Headed towards the small, two-storied projection booth, you paused, your gaze drawn to the colossal screen ahead. Missing panels showing only the lackluster film of the Wasteland behind it. You regarded one of the vacant, corroded cars next to you, wondering if whatever these people had been seeing was worth it in their last minutes. You didn’t even have to give it a moment of thought. Had it been you, you wouldn’t have even bothered opening the door; you would have just seen how long the movie would have kept playing. 

The remnants of blue paint left on the exterior were the only reminder of the pre-war vibrancy you would hear so much about. The inside was lackluster. Most of the ground floor was taken up by the staircase and boxes that had been ransacked long before you were born. The upstairs, while similarly decayed, was a little more promising. A dingy loveseat was pushed against the wall opposite two expansive windows. In front of them were the remains of two projectors. One cannibalized for whatever scraps it could provide, the other largely intact save for a missing fusion core. 

You had the curiosity to pop one back in, see if it would work. More importantly, you had the sense not to. You opted instead for simply examining it, trying to figure out how it once worked. You grabbed onto the dust-coated film reel, hauling it out of the machinery. 

Attack of the Spider Woman

Maybe you would’ve chosen to watch the sky fall instead.  

You settled into the space, pulling out a canteen and what was left of your food. You shouldn’t be more than a half-day's walk from the next settlement, and your supplies were more than enough to last you until then. You sighed, looking over the rations with discontent; the last of the food you’d brought from Vegas. The wastes had been far from a vacation, but you hadn’t been thrown through the wringer. However, the idea of restocking with whatever you could find made your stomach churn. 

You could get what you needed to and hold out for better, more expensive food. But even with your nose in the air, you knew it’d be a frivolous waste of ill-gotten caps. You’d pinch your nose and swallow; that’s how you’d gotten this far up the ladder. But as you looked around the dust-blanketed room, you wondered if you’d jumped off the top rung trying to find a higher footing that wasn’t there. 

You stashed the bag of caps underneath the couch, better safe than sorry. Tearing a strip from a throw pillow, you attempted to wipe the windows of some of their grime. You leaned against the antiquated equipment, taking another sip of the lukewarm water from your canteen. 

As the sun cast bruised shades of violet across the wastes, you looked down at the cars below, wondering how many sunsets those bodies had seen as they rotted into the leather. You hummed, setting the canteen down on the projector's surface. 

Click

You stiffened, the metallic noise not coming from the metal bottle meeting near ancient aluminum. No, this was a sound you knew all too well. 

Measured footsteps entered the room, punctuated by the faint jingling of spurs. You felt frozen in a frame from an old-world movie that could have flickered on that decayed screen centuries ago. 

You cursed yourself before the intruder. You were perceptive, acutely so. How could you let someone just waltz in with your back turned? Didn’t matter now. You knew that the best-case scenario was just one gun pointed at you. You couldn’t afford the time to imagine what else awaited your attention. 

By your ears’ estimate, the footfall had stopped maybe a few feet behind you, doubtlessly blocking the only exit—unless you wanted to try your odds with broken glass and a two-story fall. You were lucky, but even you knew when not to push. 

You squared  your shoulders, proud and defiant. The barrel of a gun had become a familiar sight, more akin to looking a jilted lover in the eye than a genuine threat. Maybe this stranger had shaken your security, but he wouldn’t shake your confidence.

You turned, meeting the man’s eyes without giving the weapon a second of your concentration. The dark, clinical eyes that locked with yours were unmoved by your poise, and they were the only unblemished part of the face confronting you. 

His skin was seared, not from flame but an unburning fire far more cruel. Pitted and scarred, and years of life under a poisonous sun had hollowed in the flesh, causing it to nearly cling to the contours of his skull. Of course, it was all accentuated by the absence of a key feature in the center of his face. 

You felt a brow raise, and the corner of your mouth itched to smirk. This was hardly the first ghoul you’d seen, but you’d never been held up by one. A fight with a ghoul was a game of roulette, at least according to the stories you’ve heard. Looking at the man in front of you — with his radiating assuredness and plethora of arms — you’d likely be pulling the bad shot. He didn’t tower, but he stood over you. Your strengths lie less in the physical; you won fights with a silver tongue, not welded steel. Even if your agility outmatched his and you could snake past him to the exit, you worried you would somehow sink into his outstretched shadow that inked the doorway. 

