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theredofoctober · 6 months ago

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The Sand Violet: A Fallout Dark Fic

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Mute Female Reader fic

Synopisis: The Ghoul known as Cooper Howard kidnaps Reader in an attempt to sell her for medicine. When she escapes and humiliates him he has his revenge.

The Reader insert is female and mute. Other features not described

TW and CW: noncon/rape, violence, death, cannibalism

Words: 6,899

Read after the cut ✂️

It’s quiet in Filly, or as quiet as it gets, the afternoon so hot as to bake the earth dark and to drive its milling residents back indoors.

Store holders draw their shutters down against the sun and crouch, noiseless with exhaustion, over whatever toil pays their way in the world.

Dogs loll snoring in doorways, and bartenders find themselves elbowing old punters aside to serve the new and many stumbling in to wet their mouths and take refuge from the warm.

You and your husband, Gray, idle in one of several junk shops in town, having little else to do until the heatwave dwindles into night.

A thick-shouldered man sits drowsily at the front desk, squinting as you traipse about his wares for your fourth or fifth rotation of the room.

“Clear out if you ain’t tradin’,” he mutters, but as you loiter with stubborn aversion to the sucking heat beyond his doorstep the man does not rise to chase you out.

Gray lays a gentle hand on the crook of your arm.

“Let’s go pretend to be interested in that thing over there,” he murmurs. “Keep the old guy happy.”

Talking Gray’s elbow, you obey, looking at his turned, freckled cheek with a want to kiss it. You’re as in love as two people can be in such times, and though the days are hard and the nights harder still, with Gray they do not feel so.

You sleep rough in sand dunes together, eat canned fruit with one spoon between you over fires you put out before the radroaches come.

Tonight you’ll find a bar and drink with what stray caps you’ve each left in your satchels, and later lie as one until the sun scrapes the night away, still tasting the rum on one another’s breath.

Or so it would have been, had fate not cracked a backhand blow across your hopeful faces.

The junkshop door bangs open against the wall, setting its bells thrashing in an angry fairy chorus. As a mean silhouette moves into the light like an eye gouged from the face of God Gray steps ahead of you by instinct, his right hand grazing the knife at his belt.

“Ah, shit,” says the shopkeeper, half-rising from his seat. “You ain’t allowed in here.”

“Says who?” drawls the stranger, kicking the door shut behind him. “I know you ain’t about to get your ass up and stop me, Davey, else the taste of lead’s startin’ to sound mighty flavoursome to you.”

Davey sits down slowly, his broad face wincing and resigned.

The newcomer is a hairless man in an ancient cowboy hat and a coat whose tatters trail, wisp-like, at the spurs of his boots. His face is like that of a red moon, sunken and cratered, and without a nose to speak of, his skull gleaming with the scars of some ancient burn.

A ghoul.

You know of such creatures, so changed by radiation that some no longer think them men, though they are human, still, for all their deviance from that race.

The stranger’s dark eyes switch the store with a slow calculation, dismissing its contents before turning at last to Gray and to your shielded figure behind him.

“I heard there was two Vaulties in town,” says the Ghoul. “And lucky me: I just happened upon them.”

“We’re not Vault Dwellers,” Gray says, curtly. “Not anymore.”

Six months ago he’d gotten into a fight with another man he’d perceived to have disrespected you, and had been turned out of the Vault on that account. You had followed, seeing no life there without your husband, though you knew little then of what lay beyond.

Quickly you and Gray had learned the way of the wastes, casting much of what softness you’d had aside but that which you held for one another.

Evidently it is not enough, for the Ghoul looks at your husband with a grin full of sly yellow teeth.

“Hell, look at you,” he says. “Those hands of yours are as tender as a new-born’s. Once a Vaultie, always a Vaultie. You ain’t built to step outside those fish tanks you lock yourselves up in.”

The Ghoul turns to peer at you, his eyes narrowed to earthen slits as Gray pushes you further behind him.

“What do you want with us, anyway?” Gray asks. “We’re just minding our business trying to live up here, same as anybody else.”

Sneering, the Ghoul says, “Yeah, well, let’s see how long that lasts. Now who’s this shrinkin' violet you’re trying so damn hard to hide from me?”

He shunts Gray aside with one rude shoulder and stands over you, eyeing you up and down as he might a saloon whore, his hands resting at his belt.

You’re glad of the cotton dress that covers you from throat to boot top, allowing him nothing of the skin that restless stare likely seeks.

“Now, ain’t you pretty,” says the Ghoul. “What’s your name, sugar?”

Trembling with anger, Gray says, “Leave her alone.”

The Ghoul shifts his jaw in an irritable motion.

“I ain’t talkin’ to you, kid. I’m askin’ her.”

“She can’t talk,” says Gray, and you nod at the Ghoul, who tips his hat back from the crenellation of his brow in mock surprise.

“That so?”

With a trembling hand you sign, yes.

“Sorry, sweetie, I don’t speak your language.”

“She’s mute,” says Gray, quietly. “Has been since she was a baby.”

