Usually It’s Video Games Instead Of Music But This Is Pretty Much Accurate Hehe

You’re gonna make me blush ♥️

One More Spring

One-shot

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

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

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

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

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

“Trying to get some color back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought you would like it. 

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

You always look pretty in this color, baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When would it happen?

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

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

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

Alright, you’ll take that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your one act of rebellion. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or she would. 

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

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

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

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

One more spring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What happened to her?

Is she still alive?

Was she the first?

Will we ever know?

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to go with you.”

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

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

You could hardly believe it yourself. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think?”

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

“You know I don’t read much, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he had won. 

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

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

Then again, maybe you’d ruined him too. 

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

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

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

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

You struck again!! The newlywed fox was everything!! The fake neighbors reminded me of the Don’t Worry Darling movie and listening to the soundtrack while reading was 10/10!! You’re so incredibly talented!

I'm so glad everyone liked the newlyweds, I was worried that I had rushed the ending for it. Listening to the soundtrack is such a smart move, you could say a movie like that influenced the fic, but I was thinking of the Stepford Wives (with Nicole Kidman) the whole time.

That was my jam as a kid, I was obsessed with that movie.

Thank you so much for such a sweet message ♥️

The way this chapter made sob😭 it got me so emotional and the hallucination was the cherry on top for me😭 I had to take breaks from in between reading from how much I was crying😭

You know what’s funny is how many messages/comments I’ve received talking about how this chapter made them cry

I thought it was funny lmao, like, I was legitimately laughing writing this one bc he’s such a dick and I thought that would be everyone’s reaction

I didn’t mean to cause mental anguish but I’m loving it lol

Your writing is so amazing 🫶🫶Thank you for what you do ml, I hope you’re taking care of yourself

You guys are so sweet! Thank you for the kind message. It's funny you sent this while I'm on like day seven of a stomach bug and thought I was going to die this morning.

Hope you're taking care of yourself. Messages like these make me so happy to be sharing my writing with you all 💗

The finale of How About a Nuke will be posted today!! I know it’s pretty soon after the last chapter but I had a surge of inspiration and I was up until 4 am writing this. I’ve spent all day editing it and as much as it pains me, their journey is now over. Thank you for all the support and kind messages you’ve sent me while this story has been in progress. ♥️

I feel like I have to get over this mindset of I need likes. Aside from my Fallout stuff, the majority of what I write is for smaller fandoms. I feel like I'm getting in my own head and ruining my love for writing by basing my writings worth off of how many likes and how much attention I'm getting.

The Other Woman

Previous part / Next part

Series Masterlist

Cooper Howard x fem!reader, The Ghoul x fem!reader CW: 18+ Summary: He looks like he’s dying, you hope he is. When he finally gives into his disease, you’re taking Lucy and you’re making a run for it.

The sun was bad when you had water and shelter in the trees. Completely exposed and ankles half buried in sand, you think you might die. It would be the preferable fate at this point. You’re sweating so much in your suit that the dried blood from your wound has become wet again. You’re sure the bandages around your thigh are soiled. Anything Lucy’s Stimpak did for you has been undone by the grit and grime coating your body. 

She’s not faring much better than you, trailing slowly along ahead of you. Like yours, her lips are peeling back and paling under the harsh sun. Cooper has already taken all the damage his body can handle. You’re sure he doesn’t even feel the sun under that rough exterior of his. 

You stumble forward, feet tripping over each other as he tugs on your leash. You can’t even be angry at him anymore. You’re too exhausted and beaten down to feel anything right now. But the lack of a reaction only seems to fuel him further. He keeps tugging, prodding, poking, seeing what it takes to get something out of you. 

Sweat is practically bleeding from you. You can feel your skin peeling up and shriveling under the sun’s ruthless gaze. Sand has been steadily seeping into your boots the longer you walk and it’s only irritating you further. Lucy hasn’t once looked at you since Cooper dragged you both out of the old gas station. 

You’d had to be quick about it with the Deathclaw still lurking around nearby. He’d barely given you anytime to wake up. He’d simply grabbed the rope around your neck and ran outside with you, rushing through the old neighborhood until you cleared the Deathclaw’s territory. He hadn’t woken up Lucy or tried to get the dog to come with him. They’d simply followed. 

It terrified you, knowing that the only thing he cared about was you. This dedication wasn’t born from love or care. This was him wanting revenge. Revenge for lying to him and screwing him over. You’d think two hundred years would have been enough for him to just get over it. Self reflect and move on. 

But, no, he’d always been stubborn. It seems like the fallout only made that worse. 

You don’t know how many hours pass before you start to see something other than sand on the horizon. Could be four or eight, you’ll never be able to tell. It all blurred into one miserable memory of nothing but too bright light. 

But eventually, by the grace of God or the universe taking pity on you, buildings start to grow in the distance. They’re all destroyed, the tallest of them half crumbled and the debris spilling across the ground. Lucy perks up slightly at the sight of them, curiosity overpowering her own fatigued state. You do not share the same passion as her. You’d seen it all when it was still standing, wasn’t impressive then, isn’t impressive now. 

If it was a pool of clean filtered water, maybe then you’d be interested. 

Lucy gazes up at the taller buildings, mouth agape and eyes looking glossed over. Cooper moves past her, not bothered by leaving her behind. He knows she’ll follow, same way he knows the dog is going to stay with the head. 

You’re all dogs to him. Just cattle to be herded. He doesn’t see you as human, you doubt he sees anything other than profit and gain. Your worth is measured by your usefulness to him. You don’t know what he thinks he could get from Lucy, you’re sure it’s not good. You know your own fate is going to be slow and horrific. 

You offer him petty revenge. Cathartic and vicarious vengeance on those from Vault-Tec who had wronged him and turned him into the monster he is today. Your value is immeasurable to him, what you offer goes beyond simple bounties or those little vials he keeps puffing on. 

You don’t know what he’s huffing, but you have some guesses. RadAway for one. It would explain how he’s managed to last as long as he has without turning feral. 

He stops, tugging out his canteen and undoing the cap. You know the break isn’t meant for your benefit but you’re grateful nonetheless. You’ve been walking so long you’re sure the bottoms of your feet are nothing but bloody stumps. 

You let your gaze drift as Lucy makes her way back to you both. Your vision blurs and you find yourself drifting as far back into your mind as you dare. You try and find a happier memory to live in so you can pretend for one minute that you’re not as miserable as you are. But Cooper ruins it. 

A sharp, wet sounding cough breaks through the haze you’d created around yourself. You turn your head slightly to stare at him. He’s got his hands braced on his knees, back arching in pain from how hard he’s coughing. You see blood and spittle flying from his lips. Both you and Lucy share a brief look. 

Your eyes dart down to the bindings on your wrist and neck, wondering how far you would be able to make it before he yanked you back. You’re about to tell Lucy to just make a run for it when he straightens up again. He lets out a deep shuddering breath, wiping his chin off with the back of his hand. 

You fix him with an unimpressed glare, “I was hoping you’d choke.”

He smirked and tugged on the rope, yanking you unceremoniously to your feet. “Better luck next time, sweetheart.”

“You,” Lucy cut herself off as she stumbled over a skeleton. Her face screwed up briefly in disgust before she continued on after you. “You need medicine, right? That’s why you’re coughing.” Cooper didn’t offer her anything more than a bored hum as he trudged along. You tried to look over at her but he was being more vigilant about the rope now that you had mouthed off. 

“If I found you some would you let her go?”

Cooper came to a sudden stop, ignoring you as you stumbled into his back. He turned towards Lucy and his hairless brows lifted up. You couldn’t tell if he was impressed by her boldness or sick of it. “Well, that’s where we’re going darling.” 

He didn’t offer anything else but a sinister smile. It wasn’t much different than his usual ones. His tone sounded ominous, like he was laughing at a joke he didn’t want to share with either of you. Lucy picked up on the veiled hidden meaning of his words and her mouth snapped shut, eyes narrowing as she tried to decipher what he meant. 

