rewrite it was gonna end with me screwing it up

Millie was one of the strangest people Boone had ever met.

When they came to Novac, they marched to the top of the dinosaur at midnight to introduce themselves to him. And like an idiot, he’d mentioned Carla. Millie offered their sympathies – and then, to his surprise, they offered their help. “I’ll look around,” they’d said, and the next night, they had proof Jeannie May Crawford had sold Carla off, and the old bitch was dead on the ground.

Millie had handed Boone his beret back with a soft look on their face. “So what’s next for you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

The courier looked out across the stark desert with a slight smile. “I’m going to New Vegas. To find the man who shot me.”

He’d forgotten that Millie had been shot. They certainly didn’t behave like someone who’d taken two bullets to the brainpan, prancing about naively with a big grin and friendly disposition. 

When he said nothing, Millie continued. “I heard Carla loved New Vegas. You should come with me.”

Boone pursed his lips. He had nothing left here in Novac – and if he was going to die on his own terms, it’d have to be out in the wasteland, not rotting here. “Fine by me.”

Millie grinned. “Awesome! We’ll leave tomorrow morning, ‘kay?”

Boone wondered if this was the last mistake he’d ever make.

—

Millie was easy company, for the most part. They couldn’t shoot worth a damn, usually oblivious to bugs and raiders until Boone took them out with his trusty rifle. How had they ever become a courier? Maybe they were more observant before the injury, he thought. 

Still, Millie was cheerful and easy to get along with. They sometimes prodded at him for information, but when he didn’t budge, they knew better than the press further. He and the courier could travel in comfortable silence for hours, and when it was time to talk, they usually did all the talking. 

They tried to dig at their own memories during these conversations. Millie admitted that they had amnesia (perhaps that was why they couldn’t remember how to use a pistol), and this frustrated them. “The only things I know are my name and my age, ‘cause those were on me, on my ID,” they explained. “Everything else was scratched out.”

“On your ID, or in general?”

“Both,” they replied with a sigh. “Millie d’Fleur; 23 years old.” They frowned, staring off into the distance, as if trying to form some image of their past. 

“No way you’re 23. You look like a kid.”

“I get that a lot,” Millie laughed, scratching a scab on their cheek. “It’s just ‘cause I’m really short, huh?” They couldn’t be more than five feet tall.

“You act like a kid, too.” 

“Then it’s good you’re here to look out for me, huh?” They nudged his arm. “I get the feeling that I always wanted a big brother.”

Boone stayed quiet. He wasn’t the kid’s brother; he wasn’t sure what he was to Millie. A friend? They thought of him as one, certainly. 

“I think… I think I had a sibling. A brother or sister. Younger than me, though.” They looked up into the twinkling starlight. “And my grandmother. I remember her better. But she’s still… so vague.” They frowned. “I can’t remember her face. I wish I could. I know that I loved her.” Millie pulled their knees up to their chest. “Maybe after I find the checkered-suit-man, I can try and find out who I was – who I am. Someone’s got to know, right?”

“Right,” he grunted.

They laid down on their bedroll, staring up to the stars. “Thanks for talking with me, Craig. I appreciate it.”

Craig? No one had called him that in years. He didn’t even refer to himself by his first name anymore. It felt odd. Still, Boone didn’t correct them. 

“Yeah,” he said, and he watched the desert until it was time for him to sleep.

—

Boone soon learned how Millie had managed to survive in the Mojave: charm.

He was starting to learn their behavior, how they could soothe even the gruffest old man or the most hysterical, wailing woman. A gentle touch on the shoulder, the slight tilt of their head, their lips curving into a slight, knowing smile as they spoke confidently and calmly: this was how Millie navigated the NCR, not with a blazing gun, but with a sharp, cunning charisma.

Not that they seemed to realize it, of course.

The two were standing in front of the King, some religious leader operating out of a “School of Impersonation.” So prestigious, Boone grumbled to himself. Still, the King was respectful, especially as he asked Millie to solve yet another problem for him. Someone was kicking up trouble with the NCR at the soup kitchen, and the King couldn’t solve it his damn self.

“Of course,” they replied, that knowing smile playing out across their features. “I’ll head there right away.”

As soon as the duo were out of the building, Boone turned to them and asked, “Why are we doing this? Don’t you have someone to catch up to?”

Millie shrugged. “He needs help.”

“He could help himself.”

“He might lose his reputation,” Millie countered. “Who knows? The NCR might shoot him on sight if they see him walking up.”

“The NCR –” Boone paused. The NCR wouldn’t do that, he was going to say, but he knew that was dead wrong. “Fine.”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

I kind of do, Boone thought. If there really was a shoot out – if Millie couldn’t defuse the situation – they’d need his help. He said nothing.

As it would turn out, the King’s idiot friend had tried to take on the NCR alone. 

Lucky for him, Millie was there, and they knew exactly what to say.

“I’m so sorry, Major Kieran. The King had no idea about this; he asked me to come and patch things up between y’all and the Freeside citizens,” Millie said, tilting to their head to right slightly, and Major Elizabeth Kieran was putty in their hands. “You see, there’s a lot of sickness and starvation in Freeside. He just wants his people fed. He didn’t intend to fight you.”

Major Kieran pursed her lips. “Our envoy…”

“He’s awful sorry about that.” A hand on the shoulder, and the major was done for. “Here, I can walk you over to the Kings, and you can talk it out. Maybe come to an agreement – pool your resources together so everyone gets fed.”

“We’ll see,” Major Kieran said, glancing at her fellow soldiers. She looked over at Boone with an expression that screamed What the hell, soldier? He simply shrugged. 

Millie and Boone left. “That wasn’t so bad,” they commented cheerfully.

“You’re lucky they didn’t stick a gun in your face the minute you walked in, kid.”

“I am quite lucky,” they chirped with a grin.

They walked in silence for a bit, before Boone’s curiosity got the better of him. “Why did you insist on helping the King and Major Kieran?”

Millie sighed. “Look around, Craig. This place… it’s awful. People are starving, addicted to chems, wasting away… If I can make even a little bit of difference, make someone’s life just a little bit better, why shouldn’t I try?”

Gonna get yourself killed doing that, Boone thought. Still… It was a nice thought, wasn’t it? Even if it was foolish and naive – that someone could waltz in, fix a problem, make a couple people happy, and leave, knowing they made a “difference.” 

Good thing they had him around to keep them safe, then, if that really was Millie’s goal.

—

“So what all did that robot have to say?” Boone asked as Millie stepped out of the hole in the wall. They brushed drywall from their short brown hair, shaking out their locks and frowning.

“Benny’s got the Platinum Chip, which is like… this super important upgrading device. Mr. House wants it, and Benny does, too. To take over New Vegas, the Hoover Damn. Or, in House’s case, I guess, enforce his, uh, presidency.” Millie rubbed their eyes. “Or… Yes Man said he could help me, if I took the chip.”

“If you took the chip? The robot suggested that?”

“He did. His programming is… well, Benny made him too friendly and open, it seems.” 

“Where’d that bastard go, anyway?”

Millie swallowed hard. “He’s… he’s at the Fort.”

Boone’s heart was lead. Fortification Hill, the capitol of the Legion. Caesar’s palace.

“You don’t have to come,” Millie said, laying a hand on his bicep. “I know it’s…”

“You told me you were going to try and take down the Legion,” Boone replied, his voice graven. “Is that what you’re gonna do?”

Millie nodded.

“Then I’m going with you.”

There was a slight twinkle in the courier’s eye at that. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

—

Boone had been silent the entire battle through Cottonwood Cove. Swarms of Legionnaires had attacked, and he’d taken them out with deadly efficiency; for what it was worth, Millie’s aim had improved significantly, and they managed to score a few kills of their own. When all was said and done, he and Millie stood on the boat dock, and they beamed proudly at him. 

“You saw that headshot I got, right?” they babbled excitedly, their hunting rifle slung haphazardly over their back. “It was so cool!”

Boone simply grunted.

Millie’s face fell, and he felt rather sorry. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not,” the courier responded, tilting their head slightly. Don’t do that. Please. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Craig, but you know I’m here for you. Right?” They laid a hand on his shoulder, reaching up as far as they could, their arms almost too short. “You’re not alone.”

“This is where…” Boone looked away. He almost couldn’t stand their sympathy. He didn’t deserve it. “Carla. She... I tracked her down. Southeast, near the river. They were selling her. Saw it through my scope. Whole place swarming with Legion. Hundreds of them. Bidding for things no man has a right to. I just had my rifle with me. Just me, against all of them, so... I took the shot.”

Millie’s eyes were shiny with tears as Boone continued. “What they do to women... that's worse than death. There was no choice in what I did. It was more like... being forced to watch something you can't stop. All this was only ever going to play out one way. It still is. I don't have any say. All I can do is wait for it to be done with me.”

“You have a say now,” Millie said, their fingers curling in his dirty T-shirt. 

“I should've never gotten close to her. I've got bad things coming to me. You'd better keep your distance, too.”

“You can still go back, if you want to. I know this is hard for you. I can deal with Caesar–”

“No,” he replied sharply. “He’d take you away, too.” Shit. He didn’t mean it to come out that way. “I mean – I… you would get hurt. If I’m there, then you stand a better chance.”

