#they wish to turn it into a wasteland

[chaiaurchaandni]

after the 2nd israeli massacre of alshifa hospital

[romanteacism]

Knight Aemond x Princess Reader Scarlet Heart

Synopsis: Ser Aemond was consumed with guilt after his argument with his princess, and it only furthered as she was taken by sickness. Warnings: None (yet), Concerned Aemond, Princess and Aemond's (not so) Secret Relationship, Revelations PREVIOUS PART A/N: I think it's safe to say we're like 2/3's done with the story :,( ... unless

Aemond was ill at ease the entire night. Guilt was consuming him as he made the girl he loved cry. Until the hour of the ghost, Aemond listened to her as she stifled her quiet sobs and her sniffling until she had eventually cried herself to sleep all because of him. He did not mean anything he had said. It was beneath him to insinuate that she wanted the attention of any of the lords when she had proven to him who exactly she wanted. You want him. And Aemond could only pray to each god that his transgression would not detter your want and love for him. 

When the first light shone through the gloomy and overcast northern wastelands, Aemond waited impatiently for you to wake so he could offer his apologies. He had no wish to retrace old patterns of the two of you ignoring the other as a somewhat punishment. Aemond could no longer bear your silence and indifference as he had fully accustomed himself to you clinging to his side. 

As another hour passed, Aemond did not hear you wake. He looked out the window, the sun halfway to its peak, the usual time when you would wake and lovingly wake your pet cats as well. Anxiousness was starting to fill him. What if you truly froze in your bed? The coldness he had shown you and the coldness of the north gnawing away at your warmth. Aemond felt his hand grow cold at the thought. He could not bear it any longer as he forced his way into your chambers, shivering at how cold it was inside than outside. 

Aemond’s eye frantically sought out the feathered bed, but the covers were gone, and you were not lying upon it. He then turned to the sitting area and saw you lying on the cold ground, huddled by the hearth whose embers had died. Fur upon fur atop your body to find warmth, and your two pets nuzzled into your chest as your teeth chattered whilst asleep. “Oh… my heart,” Aemond said delicately as he kneeled before you. Taking your cold hands upon his cold ones as a futile hope to warm them. 

You said not a word; you did not even open your eyes. Aemond sighed and moved to caress your cheek, but he felt the scorching heat of your skin. He frowned and moved his hands upon your forehead and realized you had run a fever. “Oh gods,” He said in dread and hurriedly bundled you into his arms and ran you to the maester. Your cats were still resting atop your body, as well as the fur you had used to cover yourself.

He ran through the halls of the unknown keep, trying to find directions, but it seemed that none were awake, too tired by last night’s festivities. Luckily, as he passed through the various doors, he passed the King, who had just exited his chambers. “Good morrow, Ser Ae—“ 

“My king, where is the maester’s tower?” The knight abruptly interrupted the highest ruler of the land as he feared for your state. The king frowned, not noticing you in the arms of your knight as he took what Ser Aemond carried was a bundle of fur coats, finding the tone of urgency in your usually stoic knight odd. “The princess has run a fever during the night— she needs a maester. She is unresponsive— she usually wakes with just the slightest sound, but she has not peeled her eyes open!” The knight explained and watched as the confusion on the King’s face turned to concern as he now realized you were unconscious in your knight’s arms. 

Your father placed his warm hand atop your forehead and felt the scorching heat of your skin; the franticness of your knight now understood and was seeping into your father. “Return her to her chambers; I shall get the maesters myself.” The king said, and Aemond wasted no time doing what your father said. He ran to your chambers once more, placing you atop the feathered bend, and took off his cloak and placed it atop your frame in an effort to warm you further. Aemond then turned to died out fire of the hearth and quickly remade one. 

He could still hear your teeth chattering through your unconscious state, and Aemond looked upon the large room, which would take a while to warm. He had naught a choice but to pull with all his might the solid mahogany bed closer to the hearth. Not even the sound of the ruckus he made had woken you, who would wake by just the distant sound of your knight’s armor clinking as he shifted his weight during the night. 

Aemond panted as he directly placed your bed across the hearth; the chambers were now a mess, but he had no care as he was only focused on your recovery. Aemond leaned closer to you; every part of your body was bundled in fur and his cloak except your face, which was flushed and scarlet. He leaned closer to make certain you were still breathing. You did, but there were wheezes, and it would seem you had trouble in doing so. 

Aemond abruptly stood straighter as he heard your father’s voice approaching. The door opened, and the king, along with your brother and a flock of maesters, came. Aemond stood by the side, watching as you were inspected by each maester. Quiet murmurings enveloped the room as he, your father, and your brother waited on bated breath. 

“Had she mentioned anything about feeling unwell?” The prince asked as he watched the maesters remove the bundle of fur that covered you to inspect you further. Your pets were gently placed on the ground, and Sapphira quickly marched her way to the foot of Ser Aemond. The men glancing towards the feline that rested her head atop the boot of your knight. “She said she felt an itch on her throat on our way here, but besides that, none, my prince.” Ser Aemond replied. 

“Has the princess had scarlet fever when she was a child?” The maester questioned. And Aemond expectedly turned to the members of your family. “Yes, twice. Once, when she was a babe and then again when she was seven.” The king answered, dipping down to take hold of Theodore, who peered upon him. Taking your beloved pet into his hold to somewhat comfort your father. 

The maester hummed as he returned to his observation, but Aemond sensed alarm in your brother. “Father… it cannot be scarlet fever again, can it? The last time she…” Your brother trailed, unable to speak of what occurred. But Aemond was curious. How grave was this situation? “The last time?” Aemond asked, a risk as he spoke out of turn—a risk as he let his concern shine through and be known. 

Your brother turned to him, apprehensive to utter the words. “The last time… none of us thought she would make it. Her pulse was so faint that we had to place a maester by her side at all hours just to check her pulse constantly. Mother was already planning the funeral… had her dress readied and all.” The king quickly called upon the attention of your brother, chastising him as he recalled such bleak memories. 

By gods! Aemond was harboring dislike for your mother these past moons, but at your brother’s words— how the queen was wholly ready to accept your demise and planned the ordeal before it actually… Aemond’s mind was made. He loathed your mother. How cruel can one be? 

“Do not think a such— your sister is fine… it’s not scarlet fever… it’s just because of the weather! Isn’t that right, maester?” Your father said, trying to convince himself that nothing dire befell his most precious daughter. But as the maesters turned to your father, all had a solemn look upon their face. “I’m afraid it’s scarlet fever again, my king. Thrice in one lifetime… I must be honest, your Majesty; none of us has come across this predicament before.” 

Aemond paled at the words, turning to your father and brother, who paled as well. “What must we do, maester?” Aemond questioned; your father and brother were too shocked to speak. “We already gave her the necessary elixir of herbs for the fever. Let us wait and hope it will take. If not… we must let out her blood,” The maester explained. 

“Write to your br— cousin, tell him what has happened. Perhaps they have developed a new cure for scarlet fever.” The king stuttered as he turned to his son. “Yes, father.” The prince nodded and ran out of the room to write to his half-brother that their sister was once again plagued. The princess is one of the main reasons why her eldest brother became a maester, to finally find a lasting cure for her ailments. 

“We must isolate the princess. There are children in the keep who can easily be infected.” The maester warned, and the king nodded mindlessly, with Aemond standing idly by the side as he could not approach you without them suspecting anything. “Isolate? Leave my daughter alone?” The king then asked. “One of us could check upon the princess every hour, but we cannot be in her presence constantly at the risk of the fever spreading.” Aemond’s fist clenched at the maester’s words. Is that their solution? To leave you alone? To have you bear your ailment in solitary?

 “I can stay with the princess, my king.” Aemond then spoke. There was no hesitancy in him; he could not bear to leave you alone. Never. 

“Are you certain, Ser Aemond?” The king questioned, “I am, my king. It is still my duty to look over the princess.” He replied, but the maester voiced his reluctance, fearing that the knight would also be infected. Aemond did not care. He’d rather be by your side, in sickness and in health, as they say. “I will be fine. I have a rather great immune system; I rarely get sick.” He insisted. 

“Very well then, if no one else shall watch over my daughter, it shall be you.” The king said, clapping the shoulder of the knight as his words held a slight to the maesters who were too cowardly to watch over the princess. “Thank you, Ser Aemond.” The king said and Aemond only gave a nod. 

He watched as the king placed Theodore by his daughter’s side, the princess still not opening her eyes even as the king placed a chaste kiss atop her head. “You can do this, my darling… you have fought it before, you shall do it again,” The king whispered softly at his daughter, who made no indication that she heard her father’s pleading words. 

When your father and maesters left the room, Aemond was finally alone with you, just like how he preferred it. But even your presence he could not feel. Aemond sighed and carried a chair to the side of your bed. Sitting upon it, he took hold of Sapphira, who he placed by your side, huddling with her brother as both of your pets seemed to understand what had happened to you. 

Aemond took your hand into his hand, still cold. He slowly placed it against his cheek, hoping his warmth would transfer to you, bearing the coldness as he could not help but feel guilty at your state. If he had not accused you of enjoying the lord’s company the other night— if he had not argued with you… you would have told him immediately that you felt poorly. That you would insist him to stand in his post inside your chambers when he could watch over you. 

“Please, my heart, I’m so sorry. Do not punish me like this… yell at me, hit me, I’ll bear it all. Just… please…” Aemond pleaded as he tucked away a stray lock of your hair. It was strange for him to ask you of such. To plead with you to show him anything but kindness, but he’d prefer your rage rather than your silence. 

For the rest of the day, Aemond stayed by his princess’ side. Taking turns in holding her cold hands, hoping it would warm her. He constantly checked her temperature and pulse, fearing the worst. Never had he felt so helpless. He could do nothing as your body was partly cold and partly hot, but the whole of it was scarlet. 

Aemond shut his eye tightly as he heard a faint knock on your door, having to remove your hand on his cheek as you two could not be caught in such a state. “Your meal, Ser,” a servant uttered and placed a tray by a table near Aemond. He inspected what the servant had brought and narrowed his eyes. “Where is the princess’ meal?” He sharply questioned, but the servant only looked confused. “I—I thought the princess was unconscious and— and she would not be able to eat.” The servant stuttered as they were met with the harsh look on your sworn protector’s face. 

“Just— just bring her custard tarts. She would wake soon; she would want her custard tarts.” Aemond gritted and watched as the servant scurried off. The knight filled with hope that your unconscious state would not last. When the knight was given a platter of custard tarts, he waited for the door to shut fully before focusing all of his attention on his princess again. 

“Look, my heart, your favorite. Come now, wake up… please. You can eat it all… you don’t even have to share with me, please, my heart.” Aemond pleaded again, hoping that you would smell the scent of your favorite sweet and it would wake you. You were like a bloodhound when it came to your favorite desserts. You would just take a deep breath when in the halls of your home, and you could already guess what pastry they were making, exciting you for tea time. 

Aemond sighed once more. Perhaps you were exhausted. That you desperately needed rest, that you would wake in a few hours if Aemond only stopped pestering and pleading for you to wake. Perhaps it was that. The knight convinced himself. So, he pushed away the tray of custard tarts and held your hand once more, letting you acquire rest. 

As night came, Aemond abruptly sat up as he realized he had drifted off to sleep as he watched over you. His eyes were wide as he looked around the dark room, the fire dying once again. His hand was still holding yours, and he quickly moved his hold to feel your pulse. It was faint, but it was there. He hurriedly stood and remade the fire, cursing himself as he let himself drift off to sleep. He returned to his seat and leaned forward to feel your temperature; it seemed to lessen, making Aemond breathe out in relief. However, you still had not opened your eyes. 

Aemond looked around the room. It was dark except of the light of the hearth. He reluctantly stood and lit the various candles and lamps. You hated the dark; your room was always lit in one form or the other. “I’m sorry I drifted off to sleep, my heart. But you’re fine, yes? You’re fever is lowering… come now, open your eyes. I think the cooks made your favorite supper… it’d be a waste if you did not have some,” Aemond murmured as he returned to your side. He somewhat felt pathetic. Speaking so softly to the wind. Aemond shook his head and readjusted the furs that kept you warm. 

Aemond licked his lips as you still did not open your eyes. He and all of his siblings had scarlet fever before, but none of them grew unconscious because of it. The knight straightened his back as he heard a knock at the door, moving his hold from your hand to your pulse again.

“My prince,” Aemond stood and bowed his head. “Good evening, Ser Aemond… how is— how are you both fairing?” Your brother asked quietly as if fearing he would wake you. “The princess’ fever had lessened, but she still had not wakened,” Aemond answered, your brother moving to stand by the foot of your bed to inspect you. “You had not eaten, Ser.” The prince remarked as his eyes shifted to the table. “And… are those custard tarts?” 

“I am not hungry, my prince, and yes… I had the servant bring them— I thought it could convince the princess to wake up,” Aemond admitted, a part of him thought he might be seen as ridiculous. The prince only let out a breath of a laugh. “I’ve tried that before, surrounded her with all her favorite desserts the last time she grew unconscious, hoping the scent of it would wake her.” 

“Did it?” Aemond asked in hope. “No…” The prince admitted solemnly. 

“My prince, I do not think it’s scarlet fever,” Aemond suddenly said. “Unconsciousness is not a symptom of scarlet fever— I should know, when I was three and ten, half of my house was infected, but none of them grew unconscious,” Aemond explained as he moved closer to you. He lifted the fur covering to reveal a part of your arm “And she has none of those red bumps,” 

The prince frowned, wondering what led the maesters to conclude that it was once again scarlet fever. “But why would the maesters think it’d be scarlet fever?” The prince asked. “I do not know… perhaps they only saw her flushed face and felt her temperature and concluded that it was scarlet fever because, as you had said, she had it twice. It is easy to conclude that it could happen to her again.” Aemond observed. 

“I shall write to our brother again,” The prince muttered and moved to leave the room, but before he could reach the door, it opened to reveal your eldest brother and your newly wedded cousin, Eliza. “I was already on my way to the north when I stumbled upon the messenger you sent— how is she?” 

“Eliza, you shouldn’t be here,” the prince said and tried to nudge away his cousin. “How is she? She’ll be fine, yes? Oh gods! I knew we should have just held the ceremony in Father’s castle!” She exclaimed in guilt, resisting as your brother tried to push her out of the room. “She’ll be fine, Eliza. Now go, enjoy your honeymoon.” The prince sighed, but Eliza resisted, “I want hourly updates! I swear to the gods, if you keep me in the dark, I’ll bury you in the snow, cousin.” Eliza threatened, a small, amused smile coming to the prince’s lips through these trying times. “Very well then, now go.”

