#he’s sooooooooo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kaminocasey · 8 months ago

Text

This was everything!!! My heart is absolutely a puddle now. Oh my goddddd. These are all the parts that had me kicking my feet all giddy and giggling.

This series is everything to me rn. I love it so much and I’m so excited to read the next part!!! 😭😭😭🥹🥹🥹

— clean slate [into the fire, part v]

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | masterlist

cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, sex for favors, sub/dom elements, canon-typical descriptive violence and death, references to blood/gore, anti-ghoul sentiments, physical violence against reader, hurt/comfort, kissing

a/n: please mind the tags! this chapter got twice as long as the others (maybe I didn't want it to end, haha!) and there was a good break, so to keep things consistent, I am splitting it in half! both are being posted today though, so you don't have to wait 💖

Always said he did this shit for the love of the game. But this time - he thinks - it might just be personal.

(or - they took something from the Ghoul, and he’s here to collect)

The afternoon edges into night, and he tells himself each hour is the last one he'll think about you.

The Ghoul had waited for you to look back. Stock-still in the swirling dust that bit at his skin. A white-knuckled grip around the thick coil of rope.

You hadn’t.

His hand still reaches to scrubs at his neck, his jaw. To wipe you away or rub you in, he’s not sure.

It doesn't fucking matter.

He's stuck around a long time. Enough to see generations of families grow old and then die. The last few weeks are no more than a blip, in his far too-long life.

Hell - he's spent more time underground, than with you.

But something prickles at him. Lingering like a bad trip, leaving his teeth clenching and jaw aching as he finishes out the bounty.

It's messy.

It shouldn't have been. Should have been easy - but he's aching for a fight, something to take his mind off things. He's antagonistic.

Could've finished everything up from afar, but he ends up in close range. Another scar marring his chest, new splatters streaked across his dark coat.

It aches, a deep bruise as it heals.

Still only slightly dulling the itch of irritation.

I haven't lied about anything.

Didn’t last night mean anything to you?

It's sometime the next morning, after a night of a starless sky closing in around him, that he gives in.

Heading the way you went without thought, and when he does notice, he tells himself it's only because he needs more chems. That it’d be a shame to lose a supplier as good as you.

That it's easier, for both of you to stick together.

Maybe that's why he was careless. Knowing deep down, it would be easier to find a corpse later than to haul around a bounty, kicking and screaming.

The small sliver left of another man, from another life, knows he was cruel. That anger had turned him into a viper. Had always been good at striking first. Self-preservation beaten into him after two-hundred years - an old, festering wound.

He doesn’t know how to apologize anymore, but he can already think of a few ways to distract you.

Maybe you’ll forget completely, if he's thorough.

The Ghoul is faster than you are. Needs less rest, less food. Has already plotted just how far you can get in a day. Your footprints faded as packed earth leads to woods, but you’re not the type to wander, and there's only a few settlements in the miles ahead.

Halfway to his destination, when his eyes snag on a patch of rocks. A broken bits of branches on the trees just before it. There's something smeared across the stone - tasting like iron, when the tip of a finger brings it to his tongue.

Something ancient twists in his stomach, awakening from a slumber.

Backing up, he's able to piece together the struggle. Seeing the flattened grass, the heavy boot prints, melding with the smaller ones.

Finding a body, fallen off to the side - angling off the rock with the stain. Something familiar about the look of him.

A boot sinks into their side, rolling them over. A curl of a lip - he recognizes them. One of the two bounty hunters they’d fun into.

He had hated their eyes on you when they blew through that town.

Something had prickled at him then, but he had ignored it. A grit of his jaw - should’ve dealt with both of them.

There’s a hole in their head - red spilling down their neck, still tacky to the touch. A clean, close shot. His finger sinks in the wound, the same size as your 10mm.

"Good girl." The Ghoul murmurs.

The slightest ease of the knot in his chest.

A crunch of glass beneath his feet, the glint of the sun catching the needle. Another shape he knows well - a syringe. Probably a tranquilizer.

Three meeting one, with three leaving. The dead weight of you weighing down their steps, the footprints pressing heavily into the earth.

Easy enough for him to follow, as he slings his gun free.

Always said he did this shit for the love of the game.

