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ruinakete · 10 months ago

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♡ (if you're still taking them!)

WHAT WOULD OUR MUSES' CHILD BE LIKE?・accepting! ( cw for canon character / muse death or murder )

THEY WILL KNOW HIM AS THE WINGS OF GRIEF.

"oh? him? no, he isn't from the village. at least, not what I've been told. neither is he human, by his horns, but oh he's just a darling young man! criminally handsome, i say! when we met, he kissed the back of my hand and offered to walk me home. uh, though, he did mention it was because I looked too incompetent to guide myself... oh, don't worry, he isn't rude all the time. in fact, I'd say he's most peaceful when tending to the pegasi we have. I've only seen him smile around animals actually... he even offers to take up the guardpost nearby to ensure their safety." ━━━ VILLAGE STABLE MAID, about ???

IN-GAME PROFILE,

CLASS: Fell Child

VERSION: specializes in LANCES, emphasizing MAGIC growth and high SPEED, granting him, too, better physical stats than most of his alternate siblings; the ability to transform and utilize BREATH weapons is easy to unlock, too

DESCRIPTION.

the last son of Lord Sombron, Zephia's biological offspring though mothered, too, by her partner, Caeda. many confuse him for a dashing knight; a role he happily takes to heart, as it blankets the weight of being a Fell Child and the burden he carries. though charming, his sharp tongue and sly wit tend to lessen the volume of his sociability; unfortunate, since he is a loving friend once a bond is recognized by him and another. this flaw comes with a cost, as he turns to others to bear the weight of his problems on behalf of being unable to carry the expectation of his bloodline alone. it is the easiest to find him in the stables of a nearby village, brushing the wings of a pegasus or curling against it as it lays to rest. usually, that is where his mothers would find him, asleep in the stall of a pleased pegasus.

APPEARANCE,

as a child of Sombron, his strongest genes would be those of his biological father's. bone-white hair that is kept straight, reaching his mid-back, though he curls the frayed ends every morning as part of his beauty routine. of a lighter tone than Zephia, he matches her in eye color, however, only one of his irises bears the right tint. his left iris is blue with an opposing pink highlight, while his right iris is only blue. ever since he was a young kid, he liked to joke that his bare blue eye was his lucky sight, as it was the same color as Caeda's eyes. to Zephia's strangely happy realization, her son was also born with crescent horns, though his are smaller and a life-changing event of grief snapped both of his horns at the tips.

apparel is a factor of appearance he used both of his mothers as inspiration. as though he were a pegasus knight, the placement of his armor and low-cut skirt are worn similarly to Caeda's own attire. buckles and bands accessorize his thighs, over the bare skin until it reaches his knee and lower leg, which are clothed with padded socks. though, instead of boots, he sticks to low heels, with twin golden charms hung over his ankles. the cuts of his sleeves and the flowy fabric borrowed come from the image of Zephia. he would wear a cropped top if it wasn't exposing such a vulnerable body part.

the virtue of an angel atop a pegasus mirrors that of his image, because of the color scheme and the modesty in which he holds himself. beautifully charming, he is not above using his appearance to get his way. whether it be getting into the stables at night or coaxing a human into trusting him, deception has become a second skin to the light in which he appears to be.

PERSONALITY,

if one was to be poetic, then he is the wolf beneath sheepskin; the monster in a knight's armor. there is no doubt that he has the ability to be better than what his mother has made him, but the question is whether or not he chooses to. as a child, he was a curious little thing, babbling questions as Caeda fed him in her lap or laying his head on the page of Zephia's tome as she read. such curiosity has led him to expect a lot from the world, for it to please and amuse him for as long as he lives.

there is one thing that limits his inherited hunger for power; the memory of Caeda. as he grew from infant to toddler, from kid to pre-teen, she stayed at his side, teaching him the delicate strings of life and the differences between right and wrong. if hurting others was wrong, then the urges he felt were wrong, too. and he kept to that lesson, biting back his instincts and forming them into harmless, blunt words. if he could not be nice, then he should not speak. but, if Zephia said to, the world would not be nice to him all the time. so, when should he appease the hunger in his chest? at every offense of the world, or only to those who asked for it?

his mothers were opposites and, first, he bent to the gentle voice of Caeda's parenting. he idolized her for her courage and strength, her ability to love and be loved. she, in a way, was everything he hoped to be. but centuries bled into centuries and the strict fist of Zephia's parenting would take effect easily in the confusion of his morals. he would take his kindness and wield it until it grew jagged and benefited him in the long run. mother was right, always, and he owed all he was to her for continuing to have faith in him despite his constant failure to understand.

now, as a young adult, his charm and tongue have sharpened naturally; everywhere he walks is a curiosity he commits to memory. to have lost someone has made him appreciate the little things in life, often comparing them to his mothers' taste. he treats everyone he meets as a potential pawn, as a default, useful only in what they can give him. this does not mean they will earn his immediate annoyance; a good person helps others recognize themselves, even if done with a heartless hand. for his heart is shrouded, far beyond encasing in light. only near those he bonded with will ever understand the constant solemn manner in which he condemns himself to.