You echo the statement with cradled arms, and the Ghoul’s head tilts aside like a jackal watching a man die at some lofty distance.

“So you’re tellin’ me this beautiful lady right here can’t make no noise?” he asks, slowly. “Well, ain’t that convenient. See, I’m lookin’ to make some easy money, and as it so happens there’s a whole lot of folks chompin’ at the bit to buy a woman of just that description.”

The Ghoul seizes you by the arms with a motion so sudden that you do not protest, only stumble against him, feeling a sash of bullets like some torn out length of spinal cord upon your own.

“You’re comin’ along with me, darlin’,” says the Ghoul. “Hope you don’t mind.”

His breath is hot against your ear, smelling of cigarettes and some strange chemical.

“You’re not taking her anywhere!” snaps Gray, his lean frame tense with fury. “That’s my wife!”

The Ghoul looks sideways at him, his narrow lips upturned.

“Not no more she ain’t.”

Gray pulls his knife from his belt and lunges forwards, halting only at the raised snout of a gun protruding from the Ghoul’s calm grip.

Davey stands up once more, yelling and waving one arm ineffectually.

“Hey now! Hey now!”

Caught up between two men you find yourself oddly collected, as though by desperation fear has made you the sole point of calm.

Perhaps the Ghoul feels the racket of your heart against your bones; it does not matter. You cannot allow Gray to know it beats so, nor to bound, reckless, into a bullet on your behalf

Looking into the jailhouse madness of your husband’s eyes, you sign, I’ll go with him. I’ll get away. I’ll find you. I love you.

Gray flinches, and sheathing his knife, he says hoarsely, “She says she’ll travel with you. Don’t let her get hurt.”

Davey drops to his seat in palpable relief, a single vein writhing like an albino snake along his forehead.

The Ghoul tucks his gun away with a satisfied ease, his other arm still clamping you to him.

“Oh, I won’t let a soul leave a scratch on her,” he says. “’Cause if they did she wouldn’t be worth shit to me.”

He twists you ahead of him, nudging your ankle with the toe of his boot.

“Come on, Violet,” he says, as you attempt to look back at Gray over your shoulder. “We got places to be.”

As he propels you out of the store you hear Davey half-whisper, “What hell were you thinkin' pullin' a knife on him, kid? That’s Cooper Howard, for fuck’s sake.”

The Ghoul pauses abruptly, as though jerking from the dream of some sunken childhood horror.

“Ain’t gone by that name in years,” he says, gruffly. “Don’t you go raisin’ the dead.”

Then he jostles you onwards, and the sound of his spurs and the closing door become the same funeral song.

The Ghoul directs you through the town into a quarter of parched woodland, his gun trained lazily at your back. He speaks little, only snapping occasionally at your unrushed pace, which through dull spite you’ve no interest to change.

The shock of your abduction morphs into a watchful cunning in which you await your moment to revolt, your silence lending greatly to the effect of submission.

Still, you are not trusted to fall behind or even aside of your ruthless captor. The Ghoul has likely walked a hundred cringing hostages to their demise at organ shops or dens of ill repute, and from those journeys knows what tricks he might expect from even so pliant a charge.

In time you’re driven on into desert terrain that goes on unbroken for miles, the afternoon heat crushing strength and moisture from you like the blood of some small animal mercy-killed beneath a stone.

That land, as you have glimpsed before, is wrought of death and casual evil.

You see one man dragging another on a leash, the latter’s knees worn through to the bone from crawling so long in the wastes.

You see ferals beheaded and lashed to sun-bleached fences, only letters marked by stones in the earth denoting what, in life, they’d been.

You see a pack of dogs eating a woman’s entrails in the remains of an old shack, one of which raises its head to watch you pass with one viscous eye like the orb of some addled sorceress.

The Ghoul observes all with the same grim cynicism, smirking occasionally, as though gleaning something blackly comic from this show of ugliness.

He only stops when the sun collides with the skyline, setting up camp in what remains of an old gas station.

You loiter by an old pump, thinking that to run or to attack the Ghoul outright would not end in your favour.

Rising from his work, The Ghoul says, “Come here, darlin’. Let’s see if you have any weapons on you.”

You shake your head, thinking of the knife in your boot and the others in your satchel as the last thread by which you might escape.

Please, you sign. I need them.

The Ghoul strides across the camp and outstretches a leather clad palm.

“Hand ‘em over or I’ll pat you down and take ‘em myself. You’ll be waitin’ for the chance to gut me in my sleep. I ain’t takin' no chances with you, sweetie. “

When you hold back he snatches a handful of your dress and begins a rough search of your body, feeling you all over from breasts to groin with a scowl on his wizened lips.

It’s only when he raises your skirt to retrieve the bowie knife from the back of your boot that something of ordinary male desire crosses his face, his stare crawling the smooth plane of your calf.

He does not touch it, though from the stillness of his observation you perceive that he would like to.

“Gimme that satchel,” says the Ghoul, gruffly. “Let’s see what you got in there.”

