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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Machinist 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible bullying, misogyny, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your new boss sets his sights on you. (short!reader)

Characters: August Walker

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

Your forehead pinches and your eyes singe. Your brows dip as you focus on your tasks, your hands firm on the small cylinder as you smooth the edge. Your work is tedious and precise, but you work off muscle memory. It all comes naturally. 

You lean in as you finish off the small piece, slowly pulling it away from the spinning wheel. You hit the stop and admire your handiwork briefly and label it before putting the piece aside in its coordinated container. You keep your space as tidy as you can, as organized as possible to avoid anything missing or overlooked. 

You lean on the tall stool you never use; it’s too high and this job isn’t really made for sitting. You take off your safety glasses and pull the bandana down from over your hairline to sop up your sweat. Your shoulders are tight and sore and your lower back tugs from your half-bent posture. 

You fix your bandana and near the work table again. Your old station was too high and now this one somehow is too low. It’s like a cruel trick. 

You pull the next blueprint up on the screen, clacking on the keys to zoom. It’s simple. You’re sent the schematics and you make whatever’s needed. It is a less than exciting job but it pays the bills. 

As you put your materials out in front of you and ready the borer, the noise of the factory forms a calamitous wall around you. You’ve learned to tune it out, you hardly notice when Bill swears at his lathe or Joe and Sakir argue over one thing or another. You keep to your work. You keep to yourself. 

Before you can start your next job, you sense a shift in the air. Voices quiet, machines slow and some stop. You peer over but can’t see much from your vantage in the corner. You claimed the station even though the air flow is crap. You prefer that you’re not center among the chaos. 

You begin by shaping the steel into a flat circle, then bore a hole in the middle. You’re going to have to be careful with how thin the sheet is but any thicker and it will impinge the hinge in the blueprint. You’ll have to make that too. 

The odd lull seems to flow across the factory floor like a tide. You peer up only as the air seems to stagnate. You see a man approaching. You don’t recognise him but he’s not very much different than most men you work with; ball cap, plaid shirt, that overly macho stance. 

Unlike most factory men, he isn’t built like a noodle or with an extra pouch around his middle. He’s tall and lumbering and his shoulders broad. Across his upper lip, he sports a dark mustache, and his blue are somehow bright and dark at once. 

“Hello,” he approaches as his bold tone rolls like thunder, “machinist?” 

Your brows knot together curiously as you shut off the borer and set aside the parts. You turn to him completely, “yes.” 

“Ah,” he reaches into the bin and takes out the cylinder you just finished, “fine work. Detailed. The labeling is clever.” 

You’re wary. You’re used to the men talking down to you. It’s not that unusual but something about him is loftier than you’re used too. 

“Engineer?” You wonder. He has to be. Their degrees seem to overload their egos in a certain kind of way. 

“Supervisor,” he puts the part back in the green container, “first day. Did you not receive the notice?” 

“I did,” you assure him. You read the notice on the lunchroom wall but it didn’t matter much to you. He isn’t the first replacement to pass through the position, especially since the buyout. 

“August Walker,” he offers his large hand. 

You eye it and reach with your glove, mindless of the darkened fabric, and dully recite your name. He squeezes, in the way that men do, trying to prove their strength. You simply allow him his little display before rescinding your hand. 

“How long have you worked here?” He asks. 

You look around. You notice Bill watching and a few others trying to act like they aren’t. You know what they’re thinking. If fat needs to be trimmed, naturally it should be the girl. 

“Three years,” you answer. 

“Really? Work like this, I’d have guessed longer,” he muses, “by looking at you, though, I might have guessed you just started.” 

“Mm,” you grumble and turn back to your parts. 

“Compliment,” he says bluntly. 

“Right,” you utter. “Got work orders.” 

“So, you do,” he agrees, “but I’m your boss.” 

You hesitate and pull your hands back from the table. You face him again as he stands on the other side of the table’s arm. You step up to your side and look up at him. 

“Is there something I missed? A task I should focus on first, sir?” You ask. 

He snorts and one side of his mouth lifts up in amusement, “not much for water cooler talk, huh?” 

“With due respect, I’m on the clock.” 

"Due respect," he echoes.

His eyes flick up and down and you withhold your discomfort. It isn’t unusual. Your coworkers are more often in miserable marriages or eternally single. They all can’t help but ogle you now and again, even if you dress exactly like them. Nothing special. Not the girls at the bar or the wives they once loved. 

“Well then, maybe I’ll run into in the lunchroom and you can tell me all about yourself,” he plants his hands on the table and leans over just slightly, “I’m dying to know how someone like you ended up in a place like this.” 

You tweak a brow and cross your arms. Right. He’s one of those. Just like the rest of them. This isn’t your place, you’re an intruder. 

“I mean, why would you come here and sweat over all this dirty work when you could be put up in a kitchen, huh?” He wonders with a smirk, “but I’ve seen the men around here, none of them got the guts to put you where you belong.” 

Your chest rises and falls as a swell of anger comes over you. You know the best way to react is not to. So, you don’t. 

“Sir, I’m right at home right here,” you assure him and turn back to your station. 

You ignore him as you adjust your glasses and adjust a setting on the lather. What you wouldn’t do to put his face to the grinder. He isn’t worth the damage his thick skull would do to the wheel. 

[teastainedprose]

🔞Gash (Cooper Howard / The Ghoul x Reader)

You've been stabbed and The Ghoul means to patch you up, save for the problem of a metal shard lost in the wound. 1,435 words | This is smut if wound fingering counts. All about pain and looking at Cooper's stupid pretty face and PAIN and Cooper's finger in an open wound, pet names, wound cleaning, blood, more pain. No proofreading, take it raw bb. I blame @ghoulphile for egging me on. [A03]

Luck was with the man who managed to sheath his knife into your gut. Luck protected you as he missed puncturing anything important, only slicing meat and fat. Luck would have Cooper right there moments later putting a bullet through the bastard's brains as his luck promptly ran out. Lucky to have the old ghoul catch you before you crumpled to the ground.

Lady Luck was having a fucking field day. That bitch.

Your thoughts swirl, snagging on the present. You're trying to keep your mind set off to the side, away from your body. Away from the burning wet pain of your seeping wound, but it tugs you right back. Your body demands that you feel this, the gaping wound in your gut a wrongness your breakable mortal form insists you can't ignore.

Blood leaks down your hip as you groan from the press of Cooper's fingers around the gaping flesh of the gash in your side to take proper stock of it. Beside you on the table rests the knife you'd been stabbed with, save for the tip. That's currently buried in your guts. The blade is a rusty thing, old and brittle. The thought of that extra bit of metal swimming about inside you sits ill. Your vision blurs, a queasiness rolling over as your head rolls to the side.

Cooper notices your far away gaze, pausing in his inspection to clasp your chin in his glove covered fingers. The ones that are thankfully not covered in your blood. The other hand prodding at your flesh has bare fingers, calloused texture a distant pleasantry. He'd yanked that glove off with his teeth. Skin to bloody skin now. How intimate. 

"Now, dove." The words are a soft puff of breath against your cheek as you refocus. "Keep them pretty eyes open for me now." His attention shifts back to your wound while do as commanded.

"Stuck you real good, girlie." Cooper murmurs, eyes hooded from your inspection at this angle. He continues to mind your wound, bare fingers tracing your abdomen as if to feel from the outside where the rusty intrusion is. "Gonna hav'ta clean it proper. Needin' to dig the tip out."