But this time - he thinks - it might just be personal.

Despite being back among faces you knew, fear had been your only companion since the meeting in the forest.

Hazy memories flicker through your mind. Being dragged, snippets of light and the heat of a fire. The bright sear of dawn, and the dry embrace of the desert again.

Waking to the feeling of your arms being wrenched above your head. Coming to, hissing and spitting. Nails catching the face of one of them - Baine, you think - his fist cracking down hard against your cheek in retaliation.

Leaving you dazed, as your wrists were caught again - bound in place. A cruel curl of a lip, as they examined you like a brahmin.

“You look like a Wastelander”. It’s spit out, a wet mark against the floor, “We’ll get you back where you belong soon enough.”

You’re not sure how much time has passed. A day, maybe. Hunger gnaws at you - only a small sliver of comfort in the dried meat and fruit tossed your way.

Axton, the head of the Reclaimers - those who were tasked with bringing people back - had grown up with you. At one time, was perhaps even more than that. A distant relation of the current Overseers, his blood too thinned out to be of use - but even he won’t look you in the eye.

You both know how this will go, when you get back home.

Hope drains from you, with each hour. Eating away at the little flicker of hope in your chest, wrapped tightly around your heart.

Maybe he’d show.

But despair clouded your thoughts, soon after.

“You get hurt doing some stupid shit, and I’m leavin’ you behind.”

“You're a goddamn fool if you think I hadn’t been planning on turnin' you in the first chance I get."

Maybe he’d been truthful all along, and you hadn’t listened. Read into all those small moments, weaving them together until they had made something tangible.

The looks, stolen breaths and almost-careful touches. All fleeting, but you had caught them. Holding them close to your heart.

But life isn’t like the holotapes you grew up, back when everything felt safe.

There aren’t cowboys anymore. No heroes on horses - with their silver spurs and a shining, golden badge.

No one was coming for you.

The footprints die out, as the bleached trees grow thin.

Tall grass to packed dirt, dried by the sun. Rolling hills and then mountains, scraping against the horizon. The dipping sun casts him in a red light that bleeds to black at his ankles, his shadow stretching back long and lean behind him.

But these roads aren't wholly unknown to him.

Spent time blowing through Junktown and The Hub, a couple dozen miles away. The memory hazy, but there weren't too many places folk could stay, once the sun went down and everything wild and unruly came crawling out.

A feeling in his gut has him stopping two miles down the road. A half-dug quarry, long abandoned even before the world went to hell. Threadbare railings and platforms held together with spit and a prayer, framing the rusted building that cuts into the stone walls.

The tip of his boot taps a loose rock, sending it off the edge. Head cocked as he thinks, until he hears the faintest clatter a hundred feet below.

Two-hundred years ago, he had stood on a ledge much like this. Valley of the Gun. The final shootout had his guns lost in the dust. Fist-fighting with the leader of the gang, until they both near tumbled off the edge together.

Honorable, in the way he had caught the man's hand. Tried to haul him up, but had to let go when a knife was pulled - keeping him the hero. A satisfying death that wasn't his fault, a way to keep his conscience.

All movie tricks. Angles and the implication of falling, as the camera focused on his face that swam with regret.

Comin' after a girl then, too.

Thinks that's why the old memory has loosened in his mind.

Funny how things can change, but the bones remain. How he's still drawn back to life he's left far behind. Even if his conscience was buried, a long time ago.

Some things linger. He could go down. Take one of those ladders, work his way through the tunnels that are sure to wind through the limestone, and up through the back.

But he's never much liked being underground.

Another second of considering, before he's heading for the front door.

He used to like a script, but that was back in the day when the worst thing that could happen was a box-office bomb, not the hell he's been dragged through.

A half-cocked plan already forming. Twisting that connection between them, his own abandoned contract. Get him through the front door and to the man in charge at least, and that might be all he needs. Let years of instinct take over, after that.

Had already gotten a good look at a couple of them, when he first picked up the bounty. It had made him curious - why there was so much fuss, over so small a thing. Easy caps, he decided, when he had gotten a look at you.

Picking up that their brutality had been learned from sharpening their teeth against a silver spoon. Hardy - compared to some Wastelanders - with their filling meals and their pristine weapons.