HOUSEHOLD DYNAMIC,

even before he was born, Zephia and Caeda were at odds with one another. though they would care for each other, well into the Mage Dragon's pregnancy, there was a gap between external and internal love. to Zephia, she was at the top of the hierarchy within the household, but to Caeda, there was no ranking. and, as such, an animosity was unfurled with the birth of their son. when Zephia would handle him, Caeda had reason to worry, as her murmurs of the Fell Church and the burden of heritage began to grow a paranoia within his mind.

the wedge became known, fully, when their son was a kid, hardly in his teenage years. it was obvious that, beneath Caeda's gentle hand, he would never grasp a mastery over recognizing and controlling the hunger blossoming in his chest; only a dragon could teach a dragon how to bear his teeth. and Zephia wished to do just that, promising to deal a heavy hand against their son to show him the dangers of not controlling the weapon he could be.

as noble as her motherly heart, Caeda, dearest Caeda, rose to stop her lover's teaching. and that, in the common area of their home, was where Zephia's patience thinned and Caeda's life was torn from her body. when Mage Dragon left to find her kin, Fell Dragon found the limp body of his mother; his idol. the sorrow was immediate, mixing horribly with the confusion of losing another. this grief would only be recognized a century later, as a teenager, when their son helped a village girl mourn the death of her mother. but then, as a child, clutching onto the stained fabric of his mother's dress, he had only the time to hear Caeda's raspy final wish before an aching pain struck his heart. the day he transformed for the first time was the day he lost both his mother and home forever.

and, without his only familial support, he had to brave Zephia's obligation alone. he kept Caeda in memory for centuries, adopting many of her mannerisms into his speech and always carrying a handful of her ashes in the steel of his necklace, forged in secret by the blacksmith whom he owed. but, in his mother's words, Caeda had to die. it was inevitable. best it be at the hands of her wife and not another, right? right? because there could be no other reason for Zephia to strike her down that he could think of.

they loved each other. they loved him. he loved them. but where had it gone wrong?

QUOTES,

??? about CAEDA, present:

"... i missed her." instinctively, his hand rises to touch the necklace resting against his collarbone, as if to protect the ashes trapped within its steel. "my mother was the strongest person i knew. she... it's been years but, i can never give her my proper thanks for all she's done. watering the flowers near her burial is the least i can do."

??? about ZEPHIA, present:

"she is my mother, just as i am her son. by blood and oath." the words flow evenly, as though this is rehearsed. "i owe her my life, for birthing me and every year afterward. she and... she and my second mother were teaching me the importance of my choice and staying at her side is mine."

ZEPHIA about ???, present:

"my sweet boy," next comes a delighted hum, as though she holds the utmost pride in him, "he has grown well over the years. already he has nearly mastered his draconic form. even after... hmph. i simply hope to pull him from his late-night visits to the stables of the village down the mountain path. he sleeps there as though it is his den."

ZEPHIA about CAEDA, present:

"it was my mistake to fall in love with her." a long pause; her gaze falters and her hands tremble against each other. when she speaks again, it is quieter, as biting as it is regretful, "we are better off without her. she was not suited for the life of a fell child's parent... time would have killed her even if i had not."

CAEDA about ???, past:

"he may be a fell child but i will never let him feel as if that is all he can ever amount to—all he will ever be." she holds a single hand close to her heart. "as long as i draw breath, i will never let him think otherwise."

CAEDA about ZEPHIA, past:

"there is love in her heart, i know it." a warm smile, despite circumstances. despite the efforts she must go to in order to protect her child from grief. "it need only be drawn out."

CAEDA to ???, before death:

"when it's... when it's hard to be a good person, just remember that i l—love you."