He rifles through tinned food and RadAway until he finds the three blades sewn into the lining of your bag.

“That’s one hell of an artillery, Violet. You know how to use all this?”

You nod shortly.

“Well, at least that’s somethin’,” says the Ghoul, and he dumps the open bag into the earth. “Pays to know how to survive in this place.”

Producing a length of rope from somewhere under his coat he takes hold of your wrists and binds them, ignoring your mouthed words of dismay.

“I’ve seen you eyein' that desert,” he says, “tryin’ to figure out if you can slip past me. You might not talk, but your face sure does a lot of yappin’ for you.”

Satisfied with the knot, The Ghoul sits on an upturned barrel and hefts a flask of water to his mouth. Your cracked tongue pushes forth in hopeless want of moisture, watching beads of it run in a careless spill upon his chin.

Catching your eye, the Ghoul says, “Want somethin', Vaultie?”

With knotted hands you gesture to the flask. Sneering, the Ghoul takes another noisy mouthful of water and pours the rest onto a grimy rag with which he wipes his face, a waste of precious contraband.

You turn away, refusing him your despair.

“Here, sweetie,” says The Ghoul, gesturing the sopping fabric. “You want water? Come get what’s left of this.”

Still you do not look at him, attempting not to think of the liquid falling drop by silver drop upon the sand.

The Ghoul scoffs.

“Think you’re too good for it, huh? Well, you ain’t gettin’ anythin’ else all night. Maybe not tomorrow, neither. So come on, Violet. Drink while you can.”

He tugs the rope cuffing your wrists until you’re forced to your knees and holds the cloth to your lips, allowing the water to drip between them. Thirst awakened, you snatch a corner of the scrap in your teeth and suck the fabric dry, aware of the Ghoul’s eyes upon you.

“Now ain’t that a pretty sight,” he says. “Just for that I’ll give you a little more.”

He takes the flask from your own bag and again soaks the filthy cloth. This time you rip it from his hand and squeeze its contents down your throat with knotted hands as though pulping some browned fruit.

“You got spirit, Vaultie,” says the Ghoul, drying his hands on his coat. “I can see you ain’t gonna be easy to tame. But I’ve had dogs before. You ain’t no different.”

Snatching the cloth back, he shoves you into the dirt with a boot squared to your chest.

“See, I told that husband of yours I wouldn’t let you get hurt, but that don’t stop me teachin’ you a lesson, sweetheart. Just as long as I don’t leave a mark on you your value won’t shift a dime.”

You lie on your side, breathless and hateful, watching through half-open eyes as the Ghoul slouches nearby to settle in for the night.

“Get some shut-eye, Violet,” he says. “We got another day or so of walkin' ahead of us.”

You keep sentinel for hours, not trusting his appearance of sleep. Once, when you inch away from the Ghoul across camp, the rope at your wrists is tugged smartly taut as he reels you in across the sand.

“Stay close,” he says, opening one eye to squint at you through the dark. “I ain’t riskin’ somethin’ eatin’ you out here. What the fuck would I sell then?”

You awake to the Ghoul’s hand on your shoulder, turning you onto your back as though to identify a cadaver. From the luggage draped on his shoulder you guess he’s keen to leave, compelled by some urgency not yet detailed.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I ain’t openin’ the cans till we need ‘em, but I’ve do have this.”

You glance at the strips of dehydrated meat hung from his bag and shake your head, thinking how easily it might be the flesh of a man, being that the eating of them in the wastes is not uncommon.

“Don’t say I never offered,” says the Ghoul. “I’d wager you’ll be beggin’ for it in a couple of hours.”

As he pulls you to your feet you reach towards him with your wrists, mouthing a plea to be released.

“Now, you know I can’t do that, sunshine,” says the Ghoul, not without humour. “I must have heard that one a hundred times.”

Just one. Please.

The cowboy hums under his breath, thumbing the knot that joins your arms in a display of consideration.

“What do you need a hand for, Violet?”

You shift in discomfort, and to your relief the Ghoul gets the message.

“Alright. You get two minutes to do your business. Then we’re on the road.”

Slipping your dominant hand free of the lasso he turns in the other direction, whistling as you squat in the dirt. You’re coldly surprised that he allows you this dignity.

Once both arms are unified by the rope the Ghoul nudges you before him into the desert again, uncaring of the limp you’ve developed in your fatigue.

On your way you pass a church, repaired after the bomb by some follower of that old religion, or else inherited by the new.

Beyond it lies a boneyard, brittle skeletons set up like headstones across the plane.

There are wandering salesmen naming their wares in croaking shouts as they wheel forth shopping carts before them. There are hardened men and women the Ghoul claims are bandits, firing warning shots before they get close enough to attack.

“They’d eat you up, doll,” he drawls, cleaning off his gun. “Right down to those pretty white bones.”

You cross paths with groups of whores who lift their low-cut dresses and holler at your captor, who tips his hat, but otherwise ignores their attempts to woo him. Families stagger along with children whose faces are like rotting taxidermy, mutated, or else merely warped by whatever horrors they’ve encountered on their endless walk.