“Well, hello, cowboy,” you greeted, chin tilting upwards in defiance. His eyes narrowed, the revolver held. unwaveringly steady. He regarded you, tilting his head nearly imperceptibly — a silent appraisal. Already anticipating your next move before you even thought of one. 

You tsked his silence, brows arching as you exhaled slowly through your nose. “Silent but deadly, huh?” you remarked, advancing a step. He mirrored you in a predatory rhythm, the gun’s muzzle pressed against your sternum, its oil threatening another stain on the once-pristine dress you’d hacked into a top.

“You’ll move when I tell you.” His voice was low, the words drawled and unhurried. 

“Not the first fella to tell me that,” you hummed with a wry smile. You finally looked down at the gun, then your eyes slowly climbed their way back up to his. “But maybe you’re the first to mean it.”

You were again met with silence. The two of you stood there, eye to eye, unmoving, nearly breathless, as if the simple rise of a chest would be cause enough to pull the trigger. 

But he hadn’t. Not yet, at least. And while you could feel iron kissing cool against your chest, it was no more than a visual threat. A thief would’ve sent lead flying through your back before he’d finished ascending those stairs; had he just been after your life, he wouldn’t have wasted so much time on preamble. Maybe the reason was unknown to you, but you were willing to bet he needed you alive. 

With a quick movement, you reached behind you, intending to snatch the canteen from its resting place with no intention other than to test his intention. Before your hand could graze the metal container, a shot rang out, followed by shattering glass. The bullet pierced the center of the canteen, the remaining water spraying out before it fell on its side like an aluminum stiff. You smiled, a cat-like grin that reached for your ears as you turned back to face him. You’d called his bluff, but you were far from in the clear. 

“Don’t you listen?” he said bitingly. 

“Of all my supposed talents, listening’s never topped the list,” you said with a wink. You drew a steadying breath and raised your chin; the muzzle tracked your movement, coming to rest at your Adam’s apple. “Benny send you?”

“Missin’ you real bad, it seems,” he drawled.

“He’s got a romantic streak, that one,” you quipped.

“Well, sweetheart, I’m not here deliverin’ flowers.” 

You glanced down at the gun and rolled your eyes. “Thanks for clearing that up.” He gave you no reply, but the muzzle settled more firmly at your throat—a silent testament to his thinning patience. “How much?” you asked.

He raised a hairless brow, letting out a dry huff that sounded like it wanted to be a laugh. But it was your time to keep straight. “More than you ran off with,” he answered. 

“I’m flattered,” you purred with a slight smile. “Make sure you tell him that when you go back empty-handed.” 

“You’re a confident lil’ thing,” he said, chin lifting. “ ‘specially for someone in line for a tracheotomy.”

You scoffed, flashing a sneer. “Then shoot.” You leaned into the barrel, the tension humming between you. After a taut beat, you clicked your tongue and leaned away, freeing your windpipe. “No, you need me alive,” you said, lifting a hand to adjust your hair. He didn’t flinch, and the gun never faltered. “Otherwise, I’d already be face-down with a belly full of lead.” He let you strut, silent.

“So, why don’t you tell that greasy bastard,” you continued. “That I’ll make my way back to Vegas once I’m bored spending his money.” You turned your back on the man, confident in calling his bluff. You sucked your teeth in disappointment, looking at your canteen bleeding out atop the projector. 

“And that if the big guy has a problem, he can send one of his droids after me.” You bent down, pulling your bags from underneath the worn sofa. “Not some Cooper Howard wannabe.”

Another gunshot shattered the air. The bullet tore through the bag, lodging in the rotted floorboards. You huffed, shooting him a glare he couldn’t see from behind. As you lifted the bag, caps spilled from the newly seared hole, clattering across the warped boards.

“Sorry,” you tossed over your shoulder. “John Wayne?” With a final sneer, you tried to stuff the ruined sack into your other bag, to no avail.

“I’m sorry, are you under the impression you’re going somewhere?” he snarled, one gloved hand yanking you back. The barrel pressed into your spine, nestling between vertebrae as if intent on prying them apart.

“You seem to be under the impression you’re in charge,” you shot back. 