#arcaeda #☽ ━━━━━━ ❝ to appease the handmade goddess ・【 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄��𝐄𝐃 】 .#ohhhhh i had so much fun with this one i ( BURSTS INTO TEARS AND SOBS AND HEAVES AND HICCUPS AND SNIFFLES AND CRIES AND #i was waiting for one of zephia's meme lovers to be the first death / kill count and i fear it's mrs fire emblem #IM SO SICK AND ILL I CANT BELIEVE ZEPHIA WOULD DO THIS I HATE HER SO MUCHH #and the idea i have in mind for the zephiaeda kid is kind of sick i'm lowkey obsessed with him #the kind of man to rob you of your money just to show you how weak and vulnerable you are but it's all for good intentions to help you #i lowkey went crazy with this too sorry this is so long

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moonlitdesertdreams · 8 months ago

Text

Take the damn shot

A/N: Ohhhhh I've spiraled. Going from Mandalorian fics to writing about a radioactive cowboy with no nose within a couple weeks of each other is totally healthy :) Tags: Fallout, Cooper Howard, Cooper Howard x F!Reader, Cooper Howard x You, Ghoul x Reader WARNINGS: Canon-Typical language and violence. Summary: A single quiet day in the saloon is all you wanted. But somehow, your Ghoul partner is pulling his gun and you're covered in another person's blood. Honestly, it's just typical.

Word Count: 1.7k+

(GIF Credit to @djo)

The Ghoul hates to admit it, but he needs you.

In the same sick and twisted, goddamned way he needs the Vials to stay sane, he needs you next to him. When poison air grows thick and the scorching sun sinks beyond a brutalized horizon, you’re always at his side. Day in and day out, you stick around. Full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the fucked up world you’re all stuck in.

And Cooper’s not one for generosity anymore, but he gives you credit a lot of the time. He knows he can be nasty, and you don’t mind one bit. In spite of his callousness and general disregard for safety, you put on a chipper attitude and tug him (sometimes physically) along to the next town. Outwardly innocent but filled with a mutual hatred for Vault-Tec and what its influence had done to the world and yourself, you’d quickly become his diamond in the rough.

And you shine particularly bright in the shack of a building the Wasteland called a saloon. You’ve made careful friends with a couple of gray-haired biddies- presumably the owners- in the back of the room, and chat happily with them. Cooper sits off to the side behind you, a bottle of the local brew dangling between his fingers. He’s content for the first time in a while; ass in a creaky rocking chair and boots kicked up on an old milk crate. The brim of his hat is pulled down to hide the majority of his face, but eyes wander lazily from you to the front door.

Cooper didn’t think many things were nice any longer, but listening to you prattle on with the women warmed something in his dead heart.

“You’re awfully pretty for this place.” The older of the two women, sporting a single eye and an impressively neat beehive style, compliments you. “Gotta be out of the Vaults with that skin.”

The Ghoul tenses, knowing the mention of your 200-year prison would strike a nerve.

“Yeah. I’m from before the war, actually.” You say it plainly and chase it down with a swig of liquor. “Fuckin’ Vault-Tec.”

The Ghoul’s familiar with your story, from you finding out about the plan to drop homemade bombs on American citizens to your confrontation with the executive group in Vault 31. Little did you know, you’d be sneaking in with no chance for escape. Cooper tightens his fist at the thought of Hank MacLean shoving you carelessly into a cryopod and slamming the button to lock you in. You’d relayed the story to him with watery eyes, and that’s something he absolutely loathed. He had enough personal beef with Hank that your trauma added to his ever-growing list of things to be absolutely pissed-the-fuck-off about.

Finch and Sparrow, as they were so comically named, clutch their pearls in sadness as you tell your story. They fawn over you, and Cooper makes out a few ‘fuck them Vaulties’ and a ‘well as much as it sucks, we’re glad you made it this far’. You sniff just barely and wipe your eyes.

“Thanks, ladies. It means a lot.”

The conversation turns back pleasant for the most part, and you’re enthralled as the women pull you into the town gossip. Cooper begrudgingly gets up to piss, comfy as he was, but stops at your side to hand off his bag first. You take it with a nod, more interested in the rumor mill than his whereabouts for the moment. He swaggers to the back door of the saloon, where wind whips sand against his jeans and patters the leather of his boots with tiny rocks.

Voices drift out the door from inside as Cooper yanks his zipper back up.

“Is it true what they say ‘bout Vaulties?” It’s a man’s voice, gruff and demanding in comparison to the happy lilt of yours. “Heard your story and always been… curious.”

“If you listened, you would know I ain’t no Vaultie.” Your reply is instant, but the edge in your voice has Cooper stepping a little faster down the short hallway. He reemerges to the sight of a suspiciously dressed man leaning against the wood beam beside your table, a little too close for comfort.

“Sure you are, darlin’. I can tell by lookin’ at’chya.” The man’s face is half-covered by a bandanna, and a pair of sand goggles are pushed up on his forehead, “Like they say.. everything’s… softer.”

There’s suddenly a hand landing on your shoulder, and Cooper sees red. His gun is pulled before he knows it, leveling at the man’s forehead.

“Hands off the girl.” He growls.