When Lady Eliza had finally gone, your eldest brother finally spoke. “It’s not scarlet fever,” He remarked, placing a damp towel on your forehead, a measure that they seem to forget amidst the panic. “Thank gods,” the prince sighed. “Thank gods indeed, I do not think her heart can handle it— it’s already weaker than the others.” Your eldest brother muttered, glancing toward Ser Aemond whose concerned expression never faded. 

Aemond licked his lips and avoided the gaze of your older brother. You had told him that your eldest brother came to know of understanding, and he could only hope he truly understood and did not utter a word of it. 

“If not scarlet fever, what then?” The prince questioned, “Just a very high fever, which would explain her unconscious state— once her temperature lessens, I’m certain she would wake.” Your brother explained, and Aemond finally let out a breath of relief. “Where’s father?” Your elder brother asked your eldest brother. “Praying,” He answered, and the prince was quick to frown. “What?” He asked in disbelief. The king was not a devout man, he only kept up appearances in the sept for the sake of the crown, but to hear him pray not out of duty but of necessity was quite shocking. 

“I shall find him and tell him what you had said,” The prince muttered. “Better find him fast, lest his knees freeze— they’re already stiff as it is,” Aemond chewed on his cheeks as your eldest brother somehow lightened the tenseness they had since the morning. 

“So… you’re looking after my sister,” Your eldest brother said slowly, tense as it was his first conversation with the knight. “Yes, my pr— lo—“ Aemond once again stuttered as he did not know how to address your brother. “Lord,” He corrected, and Aemond nodded. “Well, I suppose it best that it is you who watches over her instead of the maesters who misdiagnosed her ailment.”

“My sister has always been a sickly child,” The lord remarked. “They believe it is because she came earlier than expected or because of the amount of wine the queen drank while she was pregnant,” he sighed as both men sat across each other. Your brother by your right, and Aemond by your left. 

“Might I ask you something, my lord?” Your brother nodded, and Aemond took a moment to articulate his question properly. “It is just… I had noticed that the queen is not particularly fond of the princess,” Aemond said lowly. “You can say it plainly: she hates her.” Your eldest brother said heavily. “But why?” Aemond waited as your brother hummed. “How do I say this delicately… I’m certain my sister shared with you the true manner of our father’s and her mother’s marriage?” Aemond nodded. 

“Well, father had little affection for the queen. There is some, but it is a minuscule amount. The only intimacy they shared was for the sake of procreation, and I suppose the queen thought she could make father fall in love with her, but the only thing father truly loves are his children… and when the queen gave birth to a girl, she saw my sister as competition.” Aemond frowned severely at your eldest brother’s words. “Father had always only wanted a daughter. So, when my sister was born, he no longer saw reason to be in the queen’s presence except for appearances and familial dinners.” 

“I honestly do not know how she bears it— our brother had always tried to protect her from the Queen’s wrath, but even he could not sway their mother’s hatred for her.” The lord sighed and settled further into his seat, tired as he had journeyed through the cold just to reach his sister. “You could go and find rest, Ser Aemond. I can look over my sister,” The lord said as he tried to stifle a yawn, and Aemond was quick to shake his head. 

“It is fine, my lord. I can watch over her. It is my duty, after all,” The lord hummed and did not have the energy to disagree with Ser Aemond. “Very well, I’ll just be in the other room. Summon me if my sister is in distress— such high fevers do come with the risk of convulsions,” The lord informed as he stood. “And if you could change the towel atop her forehead before the hour of the nightingale, it would be best…” The lord trailed, distracted as he looked upon his sister concerning Aemond. “Why? What is the matter?” He asked, alarmed. 

“Nothing, I just noticed the furs… she looks like a baby bear,” Your brother breathed out a laugh, and Aemond felt a smirk inching to his lips. Your eldest brother seemed to have a gift for finding a light in dark situations. “Good night, Ser Aemond.” The lord said as he exited the door, leaving Aemond to be alone in your presence once more. 

Aemond did not sleep that night. He spent the silent hours reading to you one of the books you had bought for the trip, changing the damp towel on your forehead, and brushing your pets' fur as you would always do before you went to sleep. 

When morning approached, Aemond's hold on your hand never tired. He rechecked your temperature, which had subsided, but your skin was still warmer than usual. Earlier, you had stirred during your sleep, your small action bringing hope and fear to Aemond because he thought it might be the convulsions your brother had warned him about, but at least you were showing signs of consciousness.  

When the sun rose and bathed your chambers in its golden hue, Aemond again brought your hand to his cheek. “Please, my heart, open your eyes… please,” Aemond said softly, begging his princess to bless him once again with her gaze. Aemond lowered his eye as he was just met with silence. But he quickly raised his gaze as he felt your finger move against his skin, “My heart?” He called as he looked upon your face, your eyelids twitching, and a low hum left your lips. 

“Oh, thank gods,” He breathed out as he leaned forward to asses you further. “You’re fine… you didn’t leave me,” He breathed out in relief as he cupped your cheek, your mind still hazy and muddled from your fever. “Leave…? Why— why would I leave you? Where would I even go?” You asked, disoriented as Aemond’s face hovered above yours. Through your impaired vision, you see the concern in Aemond’s eye as if he were ready to weep. “Oh, what’s wrong, my love? Had something happened?” You asked in concern, forcing yourself to open your eyes to see Aemond more clearly and thoroughly. 

“Nothing… it’s nothing,” Aemond breathed in relief as he looked into your eyes, tiredness still evident but finally opened. That was all he could ask for. You gave him a weak smile as your finger still caressed his cheek, a low moan leaving your lips. “Do I smell custard tarts?” You then asked, making Aemond let out a low chuckle at your words. “Yes, you can have all the custard tarts you want, my heart,” Aemond said and placed a kiss atop your head before turning to a table to acquire your sweet treats. 

“Did someone call me a baby bear again while I was asleep?” You then asked making Aemond chuckle as he returned to his seat with a platter of custard tart, taking your hand in his and giving the back of it another kiss. “No, my heart, that must have been a dream,” he fibbed, all the heaviness he felt subsiding the moment you woke and spoke to him.

Unbeknownst to you both, your father stood and watched the whole scene through the ajar door. A witness to how you ever stoic knight turned soft just for you, who looked at him with your tired, love-filled eyes. The king witnessed as his beloved daughter retold the story of his grandmother. 

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[ghoulsbounty]

From a Previous Life

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bound and fearful, you seek answers from a mysterious stranger about the fate of those you love.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of death, pregnancy, non-detailed talk about experimentations, angst, grief, swearing, judgement, flirting (if you squint)

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: My first Cooper fic! I've had this idea going around my head for a hot while and I really could go on, and on with more (yearning, smut, etc) but I just wanted to get out an initial one-shot that could potentially turn into more if any one likes it (or I end up adding to it anyway!) I'd love to hear your thoughts 💌

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Silently, you moved through the desolate wastelands, each step stirring clouds of dust and veiling the once lively towns now reduced to rubble. Somewhere in California, though the exact whereabouts blurred, you were leagues away from the sanctuary you once called home, apparently almost two centuries ago. Time, to you, was an elusive concept, for the stiffness in your joints and the lingering ache betrayed the recent thaw from cryo-sleep. Your mind remained ensnared by fog, a residue of the drugs coursing through your veins during preservation.

Yet, your senses, dulled by centuries of slumber, detected his presence long before he materialized. Heavy footfalls pierced the barren silence, prompting a cautious glance over your shoulder. There he stood, solitary amidst the wasteland, a gun slung lazily across his back and a weathered ten-gallon hat shadowing his features. Perhaps he had spotted you, perhaps not; regardless, neither of you quickened your pace, silently agreeing to maintain a wary distance.

Ever cautious, you abruptly veered into the next structurally sound building, bracing for a potential standoff. Praying it wouldn't come to that, for the meagre supply of bullets salvaged from a fallen vault security guard, coupled with his erratic pistol, offered scant reassurance. The art of marksmanship was foreign to you, a skill unbefitting a woman of virtue in the world before its descent into chaos. Your pride lay in nurturing the home, not in extinguishing life.

"What would your husband make of this sight?" you thought. Clad in the worn remnants of the blue and yellow jumpsuit issued upon vault entry, now stained with blood and grime from your desperate flight. Would he mock your dishevelled appearance, your unadorned face and frayed nerves? Would he marvel at the pistol clenched tightly in your grasp, its weight unfamiliar and your trembling fingers poised on the trigger? Could he shoulder this burden, like you wish he was here to do so? Such musings left you unsettled, your husband's whereabouts a lingering question mark, conspicuously absent from your side.

Peering cautiously from beneath the window sill, your gaze swept the scorched landscape beyond. The lone figure should have drawn near by now, should have approached the building where you lay in wait, yet his silhouette remained absent from the horizon. Instead, the frigid touch of a gun barrel against the back of your skull sent a shiver down your spine, your body tensing instinctively under the ominous threat. You suppressed the cry that clawed at your parched throat, swallowing hard as you slowly lowered your pistol to the ground beside you.

"That's it, nice and slow," he instructed, his voice gruff with a hint of amusement. "You might be my easiest catch yet."

Realization dawned upon you—he had been tracking you. You inwardly chided yourself for your naivety before complying, raising your arms slowly with palms outstretched. Encountering no one in these barren lands, you were uncertain of the customs among people so removed from your time. You were one of them now, but survival demanded adaptation.

"Please, I don't have any money," you offered, hearing his scoff. "I mean it. Take my gun, you can have it."

His movement rustled the air, his presence brushing against you as he leaned to retrieve your pistol. A low hum of amusement escaped him, and you felt the cold barrel of his gun pressing against your skull before it vanished altogether.

"I don't want your hunk of junk, sweetheart," he drawled, tossing it back to the ground beside you. "Doubt it can punch through a tin can. No, what I seek is your cooperation."

"O-okay, yes," you agreed, the words tumbling from your lips almost too hastily, embarrassment flushing your cheeks.

A nudge at the side of your heel prompted you to turn and face him. You complied, shifting on your knees, arms growing weary as they remained raised above your head while you awkwardly pivoted to meet his gaze.

The scream tore from your throat as you beheld him, sending shivers down your spine. He loomed above you, his visage warped by decomposing, discoloured flesh that swathes his form. Cracked lips parted to reveal yellowed teeth in a perpetual grimace, his once vibrant eyes now a haunting shade of blue-green, still clinging to a trace of humanity amidst the decay. You recoiled at the absence of his nose, now a dark cavity amidst cartilage and bone.

"That's not polite," he admonished, his narrowed eyes betraying annoyance. Trembling under his scrutinizing gaze, you stammered out an apology, extending a trembling hand to ward him off as he took a step forward.

"Please, leave me alone. I-I don't have anything," you pleaded, but he showed no sign of relenting. Your fingers curled around the pistol on the ground, raising it shakily in his direction.

"Well now, what are you going to do with that?" His smirk deepened as you aimed the weapon at him.

His amusement infuriated and terrified you in equal measure. You were aware of your body shaking, aware that he saw it too. You hadn't formulated a plan, hadn't considered the consequences. But you'd never faced a situation like this, especially not with someone so grotesque yet strangely human. He spoke like a man but resembled a monster, reminiscent of the creatures from the old sci-fi holo tapes your husband used to rent on Friday nights, leaving you cowering behind embroidered cushions until the credits rolled. You weren't built for this, but just like only hours before, you must fight.

With a tight grip and clenched eyes, you pulled the trigger. The recoil sent you crashing against the wall, the impact jarring your head as the bullet ricocheted through the room, narrowly missing the man and striking a nearby doorway with a sharp ping.

"Well, that was disappointing," he remarked, his head cocked and lips drawn into a condescending smirk. "You finished, sweetheart?"

With a mixture of annoyance at your failure and frustration at his dismissive demeanour, you tossed the pistol at his feet. Your head throbbed, and as you tentatively touched the back of your skull with trembling fingers, you were unsurprised to find them stained with blood.

"Are you going to kill me?" you panted, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

He shook his head, kicking at the dirt with his pointed boot before crouching in front of you. "Not much use to me dead, not much use to me at all if you don't cooperate," he emphasized, his tone dripping with implication.

"Fine," you huffed. "What do you want?"

A triumphant hum escaped him as he straightened up, retrieving a long rope from his hip and tossing it into your lap. "Tie your hands together," he commanded.

You hesitated, eyeing the rope and then him with uncertainty. His tone shifted, imbued with a hint of authority as he spoke again. "The rope goes around your wrists or around your neck. Either way, you don't want me to be the one to do it."

With deft fingers, you hastily wound the rope around your wrists, striving to fashion a knot that would hold without chafing your skin too severely. He bent down, giving the tether a firm tug to test its security before nodding in approval. Seizing the other end lying in the dirt, he yanked it harshly, nearly causing you to stumble forward onto the unforgiving ground.

"Get up," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

You complied, awkwardly pushing yourself to your feet without the use of your bound hands. There was a pregnant pause as you gazed at him expectantly, awaiting further instruction. However, he simply tugged on the rope, turning to lead you out of the dilapidated building and back into the sprawling wasteland.

You followed him into the desert expanse, both of you shrouded in silence save for your intermittent attempts to coax answers from him. Questions about where he was taking you, what he planned to do with you, hung in the air, but he offered no response. Instead, he whistled a tune, leaving your inquiries to dissipate into the wind.

As frustration reached its boiling point, you dug your heels into the sand, exerting force against your restraints as the rope cut into your skin. A hidden thrill coursed through you as you witnessed his hulking frame falter against the resistance, a fleeting moment of satisfaction before he regained his footing. His narrowed gaze met yours from beneath the shadow of his hat.

"I'm cooperating," you asserted, your voice strained. "You can—should at least tell me where we are going. Why you're doing this to me."

A heavy sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping as he gazed skyward before meeting your eyes once more. "You're sure dumb for a pretty thing," he muttered, retrieving a flask from the recesses of his torn duster and taking a long swig. "I guess that's how they like to keep you down there."

As he turned to face you fully, his eyes rolled at your bewilderment before he elaborated. "Not much up here untouched nowadays, so when you see a little rabbit wandering the lands fresh from her cage, a smart man doesn't think twice before he acts."

Anger surged through you at his mocking words. Barely escaping your 'cage' with your life, barely comprehending the aftermath of the bombs, and now captive again—this time by a man, no, a monster, likely more sinister than those who had ensnared you initially.

"You already said you're not going to kill me, so you're going to fuck me or sell me," you asserted, mustering more confidence than you truly felt, chin lifted defiantly as he scrutinized you, tucking his flask away.

"Now you're catching on," he replied cryptically, offering no further explanation as he tugged at the rope and resumed walking. Your mind whirled with apprehension at his ominous response. Which fate awaited you? Both? The thought churned your stomach, imagining the touch of his weathered, calloused hands, pondering the atrocities he may have committed before and the ones he might be willing to commit now. You resolved not to make it easy for him, determined to fight tooth and nail if necessary.