You drove your elbow back into his ribs with everything you could manage. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The exhale that left him was sharp and involuntary, but you didn’t have time to savor it. You felt the barrel pull away from your back, and you moved. You whipped around, using one leg to swipe at his own. You didn’t have the strength to send him to the ground, but you had thrown him off balance, causing him to buckle down onto one knee. 

You lunged over him, hand finding the rifle slung across his back as he scrambled for leverage. Your fingers curled around the muzzle and yanked it free. The stock came down against his head with a dull crack—enough to send his hat flying, not enough to put him out. He braced with one arm, clutching at what composure remained.

You staggered back, racking the rifle’s action as you shifted your grip. He didn’t stay down—not that you’d expected him to—lunging to grab your ankle and yank you off balance. You fired before you’d even decided to; the shot went wide, blowing a hole through the stairwell wall.

“Now you’re just wastin’ my fuckin’ ammo,” he ground out. He was on his feet with an unsettling ease, a gloved hand finding your hair in his stride. It wasn’t a yank, but an unyielding pressure that forced you to rise with him. He walked you until your back collided with the wall, your head craned back by his grip. His grip forced your head back, exposing your throat to the cold and intimate kiss of the revolver. 

Before he could encroach on any more of the space between your bodies, you straightened the rifle, pressing the muzzle against his ribs. The only noise in the room was the staggered breathing from each of you. Your eyes bore into his with matched intensity, both of you daring the other to pull the trigger. 

“Benny didn’t say you’d be this much work,” he finally said, but the gun never wavered from where it was latched against your neck, so you didn’t sway either. 

“What did he say about me?” You asked. 

“Enough,” He clipped. 

“That’s surprising,” you said, your voice low enough to feel. “He so rarely was.” You changed the angle of the rifle against him so that it was pointed towards his belt. He drew in a measured breath through the hollow where a nose had once been, narrowing his eyes with both scrutiny and curiosity. 

“Most folks beg,” he noted as he tested his grip on your hair, forcing your neck further into the uncomfortable angle. You didn’t so much as wince. 

“I’m not most folks,” you shot back. The atmosphere thickened, settling against your skin like dust from forgotten rafters. “Do you always work this close?”

“You always fight back?”

“Well,” you managed a shrug. “This isn’t how I usually end up against a wall.” The corner of his mouth twitched; muscle memory, not quite a smile. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” he replied, and his eyes fell on your lips. The movement was so quick that you would’ve missed it if there were even a few more inches between you. But you’d caught it, and it sounded like the victorious ringing of a slot machine in your head. 

His hold loosened on your hair, but the revolver didn’t budge as he kissed you. The movement wasn’t warm, but a physical bridge of each other’s curiosity and begrudging respect. His lips were dry against your own, wasting no time to push his tongue into your mouth. You fought against him, shoving him back and staking claim between his teeth. You push against him, forcing yourself off the wall. The rifle pokes harder against his hips, and the only correction you got was a reminder of his other weapon as  he notched it below your jaw. 

You made your defiance clear, pressing the muzzle into his hip. He growled—a sound rumbling deep in his chest—as his hand found your wrist before you even registered its departure from your hair. The gloved fingers coiled around your arm, twisting it back and up in a single, practiced motion, breaking the kiss as the rifle crashed to the floor.

You sucked in a breath through your teeth, in reflex rather than pain, and drove your unpinned arm back into him. A weaker blow than the first, more spite than any real strategy. He absorbed the hit, his grip on your twisted arm tightening to make a point. You tried to throw your weight forward, a weak attempt at pulling free, and succeeded only in dragging both of you a step towards the projectors before he hauled you back against him. The revolver stayed against your neck, riding the movements like a raft on water. 

Your next attempt to pull free was wrong. His boot hooked behind your ankle, and the floor came faster than you thought it would. Your knees hit first, cracking hard against the floorboards,  unable to fully brace yourself with only one arm. You winced as the one in his hold was pulled at a sharper angle by your fall, and he made no effort to let up until he was sure you were down. One final wrench upward had your back arching against the sharp bloom of pain before he let go entirely. 

He walked slowly around you, the jingle of his spurs echoing in the room and settling into your veins. The end of his revolver lifted your chin, raising your head as you looked up at him. You pulled your head away, lowering it until the cool steel was pressed against your mouth instead. With your eyes burning into his, you parted your lips around the barrel. At first, a challenge — daring him to finish the job, to put an end to posturing —  and then it was a show. He changed the angle; a gentle, testing pressure guided your head back upwards as he let the gun slip deeper past your lips. 