All you can do is nod absently, drinking in every detail of his face. His black-as-night lashes are clearly visible this close, looking as pretty as can be. They add extra shadow to the sunken hollow about his eyes. He glances up, the swirling deep forest green and brown of his gaze catching you. You suck in a breath as Cooper's nail catches on the cut.

Teeth snap shut with a click as you bare them at Cooper. He smirks right back at you. He knows it hurts, but there's no helping it. All you can do is grimace and bear it while trying to divert your attention from the throbbing in your abdomen.

Your study of him is your current distraction. It's working well enough, mind content to catalogue the sharp lines of his face as you sit there panting quietly. There's the detached burn of alcohol as he dabs your wound with a soaked cloth, pulling a shiver across your skin in response.

Focus. Focus on the face of The Ghoul intently working. How there's the rough texture of his ravaged skin before your eyes. His skin is rusty in color, an earthy shade. It reminds you of the red clay from your long-abandoned home. His skin is just as baked and cracked as that dirt was. A delicious contrast to the richer red of his lips. Funny how he looks all sorts of dried up, but you know those lips to be softer than expected. Soft and pliant when pressed against your own with the wet press of his tongue darting out and-

You curse as your thoughts shatter into sharp glass, body instinctively lurching away from what hurts you. Cooper snatches your thigh, fingers digging in as he holds you steady.

"Now, now. Easy there, dove." His eyes flick to your face again. He's got a finger crooked into the gash. It feels wrong. "Told you I need to get that piece out. Breath, nice and easy."

You inhale. His head cants to the side as he waits. You exhale. Cooper nods as his finger digs deeper into the wound, feeling about. You swear he just brushed viscera with a fingertip.

It makes you dizzy, feeling his finger rooting around in the open wound as he tries to nudge out the knife bit. Forceps would have been a good idea, maybe some pliers? Something thinner than Cooper's gnarled fingers. You've memorized those digits intimately, but never expected to know them here. In your fucking guts.

It hurts. Of course it fucking does, but it's a wrong sort of pain. The sensation keeps flipping your stomach over and over. You want to empty the contents of it, but know that'll hurt worse with the state you're in.  Your eyes lose focus as Cooper clicks his tongue. 

"Focus. Eyes on me like I said, darlin'." He waits a beat as you blink, refocus. "Attagirl," his tone is even and coaxing, trying to keep you calm as if you're a startled brahmin. His finger continues to root around in your open wound, feeling for that stray bit of metal.

There's a twisted sort of intimacy in having Cooper's fingers delving into the wound, a sick parody of what else he's buried in you on better days.

You moan, a low sound pulled deep from within you involuntarily. It hurts.

"Now dove... That ain't the sort of cooing you should be makin' right now,'' amusement laces his words as he studies your face. His finger goes still to let you settle. It takes a moment, adjusting to the intrusion because his finger has sunk deeper. Your body is trying to reject the invasion, nerves flaring up with clear alarm.

You huff in response, shooting Cooper a sour look as a tremor runs through your strained body. It's not your fault your pain sounds are similar to the ones you make when he's rutting into you. He shakes his head, smiling to himself as Cooper gets back to work.

"Can feel it at my fingertip, jus' let me-" The digging is a burning invasion now as he presses deeper, finger crooking. You can feel the tug of something else scraping your insides as you suck in a sudden breath. He catches that bit of rusty metal, tugs and then it's over.

Cooper holds up the metal shard in front of your face with a yellow grin. "Got it."

You promptly drop your forehead against his shoulder with a whine. Blood leaks sluggishly from the wound now.

"There, there. I gotcha, dove. Now, you let me clean you up proper." His gloved hand rubs your back briefly before he gently sets you upright. Cooper is quicker to clean out the wound, caring little for how the alcohol he pours directly on it burns as he flushes it out. It's almost a welcomed sensation after the nausea induced fingering he'd just been up to.

He pauses, considering a moment before Cooper pops the same bloody finger he'd just had inside of you into his mouth. You can only watch in a detached way, pain keeping you pacified as Cooper makes sure to lick his hand clean of your blood.

"Disgusting," you sigh. It's half-hearted. You've seen him ingest far worse. 

"What? I'm a ghoul, sweetheart," he smirks. "Figure only way I'm gonna get a taste of that."

"Can you please fucking get me that Stimpak already?"

He tuts while wiping his hand clean of your blood on a spare rag before obliging. Cooper smoothly jabs the needle directly above your wound without warning, earning a hiss from you but your resentment instantly melts away.

This time you moan in pleasure, soothed as the endorphins rush your system in a cooling wave of comfort. A detached floaty feeling settles over you instantly as you relax, eyes drifting shut. A content smile settles on your lips while Cooper busies himself properly bandaging up your wound and wiping away the excess blood. His fingers linger, the bare ones ghosting up your side as a tremor runs through you for a wholly different reason now.

Slowly, you open your eyes again as you once more slump into his warmth. The scent of leather, gunpowder and something uniquely him fill your nostrils as you inhale.

"Better, dove?"

"Mhhm," You hum in contentment.

"That's my girl," He purrs as he hooks an arm about your waist and gently tugs you closer. "Now how's about we see about thankin' me proper for saving your sorry ass?"

[spadeinasuit]

Fallout 4 but every time you see Hancock he has a different pride flag around his waist

[theewritingroomm]

A Wasteland Reunion

Summary: It's been more than 200 years since you've last seen your cowboy. Pairing: Cooper Howard x Reader Word Count: 1,070 (a drabble? what's that?) Warnings: mentions of violence, swearing, A/N: Part of The Cowboy & The Movie Star series, a part 2 if you will. Let me know what y'all would like to see from this series. What snapshots would y'all like to see?

I do NOT consent to my work being translated or published onto third party sites - including AO3 and Wattpad.

A layer of dirt and grime covered every surface of the Red Rocket Gas Station. Outside the sun blazed down, covering the Wasteland in a blazing heat. The wind gave an occasional whistle as it blew more dirt into the gas station’s broken windows. Though you were paying attention to none of that, you were focused on the sound that should not be there. 

The thumping of heavy footsteps on broken concrete. 

So with your back against the checkout counter you reload your gun and cussed Ma June. If this ‘simple favor’ didn’t kill you, you were going to ring the older lady’s neck. 

As the heavy steps get closer your finger tightens around the trigger of your gun. The old bell chimes above the door and heavy footfalls turn into light steps as the newest customer to the Red Rocket navigates around the debris littering the floor. The footsteps grow quieter as the person heads towards the other end of the gas station. 

Taking the opportunity, you slowly crawl towards the open door a few feet to your right. The manager’s office was threadbare, a simple desk and chair sat in the middle of the room with a few filing cabinets sitting behind the desk. It did not offer many hiding places, however you had no interest in hiding. You were interested in getting the piece of tech Ma June was searching for and getting the hell out of the Red Rocket. 

After waiting a moment, with bated breath for the sound of footsteps to draw closer. You were surprised when they never did, coming to the conclusion that the person must have left. Likely abandoning their search when they came up empty handed. Not that you minded, The less people here, the less bullets you would have to use to make it back to Filly. 