At the bottom of a sloping dune you come across the remnants of a massacre, bodies cut down into gelatinous morsels afloat on a lake of blood. When you halt, trembling, at its edges the Ghoul spits at your feet.

“What’s the matter, Vaultie? Don’t you know your Great-Great-Grandpappy and Grandmamma had a hand in making the world the way it is? Your ancestors didn’t give two shits what happened to the rest of us. That blood’s on your hands, darlin’.”

You stare at him without comprehension, thinking how closely his visage resembles the dead.

Suddenly the Ghoul bends over in the throes of a coughing fit, one hand scrabbling in his bag for a vial of liquid he decants into his mouth with a feverish need. He stoops, gasping, for some time, his lashes fluttering helplessly.

As you stare on it occurs to you that you know of this illness, the thing that chars the minds of ghouls away with its dread madness.

It makes Cooper weak, and thus you know what you must watch for in him to slip his hold.

That night, camped out beneath a blasted tree, the Ghoul coughs again, a wheeze like that of some punctured machine at work. As he falls sideways, his hands spidering for his pack, you see the precious bottles of elixir skid across the dirt out of his reach.

Starving, half-crazed with tiredness and thirst, you drag yourself up with aid of the tree and approach the Ghoul, watching his face upturn in desolate recognition of what you mean to do.

First you snatch the bags from him, finding a knife to cut your tethers. You spread your hands, gasping at their stiffness as you roll the joints.

Being untrained in the use of firearms you carry his gun to a patch of scrub and throw it amidst the foliage, far from sight. If he turns feral he will not think of it; if he survives the fit it will at least take him time to recover.

The Ghoul’s eyes prod your back with bleak resentment as you work.

Returning to the fallen man, you point your boot at the three glass bottles left of his supply.

You want them? You sign.

The Ghoul nods; you see that he expects nothing, and that lends you a cruel edge of power.

Taking care to look into his browless gaze you raise one boot and smash the vials beneath it, letting their contents leech away into the sand. Still the Ghoul inches forward in an attempt to lick it from the dirt, forgoing his dignity in the face of survival, as is surely his habit.

You draw back a foot and kick sand into his raddled face, burying the last of his medicine in its spray.

Fuck you, you tell him. You son of a bitch.

Then you turn and begin the long walk back to Filly, and to Gray.

You march, bow-legged with muscle cramp and blistered ankles, both day and night, pausing only to take your RadAway or drink from the flasks the Ghoul had filled at a well the day before. The dried meat you devour in segments, knowing that you must make your food stock last, or else starve before you reach civilisation.

You no longer care where the strips came from, or tell yourself that you do not. Guilt will inhibit your survival, and you’ve seen enough of the land to acknowledge that all men here are for themselves.

On the second day of solitary travel you are followed by a grinning stranger attracted to your stumbling vulnerability. He whispers as though to a lost love as he shadows you, licking at his mouth with his cracked tongue, one hand in his pocket, upon his cock or a blade, their end all the same to you.

You have not killed before, but from what you’ve known in your six months beyond the Vault you are sure in your knife hand as you turn on him and slit his throat. It is as though some sun burned doppelganger commits the act, so little do you feel as he stills, gargling, in the earth.

Only later, taking rest in a rundown cabin, do you look at your killing arm and wonder that it has taken you so long in the desert to have spilt your first blood. You are not sorry for the stranger, knowing from his mutterings what he would have done with you beneath him.

Still, you feel yourself altered, knighted by death as its champion.

In the morning the man’s body is gone, dragged away from the road by animals, or else by people so like them that their differences are irrelevant.

You begin to ask passers-by if they have seen your husband, all of which shake their heads, or send you on false leads that weary you to the point of sickness in their length.

There is no doubt that Gray would have followed you here; his overzealous sense of morality would not abide the notion of remaining behind. Yet there seems no trace of him in this thankless land, and through your savage tutelage in its ways you doubt that you will find him.

The miles are eaten by your splitting boots, and yet more come, as though in some sequence from nightmare they will never conclude, only expand into a formless frontier. You’re in such pain from walking that you can think of nothing but its grip upon you, raising one foot after the other only through the terror that in resting you may never rise again.

It’s afternoon when you come upon the old church once more, pale as a dead tooth in the gum of the horizon. You lope towards the double doors and knock, hankering after the cool shade within.

An elderly man answers, peering out at you without expression. There is a gun in his hand, aimed in a discreet fashion at your stomach.

Raising your palms, you mouth, Safe. I need shelter.

The old man lowers his gun without apology.

“I see. Come on in, sister. I’ll see about finding you something to drink.”

You are led through a hall in which rows of dirty wooden pews face the carved figure of a martyr nailed to a cross. His carved eyes seem to dog you as you sit and accept a cup of water as though judging you for the sin of taking a life.

You look back at him, dispassionate, untouched by He you do not worship.