He dug his fingers underneath the rope on your neck and you hissed at the contact of the raw sunburnt skin. It only emboldened him as he dragged you forward, tucking you under his arm and forcing you to keep up with his stride. 

You felt slight satisfaction at the small coughs he would try and hide under his breath. But with your ears so close to his chest you could hear him wheeze, feel the struggle each breath caused. Every gasp makes you feel a little stronger. Even though it hurts, you glance over your shoulder at Lucy. Her eyes are trained on him, on each stumbling step. 

There’s a look shared between the two of you. A promise of waiting until he’s weakest to finally escape. You only need him to take a break again and that would be your chance. You could finally get rid of him. You don’t have to wait much longer. 

He leads you both to a Super Duper Mart. Cars have been pushed out of the way, a gate set up around the perimeter and most of the debris cleaned away. You’re assuming this is some sort of base for survivors. But that doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t be taking you anywhere that would take care of you. 

He stops in front of a call box, pressing the button, “Transaction.”

It takes a moment before a staticky British voice answers back. “Yes?” Your brows furrow in confusion. You recognize that voice, you just don’t know how. 

Cooper glances over at Lucy and you finally put together what he’s doing. “Exchange one female, mint condition, for two month supply.” He looked her over, the sweat coating her and wounds she’d acquired over your short stay on the surface. “Near mint condition.”

“Condition requires grading, please send her in.” A buzzer goes off and the glass doors ahead of you slide open. Your gaze darts from the doors to Cooper’s. 

“You can’t-” He cuts you off with a tight grasp on your neck. It's just enough to keep you quiet and immobile. Lucy doesn’t even look surprised, just a subdued anger as she glares at him. 

“You’re selling me?” Her tone is incredulous. This was what Cooper thought was so funny earlier. This is how he gets his medicine, selling people. You’d known that he had changed from being up here, but this was insane. This went so beyond changing for the sake of survival, he looked like he was enjoying it. 

With no hesitation he tugs his gun out and points it at Lucy. She flinches back from it, staring down the large barrel with hesitance. Your attempts at breaking free are useless and draining. The leather of his glove creaks in your ear as he tightens his hold around your neck. 

“Quit your squirming,” he mutters in your ear, “what I got planned for you is much more fun.” You feel your heart drop to your feet and your struggles cease. This is pointless, struggling is pointless. Fighting back against him is pointless. You’re too weak to do anything to him, you’ll just piss him off more. You should just give up. 

He looks over at Lucy and nods towards the doors with a patronizing click of his tongue. “Go on, sweetheart. You got problems out here too, I suggest you try your luck in there.” Lucy looks to you but whatever broken thing she sees on your face is enough for her to sag in defeat. She backs towards the doors, sparing one last glance at you before taking a step inside. 

When the doors close behind her Cooper finally lets you go. The lack of support has you crumpling, you land roughly on the ground and glare up at him. “What’s going to happen to her?”

He spares you a brief glance, sneering down at you. “Diced and sliced,” he empathizes the word with a loud click of his teeth. It takes everything in you to force your spine into steel and be unflinching when he kneels down before you. He prods your chest with his gun painfully, “Your little friend is about to become meat, sweetheart. Ain’t even gonna spare her a tear?”

Your mouth is dry, parched from your long trek in the sun. But you still manage enough spit to land on his cheek. He blinks then blinks again, slow to process what you’ve done. When he does, reaching up to wipe the smear of saliva slowly off his cheek, he huffs a laugh. You don’t see the hit coming until he’s backhanding you down to the ground. 

You groan, pain throbbing in your right cheek, “Fucking dick,” you spit out. He shakes his head and stands back up. 

“I was wondering where that attitude of yours had gone. Glad to see you still got some of that fire.” He glanced down at the call box, a slight cough shaking him as he taps his foot impatiently. “The fuck is taking so damn long?” You’re clearly not meant to hear him. You doubt he wants you to perceive him as weak in any way. 

“I’m sorry,” you glower, “is my friend’s murder taking too long for you?”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, glaring over at you with his eyes narrowed and his lips curled, “it fucking is.”

Fucking asshole. 

Fear is a bitter taste on your tongue when he starts to cough again. This isn’t something small that he can swallow down. This is bad, lasting longer than should be possible and making your ears hurt with the way they echo through the air. You flinch back from him when he falls to his knees, hands grasping desperately at his throat. 

He looks over at you, something like a plea in his gaze. Dread boils and bubbles in your gut with the horrible realization that if he turns, you’ll be the first thing he sees. You’re assuming that whatever he takes stops the radiation from burning away holes in his brains. If he goes feral now, the only thing he’ll remember about you is how much aggression and hostility he holds for you. 

You’ll be ripped to fucking pieces. 

He slumps forward, hands clawing at the ground as drool dribbles from his lips. He wheezes, inhaling the red dirt as he tries to get a steady breath in. You fight back the paralyzing fear of your situation and slowly crawl towards him. He doesn’t seem to see you, his eyes glazed over with the primal panic of knowing you’re about to die. 

You reach out and snatch the knife from his waist and leap away from him again, trying to keep as much distance as you can between the two of you. Placing the handle between your knees you start to saw at the rope around your wrists. Your eyes don’t stop darting between his prostrated form on the ground and your bloody hands. You can’t risk keeping your eyes off of him for too long. You’ve grown too weak under the sun. 

If he turns, you won’t be able to fight him off. 

Agonizingly slow, you start to see the rope fray. Only a few more frantic tugs and it unwinds from around your wrists. You drop the knife to the ground, quickly loosening the noose around your neck and ripping it off. 

When you look back over at him you realize he’s gone silent. It only causes more panic to rush through you. The emotion threatens to choke you, freeze you in place and wait for the inevitable. You refuse to let it. Refuse to let him terrify you into accepting your death at his hands. 

Slowly, like you hope he won’t notice you, you creep forward. On hands and knees you drag your body towards him and reach tentatively for the belt around his waist. You groan, using what’s left of your strength to roll him over so you can better reach the gun on his hip. He does nothing but twitch and moan in response, eyes cloudy. 

You unzip the top of your suit and tie the arms around your waist then tuck the gun in your pants. Your fingers skate across his chest, groping around for any bullets you might find hidden away in his jacket or the bag he keeps across his shoulder. Whatever you manage to find is stuffed into your suit, you don’t pay much attention to what you grab. You’re just trying to get this finished as quickly as possible. 

When you’ve raided him of everything valuable you finally glance over at the glass doors. The one Lucy disappeared behind. He told you that she was going to be turned into lunch meat. He has no reason to lie to you, and you have no reason to doubt what he says. There isn’t much of you that still believes there's good left in him. 

You feel something like grief creeping up the back of your throat, burning at your eyes. But you dismiss it as quickly as it comes. You don’t have time to wallow or mourn. You need to get out of here. Lucy is gone. Crying about it isn’t going to fix anything.

You scoff, so much for her precious golden rule. 

You stand up and turn your back to him, hoping you can figure out a way back to the vault. You still have your Pip-Boy, you might be able to use the map to find your way back home. 

Fuck Hank. Fuck the surface. You were done. You wanted to shower and eat something and feel air conditioning again. 

But nothing up here is easy. 

Something wraps around your ankle and you scream, jumping away from Cooper’s hand and kicking out with your foot. His fingers make an odd cracking sound under your boot and you glare down at him. 

Out of instinct the gun in your pants is drawn and pointed down at him. His eyes don’t betray any surprise or fear. He just looks desperate. Pathetic and desperate. You pull the hammer back and move the gun from his chest to his temple. “I could put you out of your misery right here. Right now. Would you like that?”

He wheezes, barely able to move on the rough ground. Finally, he shakes his head. It’s a small move, but even now he clings on to the desperate threads of his remaining life. You huff an unimpressed laugh and glare down at him. “Stubborn fucking bastard.” You tuck the gun back in your pants and you run. 