Millie studied him carefully, glistening tears rolling down their dirtied face. “Then we’ll do it. For Carla. For everyone.” 

Boone couldn’t stop himself from almost smiling. 

The two stepped onto the raft.

“This might be the last boat we ever take,” the sniper muttered.

“Then let’s make the most of it, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

—

Caesar was dead.

The bastard lay on the ground face-down, blood pooling around his body, turning the dirt crimson. Millie and Boone, along with Rex, were surrounded by dead Legionnaires, and he felt a deep sense of pride. Maybe he had things left to do in this life, after all.

“What next?” he asked, wiping the blood from his brow.

“I’ve gotta get into the Fort,” Millie replied, slinging their gun over their shoulder. “See about the Platinum Chip, what’s up with alla that. And then…” 

It was eerily quiet in the camp. The courier turned, scanning the area, their eyes catching on a slave cage. A few women skittered from the bars, clutching each other in fear. “We free them,” Millie declared. 

“And those boys?” Boone asked, a bitter taste in his throat. The little boys outside the camp – future legionnaires. It made him ill.

“We’ll take them to the Followers. Maybe that can set them on the right path. Clear out all the hate.” Millie was oddly stern yet serene. They examined the Platinum Chip in the low evening light. “I’ll go down into the bunker, if you’ll let the slaves free. Make sure they’re allowed into the food stores and stuff. Once we get back to Cottonwood Cove, we’ll radio the NCR, and they can clean up here, get everyone out, since we don’t have enough room on the raft. Or we can head back to Freeside, and I can call in that favor with the King…”

“You have an answer for everything.” 

“I have to, right? People are counting on me.” They looked up at Boone, their face deadly serious. “I’ll be right back.” Millie knelt and petted Rex behind the ears. “Stay with Craig, buddy. Be good.” 

—

When Millie returned from the bunker, Boone had managed to round up the slaves in the center of camp, passing out food and pure water to the women. A little girl had run off and gleefully found her torn-up teddy bear before returning for a meal.

There was a strange, distant look on Millie’s face as they sat by a fire far from the others, snacking on a few pinyon nuts. Rex whined at their feet, and they absentmindedly scratched under his chin. 

Boone sat across from them, sharpening his machete. One ghost from his past had been put to rest –  shouldn’t he feel better? But Bitter Springs hung heavy on his mind. He could kill all the legionnaires he wanted, but it wouldn’t change what had happened at Coyote Tail Ridge. His chest felt tight.

He glanced at Millie, who was still lost in thought. “What happened in the bunker that’s got you all shook up?”

“Oh!” Millie blinked, then shook their head, as if shaking their thoughts away. “It was Mr. House’s Securitron army. The one Yes Man wanted me to find. Well, and Mr. House, too. But…” They paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “I won’t give it to him. We’ll have to… take care of him, now that he knows I have the chip and the Securitrons.”

“So you have your own army now,” Boone mused. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Make the Mojave a better place.” At Boone’s bitter chuckle, Millie became defensive. “Listen – you saw all the pain and suffering in Freeside. People starving, alone, sick, while the rich gamble away their wealth in the Strip, and Mr. House keeps New Vegas and Freeside divided with violence. The NCR – and don’t be mad at me for saying this – the NCR hasn’t done anything. You really think they’ll shake up the status quo?”

Boone wanted to argue, but he knew better than most that Millie was right. He was living proof.

“We can make New Vegas better,” they insisted. “Take its wealth. Tear down the gates between the Strip and Freeside, spread the wealth to the people who need it. And once we’ve helped Freeside, we can start moving out and helping the rest of the Mojave. It’ll take time, but it can be done.” Millie spoke with such conviction, such pure, unadulterated faith, that Boone almost wanted to believe them. 

How could they have seen all they’d seen – been shot in the head twice, been betrayed, been attacked and beaten down and chased and threatened – and still believe that there was goodness left in the Mojave? It was an admirable foolishness.

Perhaps it was Millie’s starry-eyed, dreamy, but complete and utter conviction in the world that made Boone mention Bitter Springs. 

“There’s somewhere I need to go,” he said. “You know I was at Bitter Springs. Maybe… you could come with me.”

Millie’s eyes lit up. “Of course! Once we get everything settled here, we’ll go. Okay?”

“Okay.”

—

Bitter Springs was a refugee camp now, no thanks to the NCR, who patrolled the camp with bored indifference. Boone walked along, mindful of his long stride, deliberately slowing himself so Millie could easily follow. They said nothing as the two came to a stop at a graveyard, and Boone’s stomach was tied in knots. He had to tell them. 

“What happened?” Millie asked quietly, turning to look up at him with their earnest, gray-green eyes.

“Main force got spotted too soon. We heard shooting. Then Khans started coming through Canyon 37 in bunches. It was all wrong, though. Women, kids, elderly. Wounded started coming through, too. We radioed to confirm our orders but command didn't get what we were seeing. They told us to shoot till we were out of ammo. So that's what we did.”

Millie’s face was soft, the compassion in their face intolerable to Boone. He didn’t deserve it. Not one bit. He didn’t deserve their kindness. 

There was a shout from behind them, like someone being startled; then, a gunshot. Boone raced down the ridge, Millie in tow, and spotted them – legionnaires, looking for easy pickings. “There might be too many of them. I’ll stay, but if you want out –”

“I’m staying,” Millie said firmly, grabbing their rifle.

Eventually, the Legion’s numbers thinned, and Millie and Boone were left standing in an empty field of crimson. They’d done it. They’d managed to hold the legionnaires back.

The sniper sighed, letting the warm sun hit his face, and the sensation soothed him. “I thought I was going to die here.” He could feel Millie stepping closer, their arm brushing against his. “But I'm still here and nothing's changed.”

“You’ve changed,” Millie said gently. “You saved these people from the Legion just now.”

“Have I? A murderer who does good sometimes is still a murderer.”

Millie stepped in front of him, and he looked down at them. There was that conviction again, their eyes like steel. “You can't take back what you've done. But your regrets can set you on a better path,” they said. “You’ve got so much time left, Craig. And so much good left to do.” 

“What can I do now, though?” he asked insistently, try to fight down his anger. Was it anger at Millie, for continuing to believe he was good, despite it all? Anger at them for trying to make him better? He couldn’t truly tell.

Millie tilted their head, smiled sweetly, and laid a hand on their shoulder. “Come with me,” they said, and their earnestness nearly broke his heart. “I’ve got a plan. We’ll make New Vegas – the whole Mojave – a better place. I’ve got the chip, and you’ve got the gun.” 

Boone said nothing. This was far more than he deserved; but Millie truly, honestly believed in what they were saying, and he couldn’t help but feel moved by their words. “I can’t do this without you.” 

The courier took his rough, large hands in their dainty, tiny ones and squeezed. Their eyes met his, their bright gaze disarming him entirely. “Are you coming with me?”

He’d seen their personality, how they treated others. How they lived by the values they espoused, of hope and compassion and goodness. 

If anyone could save the Mojave…

“I’ve got your back,” he replied after a long moment.

Millie grinned, then, to his surprise, embraced him. He could feel their hot tears soaking through his shirt, and Boone was hugging them back before he realized what he was doing. “What’s–”

“I love you, Craig,” Millie blurted, hugging him even tighter. “Thanks for sticking around. I… I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

The sun was warm, Millie’s embrace was tight, and for the first time in years, Boone felt some semblance of peace.

“Yeah. Love you, too.”

[scribblertown]

Fates of the Fateless Ch. 6: New Faces New Places and a Horse

The gang grows a little bigger and you get to know others a little more.

ao3

wattpad

“The life at sea is a grand and hard. Harder than anything we’ve faced here on land.” Pearson was going off on one of his sailor tangents again. Every time he did you couldn’t help thinking of an old man desperate to relive his glory years. “The fear in your gut wondering if you’ll have enough to last you till next port is beyond imagining.” You’ve heard this story before, more than once actually. Next, he’s going to bring up eating seal meat. “The waters up north are absolutely teaming with seals.” Yep, here we go. “Their meat is real’ greasy you know, has a certain flavor to it. Like a mix of duck and veal.” As he reminisced on his voyages you were stuck cutting and peeling vegetables, nothing you haven’t done before. But the amount to be prepped today was more than usual. Like, an exceptionally larger amount. “I still get cravings for the stuff, can’t find it anywhere ‘round here.”

 His droning tales began to fade away as your mind wondered. Your eyes drifting back and forth to the Juniper tree that sat just behind your tent. The fixation of your attention for the past couple of weeks.

 Peel, peel, peel. A glance at the tree. Chop, chop, chop. A glance at the tree. Peel, peel. A glance. Chop, chop. A glance. It had become an obsession at this point. Every time someone would drift a little too close to the tree, you’d feel yourself tense up, unable to look away until they finally move onto another part of camp. You weren’t sure what would happen if anyone stumbled upon your little secret hidden away in the winding tangled roots of the grand and old juniper. But after witnessing Arthur’s more than adequate show of putting down a man three times your size, you couldn’t help but snatch up that precious pistol. It almost seemed like life had deliberately sent it in your direction, right there at your feet for the taking. At least, if it really came down to it, you had a chance at defending yourself.