The priest asks, “You’re troubled, sister. What is it you’re looking for out here?”

Taking a notepad and the worn-down stub of a pencil out of your bag you write, I’m looking for my husband. His name is Gray Freeland. He’s tall. Blue eyes. Freckles. He’s from a Vault. You’d know him.

The old man reads slowly, following the text with his finger.

“Well,” he says. “I haven’t seen many living folks pass through here in a long time. Mostly I keep my doors locked, since the only people I do see are man eaters. Wildmen.

“Just the other day I chased a few of them off a body they were dragging along, thinking to cut pieces from it whenever they were hungry, I suppose. I brought the poor man into the crypt so as I could give him a decent burial.”

Again you glance at the man on the cross and see that he is weeping. Your own eyes are dry, raw from the sand winds, a travelling cynic’s.

Take me to see the body, you write, and the old priest leads you down a narrow stairway like the coil of a shell into a cool basement of stone.

On a slab there lies a corpse, the ribs opened out and plucked clean of organs, the face half devoured, marks left on the skull from scraping teeth.

The other eye, the sloping cheekbone. These, intact, you know.

“You recognise this man?” asks the old man. “Is he your husband?”

You don’t answer, just look at the body as you did the massacre, stunned beyond grief by the cruelty of the wastes.

In the notebook you write, I want a funeral for him. A burial.

“You weren’t parted from your husband by the hand of God alone,” says the priest. “Someone came between you two.”

Yes, you say. The Ghoul. Cooper Howard. He wanted to sell me for caps, or medicine, I think. I ran away.

A twitch tugs the old man’s eye like a fishing line.

You write, you know this Ghoul.

“Yes. Everyone around these parts has heard of him. He’s a brutal man. He’s killed women, children, anyone to get what he wants. If he has any sort of code at all then it’s not one I know of.”

You stare into the eye of your dead lover and inherit from it his resolve to go on.

I should leave. If the Ghoul survived, then he may come here.

Placing a veined hand on yours, the priest asks, “What did you do to him, sister?”

Not enough.

You stay at the church overnight, given a meal of salted meat and hard bread, and a bath in a vast tin tub. You sleep on a palette bed in a back room with clean sheets, and drink cool water that tastes only of minerals, and not the filth of the wastes.

Yours is a slumber like that of the sick, or the long dead.

Then at first daylight you’re back on the road again, forced to leave your husband’s body to rot in its chill crypt.

With no purpose but to live you trundle forth past the grotesque landmarks that distinguish each stretch of earth from the other, walk until your boots are blood soaked and your hips ache like a crone’s.

Only when your knees give out do you resign yourself to set up camp by a defunct railroad, warming a tin of soup over a pitiful fire. You think almost of nothing as you drink, beaten flat as an ancient coin by the afternoon sun and the grinding nature of your suffering.

Slumped on an old box, you look at the fire, like some offshoot of your skyward enemy, and yearn for the cool of the Vault.

Footsteps crunch in the sand at your back, and a soft male voice says, “Now there’s my shrinkin' violet. Sittin’ out here all alone.”

Before you can dart away a weight strikes the middle of your back, pitching you into the dirt in a clumsy sideways roll. Winded, you find yourself peering up into the ravaged features of the Ghoul, and think that Death in his ragged coat could not appear so cruel.

“You’re tougher than I gave you credit for, sweetie,” he says, conversationally. “Meaner, too. Where’d that holier than fuckin’ thou Vault attitude go to?”

He must have hidden some vials amidst his clothes, enough to revive him from his lunacy. You had not thought to check his pockets, absorbed as you were in your revenge.

The Ghoul strips you of your weapons, tutting at the banality of routine. Then he looks down at how you’ve fallen, legs apart, your prairie dress gathered up like a tangled net about your knees, and notices the undergarments cupped with sweat to the cut of your cunt.

You see, then, a stain of thought spread through him like a thirst for blood, his eyes as black as the charred stumps of headless ferals you’d seen roped to fencing on the road.

“Well, now,” says the Ghoul. “Least I’ve figured out a way you can pay me back for all them vials you stomped on.”

His voice is low, a purr of heated malice.

With the nose of his gun he lifts your skirts up to your thighs and nudges the barrel against your cunt, Vault regulation underwear done away with in one taunting motion.

“Get up, doll,” says the Ghoul. “I’m gonna do something that dumbfuck husband of yours probably never did and teach you how to ride.”

He sits down on the wooden crate and gestures with his weapon for you to rise.

“Come on, Violet. Get that old dress off and take a seat.”

He pats his thigh, and you shake your head, signing with frantic hands.

No. No. Not this. I’m married.

He doesn’t yet know of your husband’s death, it seems, for when you gesture to your wedding ring the Ghoul’s expression sours.

“I had a wife like you, once,” he says. “Soft skin, and real beautiful, like a movie star. And just like you she screwed me over, so pardon me if I don’t take the sanctity of marriage too seriously no more.”

He moves the gun again, his fingers approaching the trigger.