You don’t look back. You don’t think about Hank, or Lucy, or Cooper. The people you’re leaving behind once meant something to you. But you’re selfish, and you always have been. Your survival means so much more. 

It’s only when the sun starts to set that you finally find a place to settle down for the night. It’s an old building that seems just stable enough to not come crashing down on you while you sleep. It’s also the only place nearby that doesn’t have the sounds of ghouls or other critters echoing through its foundation. 

You have no water, no food, but at the very least you can finally sit down. You debate taking your suit off, just to check on your wounds. But you figure that you’re better off not knowing the state of your body. All the adrenaline and exhaustion from the sun is keeping you going. You can’t let yourself break the illusion that everything is fine. 

You do what you’ve always done when you try to distract yourself. You let yourself fall down the rabbit hole of your memories and attempt to get lost in them. You should have known the direction they were going to go. 

Perhaps it’s a form of mourning that you start to think about Cooper. You’d assumed him dead or lost to you for years. But actually seeing it happen had opened up a wound of grief you’d thought closed. 

The good memories come first, like they always do when you think of him. The first time you met, the first time he cooked for you. They’re all innocent enough. Remembrance of the man who once was the love of your life. 

And, inevitably, comes that one memory. The one you’d thought buried a long time ago. It usually would creep up on you when you would lay with Norm at night. Alone in the bed you shared with your husband, you would think of that one night. And the yearning would bury the shame. 

You’d once reasoned with yourself that there was nothing wrong with your relationship with him because nothing ever truly happened between you two. It was a lie, a bald faced lie to yourself and to him. Something had happened, something you’d shamefully buried. 

You’d been riddled with guilt after. He was still a married man, a father, and someone you were manipulating and actively lying too. It never should have happened. You never should have gone for drinks with him. You’d known it was a mistake and you’d done it anyway. 

You pick up the handset and try - and fail - not to let your irritation show in your voice. “Hello?” You’d barely stepped through your door and your phone was about to fall off its hook. You don’t know who's calling you, but they must have been at it for a while. 

There’s a breath on the other end and you know it’s him. Isn’t that absolutely pathetic? You know him from the way he breathes. That’s not normal. How much of you is wrapped up and intertwined with him isn’t normal. Certainly not because you’re only meant to be his assistant.  

“Sorry, sweetheart, is this a bad time?”

You want to say, No, it’s never a bad time when it's you. I wished you called me more. I wish you weren’t married and I didn’t have to feel so guilty about my feelings for you. But that would be insane, so you keep your mouth shut and just say, “No, now's fine. What’s up?”

“I had plans to meet up with Seb tonight, but he canceled on me. I was wondering if you’d wanna come out for a little while?”

You should not say yes. This is a perfect opportunity to start setting boundaries within your relationship. Eating dinner and dancing with him was bad enough. Especially considering Barb could have walked in on you two at any minute. 

But, god, are you lonely. You’re tired of coming home every night to an empty apartment devoid of any life or happiness. You’re tired of feeling so gutted everytime you see a happy couple on the street and all you can think about is the married man you’re in love with. And you’re selfish. 

You always have been, since you were little. You used to get in trouble for never wanting to share your toys and being too jealous of others. You supposed, as you got older, the traits stayed but the toys changed. 

You shouldn’t say yes. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

The bar is nice, nicer than the ones you’re used to. You should’ve known that when he invited you out he wasn’t going to take you to some crappy little place where the floors are sticky and the music is too loud. The bar itself is a full circle surrounded by a shiny oak counter and nicely furnished stools that don’t have stains from beer spills. 

He’s sitting more towards the corner. It’s a higher end place, the people that come here aren’t impressed with his wealth or fame, because they’re just like him. He doesn’t have to hide here but you feel like you should. 

You’re incredibly out of place in your work skirt and blouse. It's something cheap from an outlet store that you got out of a bargain bin. It doesn’t fit in with the finely dressed women in the booths. 

But then he looks over at you, his eyes even prettier under the warm lights above him. When he waves at you, you find that you don’t really care what you’re wearing. You skirt past a couple blocking the doorway and hop onto the seat beside him. 

He smiles at you, but you can tell there’s something weighing him down. A sadness in his eyes that makes you want to reach out and comfort him. Instead, you flag down the bartender and offer Cooper a brief smile. “Sorry Seb canceled on you.”

He shakes his head, tossing the olive from his martini into his mouth. “Did me a favor.” At the questioning look you give him he grins. A real one this time. “I’ve got much better company now, darling.”

You resent the heat that flushes in your face. You don’t want to feel like a crushing school girl, you’re a grown woman for god’s sake. But he just brings something youthful out around you. Replaces what your soul-sucking corporate job has stolen from you. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Howard.” 

You expect him to give into the usual routine. A bit of playful banter to get rid of the tension and then you two can talk like normal. You don’t expect his hand on your thigh and the way he leans in to whisper in your ear, “I think it will get me everywhere, sweetheart.”

It catches you off guard, the boldness of his words, his completely public display of affection. Everyone knows you’re his assistant, you’ve been in enough photoshoots with him at red carpets. Admittedly, more than you should have been in. 

But then you look up, and you really take in the place that you’re at. The bar is well lit, but the booths in the back have dimmer lighting. It makes it harder to see the people who sit there. But you recognize them well enough. Figures with wives and families that are recognizable to the public’s eyes. Except the women they’re with aren’t their wives. 

You connect the dots slowly, not quite wanting to believe what you’re seeing but also desperate for it. You can’t lie, a part of you is disappointed in him. Most of his charm, his attraction comes from what a good man he is. How devoted he is. The fact that he invited you somewhere like this makes you feel cheap. 

You feel like one of those women who purposefully goes after married men. But that had never been the plan and that had never been your type. Cooper was such a rare exception to your usual dates and interests. Now you just feel dirty. 

But it also doesn’t fit who he is at his core. You look over at him and finally get a really good look at him. His hand is on your thigh, there’s a suggestive undertone to his voice. But it doesn’t fit with his face. His eyes are too sad, the stubborn downward pull of his lips gives away his mood and cracks away the mask he was trying to wear. 

You shift minutely, dropping his hand from you and turning to fully face him. “What’s wrong with you?” There’s no point in dancing around the question. 

His eyes widen and he moves away from you, laughing slightly as he does. “You know me better than I give you credit for.” You give him a bored hum and motion for him to continue. He sighs, ordering another drink, and finally speaks. “Barb took Janey to her mom’s for the week.”

You try to keep your expression neutral but you know you’re failing miserably from the self-deprecating laugh he lets out. Things have been tense between them, it’s gotten worse ever since he went to one of those Hollywood against Vault-Tec meetings. You don’t know what he heard there, but it was enough to make him a lot more hostile towards your company and Barb by extension. 

You can’t count how many of their fights you’ve accidentally interrupted lately. 

You should feel sympathetic towards him, but it only pisses you off. You scoff and he frowns, surprised by your reaction. “So, what, Barb wants a break and you decide to fuck your assistant? Seems a bit cliche, even for you.”

He looks slightly dumbfounded by the suggestion. He shakes his head but at your continued glare finally looks around and realizes the message he’s sent across. He groans, head falling into his hand. “That is not what I wanted, sweetheart.” He looks up at you with a sheepish smile but it almost feels condescending. “I just wanted to talk somewhere that I knew we wouldn't be photographed. You know ever since that article about us we have to be more careful in public.”

You feel embarrassed, and you shouldn't. Anyone in your position probably would have assumed the same thing. That he had less than honorable intentions by bringing you here. But there’s a needling feeling in your gut, questioning the hand on your thigh and the way he’d looked at you. You try and dismiss it, passing it off as him just being too friendly when he has a couple drinks. 