Iron clicked against your teeth, mechanical and intimate. The barrel was still warm from the shot that ruined your bag. As he eased it deeper, you caught the subtle shift of his breathing—so quiet you’d have missed it if there were any other noise in the world.

You leaned forward on your haunches, taking the barrel deeper before he could move it. He hummed, stepping closer. The new angle pressed cold steel against the back of your throat. His knee nudged your chest—firm, not brutal—pushing you back. You grabbed his thigh, anchoring him in place. He eyed your hand, wary but tolerant, allowing the contact.

With your gifted inch, you took a mile. You let him grow accustomed to your touch, then once his focus was back on your face, your hand moved to the knife on his hip, pulling it free from its sheath. Feeling the swift movement, he pulled the gun from your mouth without courtesy, the sight scraping the roof of your mouth on the way out, replacing the taste of iron with the similar metallic one of blood. 

You braced yourself, wiping blood from your lip with the back of your hand. As if anticipating your next move, he retreated a step, enough to force you to lunge, but not enough to stop you. He let you get the move in; the blade slashing through ruined pinstripes and cutting shallowly into his skin. 

On the follow through, he grabs your arm, using your own momentum to send you back onto the ground. He twists you from your side onto your back, one leg between yours and the other on your side as one gloved hand envelops both your wrists. The other pulls the knife from your hold, and he raises the arm. You follow the blade as it cuts through the air and lands on the floorboard, not even an inch away from your neck. 

Your eyes move up from where the weapon was now lodged in the wood, meeting his own gaze as a smile pulled on your face, revealing teeth still blotted with blood. Your free leg moved up, wrapping around his waist and encouraging him down. He took the guidance, his body meeting yours, and not a second later, your lips found his again. 

Neither of you had any pretense of gentleness. Open-mouthed kisses that were hot and heavy as his tongue swept against the top of your mouth, lapping at whatever blood was still weeping from the cut. He withdrew enough for you to bite down on his lip, drawing just enough blood to feel the score was even. 

He pressed his thigh firmly between yours, and you rolled your hips up to meet the movement. He pulled the rope from his belt, tying it haphazardly around your wrists so that both of his hands could find your hips, guiding you while you grind against his thighs.

His hands slid down, kneading your ass through denim with greedy intent. One last grind and he pushed you off, shifting on his knees before flipping you over.  You let him, steadying yourself on your knees and reaching your bound wrists in front of you like a stretching cat. You were happy to play along, not to give him the satisfaction, but for your own enjoyment. 

He forced your legs wider with a knee, drawing an indignant huff from you as you buckled. When you tried to look back, his gloved hand held your head in place.

“A peach like you got, sweetheart,” he mused, the hand trailing from the back of your neck down your spine. “No wonder you got the Tops all bent out of shape lookin’ for you.”

“Maybe you should be more grateful you caught me,” you purred, pushing your hips back. He caught you, hands roaming with open appreciation.

“Is that what you’re lookin’ for?” He asked, his hands meeting as they snaked around your front, undoing the button and fly of your pants. “Gratitude?”

“Would it kill you?” you shot back, as he dragged your jeans down to catch above your knees. Goosebumps prickled your skin, not from cold, but from the thrill of exposure.

“Takes a lot to kill me, sweetheart,” he said, his words muffled as he used his teeth to pull off one glove. The hand found your ass again, massaging the flesh and letting you feel the leather of his skin. His thumb lifted the elastic of your underwear, letting the rest of his hand follow underneath the fabric. You were prepared for teasing — for more back and forth until something finally gave — but he wasted no time, gravitating to the heat of your core in an almost magnetized motion. 

His fingers parted you with practiced ease, exploring, a single digit gathering your slick before he brought it to his lips. He hummed, relishing the quick taste of something sweet in a land long rotten. 

“And it’s not goin’ to be some trigger-happy, sticky-fingered show girl with an attitude problem to put me in the ground.” His hand returned, a finger sliding slowly, almost reverently, into your heat, another circling your clit with maddening restraint you silently demanded more from. You pushed your hips back in his hand, and the other slowed the movement with a steadying presence on the back of your thigh. He tsked, the sound of him sucking his teeth competing with the lewd wetness from him working your sex. 