“Now do what I said. If you make me shoot you I’ll be sure to hit you some place it’ll hurt. You want that, sweetheart?”

You glance over your shoulder at a universe of sand, contemplating how far you’d get before the Ghoul put a bullet in your back. Perhaps he’d let you run a bit for idle fun before he shot you down.

It’s as you’re thinking this that a weight falls about your neck and the Ghoul yanks you to him by a lead of rope, half throttling you in his malice.

“Damn it, Vaultie, you ain’t runnin’ out on your payment,” he says, coolly. “I ought to whip the skin off your hide for what you did.”

You’d be nose to nose with the Ghoul, if he still had one. In his irises you see your own face, still human, so unlike his. The beauty of it has taunted this man like water the many thirsting in the Wasteland, a mirage made real, and now owed to him through your slight upon his person.

It scares you, that bitter lust. He might kill you through the thing he means to do.

Stilled by one gloved fist on the lasso, you daren’t struggle as the Ghoul peels your dress up over your head, blinkering you with the fabric. His free hand trails from your quivering throat to both breasts, taking his time with the exploration.

He wants the glove off; you feel it in the labour with which he draws a path between your thighs, near awed by the delicacy of you against him.

You wrestle the dress off your head and glare with a spiteful terror into his scarred carapace.

“How’d a pure little Vault dweller like you change so fast?” asks The Ghoul, almost in admiration. “The Wasteland ain’t barely started with you yet. Maybe you loved that boy so much it drove you crazy. Used to be songs about that, as I recall. Songs about men like me, too, and what we do when we’re crossed by snakes like yourself.”

You sign you deserved what I did to you with expressions and hard gestures he understands.

“I admit I played with you a little,” says the Ghoul. “’Cause when I see a green, pretty girl like you I want to screw you into the dirt like a smoke. Just about the only way you’ll learn how things really are when you’re in a tough spot in the Wasteland.”

He spits on his gloved fingers and bars them between your folds, watching with his head inclined as you stiffen up in pain and disgust at his entry.

“Well,” he says. “Now I know what I ought to drink when I’m runnin’ low on water.”

You think to strike him, but the lasso is braided across your windpipe merely at the flash of your eye.

“Don’t be stupid now, Violet. I know you’re a smart girl. I’d hate for you to prove me wrong.”

He takes his gloves off with his teeth and spits them in the sand. With one bare palm he touches you all over, the rasp of his strange skin like grit against your own. The other hand struggles with the opening of his pants, starving to have them open.

“What’s the matter?” asks the Ghoul, as you look down at his cock, which is as coarse as the rest of him. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of.”

He tests your opening with two fingers, and you convulse with a silent agony at their insertion, and the betrayal.

“Aw, now come on now, sweetheart. It ain’t that bad. Still, I’d use that mouth of yours instead, only I know you’d bite like a mare.”

His skull-like features press close to yours. He smells of smoke, of sweat, as most men do in the Wasteland.

“Now open those legs of yours and sit,” says the Ghoul, “before I pick some other hole.”

When you merely stare in sickened mutiny he forces you up onto his lap. You cringe as he punctures your cunt with his length, twice that of your husband’s, breaking you upon him like the bones of an enemy.

The Ghoul looks at you from under half lids, his lashes as lush and beautiful as black reeds, a surprising feature amidst such ruin.

“Hurts, don’t it?” he asks. “That’s what you get for crossin’ a fella in these parts.”

He ducks down and licks the sweat off your tits up to your neck, smacking his lips with a pop.

“Salt and tequila. Makes me miss the good old days.”

You grip his tattered coat for stability as he jounces you on his cock, thinking of the sinewy flesh under his collar, wondering if your blunt little white teeth could prise out a vein. Wondering if he still bleeds like a man, or gives but dust.

“Come on, now, little lady,” says the Ghoul. “Why ain’t you puttin' in no work? Get to it.”

He slaps your flank, but you don’t move, in too much pain from walking and the girth of him to do much but wince as in the rhythm of his arms you fall and fall upon it.

“Hope you ain’t tired already,” says the Ghoul. “We’re just warmin’ up.”

You mouth ‘ugly’ into his face, emphasising the syllables.

Your attacker leers.

“That may be, but you’re still wet for me, ain’t you? Maybe you ain’t so opposed to fuckin’ a ghoul as you let on.”

Enraged, you try to spit at him, cannot rally enough moisture to defile the smirking cheek.

“Don’t waste your water, Violet,” says the Ghoul. “I sure won’t be loanin’ you any.”

He turns you on his lap, one arm across your breasts, another at your hip, squeezing the meat there with lusting appreciation. You struggle in his hold, your joints like troughs of magma, and the Ghoul laughs against your neck.

“Still want to fight, huh? Ain’t no skin off my back.”

The Ghoul shoves you forward into the earth, and you roll there together like men. With ease he could overpower you, yet he allows you your digs and attempts to inch out from under him for the sake of some bastard fairness.

His heat, his heaviness upon you incurs a panicked need to buck him from your back. You almost succeed, except the Ghoul yanks you to him through the dirt and stones like a prisoner drawn and quartered.