Pushing the other person from your mind, you began going through the drawers of the desk. Where you found a handful of plastic forks, a loose cigarette and four caps. With another glance to the open door and a pause to listen for steps, you turned your attention to the filing cabinets behind you. 

The first cabinet was a bust, holding nothing but trash. You had moved onto the second cabinet, only starting to pull the first drawer out when the hairs on the back of your neck rose and a pit of dread opened in your stomach. Before you could turn to inspect, the hammer of a pistol was pulled back. The click echoed off the walls of the dusty gas station. 

“My, my,” A low voice drawled out behind you. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ all alone out here?” 

The voice was low, gravely, distinctly a man’s voice. It trickled down your spine like ice water, setting off every nerve ending within you. But deep down, there was a familiarity in the voice. A familiarity that had your heart tightening in your chest. 

“Just surviving,” you replied., hand tightening around your own pistol. “Wasteland’s a rough place.” 

You tried to keep your voice level, not wanting to give away any of your intentions or give the stranger a reason to pull his trigger. At this point you were ready to call this mission a bust, sure that the tech Ma June was after was not worth your life. 

“Stand up, leave your gun on the ground” the man demanded, leaving no room for arguments. 

Complying with the man, you left your gun in the dirt and stood. Muscles aching and protesting from being squatted for so long. Once fully stood you began to turn around. Wanting to see the man who was likely going to shoot you down. 

The man, no, the ghoul in front of you was menacing from looks alone. A long, leather trench coat covered the rest of his outfit, an ammo belt stretched across his chest, and a weathered cowboy hat was pulled low on his head. A sneer stretched his lips across yellowing teeth and fire burned in deep brown eyes. 

As you locked eyes with the Ghoul a weight of emotions crashed into your chest. If silence hadn’t consumed the gas station you would have thought he shot you.

“Cooper?” The name fell from your lips before you could stop it. 

The sound bubbled in the space between the two of you. Growing with the tension in the room before popping with a deep growl from the man. 

Quicker than you could realize, he was on you. A heavy arm pushing against your throat as he slammed you against the hard metal cabinets behind you. A handle dug harshly into your hip, surly going to leave a bruise. However, you could not find it in you to care. Not when Cooper Howard was standing before you two hundred years after you had seen him last. Two hundred years after you were sure he had died.  

“How do you fuckin; know that name?” He growled, pushing his forearm harder against your throat.

“Coop, please,” You coughed out, struggling to breath past the pressure Cooper was putting on your neck. “It’s me.”

His eyes darkened, a predator staring down at you. “Bullshit.” 

The arm not holding you to the cabinets began to raise, The metal of his gun was cold as he placed it to your temple. 

“I’m only gonna ask one more time.” He pulled the hammer back with a sickening click. “How do you know that name and why are you wearing her fuckin’ face?” 

He was nearly shouting at the end of his question. Fury beginning to take over his composure. 

Knowing you only had one more chance to prove to Cooper that you were standing in front of him, you dug into your memories with Cooper. Going back to a place you had long wished to go back to.

“I told you I loved you for the first time the day the bombs dropped,” you choked around the words, “I had a meeting at the studio and you were getting ready for a birthday party. We were standing in the driveway and you were wearing that damn cowboy getup, but I couldn’t wait anymore so I blurted it out.” 

The fire in his eyes diminished as another emotion took over. With a small sigh, your name escaped his lips in a whisper. Like a prayer he had long since forgotten.

[losersiren]

Yandere! Vault Dweller

N: I just finished the Fallout show, went on YouTube and fell down a rabbit hole of lore about the game. I decided Vault 11 shall be sacrificed (hehe). Everything I put in this fic is from the videos I've watched and the fan wiki, so it's like semi-accurate… Cw: talks about suicide, suicide (not the reader), violence, yandere tendencies, gore(?), death, manipulation, coercion, talks of death, should be gn! reader safe.... if not, put me in the chamber WC: 2.2k

Quiet. It was quiet. The silence is deafening, yet the ringing in your ear grows louder and louder, each second feeling as if eons had passed. The automated computer voice repeats in your head like a catchy song you’ll hear on those dusty records, the ones Mama used to play and dance to.

“Congratulations, citizens of Vault 11! You have made the decision not to sacrifice one of your own. You can walk with your head held high, knowing that your commitment to human life is a shining example to us all. And to make that feeling of pride even sweeter, I have some exciting news. Despite what you were led to believe, the population of Vault 11 is not going to be exterminated for its disobedience. Instead, the mechanism to open the main vault door has now been enabled, and you can come and go at your leisure. But not so fast! Be sure to check with your overseer to find out if it's safe to leave. Here at Vault-Tec, your safety is our number one priority.”

You were young when your parents escaped the bombs to the vault you're situated in right now; you grew up believing that damned computer about sacrifices and watched your fellow vault mates get killed one by one. You waited for the time it would be you in that same chamber. Now, with this information surfaced…they died for what? An experiment? What would have happened if you had been voted overseer…

The lump in your throat grows heavier, and the arguments and yelling in the background become more and more apparent that you can't ignore them anymore. Your eyes drift to the man standing tall and proud beside you, Charli, his hair still somehow slick back; he still looks perfect even after the maddening chaos of events that transpired these past few days. His blue jumpsuit was as crisp as an ironed suit that the actors would wear from the moving pictures on television before the vault. His expression is as vacant as his blue eyes, his soft lips decorated with a barely visible smile. As he watches the other three vault survivors argue, Your brows furrow. 

Why isn’t he affected by the news like everyone else? This information is soul-crushing and life-changing!

Then again, you reason with yourself that maybe this is his way of coping; who are you to judge and microanalysis him like some psycho? Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep or the sense of safety ripped out of your hand like candy stolen from a baby. Heavens, you might nearly flip your lid entirely if something else happens. You sigh. To believe you almost were insinuating that Charli would even be a drop suspicious, and of what, exactly? He saved and shielded you from the massacre that only left the five of you remaining; he was your childhood best friend..how could you? You reprimand yourself.

His eyes finally meet yours, and the sympathy and worry you sought appeared when the blonde saw how distressed you were. “Are you alright?” his soft voice fills your head–drowning out the talks of whether the group should commit suicide in honour of your dead vault men or venture into the outside world to educate others on how your vault was misled. You were somewhat dissociated from the whole conversation. Reasonably so.

His hands, soft yet calloused, turn your head side to side to check for any visible injuries he might’ve missed, which he shouldn’t have—knitted eyebrows and razor-sharp eyes search frantically for anything. 

Charles or… As you’ll call him later in your relationship, Charlie, has always been like this. When you met him, he was a reserved kid, a trait that would carry on from his pubescent to adolescent years. 

When other kids grew out of their shyness and worrisome attitude and eventually adapted to the vault, he was pushed aside. Well, that wouldn’t be the only reason. His father was the first overseer of Vault 11, the same overseer who thought the best course of action was not to tell the vault residents about the sacrificial system they were now to live with. That same choice he made was the reason for his death, and he was the first to test the new system. He wasn’t a good man. He was greedy, a neglectful father and husband, and so on. A family now ruined by one man’s ill-considered decision; Charles's mom wasn’t much better, the textbook definition of a hypocrite. Bad-mouthing her dead husband, the same one she defended when said husband would push his son away.