"I can hear you thinking from over here, vaultie," he called back. "I ain't gonna fuck you," he added with a smirk, glancing briefly over his shoulder at you before continuing. "Ain't my type."

You scoffed, your brows furrowed in disbelief at his audacity. Doubt crept in, questioning if someone like him truly had preferences, more inclined to prey on anything within reach rather than adhere to any type. He resembled a monster more than a man, and you suspected his instincts remained consistent regardless of his words. Out here, where the population had dwindled to ashen, skeletal remnants of unfortunate souls caught in the blast, it seemed unlikely anyone could afford to be picky.

"What happened to you?" you demanded, your voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

He visibly stiffened at your question, briefly halting his movements before resuming with a dismissive gesture. He heard you, yet chose not to respond.

"I said, what happened to—"

"I heard you," he snapped, cutting you off. "Doesn't mean I owe you an answer."

You huffed, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I'm just trying to understand what's going on! Yesterday, I was in my kitchen baking a key lime pie and dancing to the radio, and then—"

"Miss your cage, vaultie?" he interjected, a cruel chuckle escaping his lips. "If you miss it so much, why are you out here?"

Straining against your restraints, you heard him sigh in annoyance as he came to a halt. Turning to face you, irritation etched on his ghoulish features, he regarded you with a jutted hip and clenched gloved fingers tightening around the rope. "I'm not talking about the vault," you said earnestly. "I was in my home yesterday, just a normal day. Then the sirens blared, so loud I couldn't think. My neighbour, she came to my door, told me we had to leave, find safety. I didn't want to go without Glenn, but everyone was running, scared. I was too."

"When we reached the vault, it was chaos," you continued, his attention now fully captured, eyes glazed. "So many people, struggling to get in. But we made it, and... my neighbour, Patti—she's my friend. She had just given birth to her first child, a beautiful baby boy." You swallowed hard, suppressing the bile that threatened to rise in your throat. "They were supposed to let us in, we were pre-selected. But when we arrived, they turned Patti away. Shot her husband when he fought back," you recounted, the horror of the memory still fresh. "Then chaos erupted. The first nuke fell, and I was pushed through to the vault door. I lost Patti."

He regarded you with a sombre understanding, silently urging you to continue.

"When I entered, it wasn't like the commercials," you spat bitterly, recalling the false promises of safety. He cleared his throat. "That actor, going on about how great the vaults were—'a vast and wonderful place,'" you mocked with disdain. "Mine wasn't like that. It was... They did unspeakable things to us, to unborn children, and there was no recourse. It wasn't right. I knew what they wanted, deep down, but my head told me not to be so naïve. Vault-Tec was supposed to be saving us."

Tears welled in your eyes as the memories flooded back, as vivid as if they had happened yesterday, because to you they did. "They threw us into pods, froze us until they needed us. Took us out for testing and... I was the last one. Everyone else had... died, from the testing," you choked out, the pain of loss still raw. "I fought to survive, because I couldn't let what happened to those women and their babies happen to me or mine."

He listened intently, his eyes widening as he took in your story. His gaze flicked to the small swell of your stomach below your tied wrists, realization dawning.

"So I need to know," you implored, your voice trembling with fear. "Is what happened to you also what happened to Patti and her baby? Will it happen to mine?"

He studied you, and you felt yourself shrink under his penetrating gaze. You hadn't intended to divulge so much, to reveal your condition that you had desperately tried to conceal until it could no longer be hidden, to relive the trauma that still haunted you, though in reality centuries had passed since its occurrence. Yet, you needed answers. You needed to know what lay ahead in this desolate wasteland, and if you possessed the strength to face it.

"Yes," he answered quietly, his voice laden with a heavy solemnity. "It will, in time."

Fresh tears traced their path down your cheeks, and you nodded in understanding, raising your bound hands to wipe at your wet nose. "Okay," you whispered, then smiled sadly in resignation as you rubbed your wrists gently over your stomach. "At least up here, we had a little freedom for a time."

You felt the rope that he had been keeping such a tight hold on slacken before being dropped to the ground. Stepping towards you, he gingerly took your wrists and began working on the knot, untying it with ease before meeting your gaze from beneath his lashes. "You just gained a little more."

"You're letting me go?" you asked, doubtful.

"I'm letting you choose," he corrected, his voice carrying a peculiar weight as he rubbed the tender, burned skin of your wrist where the rope had left its mark. His thick thumb felt rough against your flesh as it traced over you in a gentle, swiping motion. "There are things worse than me out here, sweetheart. Are you going to take your chances?"

His words hung heavy in the air, and you met his gaze defiantly. "I don't need your pity."

"Good, because I ain't giving you none," he replied, his tone firm.

You held his gaze, neither of you willing to be the first to look away. Moments ago, he had been intent on taking you to an undisclosed location to sell you for whatever passed as currency in this wasteland, but now he presented you with a choice—a grim ultimatum. Stay with him or fend for yourself in the harsh wastelands. Neither option was ideal, but you hadn't lasted a single day on your own before being apprehended by him. Perhaps it was better to stick with the devil you knew, especially if there truly were worse threats out there as he claimed.

"I'm going to get bigger, you know. I'll slow you down," you warned him. "And I can't fight."

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he gathered the discarded rope and secured it at his hip. "I've seen you shoot, but I've yet to see you fight. I think a few vault security guards could probably vouch for you, though," he teased, a hint of admiration in his voice. "You can't stay with me forever, nor would you want to. I'll take you to a safe haven for women in your condition. It's a few months' journey north from here. Until then, try to keep up."

You pondered his words, feeling a sense of relief at the prospect of a safe haven and the promise of being escorted there, despite the long journey. "Why the change of heart? What's in this for you?" you asked, curious about his sudden shift in demeanour.

His expression tightened, his gaze drifting to the small swell of your stomach that you now cradled protectively. "Righting some wrongs from a previous life," he answered solemnly, not waiting for your response before turning and beginning to walk away. He paused momentarily, waiting for you to follow.

"I don't know your name. What do I call you?" you called out after him.

He pondered for a moment, gazing out into the vast desert before turning back to you, tipping his hat in acknowledgment.

"Ghoul, for now."

[fazedlight]

Leaning In

Everything felt strange.

It felt strange to see sunlight again. To walk into her apartment. To hug Alex again, hug Lena, hug the rest of the superfriends. To hear cars roll by and planes overhead and people everywhere. 

Compared to the phantom zone, everything was strange.

Wires were crossed, Kara thought, looking over at Lena with an overwhelming sense of guilt at what she had almost done, days before. Lena sat quietly on Kara's couch with a glass of wine, eyeing Kara from across the coffee table where Brainy and Alex were finishing out their game of Monopoly.

It had only been four days since her return, and Alex hadn’t given her a moment of solitude, so overjoyed to finally have her sister back. And Kara was glad for the noise, for the life that was back in her life with all the superfriends, chatter and colors and hugs instead of the desolate wasteland of the phantom zone. 

But in that time, Kara and Lena hadn’t had a moment alone together, leaving a sinking pit in Kara’s stomach when she thought about when she’d next have a real conversation with the Luthor. Does she realize?, Kara thought, Does she know I almost tried to kiss her?

The phantom zone breaks people. It’s why Krypton used it as a prison, why it became such an effective deterrent. Her brain wasn’t normal when she returned. She normally knew better. Knew better than to try to kiss her best friend. But in her traumatized and mostly isolated state, Kara had briefly forgotten the sort of decorum required with normal living - that her months of wishing she were home in Lena’s arms didn’t mean that her daydreams had become real.

Brainy finally won the game of Monopoly - proud that he had been able to knock Lena out of the game early, virtually guaranteeing his victory - and the superfriends finally began packing up to go home. Alex pulled Kara into a tight hug, planning on giving the kryptonian some space for the night, the first where Kara would sleep in her own bed instead of the Tower. “Coffee tomorrow morning?” Alex asked adamantly, Kara quickly agreeing.

One by one, the superfriends made their way out the door - until only Lena remained, still sitting on the couch, though she had set down the glass of wine. Kara turned awkwardly from her place by her kitchen island, watching the Luthor still watching her.

Slowly, Lena rose from her seat, making her way over to Kara. “Can we talk?” she asked.

Kara nodded, glancing nervously to the side. She knows. “I’m sorry,” Kara murmured. “When I came back, I- I wasn’t thinking.”

Lena’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You don’t need to be sorry, Kara.”

Kara tilted her head back up at Lena. “Are we- are we talking about the same thing?”

“Aren’t we?” Lena said quietly.

Kara swallowed. Just lay the cards on the table, she thought to herself. “I’m talking about - I tried to kiss you. Before I remembered you wouldn’t want it. I mean, even if you did-” Kara cut herself off, glancing to the floor. Rao, I should’ve thought through this more instead of babbling…

But to her surprise, she heard Lena step towards her, until the brunette was close enough to clasp onto Kara’s hand. Kara glanced up again, taking in Lena’s demure expression. “Even if I did?” Lena asked.

Kara’s eyes flitted between Lena’s, noting how her heart was beating faster, how there was a light blush crossing her face. Oh, Kara thought, feeling a small burn on her own cheeks as she realized what was happening. “Even if you did,” Kara said shyly, “I wouldn’t want our first kiss to be in front of everyone else.”

Lena smiled softly, giving Kara’s hand a gentle squeeze. “We’re alone now,” she said. 

Kara smiled back. “We are,” she said warmly, pausing for one more moment to take in Lena’s face. Lena tilted her head, and Kara leaned towards her.

And this time, she didn’t stop.

[pedropascallme]

Stars Above

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x f!Reader

Summary: "Perhaps sensing your discomfort, he smiled, and the thin remnants of his lips cracked open to display yellow teeth. 'You ain’t never seen a ghoul before, vaultie?'"

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) canon typical violence and lots of it, threatening language, angst, description of a panic attack, descriptions of cannibalism and dead bodies, age gap obviously (Cooper is canon 200+ years old; reader is written as early 20s), guided masturbation (f receiving), themes of voyeurism/exhibitionism, a ton of dirty talk, very mild degradation, phonetic spelling of Cooper's accent because I can, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: part 2 here!!

You had miscalculated just about everything about the surface.

You’d underestimated the ability people had to be cold and calculating in their cruelty. You’d underestimated the difficulty of navigating the endless Wasteland. You’d underestimated the effects radiation might have on you, leaving you fatigued and nauseous despite the Rad-X you’d been sure to pack away safely in your satchel.

Maybe you should’ve read the warning label.

What was worse, you thought, was how badly you had overestimated yourself. You were so certain you would be able to make a name for yourself—make a name for those you would meet; find kindness in the sand and friends in low places.

But you were just a small drop in the bucket, and nobody wanted a name. They wanted to survive in silence and safety.

You were out of rations, and nearly out of water. You’d sweat gallons through your vault suit, making the fabric itchy as it clung to your skin, and causing you to shiver sporadically as the setting sun invited a chill over the landscape. You dragged your feet over the sand, leaving a path behind you, and part of you wondered if you should just drop dead right there. The sand was soft, warm, and maybe dying on your own accord would be more comfortable than dying by the hand of someone who would kill you simply for the sheer rush of spilling blood.

You stopped moving, slumping down to the ground and coughing. There was a deep ache in your lungs, and heaving up dry air did little to quell the overall discomfort.

You wove your hands through the sand, letting it fall through your fingers.

Could you just go home? Had you ever really had a home?

You pushed down a wave of nausea, swallowing the bile that pushed up against your throat, Tumbledown buildings crumbled around you, and for once in your life you felt truly small. Once, when you were young, you had been sent to your room, and in a moment of frustrated panic you’d felt as though the walls were caving in on you. You’d stood on your bed, pushing up on tiny tiptoes, pressing your hands to the ceiling, refusing to let the walls squeeze you into a cube of yourself.

You smiled at the memory. You wished now more than ever that you could stand on your toes and push against the sky.

You heard something echo in the distance, and, flinching, squinted up into the horizon. Metal rooves reflected against the fading burden of the sun; another echo sounded, something like spurs on scrap, and you sighed, heart heavy in your chest.

Maybe this town would be the one to offer solace.