 “Once you’re done with those potatoes, throw them in that pot of water. Give the skins to the chickens.” Pearson had swung around with his freshly skinned and cleaved rabbits, the choice meat around these parts apparently. He then does a quick count on his fingers muttering softly under his breath. A gradual scowl crosses his face as his brow furrows, his mustache consumes his mouth in a frown. “Hmm… we’re not gonna have enough for the next week at this rate.” That didn’t seem right.

 “This seems like a lot of food for just us.” Sure, you may be new to the ways of life in the 1800’s, but your pretty sure meal prepping wasn’t a concept of the time beyond canning.

 “It ain’t, Dutch made some connections with some of the mining men up in Bingham. Should be here by nightfall.” Oh great, more strange men. “Rigorous work like that, tends to give one quite the appetite.” He’s quick to grab what carrots and onions you have done before tossing them into the cast iron with a big glob of some sort of animal fat. The smell of it was always a little gamey. “I’m hoping this means more money. More money means better eatin’.” Pearson was nice enough; he had a sweet face and a nice singing voice. You got the impression he was desperate to socialize. Which might work to your advantage.

 “What kind of work does Dutch do?” Maybe you’d get a different piece to the puzzle. “I hear he does dangerous work.”

 “All work is dangerous in this day and age.” Damn it.

 “Have you been traveling long? No place to call home?”

 “Dutch and couple of the others have been out on the road a lot longer than me. I only just joined up maybe… four years ago.”

 “Four years?!” You gaped at him flabbergasted. Four years of this same boring routine of grueling work, of never having a roof over their head, and rarely socializing outside of the camp circle. Is that what your future would be with these people? “And you never left?”

 “No, and I’m not sure I ever want to.” He collects another batch of vegetables from you. “I had made some desperate money decisions, borrowed from a few fellers thinking I’d manage to make up what I owed and some extra to get back on my feet. I didn’t, not even close and some real mean-spirited men were sent after me. Forced me to marry a woman and took everything I had to my name. I’m sure they would’ve taken my life as well had Dutch and Hosea not stepped in.” A smile began to slowly build on his lips, and his eyes became misty and soft. “They paid my debts. Some lowly, good for nothing-nobody they knew shit about. But they saved me anyway.” His eyes then drifted to yours, his brow was tightly furrowed and his gaze suddenly bold and serious. “Everyone here has a similar story, many of them worse than mine.” His voice is deep and breathy. “This world is a cruel and unforgivable place, one that don’t want folk like us. People will do what they have to for survival, but folk like Dutch. Like Hosea. They do what they have to for more than just themselves. They do what they have to for us.” He didn’t say much after that. Leaving you with a new worry in your gut.

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 When the sun had begun to paint the sky a plethora of warm colors, the men came. Talking loudly and cheerfully. Lead by Dutch, Arthur, and William on horseback. Five new dark silhouettes grew closer before they dismounted their horses just outside of the camps main grounds. You tried to keep yourself from staring, pretending to be all too focused on redoing the seams on a jacket arm. Settled just a few feet from the cooking pot accompanied by Tilly with her own sewing project. The smell of the rabbit and vegetable stew you’d prepped drifting from its large confines of black iron as the two of you observed in silence.

 “Mmmm! Something smells damn good!” The voice that cried out was an unfamiliar one, a bit shrill. His voice sounded quite young.

 “It’s been so long since I’ve had a decent meal…” An older man, rough and worn.

 “Gentlemen, as the first day of our partnership, I would ask you eat to your hearts content knowing that your lives are now you’re own.” Dutch led the line of men towards the large pot, striking a match on his boot. The quick flicker of flame illuminating his face for a quick second before fluttering into a soft glow as he lit a pipe. The group hooping and hollering as they swarmed the area. Two straggled behind a bit. A man and a woman.

 “I’ll getchu a bowl Agatha, you just take a seat and rest a spell.” The man donned bright red hair, swept to the side and styled with some sort of hair grease. His face was angular and skinny, with a decoration of freckles that covered his pale face. He cradled the woman in a gentle and intimate manner.  

 “Alright, but I want you to get yourself a bowl first.” The woman spoke in a broken and course voice. A dark bruise around her left eye, barely hidden behind her dark locks that draped freely down her back and shoulders. They bickered softly for a moment before she finally took a seat on a spare crate near the chicken coop as he joined the rest of the men. A deep sigh fell from her lips as she practically melted into her seat.

 “I certainly hope that bruise isn’t from one of these boys…” Tilly commented under her breath, watching the new group like a hawk with critical eyes scanning every little exchange and movement. You replied with a hum. Out of the corner of your eye Arthur could be seen slipping away into the shadows with a fat saddle bag hefted over his shoulder with a rambunctious William at his tail. Your eyes curiously trailed them as they ventured towards the camps outskirts before your view was cut off by a large figure.  

 “Well well, I wasn’t expectin’ lovely ladies in your band of gunslingers Mr. Van der Linde.” This man was the tallest of the lot, taller than even Arthur or Dutch. Stocky in build with an equally round and stocky face, short salt and pepper hair without a single strand out of place parted down the middle, a thin pencil mustache sat upon his upper lip and sunken light brown eyes that had that familiar predatory stare. An all too happy smirk on his face as his eyes openly wandered your bodies. You unconsciously leaned towards Tilly to block her from his view, before sending him a death glare from under your lashes. “Oooo… Now you don’t wanna go ruinin’ that pretty little face of yours with such an ugly scowl hm?” He chuckled teasingly before bringing another scoop of stew to his mouth full of rotten and crooked teeth. You could just smell the infection on his breath. “Not very lady like.” Bits of food flung out as he spoke.

 “Can’t you be a dumb hunk of shit somewhere else?” Tilly snapped at him brandishing an equally fiery scowl. The rest of the men let out an explosion of laughter. The man’s face quickly became red and tense. Gripping his spoon with enough force to almost bend it in his meaty sausage fingers.

 “Stupid bitch I oughta-” He begins to swing his arm back preparing to strike, you tense spreading your body around Tilly as much as you can awaiting the blow but before he can get enough momentum Dutch is quick to slip between you and dickhead.

 “Wow now Mr. Samson!” His hands are up and his posture relaxed in a mock surrender, “I’ve got rules in my camp, and that includes causin’ trouble for the girls.” His hand drifts to his hip, sweeping aside his jacket flaps exposing his lavish pistol. “You don’t wanna go ruinin’ a beautiful friendship before it even starts.” Samson stares at the pistol a moment before returning to Dutch’s face. “Do you, Mr. Samson?” His face twists before he let out an angry huff, marching off to no doubt sulk in the shadows.

 Hosea then emerges seemingly out of nowhere with John, Arthur, Grimshaw, and William in tow. The saddle bag nowhere to be seen.

 “Been awhile since we’ve had this many people.” Hosea’s eyes wonder over the group of newcomers, rubbing his chin with a small smile. “Guess I better go say hello.” In a matter of seconds of him entering the circle, the men fall under the sweet old man’s charming spell.

 “Just more mouths to feed, and smaller shares for us.” John sulks with a scowl on his face, clearly not happy with the change in guard.

 William has a similar distasteful look, “More like sheep dan men if ya ask me.”

 Dutch comes up behind the two, his hands coming down onto their shoulders with a fierce grip, his pipe nestled between his teeth. “Ooh you boys were just like those poor souls once upon a time.” He spoke through his teeth with a smile. “In fact, I recall you two being a lot more pathetic.”  

 Grimshaw then steps forward, “Dutch I take it you still want us to be packing up to move soon?”

 “Mmhm, after tonight’s haul I imagine word will get out sooner than later. Rather not be so close to town.”

 “What? We’re moving already?” You were just beginning to settle in. “Why?”

 The look of surprise on Dutch’s face made you wonder if he hadn’t realized you were still lingering. “Miss (y/n)! I almost forgot you could talk!”

 “No kiddin’, she’s a real bore.” William shrugs Dutch off his shoulder. “All work ‘nd no play.” That puts a frown on your face knowing full well William’s idea of fun is hassling anyone and everyone he can. “Don’t even know how ta ride a horse. Can ya believe dat?” He’s still going on about that?!

 “At least I don’t smell like one…” you mutter.

 “Dat’s another ting! I know ya go down to the creek for your precious baths princess. Every day!” Your face immediately goes flush and hot. “No one should bathe dat much.”

 “Have you been spying on me?!” You’re standing now, hands clenched in tight fists glaring him in his good eye. He just grins. Which is quickly wiped off his face as Grimshaw swoops in to tug at his ear with a harsh pull.

 “Ooowowowow!” He cries out as she twists him downwards, casually turning to you.

 “Why don’t you girls get yerself something to eat and call it a night. I’m going to have a word with Mr. O’brien.” She gives another hard tug, leading herself and William away. “Goodnight gentlemen.”

 “Ow! What’re ya doin’ ya crazy old hag!” William’s cries of protest fading with each step. Dutch and the other boys simply laugh at his expense.

 “C’mon (y/n) let’s grab some stew and sit by the fire.” Tilly tosses her fabric to the side, quick to jump on her feet and excitedly veer towards the pot.