But they sure as hell don't have the same grit as one.

Not much of anything, really, when compared to him.

The door opens with the push of his shoulder. Hand beneath the swirl of his coat, finger already fixed on the trigger. Not far in until he’s running into one of them - another Vaultie.

The man startles, wide-eyed when he sees him. Green, in his shades of blue and yellow.

“Here ‘bout a job.” The Ghoul keeps his voice light, in spite of everything.

Knows they’re keeping you alive for someone else, as much as that makes his jaw clench. No need to go rushing in just yet.

A flicker of recognition, as the man frowns, “How’d you find us?”

His head tilts, that smooth drawl slipping in, “Wouldn’t be much of a Bounty Hunter if I couldn’t, now, would I?”

The Vault Dweller’s eyes are fixed on his face, that familiar look of fear and disgust - dipping down to the pocket of his nose, the curling smile of yellowed teeth.

It’s strange how foreign it feels, after the hours spent with you looking at him so differently.

Maybe he’d been a fool, after all.

Maybe it’s more than your tight cunt that he wants to bury himself in, to claim. Something soft, bitten back behind his teeth. Something he doesn’t even know if he has a name for, anymore.

Something he didn’t know he needed , until he had chased both it and you away.

“We’ve already got her.” The man manages, after thinking it over, “Don’t think we need your services anymore.”

There’s another flash of teeth at the confirmation.

“Agreement was to find her. And who do you think rustled her up?” His brow lifts, “Would’ve been half-way to New Reno by now, if I hadn’t herded her your way.”

That sharp edge creeping in, “Think my time’s worth a little somethin ’. Don’t you?”

It’s easy for the guard to leave that decision to someone else. Standing aside, to let him pass.

“Thank you kindly.” The Ghoul tips his hat, a swirl of his coat as he passes.

Taking just enough steps past them, waiting until the man’s back turns. Spinning on his heel, after.

The knife glints between his fingers as he twirls it. A hand pressing over the Vault Dweller’s mouth, before the blade sinks into their neck.

Muffling the dying gurgle. A grunt as the Ghoul yanks the blade free - leaving the body crumpled in the shadows, as he winds deeper.

One down.

Hold on , he thinks.

I’m coming.

His whistle echoes in the chamber.

Half old-world - a long-forgotten leitmotif that fuses with new notes of his own. A part to play until he doesn't, letting the Ghoul guide him.

Down the half-lit hallway, the lights flickering overhead from the ancient generator. Everything picked clean like he figured it would be - every last piece of scrap ferreted away, leaving only dusty crates behind.

Still playing the part, as the low murmur of voices grows louder. Ears pricking up, listening for hers. Picking out at least three or four others from the layered hum.

A sneer, at the number. He’s faced worse odds. It’s in his favor really - take out as many fuckers as he can. Send bits and pieces of them back.

His intentions masked, an old habit, by the time he enters the warehouse. A wide steel grate floor, opening up to a second level below, scattered with old machinery.

There’s a table. Cards littering the top - a luxury brought from the Vault, as they bet using caps. Couple Vault Dwellers and that Wasteland son of a bitch from the town. Four total, one lounging on a sleeping pack as if it’s just another night, and they weren’t bringing you to your death.

It rankles him, teeth set on edge.

A scrape of chair legs on the floor, at the drawling condescension of his voice.

“Ain’t y’all a little old for a sleepover?”

Hands rest on holsters, but they don’t draw. The Ghoul focuses on one - a face he recognizes, the one who had sought him out.

The man’s legs spread, as if he’s got something worthwhile between them. The leader of this whole operation. Axton , or some shit like that - it hadn’t been worth his time to remember.

“Believe you fellas got somethin’ of mine.” The Ghoul drawls, “I’m here to collect.”

There’s a pause at that.

One of them, a right-hand man by the look of their padded leather armor - not a scratch on it - scowls. A face that tells another story. Pink marks start at their cheek, jagged lines that end at a thick neck.

His eyes narrow at that, lip curling. A flicker of unease in his belly - fingers clenching where they rest against his hips, close enough to draw.

“You’re too late for payment, ghoul. Heard you were dragging your feet.” His head tilts, towards the Wastelander who had gone still, “We went and got her ourselves.”