You stood on tired legs, making haste in the direction of the noise.

~~~

The tinny sounds had ceased long before you walked through the broken arch announcing the town. It was desolate, as if everybody had vacated the area before you’d made contact. Part of you took it personally, and you pouted rather childishly.

In the dimly lit dusk, you roamed the empty paths under flickering lights, stepping over caps and carts that had been turned over. When you came across a body, it became apparent that the clamor you had followed was the result of a gunfight.

You stepped over the body, too.

You had never stared at death before making your way to the surface, and it had come as a shock to you that it didn’t bother you more. Blood wasn’t as bright as it was in the movies, nor did killers give any heated last words before pulling the trigger. Any executions you had seen thus far were dull and hurried. You thought back to an old movie you watched once, one that ended with a cowboy executing a rowdy criminal, and you wondered if anybody bothered to monologue their slaughters the way he had.

You’d long forgotten the title of the film and the name of the actor, but you remembered finding him handsome.

You stooped on bent knees to pick up a piece of fruit that had fallen from one of the overturned carts. You sat there, gnawing at it, feeling the sour bites you took fall into your empty stomach. You made it to the core, tossing it over your shoulder and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. But you paused, remnants of the bitter juice still on your lips when your head shot up to analyze your surroundings.

Someone was watching you.

The sound of footsteps approaching were made all the more unsettling when paired with a boisterous, ugly laugh. Still on your knees, you squared your shoulders, looking up to meet the eyes of a man in bloodied garb and a gun on his hand.

“Saw you eating that,” his teeth were sharp, and his voice high, “Not good to litter, vaultie.” He stopped in front of you, hands on his hips as he scrutinized you. “Why don’t you go crawl over and pick that up.”

You didn’t move. He put his hands on his knees to lean over you, fumbling with his revolver.

“No,” you tried to sound confident, though your voice was quiet and didn’t carry far, “I don’t want to. Thank you.”

He howled, and it made you wince. “Thank you, now that’s sweet,” his gun came up to poke under your chin, “Thank you…I wasn’t asking, girl.”

You tried to find your voice again, but the barrel of the gun was pressed into your neck, and you knew he would seize on any reason to pull the trigger. You inhaled through your nose, trying to buy yourself some time.

A shadow came up behind you, wrapping you in darkness as something approached soundlessly. The man in front of you faltered, and you watched as the confidence drained from his eyes.

“Ain’t that sweet…” A drawling voice, almost saccharine, came from the source of the shadow, and you knew then that it was someone. “Find y'self a toy there, Otis?”

The man—Otis, maybe—who had previously seemed so cocky with his demands, retreated into himself slightly, straightening back up to his full height to meet the eyes of whoever stood behind you.

“You’re not welcome here, Ghoul,” he scowled, “Finders keepers.”

“Well, now, I don’ think y’really in any position to give orders.” It was only now you that wondered whether you were being fought over not out of any sympathetic, weeping heart on behalf of the person behind you, or whether this was a battle for who got to see your blood flow.

“Yeah?” Otis chuckled, “Why’s that?”

You saw the man behind you gesture with his gun in your peripheral. “You got a hole in yo’ neck.”

You watched Otis squint in confusion in the split second before a shot whirred above your head and hit him clean through the throat. He crumpled to the ground, gagging on death, before he let out a damning noise and ceased all movement.

You took deep, shaky breaths, finding the courage to stand up, to turn around and get a good look at your savior.

When you did finally came face level with the man called ‘Ghoul,’ you felt that your initial instinct in referring to a thing behind you had been more apt after all.

His skin was reddened and chapped, marred with scars that covered his face and ran down his neck. He was hairless, as far as you could tell, and his eyes were sunken deep below the ridge where his eyebrows should’ve been. He was decked out in a cowboy costume, long duster to match his Stetson, gun strapped to his hip that paired nicely with his ammo belt.

He had no nose.

Perhaps sensing your discomfort, he smiled, and the thin remnants of his lips cracked open to display yellow teeth. “You ain’t never seen a ghoul before, vaultie?”

You continued to scan his face, and after a few fleeting moments you met his eyes; you couldn’t tell what color they were, if they were hazel or brown or maybe just yellow, muted by the evening, and the shadow cast over his face by the brim of his hat.

No matter the color, you thought they were pretty all the same.

You hesitated, shaking your head.

“Well, ain’t you lucky. Now yo’meetin’ The Ghoul.” His eyes widened, menacing but amused, and you took a step back, nearly stumbling on Otis’s lifeless feet.

“Th—um. Thank you,” you ignored his grandiose introduction, “For…” You gestured behind you.

The Ghoul tipped his hat forward, “Not a problem.” He took a step back, mirroring your movements, “C’mon now. S’dark.”

You made a face, “Oh—no, I…Thank you, for, you know, for helping me out, but I don’t—I’m not really looking for—”

He whistled, and the shrill cut you off, “You really don’know a question if it hit ya in the ribs, sweetheart.” He smirked, “I wasn’t askin’.”

“But I don’t,” you started, watching as he unraveled a rope from his side and tied a knot into it, “I would rather not go with you. I’m—you caught me at a bad time, really, I’m usually just fine by myself.”

“Well…” He tightened the knot, “you keep tellin’ yourself that while we walk.” He swung the rope over his head, and you realized too late that he had been tying a lasso. It came down around your midriff, trapping your hands at your sides when he pulled.

“Hey!” You tried to fight, moving your elbows beneath the constraint and burning your skin in the process.

The Ghoul circled you, stooping down to pick up the gun that had fallen off of Otis’s person, before his face came to peek over your shoulder, cheek to cheek with you. “Hi, there.” He smirked, tugging your restrictions.

~~~

You were used to endless roaming by now. It’s all there was to do; outrun the danger before it could find you, then do the same again when faced with a new conundrum. But the Ghoul walked fast, long strides made tuneful with the help of the spurs on his boots. There was a nice consistency, the metal almost sounded like a lilting voice, though you wished it was less frantic.

You had lost feeling in your fingers, unable to grip your belongings properly, and in a kind gesture that you hadn’t expected from him, the Ghoul hoisted your bag onto his shoulder. You were stiff and sore, and maybe the rope was keeping blood from rushing to your brain, because you couldn’t stop staring at him from behind, watching the way his gloved hand pressed into the bag—your bag—on his hip.

“Where are we going?” You piped up, breaking the silence you’d been stewing in for the past hour. You got no response, so you pushed on. “Where are you taking me?” He didn’t break his stride, pulling you along like the lost puppy you were. You pulled your body against the strain of the rope, digging your heels into the ground and stopping in your tracks. “And what’s a ghoul?”

You watched his shoulders slump as he, too, came to a halt. He let out a sigh, turning around to face you. “Nowhere,” he counted on his fingers as he began to answer your questions in order, “Wherever I go. Me.”

You shifted awkwardly on your feet. “So…you’re the only one?”

“Never said that.” He turned his back to you again. “Y’see that clearin’ there,” he pointed into the distance at a group of rocks sunken into the sand. “That’s your bed t’night.” He started walking again, and you followed suit.

The night cast long shadows over the expansive nothingness, and the air made you shiver. The wind pushed at your hair, which in turn clung to your temples with the excess sweat of the day.

“You aren’t the only one, then,” you kept talking, “Are you—is it the radiation? Or are you a…a people?”

He let out a short chuckle. “The only people left. Far’s I’m concerned.” He skirted around your question, leading you around the rocks and finding a comfortable spot that left you hidden in the darkness. He dropped the rope, tossing your bag to the side as he did so, and you grumbled about how he shouldn’t be so careless with things that weren’t his own. He ignored you, walking over with an expressionless face and deftly tugging the knot from the rope. It fell in a heap around your ankles, and you let out a thankful, happy noise. He tossed a glance your way, eyeing you almost curiously, before beginning to make a small fire at the center of your open-air hideout.

You fell to the ground, exhausted, and addled by the events of the past few hours. You closed your eyes and tilted your head back. The rock behind you may well have been a pillow, the ache in your bones finding comfort in even the most unyielding of resting places.

You opened your eyes tentatively, reluctant to see any more of the Wasteland that you had so callously thought would welcome you with open arms. When you finally blinked up, the blackness of the night blanketed you, and with it, there were stars.

Not stars like the ones on a TV screen. Not stars like the ones behind your eyes after staring into your lamp for too long. Not stars like the ones you drew on your ceiling as a child. Not stars like the ones projected in the common area during a dinner you were told was meant to authentically replicate a Fourth of July celebration.

Real stars.

Gaseous beings that reflected against the sand, lightyears away but close enough to touch, if you could just reach out and grab one; cradle it in your cupped hands and let the fire permeate your palms.

Treat it like a child. Treat it beautifully.

“What’re you lookin’ at,” the Ghoul’s rasp broke you from your existential musings.

You looked forward, finding his sunken eyes across the light of the fire that paled in comparison to the light above you. “If you…if you wanted to kill me, I’m ready now.”

You watched weathered skin stretch taut across his yellowed teeth. You knew it was, perhaps, a bit inappropriate, but for a moment you couldn’t ignore the way the word ‘beautiful’ bounced around your head when you looked at him.

“Not gonna kill ya,” he poked at the fire with a stick, “No good t’me dead.”

“Well then, what?” You lost your filter, uncaring. There were stars in the sky, there was air on your skin, and you didn’t care if you died in the middle of the barren land your ancestors would have once called home. “What good am I to you alive?” You let a laugh out, thin and strained, “Are you just keeping me around so I—so I don’t get lonely?”

He tossed the stick to the side, and the sand caught it with a pathetic thump. “How long you been in them vaults?” He leaned forward.

You made a face, searching for a tone in his gaze. “My whole life,” you scoffed. He knew that.

“’N how long you been up here for?”

You looked away, embarrassed, and tried to hide how you attempted to count the days on your fingers. “I…don’t know…” You gave up.

“You don’ know,” he stared into the fire, “Don’t know shit about lonely.” There was a beat of silence, and the whisper of the wind filled the gap in conversation. He straightened out, meeting your eyes again and smirking as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just been thrown back to a time when he would’ve come home to a freshly cooked meal and his daughter on his hip and his dog circling his feet. “Plus,” he rustled a hand in his pocket, pulling out an inhaler and taking a puff, “You’ll make good bait.”

“Good bait?” You interrogated him.

“Ya noticed how bad news seems t’follow you round here?” He stretched his arms behind his head, and you felt a sudden heat on your cheeks that you chalked up to sunburn. “Pretty thing like you pro’ly has a whole army o’folks after her. ‘N I’m guessing them folks ain’t the kind you’d like t’hang around.”

“Like you?” You raised a brow, throwing his words back at him.

“You’d like that,” he huffed. “Darlin’, I’m playin’ the oldest game there is: set a trap ‘n the critters will fall into’t.”

You mulled over what he’d said, narrowing your eyes and looking at your hands as you came to your conclusion. “You’re talking about—you’re a bounty hunter…” You looked back up at him, and he was grinning. “And you’re talking about using me as a decoy!” Your posture straightened, and you stared daggers into him.

“Guilty as charged,” he tilted his head at you.

“You can’t do that—I’m not just going to let you do that.” You fumed.

“Don’t have to,” he shrugged, jutting out his lower lip, “Can leave right now, ‘f’ya want.” His features morphed into a grim smirk, “But I don’t think a li’l vaultie like you knows a goddamn thing 'bout what’s waitin’ round the corner.”

You swallowed, trying to form a biting response, but he continued.

“But, hell, f’you wanna risk it…” he put the inhaler back into one of his pockets, “Be my guest, vaultie. Free t’go.”

You huffed, and he smiled. He was right, and you both knew it; left to your own devices, you'd be dead in that town he found you in. You settled into your fate.

“Don’t call me vaultie.” You muttered, tired of the way the seemingly derogatory title had been hurled at you since you first emerged from the safety of your life underground.

“Gonna have to tell me y’name, then,” he tilted his head, waiting. You told him your name, and he laughed. “Look’it that. Friends already.”

“You’re not my friend,” you didn’t know where the venom was coming from; somewhere between him helping you out and him sitting in front of you now, you’d decided he was attractive, charismatic, maybe not the worst company you could be stuck with. But after learning what your new role was, you felt more than a little cheated.

“Damn right I’m not.” He whistled, and you turned away from him, curling into a ball on the ground.

“’M going to sleep,” you grumbled. “Wake me up if you decide to go fishing,” you raised your head for a moment, “You’ll need your lure.”

That got you a real laugh, the first genuine sound you'd heard from him.