You let out an embarrassed groan and turn away from him, “I’m sorry, I just assumed-”

He laughs, taking your hand in his and turning you to look at him. “It’s alright, I probably should have thought this out before I called you over.”

You hadn’t realized the bartender had brought you a drink until Cooper slides it over to you. It’s a peace offering and an apology when he clinks his glass against yours. You smile at him and take a sip, finally letting yourself relax. 

You should never relax. Ever. You make the worst damn decisions in the world when you’re not tense and constantly aware of everything around you. 

Honestly, you blame the bartender. He kept bringing you and Cooper more and more drinks until everything was covered in an alcohol induced haze. You’ve never made good decisions tipsy.

Apparently, neither does Cooper. 

You don’t feel like yourself, and he doesn’t feel like him. You’re not the lying bitch who's going to ruin this whole thing in a few months. He’s not Cooper Howard, the husband, the actor, the success. He’s just Cooper. 

Your Cooper. 

You giggle as you stumble into the hotel room. Because of course this place has a hotel above it. Probably for the same salacious reasons you’re about to use it for. His hands are grasping at your waist, rucking your shirt up until it’s untucked from your skirt. 

Your fingers are frantic, rushed and uncoordinated as you tug at the buttons of his shirt. He chuckles against your lips as you break away from him. Frowning down at the impossible shirt. Gently, he eases your hands away from him and undoes the buttons himself. 

You’re pleasantly surprised when he takes his shirt off. You knew he had to keep in shape for his roles, but you didn’t expect him to be so fit. He doesn’t let you admire him for long, not ready to be parted from you even for a second. He surges forward, hands clasped tightly around your cheeks and lips devouring your own. 

You fall into the kiss, nails digging into his shoulders as you open your mouth to him. His hands find the bottom of your shirt, gently tugging it up. But you don’t want gentle, don’t have the time for it. Because in the back of your head there is a little voice whispering how wrong this is. 

The longer you wait, the louder it gets. You take your shirt from him, yanking it up and over your head. Then you shimmy out of your skirt and reach for his belt. If he’s surprised by the speed in your movements or the desperation of them he doesn’t say anything. Which you’re grateful for. 

You’re just drunk enough for this to be okay, but if you sober up anymore you’ll leave. You don’t want to leave. You don’t want to feel the guilt. You just want to feel him. 

There’s a brief trip as you both stumble over the clothes littered across the ground. And then you’re falling onto the bed, into each other. You don’t stop kissing him, just beckon him closer with open legs and guide his hips towards yours. 

He parts from you then, backing off and looking like he wants to say something. But you don’t let him. You surge up to kiss him again, drawing him forward until he’s thrusting into you. There’s a stretch, it borders on uncomfortable. But you’ve been waiting for this for so long, for him, that you don’t need much more than him kissing you to be ready. 

Still, the feeling of him inside you borders on too much. All of it is too much, too overwhelming. This aching need inside you to consume him, have him, is nearly painful. It’s almost like a punishment for yourself. You don’t deserve something pure and good and untainted. You deserve this. Deep thrusts that cause you to keen and wince. 

He mumbles praises against your neck, how good you feel, how long he’s wanted this. It almost makes you want to cry. And you don’t know why. You don’t know why this is affecting you so much. But you can’t listen to him anymore. You can’t hear how good you feel when all you feel is dirty and desperate. 

You kiss him again, so you don’t have to look at him or hear him. You just picture yourself being somewhere else. Somewhere where this whole thing isn’t so horrible and you can be happy with him without feeling guilty. 

Your brain numbs, gives into the gentle motion of him moving inside you. The pain disappears and the pleasure builds slowly. In your toes, traveling its way up your legs and squeezing around you until it explodes into something blinding. You let the wave crest and wash you away, forgetting all about what was wrong in the first place. 

You must have fallen asleep at some point. When you wake up, it’s still dark outside and there’s something heavy wrapped around your waist. Your head pounds from the lingering buzz of alcohol that’s quickly fading. 

You look down at Cooper, how peaceful he looks resting against you. You feel something deep and aching building in your gut. You don’t know what it is. Desire, pain? It doesn’t matter. You choke on a sob, covering your mouth so you don’t wake him up as the tears start to pour. 

What the fuck did you just do?

You’re snapped awake by the sound of cussing. Your hands go to the gun resting on your waist but it’s too late. Four men surround you. You tilt your head, taking in their outfits and frowning. Where the hell did they get deputy outfits? Did they raid a Halloween store or something?

The mental image is enough to make you laugh and they don’t take too kindly to that. One of them kneels down in front of you, scowling. “Yur under arrest,” the accent is heavy and only makes you laugh more. 

“Yeah, on whose authority, Spirit Halloween?”

He rips his glasses off and you curl into yourself from how hard you laugh. He glares at you through crossed eyes, “The government.” You're still laughing when they tie a rope around you. Maybe you’ve finally lost it. 

The sun got to you and you’re having a heat stroke. Because even though you’re going from one captor to another, you can’t stop laughing. And it’s not pissing them off anymore. If anything they’re starting to look scared. 

But you can’t bring yourself to care. There’s a manic feeling rising in your chest, ripping through your sternum and suffocating you. You want to cry, you want to laugh or rip out your hair. You don’t know what's happening or what's wrong with you. But clearly they don’t want to deal with it. 

One of them comes up behind you and hits you with the handle of his pistol. There’s a sharp pain and then everything is black. 

“I could leave you here.” Lucy scoffs and glares down at him. It’s hard to hear her, everything around him is swimming. His heart is beating so frantically inside his head he’s sure it’s going to explode. “I should leave you here, after what you did to me.”

She glances around and seems to finally realize her little friend is missing. “Where is she?”

He’s got nothing for her but a wheeze, it’s all he can manage to get out. He’s fighting right now to stay sane. To not see her as anything more than meat or food. She sighs and kneels in front of him. In her hand are three vials of everything he needs right now to live. 

More drool dribbles from his lips and he tries to reach for them but his hand just twitches. Lucy places them in front of his face and stands back up. “Golden rule, motherfucker.” 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. 

It’s ironic that that’s what saves him. Her goddamn golden rule is the only thing to keep him tethered to the world of the sane. 

He takes in a deep rasping breath. He forces any strength he has left into his arm and slowly drags it across the dirt. The process of moving is painstaking and nearly futile. He’s at the point of desperation where his body is no longer cooperating with him.

Eventually, he manages to shuffle the vial into his inhaler. One is enough to get his breathing regulated. He needs all three just to get his fingers to twitch when he needs them too. He finally manages to scrape himself off the ground. 

Dirt has buried itself into the grooves of his skin, caked in further by his own drool. He’ll feel disgusted later. Right now, his legs are moving on pure instinct to where he knows more vials wait for him. 

He’ll think of you later. Of your escape. What he’ll do with you will all come later. As soon as he’s had just a little bit more medicine and numbed his brain with other illicit substances. He doesn’t want to think now. Doesn’t want to consider what would have happened if it had been his fate in your hands and not Lucy’s. 

When he wakes up it’s alone. Sun peaks through the curtains and he moves his hand blindly across the bed. When he doesn’t feel anything but a cold sheet he sits up and stares at the spot you once inhabited. 

There’s still a groove where you’d laid, a wrinkle in the sheets is the only sign that you were ever here. He sits up, looking around the room. There’s a little bit of hope that maybe you were just in the shower or hiding somewhere for some odd reason. 

You’re gone, though, clothes picked up off the floor and heels no longer by the door. He sighs, rubbing his chest to soothe the ache. He shouldn’t be disappointed. He should be ashamed. He should be disgusted with himself right now. 

He can’t be, all he feels is this deep aching sadness that he didn’t get the chance to wake up next to you. The drive home is lonely, almost shameful. 

He’d paid for the hotel room, he couldn’t look the man in the eye as he did. All he could think about was you, sneaking out. Running away from him. Why? Were you ashamed?