 Thankfully there was still a decent amount of stew left sticking to the bottom of the cast iron pot, bubbling on the brink of being caramelized and burnt. The two of you quickly found a spot around the main fire where the other men had collected, Uncle balancing a banjo on his knee as he laughs and plays a familiar tune. Out of the corner of your eye you spot John awkwardly standing a decent distance away from you before finally deciding to sit down in the spot to your right.

 “Hi John.”

 “Hi…” He’s not looking at you as he watches his spoon lazily push around a hunk of rabbit. Soon Arthur appears to take up the spot next to him with a hunk of bread in his mouth. “I-I could teach you.”

 “Huh?” John was still staring down at his food, his eyes darting back and forth from his bowl to you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he struggled to speak his next words.

 “To ride a horse.” He turns his head to make brief eye contact before they divert to anything but you. “I could teach you how.” You’ve only ever gotten a hello out of the guy and now he’s suddenly offering you free riding lessons.

 “I don’t have a horse.”

 “You can ride mine, or… one of the spare work horses.” He clears his throat before shoveling a large spoonful into his mouth. Just past him you can see Arthur giving him a strange side eye. “Y-yeah, I think… I think you should learn how to ride is all.” He takes another huge mouthful.

 “Alright. That would be very helpful actually.” You sit up a little straighter, turning your body towards him with a small hint of a smile. He visibly freezes hunched over; eyes downcast before he quickly shovels the rest of his food down as fast as he can. He then bolts from his seat, walking almost fast enough to have to break out into a slight jog shouting over his shoulder.

 “Alright I’ll see you later then!”

 “Ok…” a bit baffled at the blunt and brief conversation.

 Arthur scoffs out a slight chuckle, “I would find a different teacher if I were you.”

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 You were grateful for the early bedtime rest as it seemed Grimshaw felt the need to wake you up earlier than usual.  

 “Up up up! It’s time we start packin’!” another swift, sharp kick to your shins only increasing your rising annoyance to such a rude awakening.

 “Alright alright!” you take a second to rub the lingering sleep from your eyes. Blinking slowly to find it was still relatively dark out. Grimshaw who was somehow fully dressed, hair done, and with a pep in her step marched off to wake her next victim. “What time is it?”

 “Is it gonna make you get up faster if I tell you?” Tilly is somehow already on her feet and messing with her hair pins. “I’d get going now if I were you, don’t want that pig from last night getting a glimpse at us in our undergarments.” She moves like lighting twisting and readjusting the pins in her hair before she’s rummaging in your shared chest for her skirt, she grabs yours as well and throws it in your face. “Well? Hurry up!”

 “Hold on, I gotta wash my face first.” You crumble the bunch of clothes in your arms and unhappily get to your feet. Nights in the desert were surprisingly cold, only made getting up all the more difficult. It left any and all the water ice cold, a splash to the face was enough to finally bring you out of your groggy state. Shaking your hands to rid yourself of the lingering drops of chilled water you spotted the woman from last night timidly approaching you. “Good morning.” Your sleepy voice coming out deep and low.

 “Good morning.” She gave a small smile, reaching for the ladle that hung off the lip of the barrels opening and taking a gracious drink. You stood there a little awkwardly unsure if it would be more rude to just leave or start some sort of petty small talk.

 “I’m (y/n).” You seemed to have made the right decision as her eyes lit up with a smile.

 “My name is Agatha.” She gave a brief pause, hands tucked neatly in front of her, “I’m happy to see there are other women here.”

 “Oh, believe me, I thought the same thing when I first joined up.”

 “Have you been here long?”

 “Well…. Not really, only about 3ish months.” I think… “I wasn’t expecting a woman to come from Bingham mine. I figured we’d just be getting men.”

 “Oh, I’d follow Joseph to the ends of the earth. But I’m happy to be away from that place. They were working him to death.” You couldn’t help but stare at the bruise on her eye, she seemed to notice. “This was a parting gift from my previous employer.” She touched the purpling skin delicately. “Joseph was sure to give him twice the beating.”

 “Sounds like you picked a good one.” Just past Agatha you could see Grimshaw prowling about. You’ve been taking up too much time. “Uh, I gotta get to work but let’s chat some more later, ok?” You start to walk backwards as you spoke.

 “Of course! It was nice to meet you.”

 “Nice to meet you too!” You shouted over your shoulder before bolting back to your tent. Tilly had already rolled up your sleeping pads, thankfully leaving the chest and tent up for you. You glance around to find no one else was nearby. You quickly slipped to the Juniper tree crouching down and delving into the roots, fiddling around blindly until the cold steel met your fingertips. Swiftly wrapping the pistol in the change of clothes you had engulfed in your arms. Acting nonchalant as you pretended you were simply packing away your belongings. Careful to bury it at the bottom of the chest where only your belongings laid. Quick to actually get dressed and begin the grueling process of carefully taking down the tent, folding it properly and playing a game of tetris fitting it all into the wagon. Next came everything else that wasn’t absolutely needed. Tables, clothes, personal belongings, most of Pearson’s dry goods and cooking ware. If it wasn’t nailed down or on a horse, it goes in the wagons.

 “Careful vith my equipment! It’s very fragile!”

 “Relax Strauss, I know how glass works.” The camp was bare and empty now with only remnants of footprints and the old campfire among the red sand. The sun was now only just starting to come up as you hefted the last bit of supplies into its rightful spot. “You want me to take your bag too?” you reached out a hand, eyeing his medical bag that he carried around. He cradled it close to his chest with a distasteful look.

 “No, it stays vith me.”

 “Alright well… I guess pick your ride and we can get out of here.” You keep yourself from rolling your eyes and dropped your hand, he hadn’t lifted a finger to help out, didn’t even take down his own tent. “And William calls me princess…” you mutter under your breath as you settle onto a pile of fabric tightly rolled together just outside of the wagon opening. Strauss hesitates a moment before also climbing aboard, sitting adjacent to you, cradling his bag in his lap. Your eyes wandered to find most everyone else has loaded up and found their respective spots to travel. The wagon just in front of you holds Agatha and the red head you now know as Joseph, feet dangling off the edge, their horse tied just in front of them with their personal belongings on its back. You gave her a wave; she gave one back. Thankfully it seemed Samson wasn’t around, along with the regular bread winners. Arthur wasn’t around, nor were John or William. You took some comfort in that.

“Good morning!” Pearson’s chipper chubby face appears as he hops up onto the coach, scooching over as a young man takes the spot next to him.

 “Hello.” His voice was hushed and smooth. Kind dark brown eyes, clean shaven with long silky black hair tied in a braid down his back and donning a simple looking leather hat to keep the sun out of his deep tan face.

 “Ah Guten Morgen Mr. Pearson.”

 “Have you met Jay yet?” Pearson glances over his shoulder at the two of you, the reins resting limply in his hands as you all await the caravan to move along.

 “It’s Jie, Mr. Pearson.” The man corrects him with a smile, he meets your eyes again, “Jie Liu. It’s nice to meet you.” His face carved deep lines up from his jaw and into his cheeks when he smiled.

 “Hallo, Jee-eh, I am Doctor Leopold Strauss.” The poor man’s names get butchered again mixed with Strauss’ heavy European accent, it makes you cringe a little. But Jie just smiles and nods at him seemingly unbothered. Turning to you next.

 “And I already know who you are. Your little confrontation with Mr. O’brien was enough for us to quickly learn your name.” He has a slight accent, it’s very subtle, though it’s noticeable with certain words. “What’s the saying? Cleanliness is close to Godliness!” He laughs. You feel a little embarrassed to remember you had an audience watching your little fight last night.

 “You know I’m pretty sure that’s the most emotion I’ve seen you show since you’ve gotten here.” Pearson has a sly glint in his eye. “Seems some of Grimshaw’s charm is rubbing off on you.”

 You roll your eyes. He just laughs. The wagon in front of you starts to move. You all jolt forward slightly as Pearson snaps the reins.

 “Jee-eh, I take it you’re an immigrant, yes?” Strauss is holding a book in his hands now jotting something down as he speaks.

 “Yes, I am originally from Hong Kong. I take it you are also an immigrant Mr. Strauss?”

 “Austrian. But like everything about this country, I’ve been consumed into the American masses.”

 Jie gives a chipper response. “It is quite the country.”

 “Hong Kong huh? That’s so far away, how and why did you come here?” You ask.

 “My home, the little neighborhood I grew up in wasn’t exactly a good one. Big cities like that tend to attract a lot of… bad people.” He pauses a moment before picking back up again. “I lived their most of my adolescent life but… there’s nothing left for me there.” There’s a sadness in his voice, and the implications of what that might mean makes you wish you didn’t ask.

 “I’m sorry to hear that…” You spoke softly, awaiting his next words with reverence. The other two remain silent.

 He lets out a long sigh, “So, I ended up leaving the country to come here. I was swept up into the work most migrants end up doing. I met a friend who got me into the mining business at Bingham, lost him in the cave ins and now I’m here.”

 “Agatha mentioned something about the mine almost working Joseph to death.”

 “It’s definitely work I hope to never have to fall into again. It paid decently but when you take into account how much goes into food, housing, and medicine, you lose it just as quickly as you gained it.”

 “I haven’t had the chance to talk to the other new recruits. I take it they left under similar circumstances?” Pearson asks curiously.

 “To be honest, I am not very familiar with the others beyond their names. But yes, considering the recent cave in and other issues arising from poor work conditions, I’m actually surprised we didn’t have more men take up Mr. Van der Linde’s offer.”