Then, turning you under him, he casts a palm full of sand into your face, watching you choke and fight to rub the grains from your eyes with a vindicated pleasure.

“You know, Violet,” he says, “I may not speak your signs, but I can read some. There was a deaf fella out in Truth or Consequences I used to have dealings with, and I picked up plenty from him. I know you’ve been cussin’ and cursin’ me since the day we met. Makes it all the better knowing I can fuck you.”

Again he fills you with the rot of his existence, growling as he does so, a gleeful torturer at work. You kick at him with your boot heels as you might some mad horse, but he keeps at you, unrelenting, his grinning teeth like the cracked plains of soil after drought.

The friction of the Ghoul within you, rough skin to the soft, builds a cave there in which pain shambles out as something else.

He groans as he feels that change around him, wetness in a land so absent of it. Not once in this attack had he intended your desire, had expected only your abjection on the pumice of his want. His hands go back to your body then, to your breasts, your outstretched neck, and he touches you as a husband might, as he did his own bride, long ago.

You bury your fingers into the burning sand and pray to what God, if any, rules the wastes. By now you know Him as a man, not the weeping idol of crucifixion but one of greed and brutal caprice.

Climax—yours and the Ghoul’s—ride together like two prey animals grown to hunt in symbiosis, his just ahead of yours. He fucks you with his half-hard cock until you cease motion around him, and still does not pull loose.

The way he looks at you no man ever has, not even the rough ilk of Filly.

The Ghoul’s eyes are hellfire and tenderness; he had loved a woman like you, and hasn’t forgotten who he’d been when he’d done so. But he can love like that no longer, and though there’s something nearly gentle in the way he moves to cup your face in his hand you are only appalled by the radiance of his desire.

The fight snaps free of you in a bracing instant, and the Ghoul watches it go. Watches your face in all the motions of defeat.

“Those lips of yours,” he croons. “Even cherry pie ain’t sweeter. Now I’ve got to have me a taste.”

Then he kisses you, softly, at first, after the ripping winds of his fucking, and then with a grunt like some rooting boar he sets at you with the aggression of before, consuming you with tongue and borderless mouth until what thought there was of past romance is chipped from the gravestone of him.

The Ghoul’s hat fell off sometime in the scuffle; as he rises again you see that the weird planes of his skull are beautiful, as the rest of him must once have been.

Like some Martian fiend he appears as he crouches over your quivering nakedness, tugging your gown back on over your head as though dressing a stiff little corn doll.

“Now we’re just about even,” says the Ghoul. “And if you put even a foot wrong I’ll keep on evenin' that score.”

He sets about tying the lasso about your neck to a stake of wood in the dirt. That done, he sits back on the box and looks at you again, dusting his hat off absently with one hand.

You stare through him and up at the bile of deities that is the golden afternoon sky.

“Now you’re gettin’ it, Violet,” says the Ghoul. “The Wasteland ain’t no place for a Vaultie housewife like yourself.”

Later, one of your hands outstretches to pen letters in the sand.

I-A-M-A-W-I-D-O-W.

The Ghoul blinks.

“Well, shit. And there I was thinkin’ I’d wrecked a decent home.”

S-H-O-O-T-M-E.

“After all the fussin’ I’ve been through to get you back you ain’t goin’ nowhere. And don’t try to kill yourself, neither. I sleep with one eye open. You’re worth more to me alive, and I ain’t about to forget it.”

The Ghoul lies down beside you, arms folded under his head, content in the desert’s justice.

Only when the night slaps like a dripping cloth over you both does he speak to you again.

“I ain’t gonna sell you, Violet. You better learn to earn your keep.”

#the ghoul #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #fallout tv series #fallout fic #darkfic #dead dove do not eat #tw cannibalism #tw noncon #tw rape #tw violence #inspired by Blood Meridian #angst

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honourablejester · 4 months ago

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A Space-Themed Trinkets List for TTRPGs

Exactly what it says on the tin. Roll a d100 or choose from the following list of space-themed trinkets for your character to have with them:

01-02. A tattoo showing the galactic coordinates of your homeworld.

03-04. A sheared metal bolt from a spacewalk tether mounting unit.

05-06. A frayed cloth patch torn from your old uniform when you left.

07-08. A small display case containing soil samples from every planet you’ve visited.

09-10. The last vacuum-sealed bar of a discontinued line of rations that you’re keeping as half collector’s item and half item of last resort.

11-12. A small holo-unit that projects an image of your parents.

13-14. A poster showing a luxurious pleasure resort that you’ve never had the money to visit.

15-16. A small chip of a reddish mineral that glows in the dark that you have no idea of the origins of.

17-18. A small holo-unit that you bought in a junkshop near the spaceport and that purports to show a partially-corrupted map to a hollowed-out treasure asteroid.

19-20. A portable lamp that mimics the sunlight and day cycle of your homeworld.

21-22. A chunk of rock from the first asteroid you helped mine.