Most would fear having no one at the end of the world, but it became Charles's life; while everyone adapted to vault life, Charles adapted to the misfortune of the consequences of his old man’s actions. You decided one day to talk to him while others stood clear. It was a simple conversation; others would just brush it off…which he did initially. But after that day, you would constantly seek him out, and with that, you wore a genuine smile and interest every time you talked to him. His walls crumbled into dust for you and only you. You were like a shooting star he wished for. His reputation grew because of you and, with that, his feelings for you sored. You became his way of life. In his teen years, he decided to become the best match for you– He would participate in every extracurricular activity the vault would provide to make him an unstoppable force of a man. The perfect golden boy was made..for you.

He had the “perfect body,” perfect sperm count, unmatched intelligence, and charisma—he perfected them (even if you were the only one he talked to for long periods)—strength, agility, endurance—all of it. He will be everything you need and more. With that, he made sure no one would vote you as overseer…

He was so soft on you that it would rival feathers. Do you need help lifting that? He's already there. Do you need help with your pre-war history? He’ll just sit you down and study with you for hours. Are you bleeding from an accidental cut? Don’t worry he just finished his first aid training. He already had a plan for you both for everything that would happen.

Everything

“I’m fine…” You grab both of his hands gently. “...Well, not fine, fine, but I'm not hurt.” You smile weakly up at him. “It’s okay. You and I will get through this,” He coos, pushing strands of your hair away from your face and behind your ear. His touch is warm and tender, yet the words you hear next aren’t.

“Fuck..I..I can’t do this I’m sorry.” A man, short in stature, starts backing away, gun in hand, clearly distressed. Your eyes move away from Charli’s to your fellow survivor; unknowingly to you, Charli rolls his eyes at the man's “dramatics.”  “We don’t deserve to leave...That thing called us a shiny example..f..f.fucked! Thats fucked! I..I can’t live with that!” Another man says, “Anyone would’ve done what we did.” A woman comments, “You ask me? That's exactly the problem. Now, let’s get on with this.”

“Wait,” you say, stunned, as if he had predicted this would happen. Charles moves his hands to cover your eyes. The short man is first, putting his gun on the roof of his mouth and pulling the trigger, not sparing any more time; the woman is next, the second gunshot. Then, with a sigh and short prayer, the last man repeats the action done by the others. Each lifeless body hits the floor one by one, and then there is silence.

What the hell.

You try to understand the situation, but your brain has yet to catch up…it’s all too much. Charli whispers calming phrases while he shields your eyes with one hand and rubs patterns along your back with the other. Tears start rolling down your face…and you sob. Hard. His hand moves to pet your hair, soothing you while you let it all out of your system.

He moves his body to shield you from the gruesome events that have just taken place; he moves both of his hands and cradles your face. You try looking behind him out of curiosity, but he stops you before you can.”Hey! Look at me with those gorgeous eyes,” He mummers, and of course, you comply. “There we go. You listen to me so well,” he whispers lovingly. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll both go back to my vault room. I have enough supplies for the both of us to survive outside for a while, okay?” He asks you, and you nod, agreeing to whatever he says. 

“I need to hear you say it..” 

“…yes, of course, whatever you think is best.” He smiles at you, thumb caressing your cheek. “Keep your eyes on me, okay?” He takes your hand and leads you through the halls. It's quiet… you don't like it. Your eyes are trained on his back, Charli…he’s your lifebuoy in the angry sea, the only thing keeping you afloat; if it wasn’t for him…you might’ve met your end with the others. As if sensing your inner turmoil, he squeezes your hand, comforting you…and you squeeze back. Your world just fell apart, yet…it doesn’t seem entirely gone with Charli by your side. 

It's only a short time till you reach his vault. You’ve been here so many times it's basically your room by now. The tall blonde turns to look at you. “I’m going to let you go, just for a second, okay..? I just need to get the supplies.” He holds your one hand with both of his– you reply with a soft okay, and with your permission, he starts to move. He moves towards his small desk to grab a small, flat-headed screwdriver, walks to a particular spot, and pops the floor title beneath him, revealing a hidden compartment. It's filled with two modular military backpacks, filled to the bream with necessities for outside the vault.

He was prepared for all of this…

Then he starts talking about what he has in mind for the two of you, settling on the surface of living together and everything. Charles gets lost when talking to you; he can speak his mind about almost anything, and rambling is second nature with you. The hermit turned a social butterfly in your presence.

“You know that computer may have been our downfall, but god did bless me with more information than I could handle…good thing, huh, glad I went through all that code…Vault-tec tried to make it secure, but I found a way...We could go somewhere called New Vegas…” He keeps talking. 

But you stand there, still, as a statue, looking down at him as he gathers everything…What did he just say? 

You think back to the start when killing between the blocs started..he was right there, ready to protect you, when you and the other surviving tested out if the chamber would kill all of you…he almost seemed to be too assured nothing bad would happen to any of you, almost like…no…no. You’re overthinking, right? But the more you listen…

“You knew…” you shakingly exclaim out loud, cutting him off. “Hmm?” He looks up at you as he puts the tile back…” You knew we didn’t need sacrifices…you knew it would play out like this…” you say louder and more confidently. Those once-homey blue eyes become cold and distant… analyzing you.  

You both stare at each other.

You turn and run.

 But your efforts are in vain; you don’t even leave the room before two muscular arms wrap around behind you, overtaking you, holding your arms down around your waist, dragging you back. You scream and kick with no success. You end up with his arms around you while he sits down, his back against the wall, and you in front of him with his head in your neck while you let it all out. “When?” you croak out, “When we were fifteen, I didn’t want you to become overseer…I didn’t want you to die..so I wondered if it was the computer that sent signals to kill whoever was sent in that chamber and wondered if I could stop it from killing you specifically; that's when I found out .” He answers swiftly and truthfully, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” You question, “I didn’t care, honestly, the only thing that matters is you…If everyone died in the process, it would be less work for me…I wanted it to be us from the beginning, anyway. I want you to need me as much as I need you…and now you finally do.”  

You feel weak and sick to your stomach… All your peers would’ve ended up dead either way. “I want to leave.” he hums, not mocking you but in acknowledgment. “And do what? You don’t know how to defend yourself; you have no supplies prepared, barely any survival instincts, and you don’t even know any information on the surface above. You can leave, but you’ll die…I can’t let that happen, sorry.” Charles buries himself more into you. 

“I hate you,” You whisper.

“That’s okay…all that matters is that you're here…with me and only me… I’ll keep you safe and sound.”

N: This was a long one, whew! I had to think about how I could make a Yandere fic with Fallout, and I had tons of concepts, but this one stood out the most. I hope my execution was good enough....Anyway, my next fic will most likely be a jealous fic about my Yandere lord, so stay tuned! Till then! see you soon my little guppies (´꒳`)♡ extra note: Throughout writing this, I thought "My Way of Life by Frank Sinatra" would fit Charli perfectly.

[e-m-ma-lmfao]

Ruin My Reputation

pairing : cooper howard (the ghoul) x (fem) reader

summary : he’s soft for you

warnings : blood, drug use kinda, talk of shooting

a/n : just something short and sweet so the fallout brainrot subsides.

“You know damn well I hate when you show up like this.” You let your medical supplies clatter onto the table where the ghoul sits, waiting like a hurt dog. Eyes awfully resemblant of the animal.

It’s likely that the only reason he’s here, looking this run down, is cause he’s got no vials left. If you knew better, you’d hide yours. Or better yet, get rid of them all together.