The Ghoul grins - a fierce thing, with a flash of teeth. A lilt, in his voice.

“Now, what makes you think I’m here for caps?”

It gives them pause. His question - the prospect of a ghoul showing up, unannounced.

“What else you here for?” Another grunts - eyes already back on his cards, a comfort in their numbers.

“Think you know.”

“The girl?” Atmos laughs, and the sound is cruel, “Heard she split from you. Caught her after.”

A tilt of his head towards the armored man and the Wastelander. Taunting then, “Must not be that good, if you let her slip away. What, she get tired of looking at your ugly mug?”

If they only knew the kind of things he’d done to you. What you had done to him, right back.

The Ghoul is only half-paying attention. Sticks and stones, all their insults falling on deaf ears. Too busy with eyes that flick over the top floor. Then down to the ground below.

Something flipping inside his guts, when he sees it. Cast in shadow near the base of the stairs, but his eyesight is keener than it’s ever been.

Arms bound, the knot looped around the hook of an overturned crane. A raw, split mark - swollen and bruised flesh - on the curve of a smooth cheek. Just above where your teeth cut into a piece of cloth, tied tightly around to gag you.

A tilt of your head, and then your eyes are meeting his. Round and blank with fear. Widening, when you see him.

His girl.

Muscles string tight, eyes narrowed as his teeth clench. You’d paid for what you did, and he’d be there to return the favor.

His gaze snaps back, and focuses. Whatever plan he had been working up burns, turning to ash.

“Always heard that beauty was in the eye of the beholder.” The Ghoul’s tone is conversational - although his blood boils, scalding hot, “But if you wanna see an ugly fucker , well… you best look right there.”

There’s a nod of his head, towards the man in charge. As if on cue, their heads twist to look - just as he draws, and then fires.

The Vault Dweller’s head caves in. Gore splattering against the blue of his suit. Barely a breath before his finger is tugging again, a bullet going through the chest of a second.

Always too goddamn slow.

Hesitant to take a life, even with their bravado.

Something that molted from his skin with the rest of him, over a century ago. He’s already reaching for the gun holstered at his shoulder before return shots are fired.

He can feel the flicker of something miss him, before he’s charging. Ducking under the swing of a knife, the muzzle pressed against ribs.

A hoarse shout that is drawn out by the ringing blast. The knife caught and sent spinning into the back of the Wastelander, heading towards the door.

Flinching, as something slams into his shoulder, just shy of his collarbone, and out the other side. The turn of a head - an eye fixed on the last man standing.

Padded armor won’t do much to stop him.

“That your handiwork?” The Ghoul growls, as his head tips towards you.

The man's finger twitches but he’s faster - a shot going into the meat of their thigh. Downing them as they scream, as the Ghoul saunters over to tug the hilt from where he’s buried it in the Wastlander’s back.

It glints a gleaming red in the light, as he adjusts his grip. Eyeing the scripted tattoos that cross over the man’s knuckles - as they grip at their thigh, near-tenderized from the blast.

Ones that had struck you. Could send them back, spelling out something obscene. A rough laugh at the thought.

He’s got someone waiting for him. But, he knows from experience…

That this won’t take too long.

In the hours since you parted, it’s only now that you can breathe.

For a long moment, you hadn’t dared believe. Eyes drawn to the noise above - the loud pitch of voices.

One of them - rough and low - draws your attention. Everything dark from your angle, an ache as you had tried to see.

Knowing that shadow. The brim of his hat.

The burn of his eyes, when they fixed on you. You could feel the fury in them, even from here. A muted sound of desperation from behind your gag, as you watched.

The Ghoul shoots first - the second his eyes pull away, and it’s all over in a matter of moments.

Your eyes closing at the sound of gunfire, of screaming - until it finally cuts short. Leaving the warehouse eerily silent, except for the clicking of spurs against metal.

He crouches in front of you, now - and you can’t help the whine. So much trapped behind the thick binding of cloth. All you could do is tug at your bound wrists - neck craning as you tried to watch from below.

A force of nature. Bared teeth a quick draw. Again you’re forced to admit to yourself how lucky you were to still be standing, after your first meeting.

He had blown through them like it was nothing.