It was his fault. He knew what he was doing when he invited you to this place. He knew what it meant. But Barb had left and he was lonely in the too big house. He’d just wanted to see you because he knew it would make him feel better. And it did. 

You always made him so much happier. He just doesn’t know why you would leave like that. He gets home, tossing his keys in the bowl by the door and walking into the kitchen. He’s got a lingering headache from the drinks last night and a pain in his stomach from not eating anything. 

He knows he shouldn’t, it’s too early in the day, but he pours himself another drink. He doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know how to get you out of his head and the taste of you off his tongue. 

The phone rings beside him and he jumps for it. Maybe it’s you, apologizing for leaving and explaining there was an emergency. Or maybe you’d just left to get breakfast and returned to the room to find him gone. 

“Coop?” His stomach drops and he lets out a heavy sigh. 

There should be some sliver of anxiety that it’s his wife on the other line. He should be worried that she’ll hear the guilt in his voice and know something is wrong. But there's only stark disappointment that it isn’t you. 

He hums, not enough energy to try and speak with her right now. “I’m coming home early. I want to talk, I want to work this out.”

No, she doesn’t. She just wants to keep him under control. She realized if she’d strayed too far that the leash would loosen. He doesn’t bother responding, just hums again then hangs up. He needs to shower and get rid of the smell of your perfume on him. 

He’s reluctant to do it, wanting to hold on to the last bit of you he has. He sighs, runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. 

Why would you leave?

end. — I do not own the characters or the game/show Fallout, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Can we have Logan and Flux going on a mission but UH OH something goes wrong they get separated from the group and shes like “oh man he hates me this will suck” but then they get into a fight and he protects/saves her and then they have a cutesy heartfelt conversation about how he doesn’t hate her, he just didn’t want to let her in and then for her to leave, and then maybe they smooch a lil bit (a lot a bit)

Screw you guys for turning me into a miscommunication writer. It’s my least favorite trope and I just realized it’s like all I do. 

Anyway, enjoy the newlyweds.

Broken Machinery

Pt. 4 (completed series)

Series masterlist

Connor RK800 x fem!reader

A/N: A long one, I wanted some more domestic moments between the two, sue me. Black dahlia’s represent betrayal (or it’s just a nice gift for that emo friend in your life)

Content Warnings: Cussing (duh), body breaking like fine china, shoulders out of sockets (not that bad but I googled a picture of one and it’s gross), overdose (but not really), past death of a child (not reader’s), readers got hair long enough to be in a braid, death of a pot

Word Count: 6.4k

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

Shoulders aren’t supposed to look like that. They’re sure as fuck not supposed to feel like that either. You can’t even lift your arm to peel off your jacket, you don’t have to though, they’re dislocated.

“Y/N!” Calloused hands on your wrist and then all of your body weight is jerked down and hanging from your shoulders, you can feel the moment they rip out of socket, you can’t help the guttural scream that rips its way out of your throat.

The pain from your everywhere is momentarily ignored as you lay in Hank’s lap, sobbing with the relief that you’re still alive. You’re not dead or a paraplegic somewhere in a hospital bed, you’re breathing. You can feel Hank trembling, you’re not sure from what, but he’s silent as he holds you.

You must be going into shock, you can’t really feel anything as he slowly gets you on your feet. You can’t feel your legs moving down the stairwell or him directing you towards the group of patrol cars. One moment you’re on the roof, then you blink, and you’re standing behind an ambulance being looked over by paramedics.

“Cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder,”

Guess it was only the one shoulder, then.

They’re looking you over to assess the damage done. You can just stare blankly down at your sneakers. You’re trying to remember what exactly happened on the roof. But it’s all a blur of adrenaline and primal panic.

He was holding you over the edge, talking to someone. Who?

“Detective! Lieutenant!” Your head shoots up, you ignore the stabbing pain that travels down your spine.

Connor, Connor will save you.

Except he didn’t, he walked away.

He walked away.

You yank your arm free from the paramedic, ignore Hank as he tries to stop you and storm over to Connor. You’d say the look on his face is proud, but you’re not gonna let your heart trick your mind into thinking this plastic son of a bitch can feel anything at all.

“Y/N, I’ve successfully apprehended the deviant.” You’ve still got one good arm. You don’t aim for his face, that won’t do any good, you punch him right in the bio component and watch him crumple to the floor. When hes down you kick your foot into the same spot as hard as fucking possible, ignoring any pain that it brings you.

“Congratu-fucking-lations.”

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

It’s been two days and the detective still refuses to acknowledge Connor. He’d tried to explain his reasoning for leaving her in favor of catching the deviant.

FIND Y/N

Connor double checked the door on the hospital room, he could hear Hank and Y/N bickering from inside. “What did the doctors say?” There was a pause before she responded.

“Another day of bed rest,” she sounded reluctant to answer. Connor hadn’t been able to speak with her after the incident on the roof; he'd had to go straight to CyberLife technicians for repairs. She’d done considerable damage to his biocomponent.

Maybe I deserved it.

“Then get your ass back in bed.”

“Hank, please, I’ve suffered a lot worse than this and made it out perfectly fine.”

Hank didn’t sound amused, and there was a loud thud as something landed on sheets. “I don’t care, Y/N! You’re staying right there, it’s not just your fucking physical issues you have to worry about. I’ve never seen you act like that before, I’m worried about what that fall did to your head.” There was a moment of silence and Connor thought it was a smart time to go inside.

There seemed to be a strange, different sort of silence when he walked into the room. Connor wished his hands were free, there were no objectives or dialogue options to pick from as Hank and Y/N both turned towards him. His hands were full, he looked down to the potted black dahlia between them.

He outstretched his hands and moved towards Y/N. She just stared at him from her spot on the bed, unsure of what to do now, he looked to Hank for an order.

The Lieutenant was watching him with crossed arms and an undetermined look on his face.

Connor cleared his throat and placed the flower down on the table near the bed. He scanned her, a minor concussion, two cracked ribs, and one dislocated shoulder. Her heartbeat was increasing the longer he stared, adrenaline and cortisol reaching a level that told him she was very upset about something.

“Your arm seems to be healing at a good pace. You should listen to the Lieutenant, a couple more days rest and you’ll be feeling much better.” The room remained silent and Connor reached up to fix his already perfect tie. There was something odd about him as he felt the stares of his partners. Something inside felt off.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

“I’m programmed with psychological software that could help you after recovering from a strong shock.”

SUPPORT

ANALYTICAL

STAY QUIET

Connor immediately knew what he said was the wrong choice.

“A strong shock?” Your voice was quiet enough that he almost didn’t catch what you said, but the room was so deathly still it was impossible for you not to be heard. “A strong shock?” You were quickly gaining in volume. “You left me to fucking die! And for what, for the goddamn android to smash its fucking brains out on the interrogation table before we got anything! I would have died for nothing!”

Connor opened his mouth, prepared to argue his side of the problem, but you cut him off with a quiet question he wasn’t expecting. “What was the chance?”

“Sorry?”

You walked up closer to him and tugged his tie so hard he stumbled into you, you used the shock of the movement to jerk him down lower than you. “The chance of my survival, RK800, what was it?”

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

That strange feeling was back, the use of his model instead of his name made him feel wrong.

He shouldn’t be feeling at all.

When he took too long to answer you knocked his legs out from under him and tightened your grip on the tie. “40%,” he tried to keep his voice as quiet as possible but it was clear both you and the liteuant heard him.

You released him like it had burned you to keep holding on to his tie, and the Lieutenant muttered a quiet, “Fucking bastard.” Connor opened his mouth, unsure of what to say, but wanting this feeling to stop and needing the tears forming in the corners of your eyes to go away.

You and the bag you had been packing were gone by the time he had gotten to his feet, Hank stayed behind a moment, gave Connor a long look before following after you. Connor straightened his tie and sleeves and stared at his shoes. He didn’t know what to do.