“Now c’mon darlin’,” he pauses to sputter out a cough and take a deep breath, “I thought you loved seeing me.” Shakily, he grabs his hat off his head and places it on the table.

“I love you a whole lot more when I don’t have to worry about you showing up at my doorstep on the brink of death you old..” Your words trail off and whatever insult you were ready to throw at him is taken away by the stream of air you let slip past your lips.

“I told you to quit your worryin’, I ain’t gonna die on ‘ya.”

“Oh yeah? And what do you suppose it is you’re doing right now?”

“Well if you’d quit your yappin’ and get to fixin’ I’d be doing a whole lot better, wouldn’t I?” He offers an unwelcome smile, which disappears when he winces in his pain. You hand him a vial of his favorite yellow liquid before you get to unbuttoning his shirt. After downing the vial he opens his mouth again but you're quick to cast your eyes his way.

“Looks like I didn’t need your medical attention after all, huh? ‘S a damn shame.”

“Mhm, waste of my time. Well then, I’ll cut right to it, thought I told ‘ya not to come around anymore after the last time.” Your voice trails off as you disappear to the back room to grab him a shirt that isn’t littered with holes and dirt and a shit ton of blood. Most of which probably isn't even his. And he follows behind, limping, like he’s in a trance and can’t help himself.

You hear a grunt from the other room as you rummage through a small storage box of his discarded things. Anything he left over the months he had been making himself a frequent quest in your home was in this box. You wanted to burn it. All of it. Use those little bottles of yellow liquid as a fire starter and make him watch while you did it. But anytime you tried, you couldn’t actually bring yourself to part with the tiny symbols of his presence.

“We both know you didn’t mean that,” he appears in the doorway behind you, blocking your exit, “besides I always come to my girl for help when things get rough. She's got all the good chems.”

You throw the shirt into his arms, a bit harder than intended, but he catches it with the reflexes of a man who kills for a living. Because, well, he does. You’re not sure why but every comment is making you angrier about him being there. A chem stash, huh? That’s all he thought of you?

“I wish you wouldn’t. I ain’t got time to sit around and tend to you, wait for you to get all better and leave again.”

The shirt now hangs on his body loosely, buttons open, “Now what’s got you so sour tonight. Usually you're a lot kinder to little ol’ me.” He leans against the doorframe

“Maybe the fact that I’ve got a half dead cowboy making himself comfy in my home every two weeks doesn’t sit well with me. You ever think about that before you kick your dirty boots off on my carpet?” You pause to stare at him with a raised eyebrow, “Oh, which reminds me, you owe me a new carpet.”

“What’re you talking about, woman?”

“You got blood on my carpet.”

“It was already covered in blood and dirt anyway!”

“Well, you got more on it. I liked how it was. So now you owe me a new one.”

“Are you hearing yourself? Where would you like me to go for said carpet? Anything I find you is gonna look exactly the same as the one already sitting on your goddamn floor!” He moves in slowly, cautiously like he’s practiced the art a million times. “Now I know you’re not worried about that piece of fabric out there. What is the problem?”

He swoops in close, close enough to wrap his arms around your waist with his hands clasped together at the dip in your back. You don’t push him away, though you want to. Although, all you think about is how your gun is sitting merely 5 inches away on the end table beside you. You could shoot him, if you wanted. But you probably won't.

Cooper’s eyes find your avoidant ones, the rough pads of his fingers grabbing at your chin to make you look at him. He’d never raise his full hand to you, smart man. God knows you’d think he was moving in to slap you, and his hand would be gone before he could yell ‘yeehaw’.

“You know damn well that I worry about you Coop.” Your arm finds his forearm, tugging his hand away from your face, “I just want you to stay for once, so I won't have to worry about you dying in the middle of the wasteland somewhere.” His hands find the dip in your back again, running along your skin until they rest on your hips.

“Hey now, you know I can’t stay, I got business to take care of out there.”

“Yeah, it’s always business. Always. Well you know what, so do I. So go on and get ‘fore I shoot yer sorry ass.” You step away from him, pushing him out of your way but his hands are quick to find your hips again and pull you back to him. Works like magnets.

“Now you're just being dramatic.. Alright alright, if you ask me nicely I’ll stay for a little longer than usual.”

You stare at him, eyebrows flexed in annoyance but the rest of your face has seemingly cooled down. You don’t need to say anything, he’s already agreed. He looks down at you with a soft smirk, thumbs rubbing into your hip bones.

“You are the easiest woman to please in the whole wasteland.” You feel your eyebrows relax as one of his hands reaches up to cup your cheek in his rough palm. His lips part, gazing at you with deep adoration.

“Think you’re making me go soft darlin’, gonna ruin my damn reputation.”

[rollingsins]

just sweet soft Vada with her obsession with boobs😭😭😳 we just need her😭

Filled, thanks bby!

“Vada,” You murmur as Vada’s hands circle the bottom of your t-shirt, “We’re watching a movie.” 

The movie in question is Die Hard. You’ve seen it a thousand times. So has Vada. You’re starting to think that’s why she picked it. 

Vada looks up at you, brown eyes wide. 

“I know,” She says. She’s tucked into your side, her legs entwined with yours. Her fingers brush the rim of bare skin between your shirt and your jeans, “Maybe we could just… watch it with our shirts off.” 

She looks up at you, a familiar not-so-innocence in her eyes. 

“Watch a movie with our shirts off?” You ask, voice incredulous. 

“Yeah,” Vada says. Her hand slips a bit further up your belly, brushing the warm skin underneath your top. Your stomach flips, “It’s a thing they do in France, I saw it on Tiktok.” 

“Bullshit.” You snort, eyebrow raised. 

“Well, maybe they should do it in France,” Vada mumbles, “Maybe we should all do it.” 

She rubs her legs against yours, hand drifting a little further up your shirt. 

“We’re not having sex, your Mom is downstairs.” You tell her, voice final. 

The last time you’d let her talk you into fooling around with her parents downstairs, Mrs Cavell had all but burst into the room before you could even get your hands down Vada’s pants. You weren’t keen for a repeat. 

Vada pouts. 

“Not sex,” She mumbles, “Can you just… Can I just-” 

Her eyes drop from your eyes to your chest and suddenly you know exactly what she wants. 

You stir under her, ignoring the way it makes your belly coil. 

“Again?” You groan, pretending like Vada’s obsession with your boobs is some kind of inconvenience. It would be harder to pretend, if not for the fact it made you want to flip her over and press her against the bed. 

Perfect. Now she’s horny and you’re horny and the fact her Mom comes up every ten minutes to ‘check on the two of you’ meant you could do nothing about it. 

“Mom came up three minutes ago,” Vada says, sparkle in her eyes as if she’s reading your mind, “Give me seven minutes with those puppies, you won’t regret it.” 

That does it. 

Her choice of words has quelled your arousal. 

You laugh. 

“You’re such a fifteen year old boy, sometimes.” You tease her, pressing a kiss to her lips. Vada deflates with a whine. 

“Babe-” She protests, but you reach for her wandering hand and press a kiss to the back of it. 

“Another time,” You promise, “Let’s watch the movie.” 

“Mom has to pick Amelia up from tap practice at five,” Vada says hopefully, ever the optimist, “Maybe we could take our shirts off then.” 

You swallow. The arousal is back. 