“Hold on a minute, honey.” That low tone is familiar, calming you as his fingers hook around the cloth. Leaving a smear of red against your jaw as he tugs the gag free - shucking his gloves after.

“Are you hurt?” It comes out ragged. Tongue heavy in your mouth, throat dry. Eyes scanning the dark leather of his coat - all that red , smeared across it, “Thought you got hit.”

He barks out a laugh, your chin trapped between thumb and forefinger, “That’s what you’re worried about?”

Something dark swirling across his features, as he tilts your head towards the light. His thumb pressing at the edge of your bruise, denting skin.

“They got you good, didn’t they?” He murmurs, and you smile through a wince, at the dull ache of pain.

“You got them.”

“Sure did,” It’s distracted, as he cuts at the binds, next. The rope fraying and then splitting, an ache in your shoulders when your arms finally lower.

“Fuckin’ amateurs.” He mutters again, watching as you wince at the rubbed-raw skin at your wrists. The corners of his lips tipped down, lost in thought.

“Thought you would’ve liked seeing me all tied up.” It’s a weak thing. An attempt at humor, the ache in your heart at seeing him cut by the acidity of your last meeting.

He blinks. Comes back to himself, a hoarse hum of amusement.

“Only when I’m doing it, sweetheart.” The Ghoul’s eyes meet yours then, a hint of a smirk with the tilt of his head.

“Can think of a much better way of gagging you, too.”

There’s almost a softness to his tone. Just barely there, tinting the rough edges. Something like hope flutters - delicate, behind your ribs.

“You… you came, for me.” You need the clarification. To hear him say it. That this isn’t some ruse, a way to take you directly to the source, “You’re not-”

There’s a sigh, as he fixes you with a long look. His head tipping towards the platform above, a lazy flick of his finger towards an arm that dangles from the ledge.

“Well that there man’s the one I got your contract from,” The Ghoul drawls, “Said I was to return what belonged to somebody else.”

Those eyes fixing on you again, “Seein’ as you’re not , and seein’ as that man is now indisposed…”

His words trail off - and you can’t help the small smile, as he finishes.

“I’m thinkin we’re square.”

The look you give him is soft. Admiring. You don’t know how he tracked you down, but he did.

“You saved me.” It’s hushed, and at your tone his eyes pull from you.

Fixing somewhere low, off to the side, as he crouches. Uncomfortable with the way you look at him. How you see him. Not used to it, not after so many years.

You’re not able to resist.

Muscles stringing stiff when you lean forward. Lips pressed against the leather of his cheek, fingers ghosting against his jaw.

A huff then, teeth biting into his tongue with the shake of a head. His eyes dark, as you pull back, hovering.

“Darlin’ if you’re going to be stealin’ a kiss, you best be doin’ it properly.” The Ghoul rasps, eyes flicking down to your mouth.

His head tips towards yours, but it’s your that meets his first. A little sound in your throat as your lips slot against his. Warm and insistent as his knees drop to press into the cement floor.

Tugging at you, as your fingers grasp at his collar. A hungry lick of his tongue against the seam of your lips as you whine, crushing your chest to his.

His fingers at your neck, your jaw. Angling your head, a rough groan as you part for him. Turning ravenous - wandering hands as your tongue slips against his. Panting breaths and a grinding of hips when he yanks you closer.

“How many were there?” He hums, as you try to sneak a ragged breath.

The curve of a smile when you try to ignore him, a click of his tongue.

“I dunno,” Your mind is too foggy. Too focused on the hands that trace against your waist, “Four? No… maybe five?”

“You don’t seem too sure, sweetheart.” He does smile then, at the little mark between your eyebrows. Untangling himself - a hand reaching down to adjust himself, as he stands.

“As much as I’d like to take you right here,” He husks, eyes dragging over you, “The last thing I need is a bullet in the ass.”

A tilt of his head, towards the open floor.

“Come on, cowpoke. Let’s do a sweep.”

the last (final, for real this time) part will be up in just a little bit! 💖 thank you so much for reading - this series has become so much to me, and every ask or comment or tag or reblog has absolutely meant the world 💕

#fallout #cooper Howard #he’s sooooooooo #not Star Wars #not sw

476 notes · View notes