There was no objective, there was nobody to give him an order. He lifted his eyes to the flower sitting on the table in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he ignored the way his LED flashed red in a mirror as he reached forwards and grabbed the potted plant.

Connor looked down at his hand and noticed he was holding an umbrella, he was back in the Zen Garden. Amanda was waiting for him on the other side of the bridge.

They walked under the umbrella together. “That deviant seemed to be an intriguing case, a pity it deactivated before you could get any useful information out of it.”

Connor felt the need to defend himself, “Deviants are extremely irrational, which makes it difficult to anticipate their behavior… I should have been more effective.” The last part of his sentence came out without any thought behind it. Like it was an instinct to automatically blame himself, even though no one would know what the deviant could have been planning.

“Did you manage to learn anything?” Connor told her of the strange drawings on the walls, the ones like mazes and the journal that had a strange code inside it. He still had no explanation for rA9 and he could tell Amanda was disappointed.

“You captured the deviant at the cost of your relationship with the detective, have you made any development in that fixing that?”

Connor couldn’t help but think of your face in the hospital room, you were angry yes, but you also seemed . . . Sad.

Connor wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was guilt, but he knew he shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

“She still hasn’t forgiven me for leaving her to fall. We had an altercation in her hospital room, after the fact and whatever good grace we had developed seems to have been erased.” Connor stopped once he realized Amanda was no longer following.

“We don’t have much time. Deviancy continues to spread, it’s only a matter of time before the media finds out about it. We need to stop this, whatever it takes.”

Connor straightened his shoulders back and looked down at her, “I will solve this investigation, Amanda. I won’t disappoint you.”

“Don’t let relationships get in the way of success, Connor. Improve on them if you can, but remember their lives mean nothing in the grand scheme of your mission.”

“Detective?” Connor knocked on your door again. You lived in a house about fifteen minutes away from the lieutenant’s. He’d attempted to contact Anderson to get your address, he’d hung up every time he’d realized it was Connor calling him. Eventually he just used the information from your personnel file.

Which is how he ended up peering through your windows, trying to catch a glimpse of where you were. Eventually he managed to get a small peak through one of your blinds in the living room. You were asleep on the couch, the TV playing, and there was something in your hand. Connor pressed his face fully against the glass and alarms went through his processors at what he saw.

Pills were spilled on the ground and the bottle was empty in the loose grip of your hand. Connor attempted a scan to see if you were even breathing, but after unsuccessfully trying to wake you up and get your attention he simply broke the glass.

Connor quickly dove through the window and rushed to your side on the couch. He took in your appearance, your mouth was open, barely any breath going in or out. Your lips and nails were discolored and there was a clammy feeling to your skin when Connor pressed his hand to your forehead. He needed to get you awake and alert, first and foremost.

He lightly brought his hand down on your cheek, you shifted but stayed unconscious. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but I need you to wake up.”

He brought his hand down harder and your hand immediately swung out in response. Connors cheek whipped to the left at the force of your slap, it didn’t hurt of course, but it still shocked him.

“What the hell? Connor? Did you just slap me?” Connor looked down at you, extremely confused at your sudden alertness. He couldn’t stop you in time to not notice what he had done to your window. “The fuck? Did you break my goddamn window?” You used his face as an assist in pushing yourself off the couch, his hands went to your hips to stabilize you.

Connor stood as you kneeled down by the broken glass on your ground, swaying slightly. “Shit, I can’t afford to fix this,” you groaned at the sight of the rain pouring into the empty frame. “My things! They’re all getting wet.” Connor walked over and moved anything around the frame to the wall, making sure nothing besides your carpet would get wet. You were silent as you went and retrieved some plastic to cover the window up. Connor wanted to say something to you, but he was unsure what would help the situation.

“Why did you bust in here like the Kool-Aid Man?”

“I thought you had overdosed.” You seemed to finally take in the mess around the couch.

“Oh, crap.” Connor watched you as you picked up the pills and put them back in the bottle, he finished up the window and moved towards where you were sitting on the couch. Your head was in your hands like it was bringing you pain.

Your voice snapped him out of his observation. “You know, for a state of the art android, you’re a real dumbass.” Connor looked down at you, his face must have displayed something he couldn’t identify because you laughed a little.

“My nails look weird because I haven’t finished painting them,” you pointed towards the nail polish bottles on your coffee table. “I haven’t used any chapstick or taken my iron supplements, so there’s lips. And I got tired and fell asleep with the pill bottle in my hand. I was gonna take one for my headache but passed out after I opened the damn thing, which is probably why my head hurts so much.”

Connor was disappointed with himself at everything he had missed, he should have seen all that from the window and not taken such drastic measures. His damage to your domicile had only worsened relations between you. Right now, you hated him worse than Hank.

“You were barely breathing.”

You shot him a deadpan look, “Deep sleeper.” Connor fixed his tie and looked around the house for something to occupy himself with. There was trash everywhere, dirty clothes scattered the ground, and old dished piled in the sink.

“Hey, hey! I don’t need your judgy ass android eyes making me feel bad for my pig sty. Okay?”

“Allow me to help, detective.” Your eyes narrowed, you didn’t seem particularly trusting towards Connor. He couldn't blame you, he’d completely destroyed the small bridge of trust he’d managed to make with both you and the lieutenant. “Your shoulder and ribs are still damaged, I understand it’s difficult to take care of yourself right now. Allow me to help you.”

You laid back down on the couch, and Connor thought you were going to ignore him until you spoke up after a couple of moments of silence. “You’re a detective bot, not a house maid.” You paused before waving your hand through the air. “But sure, whatever, knock yourself out. Just stop fucking standing over me like that.” Connor watched you close your eyes, he continued standing there for a few seconds. You seemed to be faking sleep to try and get him away from you.

At least he finally had an objective he could follow now.

TAKE CARE OF Y/N

He started with the kitchen. Cleaning the takeout boxes off the counter and grabbing any dirty dishes scattered around your home. He stopped when picking some napkins off your coffee table, to check on you. Your breathing had settled and your back was turned towards him. You appeared to actually be asleep this time.

Connor frowned at the position your body was in. You were going to do more harm than good sleeping on your worn down couch. He placed the trash can on the ground and stepped silently towards you. He made sure to be as still and gentle as possible as he slowly rolled you into his arms. You only moved once, to settle your head in his neck.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

He ignored the way his thirium pump seemed to move faster and how the blue blood rushes towards his head. It simply wasn’t possible.

Connor went down the hall and to your bedroom on the right. He gently deposited you into your unmade bed and tucked the sheets over your body. He checked your pulse and scanned your body. Everything seems to be working perfectly.

You were just a disturbingly deep sleeper.

On his way out, something shining on the ground caught his eye. He made his way towards your dresser, at the foot of it appeared to be a picture frame. He looked over his shoulder to ensure you were still asleep before he bent down and grabbed it.

You appeared to be around nineteen years old. You were sitting on a roundabout smiling at the camera, your hair done in two French braids. Your arms were wrapped around a young boy around the age of three. He had his hand around your forearms and was making a strange face at the camera with his tongue out. Neither of you seemed aware your picture was being taken at the moment.

The scan confirmed your identity and gave him the identity of the boy.

DECEASED

Anderson, Cole

9/23/2029-10/11/2035.

Y/LN, Y/N

DPD Detective

Other known aliases:

Y/N ANDERSON

Hank had a son, who had died? You both appeared close in this picture. It’s approximately three years before Cole’s death. Could the death of Hank’s son be what caused the drift between the two of you?

Connor heard you shift on the bed and quickly put the picture back down on the floor. He didn’t believe you would appreciate him further investigating your life. Not when you got so upset with him when he simply took a look at your adoption papers.

Connor examined this new piece of information. It was like he was working two cases at once, solving the deviancy problem.

And trying to figure out your unfortunate past with the Lieutenant. Knowing now that the Lieutenant's son had died he could go ahead and assume that’s when your relationship started to go downhill. A year after Cole’s death is when Hank’s divorce became official, according to the papers he not so legally acquired.