 “They vere fools not to.”

 “Oh, Strauss you can be a very cold man sometimes you know that?” Pearson lets out a holler, “We got a lot of miles to cover and so much to talk about. You know I was a sailor on the seas once upon a time. Back when I was far younger and had a little more on my head and a little less on my stomach, AHAHA!”

 Dear God no… Not again…

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 This was by far the farthest and longest you’ve traveled so far. It was a shift in driving wagons, sleeping when night fell, and getting back on the road before the sun even came up. Swapping places here and there so you weren’t stuck with some of the more miserable members of your mysterious caravan. Encountering the two other men you hadn’t had a chance to talk to. The oldest of the bunch was an aged and worn man by the name of Crisoforo Abadiano. His skin was dark and sun damaged, deep lines in his face from years of wear and tear. He was the older than even Hosea it seemed. His dark eyes framed by heavy lashes and a sad distant look to them. Hair short and combed back with slivers of silver amongst his jet-black hair, covered by a large brimmed hat. He never really talked much and when he did it was usually single word responses. While very quiet he was the type you could be comfortable in silence with.

 “You have any hobbies Mr. Abadiano?”

 “No.”

 “Really, nothing at all?”

 “Cards.” He was fantastic at ending conversations before they really began.

  And of course, Joseph with Agatha practically attached at his hip. He was quite young, younger than you at least. Both ambitious and optimistic, excited to exchange stories and meet new people.

 “How did you two meet anyway?”

 “Well, I was working at the mining town’s saloon as a waitress and card dealer, you get good commission when all the men want to do after work is drink and gamble all they’re earnings away, sometimes they’d forget I’d already been paid.” Agatha gives a giggle. “Well one night, I was having particular trouble with a tenet who’d pulled a knife on me, accusing me of cheating him out of his winnin’s. I thought I was ‘bout to be gutted when a strapping,” Agatha breathes in a hushed voice as if just the memory of this incident left her breathless, looking dreamily at Joseph, “strong, young, and handsome hero stepped in to save me.” She lets out a long sigh as her lashes flutter in a half-lidded look. “I knew he was the one for me.”

 “Oh Agatha, you’ll never know what joy your words bring to my foolish heart.” Joseph, whose face was red as a tomato and clearly flustered was now cradling Agatha in his arms with a similar look of intense love in his eyes. “I love you, Agatha.”

 “I love you too, Joseph.” The two then shared a chaste kiss leading to another and another until they were holding each other long and tender. Leaving you to uncomfortably look around at anything but the spontaneous make out session you had the misfortune of being an audience for. They were cute and easy to talk to but… they were just too… lovey dovey.

 Other than the small talk, watching the scenery slooowly pass by and napping were your pastimes. (That and avoiding Mr. Samson like the plague personified). It was so incredibly boring to be traveling at a snail’s pace with nothing to occupy yourself. You started to pick up on some of the mannerisms of many of the others.

 Uncle at any point you were caught in his presence was buzzed 9 times out of 10. Bessie had impeccable posture seemingly always sitting straight as a plank. Hosea never seemed hot, even on the hottest of days, you’ve never seen him break a sweat. In more ways than one. Dutch and Annabelle were usually resting against each other, shoulder to shoulder, whispering and giggling to each other. You even managed to catch some poetry from Dutch. It actually wasn’t half bad.

 The bread winners had returned during the night on one of your rest stops, suddenly just there one morning around the coffee pot after having been missing for so long, it had caught you off guard. John was as awkward as ever giving a small hello without looking you in the eyes, Arthur was a bit grumpy and just grunted, and William had that distinct sneer he’d always give you, not saying a word. The stupid bastard.

 They led the rest of the way to a secluded canyon, the jagged red and pink sand rocks speckled with an assortment of desert trees and shrubbery, towering on both sides of a large level bed of rock with two openings that split off into two different directions and a third that you all entered through. It was shaded and cool, quiet and untouched.

 Dutch and Annabelle were excitedly taking in the view of the grand open space, as the rest of you began to unpack. “Quiet, secluded, no nosey neighbors. This place is perfect Arthur!”

 “Thought you’d like it.” Arthur gave a smirk, pulling up a match to light a cigarette perched on his lips. You assisted Pearson with unloading, watching Tilly curiously survey the campsite before boldly stomping up a cloud of dust.

 “I’m claiming this spot for the women!” She announces with wide smile. The area just to the right of the opening to the north.

 “Oh? And where will you be sleeping?” Uncle teases her, he had a box in his arms seemingly pitching in with the labor before realizing it was full of liquor.

Back and forth, back and forth. The camp slowly came to life. Dutch’s tent went up first, next was Bessie’s and Hosea’s, and then Arthur’s and so on and so forth until only yours was left.

 Only problem is it was smothered under an unfamiliar large wooden chest. Sun bleached in places and chipped in others. Barred by rusted iron hinges and simple looking. Only issue was how unexpectedly heavy it was. Even with both hands you barely managed to scoot it an inch.

 “Hmpphh!” You give a harsh pull, causing whatever’s inside to slide and tumble.  

 “Wow, there miss.” Arthur slides into view, hands quick to find the handles, his calloused fingers grazing yours slightly, tickling the little hairs on the back of your hands. His hat shrouds his face from you. “Let me get this out of your way.” He picks it up like it weighs nothing, and heads off towards Dutch’s tent. You watch as Dutch’s eyes light up at the sight of him. Quick to swoop him into his tent and draw back the canvas curtains, shrouding them from view.

 Odd. Very odd.

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  You could feel eyes on your back as you awkwardly finish ramming the final stake into the ground. Giving the twine a good tug before making yourself recognize the presence.

 “Hi John,” you toss the hammer back into the wooden tool box, wiping sand from your hands. “You uh… need something?”

 “Let’s go riding.”

 “Oh, you wanna do the lessons now?” your eyes wander around looking for Grimshaw, you’d rather not wander off without her approval. Not worth the scolding you think.

 “Yes.” He’s quick to start a march towards the horses looking back at you, still unmoved from your spot. “Come on then!” He yells in haste. You stand there hesitantly shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Taking a moment to consider if John is someone you want to be alone with. I mean he’s just a kid, but…

 “But Grimshaw won’t like it if I ditch work!”

 “Your chores will still be here when you get back.” He lets out a huff, clearly anxious to get going, “Now come on!”

 “Can Tilly come?”

 “Huh?” Tilly juggling an arm full of pots and pans shoots you a look of absolute confusion. “I got stuff to do around here!”

 “But I don’t-“ You step a foot closer to her, voice low enough only she can hear. “I don’t want to be alone with a strange man er-boy!”

 “John ain’t gonna do nothin’. He’s as dumb as a bag of dirt but he ain’t bad.” Her hand jumps to catch a cast iron pan that was slipping from underneath her elbow, snagging painfully on her finger. You relieve her of the heavy pan and find it a more convenient place in her jumbled arms. “You’ll be fine. Although I’m not sure you’ll actually learn anything.”

 You can see his horse patiently awaiting its rider, a big and burly warm brown stallion already harnessed. Next to it was one of the driving horses, even bigger than John��s horse and rippling with muscle. Black and white like a cow, towering over everything and everyone else.

 “Uum, isn’t he a little big?” Your eyes scan the big beast, just how in the hell are you even supposed to get on this giant?

 “Horses are for riding. He’s a horse, so ride him.” A blanket is tossed onto the curved slope of the horse’s back before a saddle follows. He’s quick and efficient as he pulls and ties the various leather straps into place, clearly very familiar with his way around a horse. “Alright, hop on up.” You’re a bit hesitant as you nervously approach.

 Please don’t kick me, Mr. Horse.

 Your first instinct is to grab the saddle horn, which is barely within your reach. Next you pick up your foot to awkwardly sit in the stirrup leaving you hanging off of the side like a monkey.

 “You’re doing it wrong.”

 “Huh?” you peek over at John, fidgeting with his suspenders. “How?”

 “Well, uh, you’re just getting on wrong.” You look down at your right foot twisted in the stirrup at an angle, then at your hands tangled together before looking at him quizzically. “You hafta swing your leg over… so you gotta…” He’s at a loss of words, mind clearly working overtime, his face beginning to redden. “Just watch me! Ok?” He places his left foot into the horse’s left stirrup before swinging his right over and finding his perfect perch atop his horse. “Like that.”

 “Ooh.” You readjust yourself to place the correct foot in the stirrup before hopping once, twice, and thrice heaving yourself up and your leg over the seat of the saddle. “Oomph!” your leg only hooks itself at the knee, leaving you to depend on your arms to pull the rest of your body upwards, hands barely having enough room to hold onto the tiny saddle horn before finally getting into your seat. Already looking like an idiot. You scoop the reins into your hands gingerly, actively making sure they are lax in your grip afraid you might cause the horse to move before you’re ready. “Now what?” you ask.

 “Now, we get a move on.” He clicks his tongue and turns his horse out toward the open desert. He gets a ways out before realizing you’re not following. “Are you coming!?” He yells.

 You’re digging your heels into the horse’s sides, clicking your tongue, pulling on the reins trying to get the thing to move, but he remains still. “How do I get him to move!?” you call back.