You brush coil your hand around the back of her neck, scratching lightly at the base of her scalp. 

“I-” You say, and the thought isn’t unappealing, “Maybe.” 

And Vada grins, victorious.

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Black Light Masterlist

ONGOING

Part 1 ✧ Part 2 ✧ Part 3 ✧ Part 4 ✧ Part 5 ✧ Part 6 ✧ Part 7 ✧ Part 8 ✧ Part 9 ✧ Part 10 ✧ Part 11 ✧ Part 12  ✧ Part 13 ✧ Part 14 ✧ Part 15

AU MASTERLIST

[vaultie-and-theghoul]

So, You Comin'?

Cooper watched the coward, Henry, jet away into the wasteland. Of course, he had noticed his Vaultie right away, gun held tightly in her hand. The barrel shook as she stubbornly aimed the gun at her father. Taking the shot for her was the least he could do.

Now the Ghoul stared out over the wasteland, mind running a million miles an hour. He noted how Lucy kneeled over the young man below her. A painful, angry heat rose in his chest. Jealousy. Cooper started monologing, something from his acting days he did to time to clear his mind. While the words left poetically from his lips, a spark of hope flickered in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, his Vaultie would join him on this journey. This time willingly.

"So, you comin'?"

The silence that followed stretched on forever, but the feeling that accompanied the distinct sound of a pistol being drawn was significantly worse. Cooper steadied himself, preparing to take the bullet. The shot itself was unlikely to kill him, but the pain of rejection felt enough like death. The Ghoul found himself feeling a sort of pride as well. His little Vaultie not only pulled a gun on her father but now has her finger on the trigger ready to shoot.

There's my little killer. Cooper took a deep breath and waited for the shock of pain.

*Bang*

Cooper slowly turned his head, searching for what exactly his Vaultie shot. The now-dead feral ghoul had escaped his attention earlier, but now he was all too aware. A question pulled at the Ghoul's lips, but now was not the time for questions. From the look of the feral, that was undoubtedly a mercy killing. It reminded Coop of that poor ghoul he turned into ass jerky. That had been a mercy killing too, even if his vaultie hadn't seen it that way.

Dogmeat trotted up to him, and Cooper knew it was time to head out. This battle was coming to an end and the last thing he wanted was to get caught up with the damn brotherhood of steel. The Ghoul decided to walk on without looking back. He wasn't going to beg or ask again. It was up to Lucy if she wanted to accompany him or stay with her new little boyfriend.

When Coop was about to give up hope, he heard his Vaultie rushing to catch up. The same smug smirk lifted his lips, and a voice that sounded a lot like the old him whispered Good Girl.

"Let's get the fuck out of here sweetheart," Cooper turned to face his Vaultie. She had just found out that her father had been lying all these years and had most likely killed her first living creature. Despite this, Lucy pulled herself together, nodded, and followed him into the desert. She'll talk when she's ready. Until then, the Ghoul would simply enjoy the company of his Vaultie.

AO3

[justghoulythingz]

i want you in all the ways you’ll let me have you…

a drabble for anonymous taken from this prompt list.

pairing : ghoul/lucy maclean

word count : 846

warnings : some good old fashioned self-loathing, rope to restrain, mentions of sex. 18+, mdni

divider credit

It’s been centuries since Cooper Howard has gotten this involved with anyone.

He’s a bit like a stunted foal: clumsy yet reluctant to admit it; so used to being somewhere dark and grisly and detached that when the sun hitched to Lucy MacLean shines, it burns his irreversibly damaged skin. Gives it a kind of glow that he has to kill every time it threatens to bloom.

Self-inflicted wounds are easier to nurse. What’s the point of watering the dead garden his innards are overgrown with?

He winces when she touches him. That’s why her wrists need to be kept bound when he explores her. So she can’t feel how much she affects him. So she doesn’t get the wrong idea.

This ain’t love. Not that she has much experience with the romantic variety. He’s got plenty to keep close to the chest.

He gave himself to his Barb and she trampled him so far into the dirt that he might has well have been buried that fateful day.

The consequential marks don’t seem to bother Lucy. She’s a curious sort. One of the things Cooper admires about her. In the same breath, however, he doesn’t mind if for once she’d give it a proper fucking rest.

She moves too fast for him. He’s not entirely certain he wanted to budge in the first place.

Here she is with his face entombed in her neck, kissing and licking and nibbling as she opens herself to him. Thinking about how he would drag his nose along the slopes and valleys that comprise her if he could. How she deserves a man who’s whole and not whatever husk was violently spat out.

He can plainly see she yearns to reciprocate. Restless energy makes her grit her teeth and clench her thighs, squirming about as he gets to roam free. A low, long-winded hiss manages to escape between the soft, swollen lips he’s already branded.

“Tell me what y’want, angel wings. Use your big girl words. Y’had no trouble up t’this point.” He smiles against her throat, keeping her body caged. His voice cuts through like a saw hacking down a tree. Chop chop chop. Devastation as it crashes to the ground.

She sighs heavily and attempts to fix her posture. He’s very skilled at distracting. It’s not lost on her that he does so on purpose.

“Can you look at me first, Cooper?” she asks, chest heaving. He wonders how their hearts would feel galloping together. He doesn’t take his clothes off for her.

Some days, he wants to.

“Alright,” he begins, angling himself backward and resting one palm on the wall above her head. He can humor her. “I’m lookin’.”

And boy does he look. How can one not, with those doe eyes, large and all-encompassing like a lush forest of green and brown and gold?

His expression takes on that of a predator’s honing in on its prey. Except she’s taken hold of his hide and shredded it until it’s all mangled and indistinguishable. He feigns he has the upper hand. He feigns many things.

Lucy utilizes a few more moments to compose herself. Logic has been replaced with emotion. That requires a different type of effort to navigate.

Normally he would hurry her along, he don’t got all day. But really, he does. Why not spend it admiring a work of unabashed art that spawned from, according to him, the depths of hell?

“As much as I enjoy you getting your excess of me, I feel…” She exhales, shaky. “I feel like that excess has snatched away my enjoyment of you. I, I feel incomplete. It’s not as satisfactory as I know it could be.”

The old, tattered cowboy doesn’t answer. It’s difficult to swallow. She is expectant, but she’s also learned to lower said expectations when it comes to him. So she carries on of her own accord.

“What I want, Cooper, is you. All of you. I’m not satisfied with this half-baked sex we’ve been having. I want to pleasure you. Have you gasping for air and unable to think clearly.”

If she only knew.

“I want you to orgasm in my vagina and mouth and hand and, and wherever else, I don’t care! Except that’s really not true. I do care. I want you in all the ways you’ll let me have you. And I want you in all the ways you haven’t let me have you. That’s what I want.”

She’s so technical sometimes that it usually makes him roll his eyes or laugh. Now, he doesn’t do either.

Instead, he grasps her chin and tilts it upward. He shoots her one last isolated once-over and seals their fate with a fervent kiss. The hand once above her travels below and deftly releases her from her binds. The rope falls to the dusty floor with a resounding thud.

“Best get t’work then,” Cooper murmurs against her cushioned mouth. Like a warm, forgiving blanket waiting to surround him, even after being away from home for months, years.

“‘Fore I change my mind.”

[fallout-fucker]

Honestly Fallout 4 should have just had a room with a bed and two skeletons surrounded by dildos and other sex stuff for the pure fact that you should be able to go there with Danse and have to explain everything.