And you liked it, despite the ire you felt towards him now. 

~~~

You woke up under the blazing sun with sand in your hair. You blinked hard, trying to remember where you were, how you got there, and what had happened to your bag.

Your questions were answered when a shadow engulfed you from above, and you looked up to face the Ghoul.

He had his hat off, letting you gather more evidence to support your belief that he was completely hairless. He stayed quiet, looming over you and watching you groan under the misfortune of wakefulness.

You grunted at him, pushing yourself up to stand, shaking the sand from your body as you did. “You didn’t wake me up last night.”

“You complainin’?” He knit his naked brow.

“No…just, I figured you might want me to keep watch,” you dug sand from your ear, “You trying to tell me that you’re fine just going without sleep?”

“Succeedin’, by the sound of it,” he smirked, and you pursed your lips. “You can stay up as late as ya want next time, darlin’. Don’ let me stop ya.”

“I won’t.” You snatched your bag from his hand and turned to find a way out of the maze of rocks you’d slept in.

He grinned. “Lead on, then.”

And you did, spending several days on a loop; walk, rest, walk, sleep, wake up, pick a direction, repeat. He shared rations and water, he let you sleep when he could’ve forced you to take watch, but he was quiet. It was as if he was so used to life as a predator that he couldn’t even toy with the idea of letting his guard down when there was nobody but you around for miles upon miles. And it wasn't as if you were any threat to him.

It drove you crazy. The benefit that came with having someone like him, skilled and sharp, was greatly dampened by the lack of any real socialization.

You were grateful, at the very least, that it had only taken him a night to decide you no longer needed to be constrained; you liked being able to carry your own things, and, even more, being able to use your own hands. Your arms still felt raw, fading rope burn wounds licking shallowly at your skin under your sleeves, but at least you were free to stretch them now.

The Ghoul stayed several steps behind you when you walked, always keeping his distance but watching closely as you struggled to pretend to know where you were going.

Now, you wiped sweat from your forehead, stopping momentarily to let a cool breeze whip at your face.

“Hell are you doin’ now?” The Ghoul’s dry voice was carried to you by the wind. It was the first thing he’d said to you, unprompted, in two days.

“Feels good,” you sighed, turning to him with your eyes closed and holding your arms out beside you, “The wind. It’s nice.”

“Won’t be in a second.” You opened your eyes to green clouds in the distance behind him. “Because that,” he motioned back at the clouds with his head, “s’a radstorm. And you,” he tipped his hat at you, grazing the brim with his fingers, “Ain’t gonna do too well out in it.”

As if on cue, a bolt of lightning shot down, followed by a loud clap, emphasizing the Ghoul’s words.

“Better have some Rad-X in that bag, sweetheart,” his lips were parted, and you noticed that, although his teeth were yellowed by years of chewing on god knows what, they were remarkably straight. “Oughta get ya under cover.”

You’d heard about radstorms, and assumed, in your naivete, that you’d be able to make it through one without any problems. But the speed at which the disagreeably green clouds approached, and the tone of voice used by your companion, made you feel as though this, too, was something you’d been wrong about.

Maybe you went pale, looking as nauseous as you felt, but then there was a guiding hand on your waist. You jumped, unprepared for any contact and ready to gripe about it, before following the man’s gaze beyond a small sand hill.

“C’mon,” his eyes stayed trained on a ramshackle house just a short distance away, “Can wait it out.”

You nodded, falling over your own feet when he began walking at a brisk pace. The hand he’d placed on the small of your back worked as leverage to get you to hurry up and match his stride.

You closed the door just as the wind started to pick up.

“Woo,” the Ghoul raised his arms above his head, stretching. “S’a nice place we got here.”

You looked around the building; some remaining wallpaper clung to the walls for dear life, there was a couch that looked to be more sand than cushion, and a single table, overturned, in the corner.

“Is it?” You questioned.

“Ya wanna go check outside, see f’ya prefer that?” He challenged, and you backed down, scowling at him.

“How long will the storm last?” You trailed your eyes over the cabin, trying to see if there was anything worth looking at.

There wasn’t.

“An hour,” the Ghoul situated himself on the sofa, “A day. Maybe two.” He took off his hat, fanning himself with it.

“So…we’re stuck here?” You finally let your eyes wander over to him, finding yourself oddly enamored by the way his high, hollow cheekbones framed his face.

“You got somewhere you wanna be?” He stretched his arms over the back of the couch, leaning back and spreading his legs. You blamed the pulse that went through you on radiation, turning away to rummage through your pack for Rad-X.

“Just not much to do.” You swallowed the pill, kicking at a pile of sand that had found its way onto the wooden floor.

“Welcome to the surface, darlin’,” he gestured vaguely, and you rolled your eyes, trying to hide the smile that etched itself onto your lips.

“Doesn’t help that you don’t talk.” You tried to fill the silence that you knew was imminent.

“Talkin’ now,” he shot back, moving his hips from the couch to get properly settled, and you knew you couldn’t blame radiation for the way you squeezed your thighs together.

“Yeah, but,” you acquiesced to your urge to join him on the old sofa, “I’ve known you for less than a week, and even I can tell it’s a rarity.”

“Maybe I just don’t like you,” he smirked, putting his hat back on, and you frowned at him.

“Then you wouldn’t be keeping me around for company.”

“Bait,” he corrected you.

“Call it what you want,” you let your head fall back onto the couch, “Still choosing to keep me around.” You waited anxiously to see if he would point out that it was you who had taken the opportunity to stick with him, after his vague threat of what loomed in the wastes made you back down from your plan to run that first night.

You closed your eyes, listening to the storm batter the house outside. He took the moment to look at you, analyzing your features. He took in the positive glow that reflected off of you, yet to be rubbed off by the experiences you were sure to have.

Maybe he’d be able to buy you some time. Maybe that glow wouldn’t fade.

“Sure,” he nodded, “Whatever y’wanna tell yourself.”

You nudged his knee with yours. It was an adolescent approach, something you would’ve done during classes; playing footsie with the boy you thought was cute, with his hair slicked back and his vault suit pressed and tidy. Something done for attention, in the hopes that maybe he’d take even the smallest of hints and return the childish gesture of affection.

The Ghoul was not pressed and tidy. But, and you were slowly admitting it to yourself, he was cute.

You couldn’t see yourself ever admitting it to him.

“You never answered my question yesterday,” you realized now was as good a time as any to quiz him, stuck with you while the storm raged. “What’s a ghoul?”

“Yes, I did,” he had let his eyes close, too, “I am.”

“That’s not a good answer.” You tsked, “I wanna know—I want the real answer,” you moved to sit on your knees, “Give me the real answer.”

He opened his eyes, scanning you up and down. “Yer damn good bait, sweetheart,” he nodded, giving in and facing you. You thought maybe he was paying you a compliment, but you swallowed the urge to ask him what he meant. “I don’t know what to tell ya other than I am a ghoul.”

“Why?” You pressed.

“Why’d’ya think?” He countered, “Case you didn’t notice, we ain’t in one o’your underground lairs. Radiation’s gonna get us all, and when it does,” he leaned forward, “Y’gonna look just like me.”

You swallowed, unsure if this was a threat or a warning. You looked down at his gloved hands, then back up at him. “Does it hurt?”

His expression was blank. You continued.

“Your—is it your skin?” You tried to clarify, “Does it hurt?”

His expression gradually changed to one of confusion as he processed your words; nobody had ever asked him something as simple as that. “Don’t hurt. f’I get shot…stings for a sec, but…y’get used to it.”

“So, you can’t really feel it?”

“Oh,” he let out a low chuckle, “I can feel it. Where it counts.”

You stuck out your tongue, and heat crept over the back of your neck. “Don’t be crude.”

“Ain’t try’na be,” he smiled, “You’re the one whose mind’s wanderin’.”

“So it just feels like skin?” You changed the subject, “Or is it more like muscle…or scar tissue?” Without thinking, you raised your hand and extended it forward, curiosity getting the best of you. He caught your wrist in his hand, the leather on his fingers pressing softly into your bone. You gasped, and he looked at you, cautious, fingers shifting on your skin. As if in slow motion, he raised your hand to his face, and you stretched out two fingers to ever so gently graze down his cheek.

His breath caught in his throat, startled by the intimacy of having someone touch him just to touch him. To feel him.

Similarly, you’d stopped breathing all together.

His skin was ridged and rough, but the small grooves between the scarred flesh were smooth, almost downy. You didn’t look him in the eyes, though you could sense his as they bore into you. You chose to examine the rest of his face instead, the bumps and scars and jagged edges that your hand ghosted over. Finally, you gave in, looking into his eyes for only a brief moment.

He had eyelashes. Small lashes, barely noticeable beneath his hat and the sunken hollows of his eyes, but they were definitely there. He looked pretty, this small part of him capturing some kind of hidden essence of humanity underneath his daunting character. The tiny detail had caught you off guard more than the act of being allowed to touch him had, and your fingers faltered, stuttering against his skin.

You let your hand go limp in his grip, and he let you retract it.

“So?” He questioned after a beat.

“What?”

“What’d’t feel like?”

“Oh,” you remembered what had led you to the opportunity to touch him in the first place, “Scar tissue.” You landed on, easier to say that than trying to explain that you thought his skin was as comfortable as velvet to drag your fingers across.

He lifted a brow, nodding in approval.

“How come you don’t have a nose?” More questions bubbled from your throat before you could stop them, eager to force the tension in the atmosphere to dissipate.

“God almighty, y’ask a lot of fuckin’ questions,” he wiped a hand down his face, “Decades of radiation ain’t forgivin’ on cartilage.”

“Decades?” You narrowed your eyes playfully.

“Don’t you go askin’ more, now,” he chided, “Ain’t polite to ask someone their age, they not teach you that down there?”

You dropped it for now. “You still have ears. Those are cartilage.”

“Not part of the original model.” He smirked, and when he saw you tilt your head, confused, he took a deep breath and continued, “Sometimes, darlin’, ya gotta use what ya find.”

Your eyes went wide, “They’re—you stole body parts?” Your eyes narrowed again, “You’re lying.”

He didn’t answer verbally, just shot a devious smile your way.

“How come I can’t see your brain?” You bounced to your next question.

“Would ya like to?” He shot back, and you cringed. “Didn’t think so.”

“But how come—”

“Jesus Christ,” he dipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his inhaler and taking two short puffs, “Can I get a word in, here?”

You let your next question die in your mouth, shelving it for later. You nodded.

“Why’d you come up here?” The Ghoul’s voice took a softer edge, and you couldn’t tell if he was mocking you or if he had some genuine interest in your case.

Either way, you thought it was improper, and you shook your head, barely enough for it to be noticeable. You’d been trying to ask the obvious questions, things you were certain he was asked all the time, that he’d have answers for at the ready. You hadn’t asked about his life, how he got out here or why he dressed like a goddamn gunslinger. You could’ve, but you were trying to be at least a little bit polite.

“That’s not fair.” You said simply.

“Alright, how come you got a nose,” he smirked, letting his words hang in the air before they dropped at his feet when he saw the way your demeanor had changed on a dime. “Now, look—I didn’t mean to make y'upset, sweetheart—”

“I, uh…” You took a long breath, gearing up for the challenge of communicating a logical answer. “…Do you ever sit somewhere so nice for so long, and then after a while you start thinking that it’s too good to be true?” You looked up at him, and the tears in your eyes were evident, “Like, maybe you sat on something, or the whole time there was a snake in the grass right next to you...or something?”

The Ghoul watched your face intently, hardly nodding.

“And even though the snake didn’t lunge at you, or, you know, you got to enjoy the peace and quiet before getting up and noticing you sat on something, it’s like, you’re flooded with these what ifs about what would’ve happened if you’d been sitting just a second longer…” You were looking at him, but you weren’t, really; your eyes went right through him, and you pictured a time when you thought nothing could ever go wrong. “Or if you’d never sat there at all.” You blinked, shaking your head, and you wiped a tear that had dared to breach over your lash line. “I had to get up, right? Outfit was stained…and I could see the snake getting ready to…make quick work of me.”

You cradled your chin in your hands, trying to control your breathing so you wouldn’t have to subject yourself to the embarrassment of crying in front of someone that likely wouldn’t care.

Your explanation echoed in the Ghoul’s mind. He thought about his divorce, that dumb fucking suit he’d been conned into wearing without really knowing what it meant.

A snake and a stain. He understood.

“Ain’t no snakes up here,” he tried his hand at reassuring you, “Can’t promise y’won’t get dirty, though.”

“I know,” you sniffed, “Got blood on me already.” You knew it was stupid to complain about, but you didn’t even know whose blood it was.

“There’ll be more,” he sighed, “But you’ll care less.”

You let yourself laugh softly. “Yeah,” you wiped your eyes, “Yeah. I hope you’re right.”

“I tend to be.” He smirked, back to his carefree, cocky demeanor. You rolled your eyes weakly, laughing quietly, and you found yourself leaning against him. His shoulder was stiff beneath your head, like he wasn’t sure how to hold himself in the situation that you’d put him in. You turned your head slightly, nosing his neck, and he didn’t stop you, though he stayed rigid.

You let yourself breathe him in; arid and smoky, the leather of his clothes mingling with the scent of sun that clung to his skin. There was something else, a note of iron buried under the warmer scents, the cold bouquet of dry blood. Having death flood your nose like that, you recognized, probably should’ve been alarming, perhaps even petrifying. But it wasn’t—not on him.

You liked it.

You sat back up, your face close to his, and if he had a nose, you were sure it would be touching your own. He didn’t look upset as his eyes darted over your face, which felt reassuring, even though you already knew you hadn’t really done anything wrong.

“Y’hear that?” He muttered.

“What?” You turned your head, trying to listen for whatever he was hearing.

“Storm stopped,” he cracked a small smile at you, and you breathed a sigh of relief. He stood up, making his way over the floor. “C’mon, darlin’,” he gestured to the door, “See if we can catch ourselves a rainbow.”

You let out a real, honest to god laugh. It gave you a hint of whiplash, how the Ghoul had managed to save your life, make you hate him, and then make you want to kiss him in such rapid succession over the course of only a few days.

You found yourself suddenly aloof to the idea that he was threatening to use you as a lure for unsuspecting bounties. He was keeping you around, keeping you safe, and you liked him just fine.

Maybe even a little more than that.

~~~

How far, at this point, had you walked? Miles of ground in front of you, miles of ground behind you. It felt like you’d gone nowhere, despite the thousands of steps you’d taken over the course of the week. You were going nowhere, you reminded yourself; aimlessly trekking across the Wasteland and finding what there was to find, looking at what there was to look at.

The Ghoul didn’t seem to have a job at the moment. He’d made it clear that he was employed—if you could call being a bounty hunter a regular nine-to-five—but he hadn’t made any moves to imply that he was searching for anybody, or anything, unless you were to count the vials and chems he ransacked from every hole and hovel he came across.

He continued to surprise and delight, and occasionally disgust, you. You’d seen him eat the raw flesh of dead and desiccated creatures—some that looked human—off the sand. (“Remember what I said, ‘bout usin’ whatcha find?” “That’s disgusting, you don’t know what kind of germs could be crawling around there.” “Think someone that looks like me’s worried ‘bout germs, sweetheart?”) You’d seen him draw a weapon faster than you could take a breath; you’d seen him kill a man without blinking.

But you were wowed by him all the same, the rasp of his voice and the way he whistled through his teeth, the life behind his eyes that teemed with stories of a past you hadn’t been able to shake out of him yet. You hadn’t touched him, had barely closed the often yard-wide gap between the two of you that had become the unspoken norm, since the day the radstorm hit.

Maybe it was for the best. What would your family say about him? They'd be disgusted, horrified by the mere thought of him.

That just made you want him more.

“Can we stop soon?” You withdrew yourself from your thoughts, tired of the way your muscles tensed with every step. The Ghoul didn’t respond, side-eyeing you from beneath his hat. “I’m tired. My legs hurt.” He smirked, and you thought you heard him huff a laugh, but the distance between you was too vast to pick up on the smaller sounds. “Don’t laugh at me, I can’t help you if I can’t move.”

That got his attention. “Y'think you’re helpin’ me?” He smiled. 

“Not burdening you…” You argued about what he’d left unsaid.

“Not doin’ much work, either.” He grunted, and you shot him a dirty look. “Keep on walkin’, darlin’.”

“I don’t want to.” You stomped your foot, regressing into the same shielded, spoiled vault-dweller you knew he thought you were.

“Then how ya gonna get over there’?” He nodded forward, and you followed the direction of his gesture, squinting to see a large, semi-burnt down storefront. “C’mon, sweetheart.” He kept walking, picking up his pace and forcing you to speed up after him. “Y’wanna break, or what?”

The building was in alright condition, as far as the other spaces you’d seen; the windows were broken, the glass finding its way to the ground and becoming sand after what must have been centuries of effort. Someone had started a fire, and ash flaked off the brick. You forced yourself on tired limbs to close the distance between yourself and shelter.

“Go on,” the Ghoul leaned against the doorframe of the store’s entrance, “Check it out.”

“You’re not coming?” You whispered. You knew he wasn’t. This, too, had become common: you were sent in—bait—and he followed behind you at a distance to keep an eye out on who- or whatever might jump out.

He stayed quiet, showing his teeth, and you pouted at him, making your way deeper into the old store.

There was no electricity, but the sun seeped through the cracks in the walls as it began to dip in the sky, creating an almost cozy ambiance. It was huge, the ceilings were high and the store itself must have once housed a near infinite amount of material goods.

You’d be lucky now if you could find a corner that hadn’t already been raided.

Everything was bathed in grays and blues, and you couldn’t tell if it was just the way your eyes adjusted to the dim light, or if the building had been standing for so long that the color had drained out into the desert. Either way, it was eerie, and your finger trembled on the trigger of the rusted pistol the Ghoul had given you as a means of self-preservation. You didn’t really know how to use it, but it was the principle of the thing, you figured.

You maneuvered your way around spent bullet casings and glass, trying to stay silent despite the echo of your footsteps. You heard spurs behind you, the Ghoul following your trail at a safe distance. There was a clamoring, something further into the building down a dark hall that sounded like machinery groaning. You jumped, and the gun in your hand slipped from your grip, sliding across the floor with a harsh skid.

You froze, wincing, and listening for any sign that you’d been heard. The sound of the Ghoul’s steps behind you had also stopped, and you knew then that you’d fucked up—if he was listening, waiting the way you were, then there was cause for alarm. With your heart beating in your ears, you bent forward, fingers creeping across the floor until you managed to get a grip on the tarnished metal of the gun. Standing with a sigh, you worked on regulating your breathing, trying to ease the way your heart beat in your ears.

And then you heard the snap of glass shattering, the rhythm of voices without any real words besides grunts and snarls. You jumped, and your back hit a wall with an unceremonious thump before you fell to your knees.

The sources of the noise approached, surrounding you and leaving you with no route out. You looked straight ahead at withered limbs, clothing torn around ankles and skin peeling off of bone.

And when you looked up, it was him.

Except it wasn’t, not really; the Ghoul was only one man, and before you stood four. All similarly scarred, with broken teeth and missing noses, but there was no individuality—no light in their eyes to tip you off as to who they may have been, once upon a time. The sounds they made were inhuman, screeches that seemed torn from their lungs, maybe due to pain, maybe due to joy, you couldn’t tell. And as they circled you, you didn’t want to find out.

You fumbled with your pistol, unsure of whether the safety was on or off. Your aim was unsteady, and the darting movements of the figures that crowded you made it even more difficult to find a proper target. You winced, aiming at a leg and pulling the trigger.

There was a bang, but it didn’t come from your weapon.

“Gotta do all th’fuckin’ work,” you heard the Ghoul, snide and confident even despite the gravity of the situation. He shot to kill, quick to find weakness, and chuckling when they fell in heaps atop their own feet.