He added another finger, changing his angle, scarred tips searching for that hidden spot and pressing with intent. He worked your clit not to compete against the sensation, but to complement the feeling of everything else: the abrasive ropes tied loose around your wrists, splintered floorboard against your cheek, the fullness of his fingers curling inside of you. You sighed, contentment spilling out as you let your eyes flutter shut. 

It swept through you, a rare, full-body unraveling: a knot coiling tighter at your core even as the rest of you floated free, adrift on sensation. You clenched around his fingers, a velvet vice wringing out your pleasure—and to your surprise, he gave it to you. As you came, an unrestrained moan escaped your lips, letting even the air around you know just how much you enjoyed letting a ghoul finger-fuck you in the ruins of some old building. 

You were half-melted into the floor when he finally withdrew, wiping the evidence of your climax on your thigh. At the rustle of fabric, you arched your back, adjusting expectantly, only to flinch as a sharp pinch landed on your ass. You hummed, blinking in confusion at the strange, spreading coolness.

“You a biter?” You asked, trying to push yourself up on bound limbs. “I’ve heard that about your kind.” You added, looking over your shoulder. Contrary to your assumptions, he was still dressed and tucked in. His hand, again gloved, returned to your backside, and only when he withdrew a needle had you realized what he’d done. 

He lifted the vial, examining its emptiness with a narrowed gaze. At the same time, your arms wobbled beneath you, sending you back down to the unwelcoming floor. You tried to get them underneath you again, but the only result was landing with one cheek against rotten wood. He tossed it, the empty glass landing inches away from your head.  

You were still able to feel his hands land on your legs, and you used what strength you had to try to kick him away, screaming slurred curses and names at him. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” He said, unamused by your struggling as he defied any fearful expectations by pulling your pants back up over your hips. He maneuvered you onto your back before standing, looming tall and imposing over your rapidly slackening form. 

He gripped your arms, cinching the rope before dragging you across the floor and tying you to the couch’s leg. Retrieving his hat and saddlebag, he slumped onto the ruined upholstery with a sigh befitting a hard day’s work. You glared, pulling at your bonds; he ignored you, producing a jet inhaler and a metal tin. After a long drag, he threaded a fresh needle, then rummaged for the bag of caps you’d tried to shove into your other bag after he’d shot it.

“Put it down!” The demand was a weak attempt from your voice; the words were slurred and wobbly. Even if you could roar like a bear, you were sure he would’ve kept ignoring you. He examined the bag, some of your caps falling out of the hole onto the floor before he found it. He tsked, examining the seared hole marring the burlap. 

Mustering all the strength that was left in your body, you pulled your knees to your chest and kicked out. Your aim was weak, but not quite imprecise; your feet drove into the bag, sending it and its contents all over the floor. He watched the caps scatter, and then used his boot to kick your body further away from him. He growled, looking at the clutter, but decided he’d wait until you were out to pick up the mess, just in case you found a way to make a new one. 

Your last waking moments were a futile struggle against the rope, each tug growing weaker and weaker until you couldn’t keep your eyes open any longer. 

You woke up to the sun’s unrelenting orange glare pouring through the windows. Your arms were no longer bound, and your head ached as you sat up. Nothing debilitating, but enough to be a reminder of what had caused it. And that’s exactly when you remember. You looked around; the intruder was gone, and with him every last one of the thousands of caps you’d run off with. 

“Fuck!” You cursed, shrill and loud enough to wake the dead in their cars outside. You got up, moving the cushions on the sofa, then pushing it across the floor to better see under it, hoping his cruelty was limited to just hiding your fortune. But as you tore the room apart, it was nowhere to be found. 

You grabbed your other bag, dumping its contents on the floor, hoping that you had shoved some caps in there or some had just managed to land. No luck. But within its contents was a leather pouch you didn’t recognize. You smiled as you felt its contents through the aged hide. You pushed everything else out of the way, loosening the draw string and letting the caps fall onto the floor. You counted each piece of aluminum eagerly, two hundred. It wasn’t a lot, but it was better than the zilch you thought you were stuck with. 

You grabbed the leather pouch to start putting the currency back in when you noticed something that hadn’t come out with the caps. You pulled out a folded postcard. Noticing a handwritten note on the back first as you unfurled it. “Only place that’ll get you somewhere.” As you turned it around, your lip raised as you let out an offended scoff.