23-24. A metal box containing a horrific lump of congealed engineering fluids that you found on an inspection and are keeping partly as an example but mostly out of curiosity.

25-26. A strange metal object bearing a weird greenish symbol on one surface that you found on an otherwise completely uninhabited asteroid.

27-28. The smashed remnants of a medical scanner from your first, ill-fated mission.

29-30. A collection of tiny bottles of the weirdest alcohols you could find on various worlds you’ve visited.

31-32. A picture of you and your old crew in a protective sleeve.

33-34. A bio-locked address book containing the contact details of friendly faces in the various spaceports you frequent.

35-36. A holo-unit showing a person you don’t know that you salvaged from the personal quarters of a derelict ship.

37-38. An electronic portable library of choice reading material to keep you company on long hauls.

39-40. A really cool jacket that you bought with your first pay check and like to wear for shore leave.

41-42. An ‘emergency depressurisation kit’ that consists of a grappling hook and a canister of ‘sprayable oxygenated face mask’ that you bought from a shady guy at a spaceport and have no idea if they’re functional or not.

43-44. A medical pass granting you permission to leave the quarantine zone around your homeworld.

45-46. A disabled distress beacon from your escape pod fifteen years ago.

47-48. An inert and cracked AI core module that you really weren’t supposed to have taken from that derelict ship.

49-50. A ‘lucky coin’ you won in a game on leave that your opponent seemed weirdly upset to lose.

51-52. Your grandmother’s lucky bone-handled knife from when she used to be part of the distant exploration corps. She never told you what type of bone it was.

53-54. Your trusty environmental scanner that is four models out of date but has never failed you yet.

55-56. A tiny metal disc that a weird guy once paid you for a job with, which if pressed to your skin somehow perfectly regulates the temperature of the air in your vicinity to your preferences by no visible means. It works on every planet with an atmosphere that you’ve been on so far.

57-58. A beautifully carved spice chest containing spices from your homeworld, for when you’re feeling homesick. It’s been getting really hard to restock it out here.

59-60. A disabled registration chip from the labour camp that you kept after escaping, even though it would be a really stupid thing to have on you if you’re ever back in that sector of space.

61-62. A tiny bag of glittering micro-crystals from the surface of a moon. Worthless, but so pretty.

63-64. A canister of engineering lubricant that you are literally never without.

65-66. A tattoo of a series of unknown symbols that you and your buddies from your old military unit got after a particularly hellish mission. None of you took any pictures of the lab you found them in, but somehow all of you remembered them perfectly.

67-68. A portable mining lamp your dad ‘borrowed’ when they decommissioned the old colony. The batteries on this thing are incredible, as they haven’t run out nearly 55 years later.

69-70. A seashell from the first time you ever saw an ‘ocean’ after growing up in space.

71-72. A portable personal forcefield that only stops rain, from the first time you experienced ‘weather’ and decided you didn’t like it very much.

73-74. The helmet of a spacesuit that has clearly been partially melted through by some sort of acidic substance and which you refuse to answer questions about.

75-76. An object which you found in a junk bin at a salvage yard and which no one you’ve ever met has been able to identify.

77-78. A single live seed in a viability canister that everyone who leaves your homeworld is given to take with them.

79-80. A religious pamphlet that some nutjob on the hub station gave you. It’s got some seriously weird and somewhat apocalyptic stuff in there, but for some reason you haven’t thrown it away yet.

81-82. A well-read, second-hand copy of ‘Myths of Hyperspace: A Collection of Spacer Tales’ that you bought for funsies and totally don’t believe in, no sir.

83-84. A collection of antique medical equipment that your old captain gave to you, for reasons you aren’t entirely sure of.

85-86. An unlabelled collection of beautiful music recordings you found in a spaceport, and which you’ve been idly trying to identify ever since.

87-88. A dataset of sightings, speculation and other information regarding a mysterious ship that has been seen on and off for the last fifty years by gas miners and illegal racers in the clouds of your gas giant homeworld, and which you’ve been obsessed with since you caught what might have been a glimpse of it yourself.

89-90. A ring gene-locked to your lost partner that will never come off your finger.

91-92. A tiny realistic-looking but robotic animal that was the only type of pet allowed on your company’s spaceships.

93-94. A bottle of extremely heavy-duty and almost definitely expired anti-nausea medication that you kept from your first shuttle ride into space.

95-96. A dog-eared magazine containing a two-page spread of the most beautiful spaceship you’ve ever seen in your life, and which you’ve sworn to yourself that you will one day own.

97-98. A corporate logo of the company that left your colony to die, torn off the side of one of the cheap delivery crates full of useless equipment that they supplied.

99-100. A recording of a garbled and unintelligible transmission one of your old buddies sent you, and which you’ve only kept because they vanished not long afterwards. There’s a weird sound that keeps repeating in the background, but you don’t know what it is.

#ttrpgs #science fiction #space #trinkets #i love trinkets as a character building option #what weird item do you have that tells a story about you?#trinket tables

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