You watched him kick at a corpse. The noise subsided as he holstered his weapon, but you had covered your ears and were unwilling to remove your hands.

“Hell was that?” The Ghoul was standing in front of you now, his voice muffled through your palms. You stared past him at the bodies on the ground, at one point daring to let your eyes dart from the deceased to the man who killed them and back; the similarities were glaring, and it made bile rise to the back of your mouth, fighting your throat’s constriction as you choked down tears.

And suddenly you were sobbing, pulse beating hard against your skin and sweat collecting on your back. You felt sick, you felt scared—maybe even betrayed. You were panicking, unable to breathe or speak or think, only aware of the fact that you were utterly terrified.

“Well, now—hey,” You’d uncovered your ears, wrapping your arms around your knees and squeezing them to your chest, letting the Ghoul’s voice travel to you with more ease.

“Y—” you felt like you were hyperventilating, “You.” Trying to voice your concerns proved difficult in this state.

The Ghoul watched on, the muscle in his jaw tightening as he debated what to do.

He didn’t like you like this. He liked you feisty and stubborn, chatty and glowing. In the dark light of the building, splattered with feral blood and choking on your own breath, you were far from what he’d gotten used to. It startled him a little, not the image of you crying—he’d seen you cry before, and he'd seen far worse from others—but the knowledge that, to an extent, it was his fault.

And he could blame his response on the part of him that still felt shame, something that morphed into a nagging urge to defend himself against accusations of being a downright monster. But he knew, deep down somewhere, that it was because of the part of him that still felt compassion; empathy, even fondness, for you.

That’s why he sat next to you, sliding his back down against the wall while you spluttered and coughed through tears.

He eased the old pistol away from you, pushing it into a crack in the wall and cursing himself for letting you have it in the first place. You’d be better off without it; he’d do all he could to keep you protected.

“Not me, darlin’,” he kept his voice low, “Ferals. Of which I am not one…” Yet, he could’ve mentioned, but even he could choose denial.

“They look—had your face.” You heaved, rocking back slightly.

“You really think I’m that ugly?” He laughed, but you remained despondent, painted with a thousand-yard stare. He took on a different approach. “Listen, now. C’mon, sweetheart, look.” He draped a hand over your shoulder, and despite the loose, open-ended nature of the touch, you felt significantly more grounded. “’Member how I said this face’ll be everybody’s someday?”

You nodded, remembering his jab at your question during the radstorm. Your heartbeat wailed against your skull.

“’N then, someday…” He hadn’t experienced difficulty in picking his word choice like this since trying to answer Janey’s question about where babies came from. “Someday it all turns to shit. You turn into a—a nameless drop in the bucket.” He said, frankly. “But it’s, uh…it’s preventable, to an extent.”

“You don’t have a name.” You stared at him, skin blotchy and eyes swollen. It broke his heart a little. “You already don’t have a name.”

“Happens to the best ‘f us.” He tamped down the stutter in his chest, finding a way to circumvent your unspoken question. "All ghouls, eventually...go a little feral."

“All ghouls turn feral…” You repeated the moral of his story, and he nodded.

He fished a vial from him pocket, holding it out to you. “Long as I got these, I’ll be jus’ peachy.”

You let him drop the vial in your hand, looking at the off-color liquid inside of it and squeezing it in your palm. “I don’t want…” You let go of the glass, holding it back out to him. “I don’t want it to happen to you.”

“Makes two of us,” he put the vial back into his pocket, sighing. “But I got plenty o’these, ‘n there’s always more t'be found.”

You stayed quiet, letting your limbs finally relax and spreading your legs out in front of you. There was a long pause that you spent calming your heart rate, letting your lungs relax.

“I like you the way you are.” You whispered, and it was those words that finally made him own his feelings; the way you are. Not the way you were, not who you could’ve been or who you were meant to be. You appreciated him as he was, and it was the first time in more than two centuries that he had felt any sense of warmth from another living thing. It was the first time in just as long that he’d felt like a man and not a monstrosity.

It was why he didn’t fight it when you wrapped yourself around him, arms tugging him down into a tight hug. He scoffed at the display of what he assumed—hoped—was affection, but he let his arms circle your body.

Your face pressed into his neck, firmer than the brief moment you’d shared on the couch, and you breathed him in now just as you had then; the heat and the tin of his skin, the leather of his duster, and the iron of his ammo belt that dug into your front. He was softer now, malleable to your touch, unlike the stiff, unmoving man he’d been when you leaned up against him all those weeks ago.

He rested his chin on the crown of your head, taking a long, deep breath. “’N I like you much more when you ain’t blubberin’ like a goddamn newborn.”

You giggled, knowing that it was the closest he'd get to telling you that he cared, even a little bit.

“The stars,” you mumbled against him, and he pulled back, trying to look down at your face.

“What’s’at?”

“That first night, outside. You asked me what I was looking at,” you explained, “And I told you that you could kill me if you wanted, instead of just answering you. But I was looking at the stars…” You sighed, settling back against the wall.

He scoffed. “Jus’ stars.”

“No.” You argued, “Not just stars. They’re everything.” You tilted your head at him, and he accepted with a shrug.

He let his head loll back, removing his hat and scanning the surroundings. He caught a glimpse of something in his peripheral, a wide crack in the upper part of the wall that let the night seep in. He elbowed you, nodding his chin in the direction of the hole that opened the building to the sky.

“Look‘t that.” He smiled at the way you lit up next to him, and he followed your gaze to appreciate the view in silence with you.

Comfortable next to him, centimeters replacing the usual feet between you, you saw life in the stars the same way you saw life behind his eyes. And he didn’t understand your excitement, until he looked hard enough and saw the same shimmer in the sky that he saw in you.

“Cooper.” He mumbled, still looking at the stars. You turned to him, lips parted in preparation to ask what he was talking about. “My name. I got one—Cooper.”

You smiled, an inexplicable sense of tranquility washing over you as the new knowledge settled in your brain. “Cooper.” You said, testing the weight of the letters on your tongue.

“Don’t go usin’ it up. Make me regret tellin’ ya,” he smirked, trying to hide his satisfaction upon hearing you say his name behind a veneer of callousness. “Got a reputation t’keep.”

You breathed deep, not quite a yawn but more than a sigh. “I know, Cooper.” You rested your head on his shoulder, not to test the waters or attempt a romantic gesture; it was just pleasant to experience something quiet, personal, like this. “I know.”

~~~

“Christ, you sleep like a fuckin’ rock.” His voice was the first thing you registered when you opened your bleary eyes. Your neck was stiff, your cheeks felt crusty with the residue of dry tears, and the floor was crooked. You’d fallen asleep on him, perched just under his shoulder, and he’d let you. “Snore, too.”

“Yeah, well,” you sat up, rolling your neck and wincing at the cracks that sounded from your joints as you stretched, “Sleep comes easy when I have my guard dog watching out for me.”

He scoffed, a small smile forming on his lips. “Don’ expect me to bark for ya, sweetheart.”

“All you do is bark.” You rolled your eyes, beginning to find the motivation to stand.

“S’not true,” there was a glint in his eye that you couldn’t read into fully, “Could bite ‘f’I wanted.”

You’d seen him land a shot without so much as glancing at his target. He was telling the truth.

You sighed, finally standing. You folded yourself over your front, touching your toes and trying to loosen the knots in your back. “Well, Coop,” you straightened, “Can I call you Coop?” You second guessed your courage, unsure of whether or not he’d take kindly to you shortening the name he’d only just entrusted you with.

“You my fuckin’ publicist?” He quirked a brow up at you, recalling the dozens of conversations he’d had that had begun just like this.

“I should be,” you straightened out, rolling your shoulders and shooting him a grin. “You could use one.”

He scowled at you. “Y’gotta question or what?”

“What now?” You shook out your limbs lazily.

“What now?” He echoed your words. He stayed on the floor, legs in front of him crossed at his ankles. “What’ya mean, darlin’?”

You didn’t really know what you meant; usually it was him calling the shots, but he seemed to be waiting for some kind of prompt. “You know, I mean…what should we…do…today?” You spoke slowly.

“Today?” He laughed, “Today…sweetheart, today’s come ‘n gone.”

You knit your brow, confused, and he pointed in the direction of the crack in the ceiling. It was still dark—dark again if you understood him correctly.

“You let me sleep all day?” The notion made you feel a bit frantic for some reason, having grown accustomed to sleeping for barely four hours at a time over the past few weeks. His constant need of movement made it hard to rest easy.

“You needed it,” he shrugged, picking at a spot on his duster.

And you had needed it, but the idea that he had let you doze for what was, as far as you could tell, close to a full twenty-four hours was more than a little puzzling; that he had let you sleep on him for the duration is what really threw you for a loop. Maybe the fact that you knew him by name made him nervous. Maybe it made him nervous enough to let you make decisions for the both of you now, for fear of the fallout.

Or, and much less likely, you thought, but much more appealing: maybe he just wanted to let you rest. Because you needed it. And he didn’t mind acting as a placeholder for a pillow.

The butterflies in your stomach made haste upwards in your body and settled in your heart.

“I did.” You deflated a little. Regardless of any reason behind why this had happened, you still felt guilty about making him lose the span of an entire day that could have been spent wandering in whatever direction called to him. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t got a reason to be.”

“I made you—”

“Didn’t make me do a goddamn thing, sweetheart.” He ground his teeth together, jaw swaying back and forth.

“We could be somewhere else by now.” You tried to argue, squaring your shoulders.

“Got nowhere to be.”

His words were spoken with a sense of finality, and you knew when to back down.

“I been thinkin’,” he piped up again when you got quiet. He finally made the move to stand; he winced as he bent his knees, his body having grown accustomed to staying in the same position for so long.

“About?” You watched him stretch.

“You still wanna wear that?” He waved his chin at your figure, forcing you to examine the tattered sleeves of your vault suit that were caked in dirt and debris—and more than likely a few pints of blood from various donors. “Just—seems like more of a hindrance than anything.”

“It’s fine.” You sneered at him, unsure of why you decided to get defensive. It was a creature comfort, of sorts, and while it certainly got the wrong kind of attention out in the open, getting rid of it felt like stripping yourself of the only identity you’d ever really had.

And he knew that, which is why he had voiced his thought. Not only was it something people would use—and they had used it—against you, but it was obstructing your ability to move on completely. He felt a sense of responsibility in ensuring that you managed to maintain a level of dignity in your soul searching.

“It’s hangin’ off o'you in shreds.” He continued, and you shifted on your feet. You couldn’t deny that any emotional connection to your outfit was outweighed by discomfort of the holes and tears it had collected. You bit your cheek, looking down at the floor and back at him in silent acknowledgement of his point. “Y’gotta change o’clothes in that bag?” He grinned, and you frowned.

“No...” There was no use now in coming up with any snark retorts. He licked his top teeth, staring at you “So, what?” You tried to find his point, “You want me to strip down and wander around naked?” If he asked you to, it was more than likely that you would obey without a second thought. By now, you knew better than to feel disgust for confessing things of this nature to yourself. But even so, you knew this admission was probably not a good reflection of the unrelentingly self-contained attitude you tried to show him.

Not to mention that nobody had ever so much as seen you without a shirt on, let alone the whole nine yards.

He bit back any response that might expose the interest he had in your suggestion, though he raked his gaze up and down over your body, smirking, before sucking his teeth and shaking his head. “We’re in a fuckin’ store.” His eyes finally met yours, and you stared back at him blankly. “Full ‘f clothes.” He continued, and you understood.

“There’s nothing left,” you spread your arms out for emphasis, gesturing to the run-down remains of gutted shops.

“Ooh, I bet ya there is.” He turned on his heels, taking long strides that had you jogging to catch up with him as he made his way down a corridor and towards a defunct escalator.

The sound of his boots against the tile floor echoed across the building, and even despite your long period of rest, you felt sluggish and unprotected; your back was an easy target, and with every click of his heel you found yourself turning your head, peering back into nothing, just in case.

“Nobody here,” Cooper noticed the constant swivel of your neck, “Relax.”

“How do you know?” You tried to cement your gaze forward.

“Would’a heard.”

“That’s—you can’t expect to hear people coming in this building, it’s huge.”

“Can hear you,” he gave you a pointed look, and you quieted yourself. “Here we go.” He nodded to a heap at the far end of the open space you’d found yourselves in. You squinted at the pile, and you could make out individual shapes and parts.

Bodies. Stacked atop one another as they wasted away into soggy organic matter. You began to make out whole people, some fresh enough that they could still leave an identifiable fingerprint.

“Cooper,” you froze, shoulders rigid and eyes wide in fear and disgust, “I don’t—”

“C’mon now, sweetheart,” he walked right up to the collection of putrefying bodies, bending down to peel a strand of flesh from a bloated arm that flopped out of the mass. “Clothes for you, meal for me.” He smirked, rolling the loose skin in his fingers before putting it in his mouth.

You sucked your lips into your teeth; the primal actions he often displayed made you feel pure in a way you wanted to rinse yourself of, shower in the wild side.

But only if he was the one scrubbing.

You shook your head. “This is the best you could do?”

“Tailor’s outta town,” he sneered, “Could’a just said thank you.”

“I—no, I respect the…attempt…” You dug your toe into the worn floor.

“But…” Cooper tilted his forehead at you, picking skin from his teeth with his tongue.

“But this is gross. Come on, even you know this is gross.”  You crossed your arms, peering up at him beneath knit brows.

“Use what’cha find.” He said simply, reiterating his mantra. You huffed, letting him have the final word.

You rounded the pile of bodies, looking out from behind Cooper as he sorted through the gore to find a suitable mark for his next move. He let out a triumphant noise when he turned over a man who was yet to begin the latter process of autolysis, providing the ability to smoothly undress him.

“This feels wrong.” You grit out when Cooper had removed the corpse’s overshirt. “This goes against—this is unethical.”

“You wanna change o’clothes or not?” Cooper rolled his eyes, and you piped down.

Despite your protests, spoken and cringed, you continued to watch as the body was stripped of its earthly possessions. Shirt, shoes—lucky bastard even had socks. Cooper tossed them all your way, throwing the clothes over his shoulder and at your chest. When he reached to undo the man’s belt, you felt your chest tighten; it wasn’t discomfort, per se, but it wasn’t anything pleasant, either. Something about seeing someone naked for the first time in this context made you feel melancholic. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, both in the sense that you felt that you were invading the privacy of the dead, but also in the more selfish sense that you felt it would be ruining something for you.

You turned around, trying to find something else to stare at instead of following the Ghoul’s hands as they roamed over the corpse for any hidden gems. He didn’t notice your movement, holding the jeans he’d unfastened from the dead man behind his shoulder to pass on to you.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” He turned to face the back of your head after a minute of shaking the denim at you. “Don’ tell me you decided t’get squeamish now, darlin’.”

You turned around to swipe the pants from his hands. “Not squeamish,” you started walking away, scouting out an area that would offer some seclusion, “You’re just being gross.”

“Me?” He feigned shock.

You stopped walking, turning to face him, rolling the skin of your cheeks between your teeth. “Come on…smells bad.”

Cooper waved you off, unsheathing a dagger and butchering a nearly unidentifiable limb off of a corpse. He flopped the meat over his shoulder, putting the dagger back into the sleeve it had been pulled from. After fiddling for a few more moments with the bodies, discovering two more vials of his precious chem in threadbare pockets, he held the carved appendage out to you; he swayed it as if it were part of his own arm, urging you forward. You scoffed, turning to walk away, staying several steps ahead of him.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

~~~

You had to hand it to him, Cooper knew how to scavenge; the clothes he’d taken off the body were only slightly too big on you. It was nothing rolling the cuffs up and tearing off some excess fabric couldn’t fix. You felt less constricted—free to move about without the limitations, both physical and mental, of your ruined vault suit.