He'd walk in and be like 'Wow look at all these Pre-War ornaments! My guess is that by the handcuffs, one of these people was an officer. The other perhaps a surgeon, assuming these are medical instruments...We should return these to the Prydwen immediately for examination'.

And Sole just stands there like. How do I give graphic sex education to a late 20s-mid 30s year old man. A man who considers touching another person's shoulder as too intimate. So Sole just has to dance around it and use long explanations and professional terms like 'They're not medical instruments...They're uh...For personal entertainment' because they can't just look at Danse and be like. 'Those are anal beads, my guy. They go in your ass purely for fun'.

And Danse still doesn't get it. So Sole has to be like. 'Specifically pleasure related entertainment.'

The beliwdered look still doesn't leave so Sole pushes some more. '...Sexual pleasure'.

When it clocks, Sole doesn't even think the nuclear explosions were as red as Danse's face is. Sole's also sure they didn't fall anywhere close to the speed that Danse exhibits when he all but sprints out of the room. They don't know whether to laugh or not but for the sake of Danse's sanity, and what's left of his dignity, holds back as much as possible.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Machinist 2

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible bullying, misogyny, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your new boss sets his sights on you. (short!reader)

Characters: August Walker

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

You take your lunch where you always do; outside. You don’t like to sit inside all day, especially after sweating amid sparks flying from dozens of torches and grinding wheels and the like. The metals walls do little to let the heat out, so it is that you greet the sunshine and fresh breeze with a sigh. 

You find your way to your truck and unlock the back, climbing up to sit in the open bed as you unzip your lunchbox. You have your standard fare; some carrots, hummus, and a tuna sandwich. Nothing fancy or special. Just what you have time to throw together in the morning. 

You watch the distant skyline as you chew. Insects buzz in the air and you swat away a nosy fly. The smell of pollen underlines the lingering scent of singed metal and your own sweat. You enjoy the small moment to yourself, with the barely muffled noise of drills, wheels, and hollers all around. 

You dip your last carrot and close up the container of hummus. You wipe the lingering garlicky smear from your fingertips and zip away your leftovers and the used napkin. You push your head back to stretch your neck and loosen the stitch between your shoulders. 

“You’re prettier in the sunlight,” the rocky voice brings your chin back down. 

August approaches as you clutch your lunch box against your lap. You don’t know how to respond without putting your job in the balance, so you don’t. You push yourself to the edge of the truck bed but he’s quick. He’s right in front of you, close enough that you can’t jump down. 

“This your truck?” He muses as he gives it an emphatic look, “not too bad. Bit big for you, girl. Ah, but maybe you like handling big things.” 

His insinuation repulses you. He was rude before but now he’s just being gross. Doesn’t matter. Who are you gonna tell? Who’s going to care?

“Excuse me, my lunch is almost over,” you say as you teeter on the edge. 

“I’m sure the boss won’t mind,” he grins boastfully. 

“Really, I got a lot of work--” 

“I never heard about your promotion,” he intones. 

You stop short and bite back your words, “promotion?” 

“Right, you must’ve got one since you’re telling me what to do,” he challenges, crossing his arms to make himself even bigger. 

“I wasn’t. I’m trying to go back to work.” 

“I didn’t dismiss you,” he sneers. 

You ease back and nod. This isn’t the first time a man’s postured at you, it won’t be the last. You’ll let him get his rocks off. 

“Sure,” you nod. 

“Hmph,” he looks you up and down, “it always makes me wonder why women wander into metal shops. Really? You like being sweaty,” he steps even closer and you wince as he reaches and drags his thumb down your cheek, “dirty? I can think of better ways for that.” 

“Sir,” you say flatly. 

He trails his thumb down and presses on your bottom lip, “I’m new around here. Need someone to show me around. How about it?” 

You scowl and rip your mouth away from his hand, “you can’t be serious?” 

“Do I look like I’m fucking kidding?” He slowly pulls his arm back, crossing it once more across his chest, “what I know about this town is there’s no other fucking shop looking for tool and die, and let me tell you, princess, you’ll find they don’t pay pennies next to what I pay.” He brings a hand up to brush the short stubble darkening his jaw, “actually, we’re due for salary review. That’s what the finance officer tells me.” 

You understand his threat. Even if he doesn’t fire you, he can mess with your money. All the leering men, all their nasty words, wouldn’t be worth it if you didn’t get a half-decent cut. 

“Can your precious little head understand me?” His mouth slants in a half-smirk. 

“Not that difficult,” you hiss out.  

“Great, sounds like a plan, princess.” 

Before you can react, he steps forward. He grabs you by the waist and drags you forward on the open door of the truck bed. You yelp in surprise and bat his wrists, your lunch box bouncing out of your grasp onto the ground. He holds you to hover on the edge before he lowers you to the ground, crowding you. 

“Good girl,” he growls and squeezes before he lets you go. 

You struggle not to snarl outright. He takes a step back, not far enough. You turn your attention to your errant bag and bend to pick it up. 

“Mmm, I like that position,” he purrs. 

You snap up and tamp down your irritation. You wish you could say he’s the first man to be so disgusting but that would be a miracle. Especially in this line of work. He’s just the only one you can’t tell to go fuck himself. 

You face him, “can I go back to work?” 

“Mm, look at you, learning already; asking permission,” he clicks his tongue, “sure, go on, princess.” 

You hold back a shudder and turn to close the truck door. You toss your lunch bag over it. Whatever. 

You spin and stomp away, refusing to look back at him, even as you feel his gaze bearing down on you. You feel even more filthy than before. Not just because of his behaviour but your own weakness. You should say no, you should go work at the Pizza Hut, at least there, you can spit in the food of every ass who gives you lip. 

As you cross the yard towards the shop, you slow down. Your eyes meet those of Carey. He started at the same time as you. He asked you out. Several times. He glowers and narrows his eyes.

He looks at the other guys sat around him at the smokers’ table. They saw it. You know they did.

“All the fucking same, aren’t they?” He spits into the dirt as the other men look in your direction. “Cozying up to the boss to get a few extra bucks on her check.” He flicks his butt towards you as you near the door, “whatsa a matter, baby? You need some new panties? Oh, maybe you’re gonna buy a dress? Start dressing like a woman, huh?” 

The other guys chortle and you ignore them. They don’t matter. That’s the difference between them and August. He can actually ruin your life, they only wish they could. 

[teastainedprose]

Explosion 🔞 ( Lucy x Maximus)

3,433 words | 🔞Baby's first hand job / almost blowjob. I got grabbed by the throat, blacked out, and this was in my drafts. No proofreading, we fap like men. Lucy x Maximus [AO3]

"Hey. Hey, Max. Look at me. You're okay, you got that?"

"Are you sure this isn't going to-" He cuts off in a choking sound as Lucy ghosts the pad of her thumb to smear his own leaking pre-cum about.

"Does it hurt?"

Maximus has to consider that. It's not pain exactly, but it's certainly torture. A slow building of something about to burst that worries him. Brings to mind all those lectures and lessons that end in some poor fool's dick blowing right off. Such stories had made certain young Maximus never gave into the temptation to paw at himself, even if he knew the other Aspirants took the risk.

Now? He sure feels like he's going to explode as Lucy's clever fingers work him over.