 “Squeeze his chest!”

 “Squeeze his chest?” pondering for a second, you almost give the big guy a hug before it clicked in your brain to use your legs, he moves almost immediately. “He’s doing it!” Your smiling, excited with your small little accomplishment. “Good boy.” Caressing his long wispy mane as you slowly make your way toward John.

 “There we go, now try and keep up with me.” John goes from a simple walk into a trot. You give his chest another squeeze with your legs, your pace remains the same, you then give a go at digging your heels in. That gets him going a little faster. John goes from a trot to a sort of jog, so you follow suit. Your lower back and bottom bouncing up and down on the saddle uncomfortably.

 “Aren’t we going a little fast?” You cry out. John peeks over his shoulder with a blank confused look.

 “Uh, no? We can go way faster.” His eyes drift off before looking back at you, “Did you wanna go faster?”

 “No, I think that would be a bad idea. I don’t even know how to stop this thing.” Oh my lord, Tilly wasn’t exaggerating. John pulls to the side and slows down, keeping pace on your right. His horse was a considerable amount shorter than yours, causing his head to only reach as high as your shoulder. He sits up a little taller.  

 “You know, I’m the one who found the spot.”

 “Hm? The campsite?”

 “Yeah, I’m the one who found it. Not Arthur.” He spits out Arthur’s name with some disdain.

 “It’s nice.” A pocket of silence fills the air.

 “The foods been better, and I noticed my shirts are not so full of holes.” He clears his throat. “You do good work.”

 “Why are your shirts so fond of holes anyhow?” Your mind drifts to that notorious green shirt. “I swear some of the clothes have had blood on them too.” You watch him carefully from the corner of your eye. Trying to keep a casual, calm air about yourself. “You ought to be more careful.”

 “We uh- get into fights sometimes.” His response isn’t very confident. “But! I mean- we don’t start ‘em.” He steers his horse into yours, “Lets take a left up here.”

 Just what kind of fights are you getting into?

 “Arthur’s good in a fight. I got to see that first hand.” John gets quiet.  You dared a peek to see his face was in a scowl. “Where we goin’ anyway?”

 “There’s another spot I found, thought you’d like it.”

 “So that’s where you boys went? Sight-seeing?”

 “It ain’t like that, someone’s gotta make sure the way ahead is safe.”

 Safe from what?

 “Can’t say I’m not jealous. A break from camp would be nice every once in a while.”

 “Well, we can go riding anytime you want.”

 “I’m sure Grimshaw would not be too keen on the idea.” Another round of silence. The area around you is beginning to become much greener, blooming cactus, flourishing sage brush and a particular earthy smell permeates the air like a delicate perfume. Each step forward becomes an oasis of thriving plant life, and just as your about to ask how, you see it.

 A great pool of water extends the majority of the horizon, reflecting the bright light of the sun and creating a perfect mirror image of the surrounding environment. A small group of Big Horned Sheep could be seen taking a gracious drink off the tranquil water’s surface. Various kinds of birds nesting in the blooms of the Joshua trees providing a sweet melody. Everything was flourishing.

 John’s horse maneuvers itself in front of yours, bringing you to a stop and putting said riders face right in your line of view. “I figured you could come here when you need to… ya know.” His face flushes red. “Bathe.”

 You let out a huff of a laugh and a smirk. “You know, bathing isn’t my whole personality. But I appreciate it.” You both sit in silence as you take it all in. It actually began to make you emotional, tears brimming to the surface of your eyes. You attempt to keep composure but it’s in vain as John clearly notices.

 “A-are you ok?” He sounds almost frightened. No doubt caught off guard by your sudden decent into sadness.

 “I-I’m sorry.” You turn away from him, dabbing away at your eyes. Face scrunched painfully as you try your hardest to hold back the sob desperately trying to come up your throat. “I-I don’t know what’s come over me.” Your voice cracks as you speak. It’s an awkward silence as you fail to keep your feelings at bay. You almost don’t feel the couple soft taps on your shoulder.

 “It’ll be okay…” John attempts say comfortingly, though it comes out sounding more like a question. It was… very sweet of him.

 Your horse seems to dislike the change in mood as he winnies in agitation, swaying side to side before moving suddenly.

 “WHoawhoa-WHOA!!” You shriek in surprise as your horse bolts forward with vigor, your hands yanking on the reins causing him to simply jerk his head and rip them from your grip. “Ah!” your hands desperately grab for his neck, looping around the large and taught muscle before you feel your legs turn cold. Your horse had felt the sudden need to plunge himself directly into the water taking you with him. Your wide eyes meet John’s still in shock.

 “Guess he was hot.” John remarks. The horse let’s out a long grunty sigh that vibrates from underneath you. You’re up to your shoulders in water, soaking you from your socks to your underwear.

 And you laugh.

 A long joyous slip of bliss from your lips, the first in a long time. And it goes on and on and on. Leaving you breathless as you pitter down to little giggles, only to rev back into a fit. Slapping the horse gently on his side.

 “You-hoohoo silly horse- ahahaha!” You can hear John letting loose a few laughs as well.

 “Well, lookie here!” A new voice arises from the shoreline. It’s Arthur. Basking down at you from atop his trusty mare, leaning forward and a twinkle in his eye.

 “What’re you doin’ here?” John doesn’t look happy, eyeing Arthur up with a challenging look in his eyes.

 “Lookin’ for you two.” He attempts to smack John, who swerves harshly out the way nearly falling off his saddle. “You’ve got night watch.”

 “So do you!” John retorts in annoyance.

 “Yeah, and you better not fall asleep on me!” Arthur goes for another swing, this time landing upside John’s head with a smack.

 “Ow!” John’s face scrunches up into a scowl, he retaliates with a smack of his own that causes Arthur’s hat to fall forward into his face. You let out a soft giggle at the sight.

 Like a couple of toddlers.

 Arthur adjusts his hat back into place, clearing his throat before speaking to you in a much more tender tone.

 “You need some help there, ma’am?”

 “uhh…” you grab for the reins floating just on the water’s surface, giving them a pull upwards, backwards and to the side. But the horse simply remains submerged and relaxed. You swing yourself off it’s back, now soaking every inch of you completely. Wading towards the bank as both young men dismount to meet you. Arthur has his hands extended before John practically shoves him out of the way causing Arthur to exclaim an irritated “Hey!”. You’re assisted up and out of the pond, John’s hand lingering in yours long after your clearly on dry solid land.

 “Thanks.”

 John nods with an eager smile. “Course!”

 “You can let go of my hand now…”  

 “Oh uh! Yeah…” He stammers a bit, looking at your intwined hands before finally releasing you from his grip.

 “What about him?” You motion to the large horse still sitting unmoved.

 Arthur looks to John and nods his head towards the water. “You get him.”

 “What!? No way, you do it!”

 “I know you chose the horse. So, you get to pull him out.” Arthur corrals you to follow him back to Boadicea, throwing in one last remark to John before placing you just behind him.  “Maybe you’ll finally learn to swim!”

 John flips him off leaving Arthur to laugh as the two of you ride away.

 “He can’t swim?” You ask genuinely worried.

 “Yeah, so don’t go askin’ for lessons.”

 “Is he gonna be ok?” I mean you did just leave him all alone surrounded by a large body of water.

 “Little John knows how to take care of himself. Drowning won’t be what kills him.” You look back to see John hollering and waving a carrot around trying to get the horse’s attention.

 You only give an uncertain hum, falling quiet. You try not to get too close, for both personal space and to not soak his entire back with your still sopping wet clothes.

 You’d be lying if you said Arthur didn’t scare you. Out of everyone in camp, you knew the least about him. And with his clearly appropriate label as the muscle of camp, it worried you to think if and when he’d use that muscle on you.

 “We haven’t really had a chance to talk much, you and I.” Arthur speaks.

 “Well-“ You exhale, “-it’s been a strange couple of months. Not like I’ve been in the mood to talk anyway.”

 He responds with a hum. “How ya holdin’ up?”

 “I don’t know… I’ll feel ok for a while and then out of nowhere I’m having a mental breakdown.” You fidget with the sleeve of your blouse. “I’m not sure holding on is something I can do for too much longer.”

 “Well… it hasn’t been that long ago since… ya know. But things will get better miss. These things just take time.” He perks up a bit, “And hey, being able to laugh in your situation, I’d say you’re well on your way to healin’.”

 Your lips twitch into an almost small smile. “I sure hope so, it’s a lot to adjust to… And I can’t say how much I appreciate you all taking me in and giving me so much.”

 “What happened to you? If you don’t mind me askin’?”

 “I…I got lost…”

 “Lost?” He sounds confused.

 “But I can never go back home. I can never…” Your throat constricts with the thought of people you once knew flash across your mind. “I-I don’t want to talk about it…”  

 “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” And you both fall back into the awkward silence. The only sound being the muffled trotting of Boadicea’s hooves on soft sand.

 Arthur suddenly pulls Boadicea to a stop, causing you to squeeze his waist extra hard and smooshing your face against his broad back. Catching a whiff of cigarettes and… Oh god he needs a bath.

 “What? What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?” you quickly slip your arms away as he dismounts, grabbing a rifle from the saddle. You freeze up in fear as he meets your eyes and puts his finger to his lips.