The death of a child will often destroy families, if Hank could no longer be a viable partner to his wife, then perhaps he could also no longer be a father to you.

Judging by the Lieutenants drinking habits he didn’t have a healthy view on mental health, or know how to properly deal with grief.

The way you seem to isolate yourself when Connor brings up your past or tries to have a better understanding of your emotional well being, he can also go ahead and come to the conclusion that Hank passed on his unhealthy coping skills to you.

His assumption is proved correct when he comes across a packet of cigarettes buried between the couch cushions. They’re unopened but the plastic surrounding the carton has been picked at. You seem to be trying to stop yourself from giving in to your unhealthy impulses.

Connor frowns down at the box and decides to do you a favor, he throws them in the trash.

Connor continues cleaning up your home while you sleep, attempting to wash and dry your dishes as quietly as possible. The cleaning gives himself something to occupy his mind with, the frantic, buzzing thoughts about deviants and his frustrating partners temporarily quiet while he focuses on one singular task.

PROTECT Y/N

Connor always accomplishes his missions, even if that just means making sure you can wake up to a clean home, or if he has to protect you from self-sabotaging habits.

You wake up to the smell of smoke and a loud blaring alarm.

You’re soaked in a puddle of your own sweat and have no idea where you are or what day it is. Your head shoots up from your pillow at the sound of something crashing onto the floor in your kitchen. You take a second to realize that you’ve been moved to your bed.

Then you remember what woke you up and you’re bolting out of bed. “Jesus Christ,” your kitchen is a smoky haze as you cough on the suffocating smell of something burned. Connor is standing in front of a pan on your stove, simply watching the flames. “Connor!” You grab a lid off the counter and shove him out of the way as you slam it over the pan, suffocating the flames. You quickly grab the metal sheet off the ground and slam it into Connor’s chest. “Quick make sure the sprinklers don’t go off.” Connor runs towards the alarm in the hallway and immediately starts waving it around.

The sight of Connor, the emotionless android who is always calm and collected, frantically running around waving a metal pan in the air, jumping up and down to get closer to the smoke alarm makes you double over in laughter. There’s an ache in your rbis and arm from the force of your laughter, but you don’t care. You haven’t felt this light for years, you haven’t laughed like that in years.

So you allow yourself to bask in the moment, one peaceful moment where you’re not weighed down by anything, except the weight of your own joy.

Connor didn’t hear you laughing until he finally managed to get the alarm quieted. The joints in his shoulders were tired from his wild maneuvering, but it was worth it. This was the first time since you met that his observation of you showed endorphins and a positive change in your body, not one that comes from feelings of negativity.

It felt like something was in his chest, lifting him up and lightening his weight as he watched you.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY^

Perhaps you did more damage when you attacked him than he originally thought. Your face contorted in pain as you finally raised up from your position. Connor moved before his processors could give him the option to. He tried to be as gentle as possible as he assisted you in standing. He pointedly ignored your protests that you didn’t need help.

You did and you were getting help whether you wanted it or not.

There was still a slight smile on your face as Connor deposited you on the chair next to your table. He moved towards the stove and turned off the burner, dropping the ruined pot in your sink and running water over it, your house still smelled very strongly of burnt food.

He heard a grunt coming from his right, when he turned something inside his head felt strange. LIke he wasn’t okay with what was happening, perhaps humans called this irritation. A concerning thought, but one he ignored in favor of nudging you aside while you failed to open a window.

“Connor-”

The look he shot you when he turned around was enough to get you to sit back down. “Why are you so stubborn? You should not be here alone, you’ve taken too much damage to even do basic household chores.”

You looked around your house and finally noticed all the hard work he had put in. “Holy shit.” There was a look of appreciation on your face until you turned towards Connor. A pout formed on your face and you crossed your arms like a petulant child, “Maybe I wanted the mess. I liked it like that.”

Were you seriously having this argument with him right now? You being difficult for no reason was causing his programming to go haywire. There were red warnings in the corner of his eye telling him he was going to overheat, he dismissed them and stormed towards you.

His hand landed on the table more harshly than he intended, causing you to jump in your seat. “You’re behaving like a child, Y/N, you’re a grown woman act like it! You need my help, there’s nothing wrong with letting me assist you, so just let me help you.” Without consciously activating it the voice he uses during intimidation tactics had been used.

His eyes were drawn down to your thighs, you had them clenched tightly together, your thighs pooling out on the chair below you. Your lips parted slightly as you stared at him. Connor quickly scanned you, your heat level was rising, your heart rate had accelerated and there was an increased level of estrogen and testosterone production. A thermal scan showed an increase of heat in your pelvic area.

ACTIVATE SEXUAL SUBROUTINE?

It wasn’t until the message appeared in front of him and blocked his view of your face did he realize how close he was to you.

This was highly inappropriate. You were injured and still upset with him, there was no need to seduce you.

ACTIVATE SEXUAL SUBROUTINE

He was designed with the intent to complete his mission at any cost. In case there was ever an issue between him and one of his partners and other more illicit methods were needed to gain their support, he was equipped with the capabilities to do so. This wasn’t a situation where methods like that were necessary, so why was there a prompt for it?

Connor backed away from you immediately, it wasn’t right to be taking advantage of your emotional vulnerability. From the corner of his eye he saw you slump back down into your chair. “What-“ you cleared your throat. “What were you even trying to make?”

Connor looked back towards the pot, his hands reached for the coin in his pocket. He needed to do something to get his software back in order. He didn’t turn to look at you, knowing he wouldn’t be able to focus. He thought back to the pasta sauce on your counter. “Spaghetti, for some reason the noodles burned onto the bottom of the pot.” After he was done recalibrating he placed the coin back in his pocket and found it was okay to look at you now.

Your eyes were glued to his hand for a moment before they shot back up to his face. “Burned, to the bottom of the pot? How the hell do you burn water?”

Connor tilted his head to the side, “Water?”

Your mouth dropped open and your eyes widened. “You’re kidding? Tell me you’re kidding.” Connor didn't know how to respond to you so he remained silent. “Oh my god,” you dropped your head into your hands. “You didn’t put water in the pot.”

“Was that required?” You didn’t answer him, instead you stood and walked over to the sink, Connor followed behind you, unsure what you wanted him to do. The both of you stared down into the pot as you lifted the lid, the pasta has blackened at the bottom. Even when you stabbed at it with a knife it wouldn’t come off the pot.

Your, “yeah, it needed water,” was quiet as you went outside and tossed the pot in your trash bin. Connor stood by your opened back door awkwardly, he didn’t feel good at disappointing you and failing his task.

“I apologize Y/N, I failed.”

You snorted, “Big time, how the hell do you not know to put water in the pot?”

Connor looked down at his shoes, “I was not built with cooking capabilities,” he risked a look at you.

You were standing there, just staring at him with your arms crossed before you finally shrugged, “Well then… I guess Barbie’s got you beat.”

“Dammit, Connor, I can feed myself!”

Connor leveled you with a look that allowed for no arguing. “Your dominant arm is dislocated and you refuse to wear your sling, I’m going to assist you.” He pushed the fork against your mouth again and you reluctantly opened your mouth to eat the pancakes he had ordered. This was so humiliating, you were desperate to get him to leave at this point.

After the pot had been destroyed and subsequently disposed of he had ordered some food and you sat down in your living room.

Your entire home was absolutely spotless, when you went to the bathroom you’d noticed he’d mopped the tiles. You were not asleep long enough for him to clean your living room, let alone your whole house.

While you were still against the idea, you could understand why some would prefer android cleaning services to human. You didn’t even want to sit on your couch, afraid of wrinkling the now pristine cousins.

Once you’d sat on your couch, you’d waited for him to leave.