"N-no, it doesn't hurt," He huffs. Forming words take effort as his fingers clench all the harder atop the dilapidated couch Maximus finds himself sitting on. It had been an accident, sort of. Having Lucy so close and smelling so good had affected Maximus as it would any man and she'd sure as shit noticed.

There'd been a grin on Lucy's face and a keen shine to her eyes when making the suggestion to help him out. Teach him what sort of fun two people could get up to. When he'd agreed, she'd chirped out an "Okey-Dokey" and yanked his pants right down as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Vault Dwellers sure are weird but now that she's got her hands on him? Maximus can't complain too much. It feels good, feels like it's worth the risk even as Lucy assures him the explosion that'll come is natural. Encouraged.

She's sure encouraging him with a slow pump of her wrist, fingers gripping tight around his shaft as she leisurely strokes him.

"Want me to make it feel better?" Doe-eyes flick up to his face and there's that wicked curve to Lucy's lips. Equal parts anticipation and fear shiver up Maximus' spine, but he trusts her wholly.

Maximus can only nod dumbly in response to the question, leaning back further as he huffs through his nose again. His cock throbs painfully in her grasp as tightness coils in his gut and lower. Something is happening, but it feels good and he doesn't want Lucy to stop.

"Y-yeah. I like what you're doing." He adds, one hand coming up to cup the side of her face tenderly as she smiles up to him.

He likes Lucy. She's kind and pretty and sees the good in everything, him included. She also knows how to make his cock feel good. That's a bonus.

"Watch this," Lucy dips her head with tongue flicking out. She swirls it over the head of his cock as her fingers tighten. The wet texture of her tongue is far too much for him as something snaps within. Warm heat rushes through Maximus as his nerves are set on fire.

There's a nuclear explosion as Maximus groans out his pleasure, but then his cock is leaking. Spurting thick, white liquid so close to Lucy's face. He's horrified.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Maximus babbles even in the throes of his climax, cock twitching in Lucy's grip as she does something obscene. She doesn't pull away, no. Lucy leans forward and pops his cockhead right between her lips with a low hum.

"Lucy-!?" Maximus almost swallows his own tongue at the sight, a strangled gasp rattling through his chest. 

Her eyes flutter shut as Lucy swallows him down. For his part, Maximus barely hold on as he rides out the pleasure.

It's not until Maximus finally stops twitching, cock starting to go soft that Lucy pulls back with a wet sound. She grins, "See? The explosion is supposed to happen!"

[tame-the-lion-writes]

[the ghoul x reader] sweet tooth

If there’s one thing you should know about the Ghoul, it’s that he will always be at war with any and every sweet thing.

Not a war as in bloody and bruised—no, not physically—though he feels like it most days. It’s a war where sweetness simply goes against his nature—for he is outwardly, inwardly, and irrevocably twisted. As scarred on the inside as the radiation burns on his skin. So when sweetness and sugar and honey meets steel, when that drip of golden ichor sinks down into leather, he instinctively flinches away yet finds it all too alluring. Like water in gunpowder. Now-clouded purity, rendering bullets ineffective.

The Ghoul would like to believe he could toy with goodness, and hold it in his palm. Keep his distance by keeping it on a leash, because maybe taunts could keep him unholy. But while he thinks himself dirty enough to corrupt, it’s really quite the opposite—your dynamic is more so the darkness running from the light, where even the slightest of beams could render the shadows erased. And maybe deep down, the thought is both desire and fear; The Ghoul would be gone and put to rest—that persona brought forth for the sake of survival—that character shelved in a closet, because everything was a show, and he’s human again.

But ah—wishful thinking.

He wishes you would drown and die, and that he could bury you six feet under—settled beside a coffin marked with the initials C.H. The thought makes him leer, so he stuffs his mouth with cartilage, tendons, flesh. And he’ll wait for you to ripen, before he brings the harvest scythe. An ugly, possessive feeling. Ugly just like him. 

But you’re beautiful—you’re beautiful���and sweet.

“Why’d you bring me with you, mister? You could’ve left me to die.”

“Ain’t much sugar in the wasteland, darlin’. And I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

This isn't exactly for a specific scenario. It's just an amalgamation of my corruption kink thoughts on him and how feral (haha get it--wait does that count as insensitive towards ghouls?--) I am about this degenerate gunslinger

[theewritingroomm]

The First Meeting - Pre War

Summary: meeting Cooper for the first time. Pairing: Cooper Howard x Reader (eventual) Word Count: 597 Warnings: none for this chapter, future chapter may have more warnings. A/N: This drabble series is going to feel like a slow burn, and it will likely not be posted in any specific order. However there will be a masterlist for this series. I do NOT consent to my work being translated or published onto third party sites - including AO3 and Wattpad. 

The Cowboy & The Movie Star

When you had gotten the role, you did not expect much to come out of it. The one thing you knew for certain was that your mom was proud. She was every time you got a role. And eventually, everybody in your hometown would know about it. On release day, her book club would become a watch party and they would drive to the nearest theater and watch it. Later in the evening you could expect a call where your mom would rave about the movie and your performance, Even if it was only thirty seconds. 

That is exactly what happened with your latest movie. Though the praise did not stop with just your mother this time. Multiple times a day your agent was calling to tell you about the latest interview opportunity or magazine article that wanted to feature you and discuss the movie. . 

Accepting those interviews had rocketed you to the status of America’s Sweetheart. Your place there was cemented by the nomination you received for best supporting actress. 

“Mom, I don’t know if I can do this.” You admitted into the space of the backseat, running your hands down the front of your dress. An attempt to calm the nerves taking over. 

Your mom placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, forcing you to turn towards her. Pride was visible on every feature of her face. 

“My sweet girl, you can do this. You are so strong and magnificent. And now the world is finally catching onto what I’ve known this whole time.” She fixes a strand of your hair as she continues. “So, when you do win and you become a world traveling movie star, don’t forget you momma.” 

A laugh breaks through the nerves as the car comes to a stop. 

The door is opened from the outside of the car and the flashes from dozens of cameras momentarily blinds you. The shouts of your name are nearly deafening as you step out of the car. 

An older gentleman ushers you and your mother down the red carpet. Instructing you on when to stop and where to begin looking. The ordeal was slightly disorientating; the lights, the voices, the people. It was too much and the nerves began to return as you shuffled down the carpet.. Slamming into your chest like a bus. 

Or perhaps that feeling was the man you had stumbled into. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” You rushed out, grabbing onto the man’s forearm for stability. 

Chancing a glance upwards, dread filling you as the remnants of your career in Hollywood flashed in your mind. 

Though instead of anger from the man above you, there was a flash of worry as he helped you right yourself. His brown eyes were soft as a hand landed on your hip. 

“Accidents happen,” he waved off, “Are you okay, darling?” 

The term of endearment, laced with his slow drawl slid down your spine like warm honey. Settling where his hand sat on your hip and spread warmth through you. 

Before you got the chance to respond, the voices of the paparazzi cut into your brain. 

“Cooper! Y/N! Look this way! Over here!” 

It seemed that, broke the man, Cooper, out of his own trance. His hand slipped from your waist, yours fell from his arm. Backing up a step you met his eyes again. 

“Thank you for catching me.” You spoke quickly, shuffling past him, you mother in tow. Sporting a new, cheshire cat grin. 

As the award show began, a newly familiar figure slid into the empty seat next to yours.