 “Sshh…” he shushes softly. He lowers himself to the ground. Soft careful steps in the direction of a large cluster of brush. Your eyes scan the area finding nothing, fixing back to Arthur confused as to what in the world he’s doing.  

 He stops, stock still. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder before BANG and then another BANG. Making you jump each time. He proceeds to jog over to whatever he decided needed to die. His face is a light with a smile, rifle over one shoulder and two rabbits dangling from his hand held up with triumph.

 “Dinner!” he calls out. Swinging the carcasses over his shoulder. Making his way back to you, you spot dark splotches beginning to form on his shirt.

 Oh my god. It’s animal blood!

 A wave of relief falls over you, hand at your chest as you let go of so much stress and anxiety over that damned bloody shirt.

 “I was wondering where that blood came from.”  He looks at his now red stained shoulder as he ties a rabbit to each side of the saddle.

 “Oh yeah… sorry about that.” He attempts to wipe the blood off his hands before remounting, his hands now a bright pink. “I’ll wash this one, don’t worry about it.”

 “Oh? You know how to do your own laundry?”

 He laughs, “Yes, I know how to do laundry. Susan made sure of that.”

 “And you’re on a first name basis with her too it seems.” You notice the damp imprint you made on his back and can’t help but distance yourself from him a little more.

 “We’ve known each other a long time. I mean she practically raised me.”

 Raised him, so he was a kid when he joined up. My god that’s a long time.

 “Did you know your parents?”

 “I don’t remember much of my Mama, but my Daddy… I wish I didn’t remember much of him.” A bad father figure, not much of a surprise.

 “Must have been hard…”

 “Hard for everyone isn’t it?”

 “Yeah but… doesn’t mean it hurts any less.”

 He stays quiet for a moment before he speaks again, softly this time. “Your right… it don’t.” The conversation dies down after that. You make no effort to change that.

 You start to descend where the camp lies, completely hidden from view until you were basically walking in the front door. Once on the ground you utter a small “thank you” to Arthur. Turning to his horse

 “Thank you, girl.” You stroke her side gently; she eyes you with curiosity as if waiting for something. “Sorry I don’t have a treat for you.”

 “Here, give her this.” Arthur fishes around his bag before pulling out a round pale thing. You take it in your hand, inspecting it a moment. It was light and delicate. A rice cake without the rice. You offer it to Boadicea, palm open as she plucks it up with her big whiskery lips. And you let out an air of a laugh through your nose as she tickles your hand.

 “It was nice talking to you miss.” Arthur speaks with a smile, eyes shrouded by his hat, but you can still see the bright glint of his eyes. The two rabbits hanging over his shoulder.

 “It was nice talking to you too. I hope you sleep well.” You both awkwardly nod a goodbye as he departs.

   The second Arthur leaves your side, a new body takes his place. Samson towers over you and far too close for your liking. Taking two steps back, only for him to take two steps forward.

 “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” He utters with a far too innocent look.

 “What do you want?” you blurt out your question with no effort in sounding in the least bit interested in what he has to say.

 “I want to apologize for the terrible first impression I left on you that first night.” He waits for a response from you, you don’t give him one. “I don’t want us to start off on bad terms, I’m really not a bad fella.” You roll your eyes, it’s the stupid nice guy bullshit even in this era. Turning to leave before you feel his disgusting giant meaty paw clamp onto your forearm like a vice. “Wow wow! I’m not done talking!” He barks angrily, yanking you back to your spot right in front of him causing you to yelp. “I think we could be real good friends. But it takes two my dear.”

 “I don’t want to be your friend!” You spit out at him, yanking your arm only causing him to grip it even tighter. He smiles wide.

 “Good. Neither do I.” Your stomach twists at the way his eyes linger in intimate places as they rave up your body before they fall behind you. Smile dropping and hand quick to release, causing you to stumble back. Gentle hands find themselves cradling your shoulder, pushing you behind a body.

 “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?!” Arthur’s voice comes out deep and low. Eyes staring daggers into Samson as your hidden from view. His shoulders taught and raised like the hackles of a cat. In the moment Arthur seemed to tower over Samson.

 “Nothing, just a friendly chat.” Samson feigns ignorance. “Not like it’s your business anyhow.”

 “When it comes to the safety of the women, it’s my business.” Arthur barks loud and gruff. Samson seems to notice the little exchange is drawing attention, eyes from others peeking around corners and watching. He fidgets.

 “She’s fine, ain’t no hair out of place or bruise on her.” He dares to meet your eyes again, but his view is blocked by Arthur’s body once more. “Like I said, it was just a friendly chat.” And with his final statement he finally leaves.

 Only once he’s out of sight does Arthur relax. “You alright?” His voice no longer holding the animosity he had only seconds ago. Now soft and hushed. You cradle the arm, no marks or bruising. But the feeling of that dirty hand lingers like a burn.

 “Yeah… I’m ok.” Your eyes remain fixated on your hand now rubbing your forearm. “Thank you for stepping in…” Despite the tense situation, you didn’t feel uncomfortable. You felt safe, secure, calm. You can see him fidget in your peripheral. Shifting from foot to foot.

 “If he gives you trouble, you come to me, Alright?” You finally look up into his eyes, kind and concerned. Nothing like the way Samson was looking at you. You nod slowly.

 “I’ll come to you…” His eyes drift from each of your eyes a moment more, before he nods his head.

 “Ok… You be well Ma’am.” You watch as he leaves, hands twitching and shoulders adjusting themselves. He approaches Dutch and Hosea who were sitting and chatting away with cups of coffee. There smiles dissipate as Arthur speaks. Their gaze looking off in the direction of Samson and then they turn to you. Your eyes meet there’s for a split second before you turn away quickly. Wondering off to find a nice sunny spot to dry off and lie low for a while.

[brandyllyn]

Silk from their soul (01)

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Rated: Teen (series will be explicit) Words: 1500 Summary: The Ghoul takes a bounty and you might be lost

Series Masterlist My Masterlist

Wanted: Alive and Unharmed

The Ghoul runs his thumb over the picture - a woman, pretty enough but who knew what liberties the artist might have taken. It wasn’t uncommon to find people had some glaringly obvious deformity that no one had seen fit to mention to him before setting him on his tasks. Hunchbacks, missing limbs, hell he’d had a job once for a man whose only resemblance to the reward poster was that they were missing an eye. 

They’d been missing two by the time he’d drug them back to town.

In this case, he wouldn’t be surprised if the woman in question here turned out to be a damn sight less appealing than the picture made her out to be. But he was less intrigued by her hypothetical beauty than he was by the number beneath the image.

Reward: 5000 caps 

It was an absurd amount of money, enough to keep him in chem for years. Not that that mattered - chem was simple enough to come by if you knew where to look for it and procuring caps had never been an issue for him. No, the lure lay in the sheer amount - and that caution… alive and unharmed.

“What the hell did this one do?” he asks the woman putting the poster up with a frown.

“Ran away,” she replies with a shrug. “Boss wants her back.”

One of those then.

“This for real?” he taps at the number.

“Boss wants her back bad.”

He nods, pulling the poster off the wall and gesturing to the woman. “You can leave off, I’ll get her.”

“You?” she blinks at him then glances at the wall of bounties. “You sure this is the one you want?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s just… boss is real picky - not a scratch on her.”

“Then not a scratch will be.”

The woman shrugs and moves along, tucking the papers under her arm. He doesn’t think she’ll listen to him, but if it keeps her from putting up more signs today it’ll give him a head start.

Tearing the reward amount off he stares at the picture with a frown, studying the woman’s face. She reminds him of someone, not that he could quite put his finger on it. Something in the eyes though…

He grunts, folding the poster and tucking it into his saddlebag. He’ll figure it out when he finds her, and he will find her. He always does. Practically wasn’t fun anymore.

The bounty itself was being offered by someone he didn’t recognize, a warlord calling himself Nero down at what used to be the Stateline - when there were still states to have lines. Probably got himself holed up in a casino like those assholes out in New Vegas.

Sliding his palm down the hilt of his pistol he glances up at the sun. Plenty of daylight left, enough time to ask a few questions, see if anyone had seen her.

“Move it.”

Someone shoves into his shoulder but the Ghoul barely spares the man a glance, turning on his heel and striding across the creaking boardwalk and down into the street. He might oughta consider supplies too, he doesn’t need much to survive on but he does need a bit.

“Someone should take care of those fucking vermin.”

Pausing in the street, he turns to look back, eyeing the man from under the brim of his hat. “What was that?”

“You heard me, asshole,” the idiot continues, oblivious to the idea that these could be his last words.

The Ghoul considers his options. He could shoot the man, easy enough. Wouldn’t take but a second and then another minute to roll the body and see what he had. Would cause a bit of a ruckus though, and he wasn’t inclined to spend his time in what might pass for a lockup round here if the locals took offense to it.

That did leave the more amusing option.

He turns slowly, one hand pushing back the corner of his coat to rest on his hip, the other arm hanging loose at his side. “Seems to me you might be having a bit of trouble with what we used to call ‘courtesy,’” He moves in the man’s direction, slowly rising up the small set of stairs until they’re eye to eye. The other man flinches and the Ghoul suppresses a smile. “Now, would you like to try that again?”