“Couple holes.” You ducked out of the old storage room you’d found to change in and made your way back to the Ghoul. He’d started a campfire on the linoleum flooring, and you didn’t question how or why.

“You’ll live.” He tore chunks of flesh from the decomposing arm he’d procured. “Better than what ya had.” You watched as he rotated the meat clumsily over the fire with his hands, barely giving it enough time to rise back to living temperatures before taking it off the flame to gnaw from the bone.

“Yeah,” there was no point in arguing. He was right, and you felt silly for finding issues with what you supposed he might consider a gift.

You sat next to him in silence, knees grazing but not creating any real tension. Something about him was so much more reassuring now, a sort of consolation to being stuck in a world so far from what you’d imagined, than just the mysterious man with no nose or empathy that you’d pegged him for that first day.

Even if he was noseless, you tried not to laugh at your internal monologue, he definitely had more feelings than he let on—he cared and commiserated and let you sleep for way too long.

And you felt safe in a way you’d never felt safe before; far from any made-up threat you’d been taught to watch for in the vault, faced with genuine danger for the first time in your life, you still felt that, somehow, by his side, no harm would come to you.

It was more than a feeling. It was a fact.

You stared, unashamed, as he continued to take bites out of the disembodied arm. Cooper glanced at you from his peripheral and slowed his chewing, daring you to say something.

“What’s it taste like?” You finally gave in.

“We playin’ twenty questions again?” He shot back, swallowing what was in his mouth and throwing what was now mostly bone and muscle to the side.

“Is it like regular meat?” You pushed on, ignoring his quip.

“Y’ever had reindeer?” Cooper leaned back on his hands, and with his face only a few inches from yours, the position felt oddly intimate.

“No…” You tilted your head.

“Gamey,” he explained, “Like beef.” He smiled, “Course the flavor, it varies…person to person.”

“Funny.” You stuck your tongue between your teeth. You still thought it was gross, but you couldn’t deny that he made even cannibalism a light subject.

“Yeah? My turn now.” He sat up, “Why’d you get weird ‘round the bodies back there?”

“I was weird with the bodies?” You tried to play dumb.

“Got all prissy.”

“Did not.”

“Oh, yes y’did.”

“You were being disgusting…”

“When am I not?” He pointed out, grinning, and you conceded with a small smile and a nod of your head. “Cmon sweetheart…did it really bother you to see me doin all’at?” He seemed genuinely puzzled by you in this moment. You looked away, staring at your thumbs as you twiddled them in your lap. He took a chance, gloved fingers coming up to your chin and brushing your skin ever so gently. He refocused your gaze on him. “…Cause I won’t do it no more if it makes y’feel…weird.”

“No. it’s not…” You took a deep breath. Maybe it was stupid to get sensitive about it, maybe it was stupid to feel strange about the situation in the first place. You doubted that anybody in the Wasteland ever thought twice about seeing another person’s body—dead or alive. “I’ve just never seen anybody naked before.”

Cooper’s hand dropped from your face and into his lap. “Y’fuckin serious?” He grinned, “You’re kidding.” He was clearly on the verge of laughter, whether from amusement or shock, you couldn’t tell.

“No, I—look. I know it’s not a big deal, it’s probably not something people even think about up here. But it felt—something about seeing another person naked when they’re not…like, when they’re completely lifeless and unaware, it felt wrong to do that.” He didn’t respond, so you continued, “And honestly, it probably sounds insane, or, at the very least, maybe, a little selfish, but I felt like it was wrong because it would be stripping them of a choice, but it would also be stripping me of any choice. You know? Like, maybe it doesn’t matter to everybody else out here, but I’d like to…I mean, I want it to matter as much as it can, at this rate.” You sucked in a breath, deciding that you were done with your rant.

The Ghoul stared at you, his eyes wide but his bald brow knit in an obvious combination of delight and curiosity.

“You never seen a naked body before?” He tried to make his voice come out evenly, hiding his amusement.

“I…never like…” you failed to think of something that might lessen the blow of your revelation, “Not really, no.”

He let out a whistle, shaking his head. “Hell are y’all doin’ in the vaults if you’re not fuckin’?” It was rhetorical, you knew that, but you still felt defensive.

“There’s plenty to do.” The words came out flat, and you laughed nervously to lighten your tone.

He chuckled. “I bet.” He sucked his teeth, letting his eyes flicker over you again. There was a pregnant pause. Dead air hung between the two of you while you tried to ignore his gaze, opting to pick at a loose thread on your new shirt.

“Plenty to do…” You tried to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—that would help ease the tension.

“Yeah,” Cooper let his head loll back, “Let’s hear it, then.”

You scooted back on your hands to give yourself the room to properly face him, situating yourself a foot away to allow for the physical space to think.

“Movies to watch and…chores to do…” You tried to think of anything worthwhile you’d done growing up in the vaults but found yourself coming up dry. “Sometimes there were, you know…events.”

“’N you never found yourself at one o’those events with some arm candy?” He was taunting you, and he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that he was getting a sort of sadistic thrill out of seeing you squirm under his playful interrogation.

“Slim pickings.” You huffed, staring into the fire.

“I’ll be,” he smirked, “For someone so sure of herself, you ain’t seen nothin’, have ya?” He was thinking out loud, analyzing you to your face.

You felt the need to correct him, both out of self-preservation, but also because, and this was a bigger reason than you cared to own up to, you wanted him to know that you weren’t scared of anything—especially not the thing he was implying.

Maybe you were naïve, but you weren’t stupid.

“Don’t really need another person to have a good time.” You made a point to catch his line of sight, eyes holding his as you tilted your head against your shoulder.

The Ghoul whistled, long and low. “Well, now. Talk about self-sufficient.”

You felt heat rise in your face, dappling your neck with a rosy veil. “I’m not stupid, Cooper. I know what you’re talking about.”

“What am I talkin’ ‘bout, darlin’?” He goaded, fingers toying with a button beneath his collar.

“Just cause I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I’m some sort of—I dunno, some sort of…poor shrinking violet who can’t figure it out,” your heart was in your throat now, afraid to take the conversation too far but so desperate to get a reaction out of him. “I know how to…to, you know…” You let your voice fade, chickening out when he failed to change his facial expression.

There was another long stretch of silence. Cooper let his head fall forward, arms coming to rest, folded, over his stomach, as he anticipated the end of your sentence. When you didn’t come out with it, he prodded you verbally.

“Know how’ta what?” He grinned, yellow teeth on display and tongue darting between them in a movement you were sure he wasn’t even conscious of. He leaned forward further, moving his face towards you without actually budging an inch from his spot on the floor. “You don’t know how to deal with death, how t’use a gun—y’barely even know when you’re too tired to stand…” His tongue pushed through the crack in his top and bottom rows of teeth, wetting his lips. “But ya expect me t’believe that y’know how to make yourself cum?” He let his tongue rest on his bottom lip before closing his mouth, sneering mischievously. There was a bright speck of something in his eyes that seemed to be fighting with the more devious glint brewing in him, and paired with his brazen statement, it tugged at your core.

And despite it all, you felt completely at ease; the sudden suspense and the violent thrum of your heartbeat aside, you were almost entirely calm. You knew you were safe, that the solace he cloaked you with spanned to even the most random and uncertain situations or conversations.

So you continued on.

“Took some trial and error,” you felt nervous laughter bubble up from your throat, “But I got the hang of it.” You smiled, before quirking your brow and addressing yourself more so than him, “I think.”

“You think…” He repeated, eyes narrowing as his gaze turned inquisitive.

“Just, you know…” You squirmed under his gaze now, “Not really a how-to manual on touching yourself…”

He exhaled, laughing through the hole where his nose should’ve been. “Maybe not in the vaults.” He dug in his pockets, unsure if the lightheadedness he was feeling should be blamed on a lack of chem in his system or on the topic of conversation. He took a puff before settling again. “Plenty o’guidance up here.”

“You mean, like…porn?” You smiled, shooting him a knowing look.

“At one point. Not anymore,” he sagged a little, “Lucky if ya find a fuckin’ playboy mag up out here.”

“You seem disappointed by that,” you prodded, teasing.

“That’s cause I am,” he shot back, stretching his shoulders.

“Well, all I’m saying is I know what I’m doing.” You rested your back against the wall, hands clasped in your lap.

“And I’m sayin’ that I sincerely doubt it.” He put the inhaler back into his pocket, deciding it was definitely the conversation that was to blame for the way his head swam.

You let his words hang between the two of you momentarily. Then, on a whim, figuring that you’d had plenty of chances before, and being unwilling to let another one slip away: “I could show you.” You didn’t look up at him, but he stiffened, his eyes unwittingly falling to stare at your hands. “How I…how I touch, I mean.”

You braced yourself for rejection, looking up sheepishly and letting your hands fall to your sides. He was already looking back at you, lips parted and eyes half-lidded—he could say no, and he thought about it for a moment. But, Christ, it had been a long time. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn’t say no.

Not to you. Not when it came to something like this, a vision, a woman untouched by the grit and grime of the surface, offering up something that now seemed so holy.

He sucked in a breath; he had never been a church goer. He thought maybe now was a good time to make up for all the sins he’d committed—worship at the shrine of you, talk you through your own wrongs and absolve himself of the thoughts he’d been having since he’d first encountered you all those weeks ago.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, sweetheart…go on ahead…”

You exhaled shakily, not even realizing that you’d been holding in a breath. You scrambled to lose the jeans he’d gifted you, eager to expose yourself, immensely grateful for the chance that had dropped in your lap.

“Hold’t,” his voice cut through your motions, and you froze. You’d gone too far, surely. He recognized the error he had made by giving you the go ahead and was now taking it all back. “Y’gonna listen when I say you’re doin’ it wrong?” He sucked on his lips.

“I won’t—I don’t do it wrong.” There was no bite to your argument.

“I asked ya’a question,” he continued, “Y’gonna listen t’me? Gonna fix your mistakes ‘f’I tell ya to?” He bent one knee, resting his hand limply between his legs. “Do what I fuckin’ say to do?”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, trying to hide the impact his words had on you. “Yeah,” you nodded, “Yeah, Coop. I will.”

You thought maybe you heard him growl, but any noise coming from him was muddled by the sound of your zipper finally coming undone.

“Good,” he nodded, “Knew you could be a good girl. Just need’a blow off some steam, huh?”

This time, you couldn’t avoid the soft moan that slipped past your lips. Cooper let out an amused exhale in response, eyes trained on your hips as you wiggled your way out of the pants.  

“Yeah, you like this,” he got comfortable, resting one arm behind his head, only nearly knocking his hat off. “Like gettin’ bossed around more than you let on, darlin’.”

“Shut up,” you tried to keep it together, kicking the jeans off your legs and tossing them to the side. But your words were unconvincing, especially with the way you barely smiled, breath hitching already and eyes wild and blown out. You did like it—but only because he was doing it.

He tsked at your response. “Not very nice. Big talk from someone with no panties on.”

In such a short time span, you’d already forgotten that you’d ridded yourself of your underwear. It was gross, and you’d had no change, and it wasn’t as if you’d be thrilled to peel the undergarments off a corpse. You figured commando was the most obvious way to go.

“That a bad thing?” You goaded him, running a palm down your naked thigh and seeing how long it would take to break his collected demeanor.

“Never said that,” he drawled, following your hand on its path down your leg. “Y’gonna keep puttin’ on a li’l show f’me, or ya gonna do what’cha promised?” He licked his lips.

“You don’t like a little showmanship?” You squeezed your thighs together, not missing how his chest rose.

“With my killin’,” he found your eyes, “Not with my pussy.”

If this was a competition to see who could keep it together the longest, you’d be losing by a landslide.

“Spread those legs f’me, baby.”

And with all the pet names he’d given you in your time with him, something as simple as the word baby falling from his lips and landing on your skin had you flooded with arousal.

You did what you were told, straightening your legs and feeling the tile of the floor cling to your skin as you opened them. The Ghoul’s gaze flickered between your face and your core, both positioned perfectly towards him.

“C’mon,” he nodded, “Show me how good ya make yourself feel.”

You knew what he wanted to see. Even after his claims of disliking the display you were putting on, you could tell that he was just being impatient for show. You wanted to draw this out, watch him come undone in sync with you despite the physical distance.

You let your hand roam over the tops of your thighs, feather soft touches making goosebumps erupt on your skin in anticipation for what was to come.

“How y’feel?” He disrupted the otherwise silent escapade you were undertaking.

 “Soft…” you mumbled, “Warm.” You didn’t know if he was asking about your emotions or for the physical description of what your skin felt like on your fingers, but your mind was blank with adrenaline, so you subconsciously chose to focus on the latter.

He took a deep breath, afraid that if he were to blink, he would miss something. “How ‘bout you drop that hand a li’l lower.”

You sighed as you followed his instruction. The pads of your fingers brushed your clit, and you squeaked out a moan.

How long had it been since you’d gotten any time to enjoy yourself? Certainly longer than the month or so you'd been on the surface; with Cooper, you never had the solitude or time to let yourself unwind, and even before joining him, you were more focused on surviving than you were on unwinding. 

You let your fingers circle your clit, building the pressure with every swipe. The friction made you buck your hips gently, sweat-slick skin sliding on the floor. You could feel the way your cunt began to drip, and you spread your legs wider, wanting to give him a proper view. You looked up at him, your face painted with an underlying uncertainty behind the overarching pleasure.

“You got it, sweetheart,” he reassured you, briefly biting down on his tongue when he saw the way your slit glistened, “Show me.”

You relaxed into your own body; fingers dropping lower to tease your entrance were met with a backing score of delicious wet sounds as you let the pads graze beyond your folds and kiss at your hole. You moved your hand at an angle to allow one finger to push into your cunt down to the first knuckle, but Cooper tsked at you.