Except, he didn’t, he sat down next to you and then just stopped moving. No blinking, no breathing, just absolute stillness. So, still being pissed at him you’d grabbed a marker off your desk and scribbled some drawings on his face. A heart, random flower, some choice words, nothing too bad. However;

They were staring at you right now as he force fed you.

He’d called a repairman while you had drawn on him, someone would be coming by to fix your window tomorrow, CyberLife would be footing the bill. After he’d made the order for the repair he’d asked what you would like to eat and made a call for the pancakes.

He still hadn’t noticed the drawings, it was a struggle not to choke on your laughter.

You forced a yawn as you pushed his hand away from your mouth, he frowned at the action. “Are you tired, detective?”

“Yeah, I am,” now please get the hell out of my house.

“You should bathe before you go to sleep.” Your head shot towards his, the action hurting your neck. You ignored it in favor of giving him your famous The Fuck Did You Just Say™️ look.

First, he lets you fall off a building and nearly die. Next, he breaks your god damn window and destroys your pot. Now he’s saying you stink. And good grace you held for Connor was gone, obliterated at the comment.

“That’s it Connor. You’ve stayed far past your welcome, I’m done.” Your resolve almost broke at the way Connor’s shoulders slumped. You straightened your shoulders, ignored the pain shooting down your arm, and rebuilt your walls.

You should thank Connor honestly, him letting you nearly die had reminded you of exactly what he was. Nothing more than a plastic soldier that only cared about his mission. You meant nothing to him. Your life was nothing. How could something that could so easily be put into a new body have any idea about death. He couldn’t.

But something that couldn’t die, also couldn’t feel. Those small touches, and the times he would check in on you, it was all manipulation. Just like the way he lied about having a favorite dog, they were all subtle little manipulations to have you as agreeable as possible. And a visceral rage filled you at the thought that he had almost succeeded.

Your heart had almost been his.

You rebuilt your walls and stared him down. “Leave. Now.”

Connor didn’t frown, he didn’t cry or scream at you to let him stay, but the look in his eyes as he stared up at you from his spot on your couch said enough. He looked genuinely hurt at what you said. Not possible.

“You can take your sad little eyes and you can shove them up your ass, Connor. Get the fuck out of my house.” You stormed out of the living room and into your bedroom. He’d cleaned it up and replaced your sheets while you’d waited for the food to arrive.

The lack of your mess made you angrier than it should have. How dare he just come into your house and start acting like he belonged there?

Like he had any right to be near you?

If he could feel pain you would beat him twice as bad as you did after the rooftop incident.

Apparently he’d had to get three parts replaced by CyberLife after what you did. Hank had been complaining about the paperwork the entire time you were in the hospital.

If your arms and ribs weren’t aching you would be pitching a major fit, and ripping the goddamn sheets right off the bed. At the moment, however, the pill Connor had forced you to take was kicking in and making you sluggish.

The only reason you had allowed Connor to stay in the first place was because you were still waking up from your nap. He seemed determined to keep you weak and tired so you couldn’t get rid of him.

You heard footsteps and then a hand was wrapped around your non-injured elbow. “I’m not leaving, detective. Someone in your condition needs assistance.” You turned around in his arms and tried to push him off of you, but he wouldn’t budge. Both of his hands moved to your biceps. The look he gave you made you stop, “Y/N, please, let me help. Please.” He seemed so sad, there was a slump to his shoulders that made him look almost shameful. The tone of his voice made you believe he actually wanted to help, that this wasn’t a part of his programming.

You blamed how easily you gave into him on the drugs.

“Absolutely not!”

Connor was holding your towel in front of him like a shield. “I won’t look, detective, I promise.”

“Hell no! Line drawn! You shall not pass.” He gave you a stern look. Like you should feel dumb for thinking he wanted to see you naked, maybe you were, but you didn’t want any pervy CyberLife techs scanning through his mainframe and seeing footage of you naked. “I’m not gonna let your bosses see me naked.”

Connor seemed to catch onto your train of thought. “I won’t be recording when you’re bathing, I promise we’ll be completely alone.” You crossed your arms, this is one battle he would not be winning. Android or not, your stubbornness was not something to be so easily reckoned with. Connor let out a long sigh, “Fine. You clean yourself, and then we can draw a bath and I’ll assist you with your hair.”

You’d made the mistake of admitting to him that you hadn’t exactly been keeping up with your hygiene while you’d been on the case. You’d been keeping your hair in two braids and have been taking quick showers in between working the case. It was one of your more major flaws. Letting yourself get swept up in the mystery at the expense of your own self-care.

You’d also made the mistake of telling him that it hurt too much to wash your hair, or even attempt to. Now he was insisting on helping you.

Connor looked at your arms and mimicked your posture. “We can stand here all night, detective, I’m not budging.”

You were standing there for two minutes before you realized he was actually being serious. Your chest was starting to ache with the effort of keeping yourself upright. You shifted around and he didn’t even blink. Your skin was starting to buzz with boredom.

After another minute you saw that he wasn’t blinking. Narrowing your eyes and moving closer to his face you waved your hand in front of his face. “Are you serious?” He’d gone into sleep mode, you could tell by the pulsing yellow LED on the side of his face. “Bitch.” And he had ‘coincidentally’ blocked the bathroom exit. Groaning you took the towel in his hands and threw it over his head.

“RK800 wake up.”

Connor’s systems slowly came back online at the sound of your voice. Everything was at 100%, except his optical units didn’t seem to be processing his environment correctly. It took a second before his sensors recognized the fabric of a towel over his head. He sighed and ripped it off his head.

The sight before him had him momentarily stopping. You were in your freshly cleaned tub, bubbles covering your body as you looked at him expectantly. “You wanna help me out or what, sleeping beauty?”

ACTIVATE SEXUAL SUBROUTINES?

SYSTEM OVERHEAT IMMINENT

ACTIVATING COOLING SYSTEM

You looked concerned by the time Connor had managed to calm his sensors, there were parts of him coming online that were not necessary at this moment. He tightened his tie as a poor attempt to get everything back in order. It didn’t work, he was still distracted by your lack of clothes. He could not understand why.

“I’m starting to get creeped out, Connor.” That got Connor’s attention. He never meant to make you uncomfortable.

He moved to sit beside the tub and pulled up his sleeves. “Apologies, detective, my systems were coming back online.” You nodded your head and he hoped you couldn’t see through the lie. Connor used the pitcher beside him to wet your hair and began massaging your scalp as he rubbed the shampoo in.

You moaned as his hands came down to rub your neck. It triggered another cooling process. Much of the rest of your bath was the same, he was struggling with strange impulses that were activating outside his control and programming. When you had leaned your head back on the rim of the tub he’d wanted to press his lips against your stretched neck.

He’d seen humans do it before, but the emotions connected to the act were something Connor wasn’t capable of. He was experiencing what some might call a mental crisis as he helped you wash your hair.

When he was finished, he handed you a towel and went to your room to grab you some pajamas. The picture of you and Cole was facedown on your dresser, moved from the upright position he had placed it in while he had cleaned.

He placed the tank top and shorts you requested on your sink and waited for you in your bedroom. When you walked in you seemed surprised to see him standing by your bed. Your face quickly morphed into one of resignation as you threw your towel on your bed.

Connor made a note to pick it up.

“What now?” He held out the brush in his hands.

“I’ll braid it for you, so you don’t have to worry about styling it with your injured shoulder.” You stopped fidgeting with the end of your shirt and instead gave him a bewildered look. “Is something wrong, detective?”

You cleared your throat before answering, “Nothing it’s- Nevermind.” You sat on your bed with no argument, something Connor was surprised by, considering you seemed to find it necessary to argue with him about everything.

By the second braid you were fully leaning onto his leg, Connor had to keep readjusting so he had room to finish off the braid. The medicine seemed to have fully kicked in, you didn’t make a fuss when he gently guided you under the covers and turned your light off. He knew you were still awake as he made his way to your door.

“Good night, detective.”

He didn’t get a response.

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