On closer inspection the man is probably close to the age you appear. Above the bandanna, weatherbeaten skin turns into frizzy ginger hair. He’s wearing a typical duster type coat, and the goggles are leaving red marks in his forehead. Cooper decides he’s taken shits more attractive than him.

Probably smarter, too.

“Fuck off, Ghoul.” Is the reply Cooper receives, sending a flash of white-hot anger through his already irradiated body. “I wasn't talkin’ to you.”

It was all too common, being brushed off. At this point in his life, it actually brings a smirk to his face. Your mouth is even tipping up at the edges, having had many interactions with the can of worms this guy was prying open.

“Listen man, I think you should let it go.” You warn and try to stand from the broken chair you had been carefully perching on. The red-head doesn’t relent, and pushes you back down into the chair. It wobbles dangerously as Cooper stomps closer. The movement prompts your captor to pull his own gun. It’s a crudely made pipe pistol, but able to shoot flying projectiles into your brains nonetheless.

“Get your goddamn hands off her before I decorate that wall with your fuckin’ skull.” Cooper yanks the hammer back on his pistol, hesitating at your close proximity.

The redhead pulls his bandanna down and Cooper watches you lean away as you recognize the scent and characteristics of a Fiend. His teeth are hanging loosely at crooked angles, and the pock marks around his mouth from scratching his skin open drip blood and serous fluid. His gun is trained on Cooper, but he freezes when he sees the Ghoul shift forward.

“Ah ah ah. How’d you like me to put a bullet in her instead?” The Fiend tugs you to your feet and nuzzles at your hair as he presses the barrel of his gun to your ribs. “I’d love a taste myself.”

The suffocating need to keep you safe and at his side fills Cooper’s corroded veins as you scowl at the Fiend whose nose is pressed dangerously close to your cheek with rotten teeth bared. Rage ignites from the anger he’s already feeling.

BANG.

Cooper’s watching when the red spray of blood washes over half the saloon, but still doesn’t quite comprehend what’s happened. His gun didn’t fire, but the scent of ignited powder fills the air. You fall to the floor along with your captor, and the aforementioned rage boils over. He holsters his gun and scrambles to pull you away in the chaos.

Thankfully, a quick once-over shows you to have no injuries, but the same can’t be said for your attacker. A foot away the Fiend lies still, about five pounds lighter from the gaping hole in his chest. Gore from his wound is splattered thick across your face and neck. Your eyes are pinched closed to avoid anything unsightly entering them, and you lash out blindly when Cooper grasps your arms.

“Let me go, you rotten bastard!” The Ghoul catches your right hand before it can hook into his jaw, “I’ll kill you myself.”

“Quit squealin’ sunshine, it’s me.” Cooper growls

While he’s getting a handle on your flailing limbs, a shadow covers the both of you. Cooper glances up at the one-eyed old woman who’s sawed-off shotgun is still smoking in her left hand.

“I know your brain is shrunken and all, but next time take the shot sooner.” She bites. “And feel free to clean up my damn bar.”

Cooper is torn between staring at the older woman- Sparrow, he thinks- and trying to contain your squirming. He’s not too fragile to admit he really doesn’t want to take a punch from you right now, so he wipes the back of his hand across your eyes and tugs you to sit up beside him.

“Cooper?”

He huffs a laugh at your incredulous tone and flicks away the remnants of blood littering your skin “The one and only. Open your eyes.”

They flicker open slowly, and you pout at the blood congealing on your clothes. “I just got these pants.”

Cooper sets a hand on your thigh and squeezes gently. “I’ll buy you a new pair. S’Long as you promise not to get Fiend all over those ones too.”

You thrust an elbow into his ribs at the jab and climb to your feet. Cooper follows with a dramatic groan.

“Old man.” You tease over your shoulder, observing the carnage from Sparrow’s well-aimed shot. A kick to the corpses’ ribs follows, sending a splatter of blood across Cooper’s pants. You shoot him an insincerely apologetic look. “She’s right, you know.”

The Ghoul follows your gaze to Sparrow, who’s hollering at any remaining patrons that dare tread too close to the mess, damning them for tracking blood around the bar.

“‘Bout what?”

You lean into his space, the scent of blood thick in the air. “Take the damn shot sooner.”

Cooper grabs the back of your neck and yanks you forward in a hard kiss. The blood transfers easily onto his lips, and he licks it off while pulling away. “Fucker deserved more than one shot.”

Possessiveness floods his mind and he squeezes the soft flesh beneath his fingers.

“I’da strung him up by his balls if I got my hands on him.” He mutters, tracing another finger through the blood and popping it into his mouth. “After grabbin’ onto you like that.”

You lean into his chest and let a smile curl the corners of your lips up. “All for little ol’ me?”

The Ghoul pinches your bloody cheek. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

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thanks for reading, much love ❤