“I s-said-”

The Ghoul doesn’t give him a chance to finish, striking as quick as a cobra with thumb and forefinger. The man chokes but the Ghoul doesn’t let go, pulling on the tongue until the man’s knees buckle.

“Now I think you were properly warned about the consequences,” with his free hand he pulls his knife, rusty and with a patina of grime from Lord only knew where. “So I can’t help but wonder if you might enjoy this.”

“Thowwy!” the man’s neck arches back, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “M’thowwy!”

The Ghoul hums to himself, hovering the blade over the man’s tongue. “We’ll see. Tell me, you seen this girl?” He digs the poster out, knife flashing dangerously close to the man’s eyes.

“Oh.”

“No?” He cocks his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Then I reckon you ain’t of much use to me are you?”

“Oth.”

“What was that?”

“Oth! Oth!” The man points and the Ghoul glances that way. South, fair enough.

“When?”

“Unnu.”

“Unnu?”

“Unno. Unno.”

“You don’t know,” the Ghoul finishes for him, still not letting his tongue go. “Then how, pray tell, do you know where she’s going?”

The man fumbles in his pocket, yanking a poster out that matches the one the Ghoul has in his hand. He takes it with a thoughtful frown, noting the scrawled words on it.

“South to Mexico, eh?” he asks, making a point of enunciating the soft ‘x’. “You going after her?”

The man nods and the Ghoul squeezes tighter until the man squeals, a mumbled series of what could pass for no’s grunting out of him.

“Good.” With a final nod the Ghoul lets the man’s tongue go. But there’s no chance for a sigh of relief before he turns his knife and slices the top of the man’s ear off.

“What the fuck?”

Grinning, the Ghoul slips the bloody cartilage between his lips, savoring the taste of fresh blood. “Something to remember your manners by, boy.”

☢ ☢ ☢

“Man, it’s hot,” you pant softly, resting both hands on your knees as you squint off into the distance. The short sage brush offers little protection from the late afternoon sun, and the trees with their spiky little leaves weren’t much help either. They had a dumb name - like Steven bushes. Something like that.

“I tell you Steven,” you huff conversationally, “days like today make a girl think leaving home wasn’t the best idea.”

The tree didn’t respond, which was probably for the best.

There are hills in the distance, maybe mountains? It’s really hard to tell how far away they are. You had been hoping to get to them before the sun went down but that was beginning to look less and less likely.

And that horned skull you’d seen a while back was starting to feel more and more ominous.

Letting out a sigh you set off again, doing your best to conserve energy. You try to keep to the hard packed earth, avoiding the sandy spots and looking for stones where you can find them. Anything that would make you more difficult to track. 

And someone was tracking you, you were certain of it. The Emperor wasn’t going to let you go just because you’d run off. With any luck he’d search down closer to Baja, you’d laid enough trail that direction even a blind man could find it. But there was no harm in being careful.

A hop takes you from one stone to another, your boots slipping slightly on the nearly smooth rock. Something skitters and you freeze, glancing around to find the source. It takes a moment for your eyes to pick it out - a lizard, maybe a foot long, the same sandy brown color as the rocks. It puffs its neck out and tilts its head at you curiously. 

“Nice lizard?” you ask cautiously. Keeping your eyes on it you move sideways, waiting to see if it’s going to spit poison or open its mouth to reveal inch long fangs. It puffs its neck out once more, mouth opening and a soft chirp comes forth.

Breathing a sigh of relief you watch it skitter a few feet away from you, turning sideways and cocking its head once more. Only this time, when it puffs its neck and opens its mouth a deafening roar sounds instead.

That did not come from that lizard.

Nor, in fact, do you want to know where it came from. It’s enough to know that whatever made that noise exists. Deciding speed is more important than caution, you take off running, aiming for the only thing in the distance that gives any semblance of hope.

It’s only as you’re climbing, heart beating in your throat, that it occurs to you that things that roar might also be able to climb.

☢ ☢ ☢

For updates follow and turn on notifications for @brandyllyn-writes

[sorserah]

Chapter 1: Awakening

Outsider No More | Goro Takemura & Female V/OC

And then he understands, clearly understands what she had been feeling, trying to tell him. And he now realizes too, he does not want to lose her either. 

An interpretation of how a romance between Takemura and Corpo Female V could have been. Changing between Vs and Takemuras POV. Mostly following the main story of the game, adding bits and pieces here and there for a little bit more depth. So spoilers ahead.

18+, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Romance, Panic Attacks, Death, Blood and Injury, Corpo V (Cyberpunk 2077, Takemuras POV, Vs pov, Alcohol, Sexual Tension, Flirting, Denial of Feelings, Internal Conflict, they are both idiots, Guilt, Overthinking, Smut, Sex, Romantic, Gestures

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434627/chapters/69807828

A pain she never could have imagined. Lungs burning inside out. Mouth full of bitter bile and wet sand. Her head, roaring, prickling, dizzy, blood dripping over her eyebrows on her eyelids. With all her strength she pushes herself off the dirty ground with one arm and manages to turn onto her back. Every gasp hurt and now, she notices the stench, the stench of moldy food, feces, and the sweet smell of decaying flesh. Everything was spinning.

Maybe if she tries to open her eyes, the world would be crisper again, more accurate, would make sense again. So she opens them a slit wide and sees a starry sky and the distant smog of Night City. While she is lying there and just breathing slowly in and out, she gradually remembered what had happened, and an oppressive uneasy feeling spreads through her chest. But why? Why...? Before she could form a solid conclusion, she heard heavy footsteps behind her.

„Damn, that stupid Japanese shit. Where the fuck did I dump her?” Someone mumbles to himself. That someone grabs her under her arms, sits her up, and starts pulling her in the opposite direction of sight. She could tell now that she was apparently resting on a garbage dump, right outside of the city. She struggles against the darkness that kept closing in on her. What had happened? After a few minutes perhaps, she notices cold and wet metal against her back.

The hands from before were suddenly pulling her hair roughly so that her head bumped upright against the metal and remained upright. Desperately blinking against the pain she tries to register the scene. To her left stands a corpulent black man who looked familiar. To her right another man who she must have seen before. Tall, in a black suit, expression neutral.

The man who had pulled her head up began speaking, out of breath „Now listen, dawg. I have done what you asked. So le‘ss you an‘me figure this...“ a gunshot, straight to the head, the crash of a heavy body with a sickening cracking sound. Faster than the man or she could have anticipated, the man in the black suit had drawn his pistol and pulled the trigger without hesitation. The sound brings something to her mind at last.

With sudden panic rising from her chest, she managed to lift her hand and reach out to touch her forehead. And what she feels there made her lose consciousness almost completely - she feels unbelievably sick. Exposed, hanging flesh, flooded with warm blood, mixed with hard splinters, of her own skull. But that couldn’t be reality, she must be dreaming.

„Hmm...“ the man in the black suit came closer to her speaking Japanese fastly, kneeling down in front of her. She couldn’t understand a word and was too full of panic and pain to read the translation her implants provides. She manages to raise her right hand and barely hold onto his arm, immensely shaking. „Please...“ Her voice rough, scarcely a whisper „Help me...“, but her last energy and consciousness failed her and everything went black again.

A punch to the chest, a sting, and her heart skipped into her throat. Heart rate at one hundred and eighty. “You hear me?!” Takemura screams “You need to help me!” The sudden rush of adrenaline and oxygen finally restored her vital and implant functions „What is going on?!“ She exclaimed. But before he could answer, Maelstrom gang members appear on motorcycles and on the back of the car. „Sons of bitches.“ was translated and then “Here, take them out!”

It made her feel good to hold the metal in her hands, gave her a sense of control as she turned off the Maelstroms one by one. Unfortunately, the feeling was brief, as she hears the sound of blades hitting each other behind her and then a burning pain on her left shoulder. She could see the attacker raise his blades for the next blow, as Takemura steers the car downhill against a billboard. She could feel her skull striking the panel and the black void took hold of her again.

A hit, soft strokes on her cheeks „Don’t you dare faint again. Keep your eyes open.“ Takemura's dark and rasping voice reaches her ear and she opens her eyes. She is sitting on the ground in front of the car, which is burning, smashed and covered in blood. The Maelstromer was already dead on the engine hood, or what was left of it. “We both could use medical attention” he grabbed her chin forcefully with his big but surprisingly soft hands, leaning closer, observing her head and face “Do you know a ripper doc her can trust?” “I know” She breathes heavily “someone. Viktor will fix us up...everything will be alright...” The last words again a barely perceptible whisper. She wanted to close her eyes for just a second.

She tips to the side and fell on the hard asphalt. „Don’t her dare die on me!“ Takemura pulls her on the back, hitting her face once again, she feels so tired, eyelids fluttering. Then she could feel his warm and wet hand on her neck and another heavy punch on her chest, but she hardly moved „We have to get there somehow. Call someone. Anyone!“ Even his voice was slowly failing. „Delamain, just come...pick me up..to..Mistys Esoterica...“ Her eyelids feel so, so heavy again, „What are you doing?! Hey!“ But nothing made her open her eyes again. It was such a soothing, comfortable emptiness. Now and then she feels unfamiliar lips on hers, followed by pressing hands on her chest and a slight pain below her ear. But overall she was being numbed in darkness, almost peacefully.