“Not yet,” his breath was already becoming labored, “Show that pretty pearl a li’l more love first.”

The timbre of his voice made you shiver despite the heat that engulfed your skin. You nodded, staring up at him for guidance, just as you always did—though this circumstance was far different.

Your fingers came back up to toy with your clit, and you let out a breathy sound. He had been right to tell you to slow down, to continue to enjoy the friction instead of diving straight into the penetration; you felt light and malleable, like your body was taking a natural route towards the apex of pleasure without needing the frantic thrust of your finger.

Another moan slipped past your lips, and the Ghoul groaned in front of you, eyes glued to your center as you massaged gentle shapes onto your clit.

“Knew ya didn’t know what y’were doin’,” he chastised softly, voice uncharacteristically tender given the state of events unfolding. “Impatient thing like you just needs some instruction. S’at right, sweetheart?” He leaned forward, bending a knee, “Needed someone to tell ya how t’do it so it feels real good?”

You bucked against your hand, in the midst of discovering something new about yourself; maybe you did need it—maybe you liked it. It could have been the simple fact that it was him taunting you, telling you what you wanted and how you wanted it, but his words had you keening, and you let go of any remaining inhibition.

“Yeah,” you mewled, “Yes…” Your movements were getting sloppy, fingers frantic against your swelling bud. “Like—like it like this.”

He growled, pushing air through gritted teeth that formed a menacing smile meant only for you. “Slow down there,” he wanted to grab your wrist, to replace your hand with his own, but something about the chaste, urgent nature of how you touched yourself made him all the more eager to watch how your own movements played out. “Don’ gotta rush it, baby.”

You knew you'd been right—he did like a little showmanship.

“But—” You wanted to argue; it felt good, and the thought of stopping made you squirm harder. But with his eyes on you the way they were, and his hat tipping forward to emphasize his demand, you let the response die in your throat, slowing your fingers.

“Atta girl,” he praised, and your smile was paired with a small whine. “You like the way I’m talkin’?” He was playing with you, flirting while making sure the waters were still welcoming.

“I do,” you responded with a whimper, thrilled by the noises you made, having only ever touched yourself in silence for fear of getting caught.

“Good. Cause I’m’a keep goin’,” he leaned back once more, shifting slightly to ease the tightness that had sprung up in his trousers. “Give that pussy what she needs—slow, now.”

You pressed a finger into your hole, watching it soak in the wet that dripped from you. You wanted to go faster, to push it in completely and fuck yourself on it, but you refrained from the urge to do so and went leisurely as instructed.

“Fuck,” you breathed when the webs of your fingers stretched over your lips, as deep as you could get inside yourself. “Been a—it’s been a minute since I’ve done this.”

“Easy, now—s’why I’m goin’ slow.” He spoke as if he was the one touching you, as if his finger was buried within you in place of your own.

“Can I…” You fidgeted around your hand, “What next.”

“So fuckin’ eager t’please,” he chuckled, “Where was’s obedience out there, huh?”

“Had to make you work for it,” you smiled, your words carrying no malice as your hand became more saturated with your juices.

“Curl’at finger up,” he ignored your retort with a blunt demand, “Like yer callin’ me over.”

You did, and the spot your finger grazed made your limbs buzz and your core tighten. Your face must’ve changed to display your sudden pleasure, because Cooper let out a proud grunt.

“Didn’know’at was there, did’ya?”

“No…” You didn’t bother to explore the shameful feeling that nipped at your heels for being so unfamiliar with your own body after talking such a big game, too focused on exploring the tantalizing feeling that traveled through you when you nudged at the spot again. “Fuck, that feels good.”

“I know,” he looked smug, clearly impressed with himself for teaching you something new about your own body. “Add another.”

“Another finger?” Your skin flushed.

“Go on.”

“I—I’ve only ever done one.” You explained, more embarrassed about this fact than you had been to strip and fuck yourself in front of him.

 “Y’can do it,” he shot you a jagged grin, “Would I ever lead y'astray?”

You swallowed your reminder to him that he used you as a lure in any situation he could get away with. Your head drooped, and you watched as you pulled your hand back enough to press a second finger to the one that had been nestled inside of you. You prodded your entrance, sinking them in slowly as you had with the first one. You hissed, unfamiliar pressure filling your abdomen, though not in an unwelcome capacity; it was a warm tension, weighty and grounding, and you quickly found pleasure in the new sensation.

The way you stared down at yourself, legs spread and lips parted, nearly made him snap; you were so curious, so hungry for instructions to follow—so deeply trusting of him. Cooper’s mouth went dry, and his hand fell to his crotch, palming at the growing tent there.

“Look’t that,” he licked his lips, “Y’feel the stretch, sweetheart? Feel nice?”

“Mm,” you whimpered out an answer, remaining focused on the way your hand met your cunt, swallowed to the last knuckle and still wanting more.

“Curl ‘em again f’me,” he muttered, squeezing his cock through the fabric of his pants.

You did, throwing your head back and hitting that same spot he’d directed you to earlier. The sound you made was desperate and primal, coming out husky from deep in your chest.

“God!” You felt like crying happy tears. Something built inside you that you couldn’t stop, and it felt good—it felt right.

“He can’t help ya now, darlin’,” the Ghoul’s mouth hung open, hypnotized by the urgency in your sounds and the way your body contorted as you tried to keep up with your own pleasure. “Now pull ‘em out ‘n’do it all again. Fast, now—you got it.”

Hurriedly, you pulled your fingers back, then pushed them back in with equal haste, bending them upwards and grazing the delicious spot you’d been missing out on for god only knows how long. You did it again, and again; your repeated movements helped you chase the high you were looking for, hurtling you towards the finish line, and you wanted him to see it as badly as you wanted to feel it.

“Look’t me,” his voice was gruffer now, a dominant edge finding its way in by way of his own lust. “Lemme see y’feel good, sweetheart.”

“C—ooper,” his words hit you exactly where you needed them, finding his gaze with your own and falling apart completely. You pulsed around your fingers, gluey and hot, your skin pricked with gooseflesh despite the humidity and the rush of warmth you felt all over. You moaned, loud and long, but your ears buzzed and your eyes screwed shut so that not even your own sounds could distract from the intensity of the orgasm that washed over you.

When you opened your eyes, squinting in the light of the fire while you took heaving breaths, you expected a blanket of embarrassment to wash over you, some type of mortification for what you’d just done—exposed to another person for the first time, allowing him a view you’d rarely ever even given yourself.

But when you peeked up at him through heavy eyelids, gulping down air, he looked dazed, his mouth agape and eyes wide. And suddenly you felt pride more than anything—you’d managed to leave the most feared man for miles at a total loss.

His hand was still on his crotch, raking his eyes over you, your form illuminated by the campfire. His throat felt dry, and he coughed a few times, hunching over to collect himself before he made eye contact with you again.

“Goddamn,” he gasped, swallowing his coughing fit, “Fast learner.”

“Good teacher,” you grinned, toeing at the discarded jeans that had been left in a heap at your feet.

“Pretty when you cum,” he rolled his shoulders back, still foggy with arousal after seeing you whine and writhe for him.

That made you blush, not out of embarrassment, but because it was the first real compliment he’d paid you. “Never done it like that before.”

“Never had a ghoul teach ya how t’do it right.” He joked, and you smiled at the way he returned so quickly to his usual snark.

“Never cum that hard, that fast.” You admitted, shooting him a glance before leaning forward to grab the wrinkled denim off the floor.

“Had me fooled,” he took out his inhaler, “Needy fuckin’ thing.” That sent a buzz through your body, and you pressed your thighs together to alleviate the ache in your cunt.

“You liked it.” You quirked a brow, dropping your gaze to your legs and pulling the oversized pants back on.

“Never said I didn’t,” he pointed out, “Almost made me cum my pants like some fuckin’ schoolboy.”

“Never done that either,” you yawned, “Made someone else cum.”

“Don’t think it’d be a hard lesson for y’t’learn,” he smirked, “Natural’at you are.”

“It’ll have to wait,” you didn’t know why you assumed it would happen at all, subconsciously hoping that this wouldn’t be forgotten in a day’s time, “Tired.”

“Course y’are,” he offered no explanation, shifting in his spot. He raised an arm and beckoned to you, encouraging you to come closer.

You did, no stranger to doing what he told you to do, and found yourself curled against his side. He smelled like smoke and sex—musky and dewy in a way that made you feel at home.

“I got first watch, y’fuckin—” he cut is taunting short when he looked down at you, seeing you fast asleep.

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[fortheloveoffanfic]

The Profound Pleasure of Little Things

Hozier x reader

Author's note: Basically the thought was, "ohh, what if there was a real moment that inspired Wasteland!baby."

Summary: Andrew and Y/n spend an afternoon at the beach.

Warnings - poorly written fluff, I guess.

"I think if the world ended right now, I'd be alright with that.”

After spending the past fifteen minutes or so bearing witness to her magnificence. Ireland's solem grey sky meeting the frigid, green water and acting as a cool toned backdrop to the brightness of her beauty. The way those deep, blue jeans hug her curves, the woolen burgundy coat, draped over a band tee, that follows the contour of her frame and her hair tumbling over her shoulders as she stands a few feet off the edge, gaze cast out towards the horizon; as if the world below them had been thought up just for her.

As Y/n turns to face him, the wind whips her hair forward, and he smiles when she hastily brushes away from her eyes. “What?” She chortles, but there's an air of disbelief in the word and she tilts her head a little to the side, “why?”

Licking his lips, Andrew pushes off the boulder he's been perched on, one converse-clad foot planted on the ground while the other stayed propped on a smaller rock jutting from the lush grass. “Because,” he stuffs his hands into the side pockets of the denim jacket he's thrown over his red flannel, “I've seen you, standing here and that's gotta be the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

Y/n rolls her eyes; he's awfully romantic when he doesn't mean to be – and mind-bogglingly terrible at it when he actively tries. Just that morning he'd clumsily danced them into the kitchen table after daring more than their usual sway. But now, after a long afternoon drive and an impromptu hike up a hill that overlooks the sea, he's stringing together the sort of lines that make her cheeks go warm and stirs a flutter in her chest. “You're being dramatic,” she teases, relinquishing her hand when he reaches for it. Their fingers lace with ease; it's something they're so used to doing that Y/n rarely thinks much of it anymore. It's such a small, mundane thing and his hands have become so familiar to her that they almost feel like her own – and like she'd miss her own hand if it were gone forever, she'd miss his too.

He is a part of her; as vital as a limb, or the thing beating in her chest.

“Hardly,” his thumb ghosts the soft skin over her knuckles, and his eyes soften when they meet hers. It still startles him that she's his, and standing there with the smell of salt, autumn and her perfume flooding his senses, Andrew fears he might be dreaming, “you look…..” Like a painting, something that one could only wish to be privileged enough to see, let alone touch, “exquisite.”

Y/n giggles before glancing down at herself. She knows she must look plain at best, and a wind-tousled mess at worst. Even if she isn't the self-deprecating type, it's tough to believe that she looks like anything special without makeup, her hair free-styled by the breeze and her face nipped by the chill. The coat that she's owned for nearly a decade and a faded t-shirt probably isn't helping her case either. “Are you trying to get laid on this hilltop?” She asks conspiringly.

Snaking his free arm around her waist, Andrew simultaneously pulls Y/n closer and throws his head back in laughter. Lifting her gaze to drink him in, Y/n’s smile softens; she loves the way he looks when he laughs like that. Entirely carefree, as if he mightn’t have anything in the world to worry about, its a laugh she sees most off when he’s been home for a while and he isn’t concerned about deadlines and appearances, or when they have friends over and he’s had a bit too much to drink. Or when she says something that is a little absurd, but not quite funny, and he somehow finds the world of humor in it.

“Well, I wouldn’t be opposed,” his fingers curl into her waist. Then, when the shaking of his shoulders settle, he lowers his eyes to meet hers. It always baffles him how she could not know – not completely – what she does to him. Because if she did, Y/n wouldn’t doubt his credibility for a second when he says that she’s beautiful – and utterly in awe of everything that she is. “But I really do think that you look lovely darling,” he adds softly, freeing his hand from hers to gently cup her face, “if you saw what I did, you’d understand. If you could see yourself through my eyes…….thought of yourself with my mind, you would get to know the most breathtaking person I've ever met.”

Licking her lips, Y/n lays her hands on his chest, thumb grazing the sliver of skin left exposed by the undone top button of his shirt. “How do you do that?” She muses quietly, gazing up at him.

Andrew's thumb roves the apple of her cheek and she leans into his touch, “Do what?” He lowers his head a little, so their foreheads are that much closer to touching.

“Come up with…..stuff,” she hates the word in the context, “like that.”

“Well, it would just so happen, that I have the best muse,” because every beautiful thing he can think of is tangled up with the thought of her. He can’t see flowers without wondering how they’d look if they were laced in her hair, or held in her hands, he sees art and wonders if she’d like it too and when he’s faced with a day like this one – where everything seems to be in perfect measure – all Andrew wants to do is share it with her.

“I am just so in love with you,” he rasps, the sudden drop in his voice sending a shiver up her spine, “that it touches every part me, everything I do has a bit of you in it,” as if all the old parts of himself have been shed, giving way to something new, improved in a way that only be because of her presence.

The more Andrew thinks about the clearer one certainty becomes; in a way, the world has already ended. It happened the second he fell in love with her. Everything as he knew it was changed forever – reduced to a wasteland, and out from the ashes she came.

Lifting one of her hands, Y/n caresses his temple with the pad of her thumb. “What a beautiful mind you have,” she muses, gaze matching his. Y/n always faults him for having a way with his words, usually when he doesn't even mean to, but Andrew doesn't think she ever pays enough mind to what she's saying. “Who needs the rest of the world when they have this?”

His thumb continues stroking her cheek in that languid, gentle fashion and Andrew’s gaze softens so much that he thinks he must be melting under her touch. He must be putty in her hands – so easy to mold however she pleases, because the only thing he wants more than being with her is being exactly what Y/n needs.

May he always be a necessity, may her life be just a touch emptier without him, so she’ll keep him around.

“Who needs it, darling?” Who needs it when the best of it smiles when she looks at me? He’s just about to press his lips to hers in a kiss he’s been aching to steal since the moment she turned to look at him, when a wave – way down below – breaks so violently that a few droplets hit their faces, causing Y/n to shift her gaze towards the expanse of glacial teal.

“We should walk down to the beach,” she suggests suddenly, eyes alight with the wonder of someone yearning for the thrill of adventure. In an instant, Y/n is backing out of his embrace – like a dream just past his immediate reach. She takes his hand though, lacing her smaller, finer fingers with his and practically tugs him along, urging him towards the mouth of the stoney, sloped pathway that leads to the beach.

“Yeah, sure-” Andrew doesn’t even get to reply before he’s stumbling along, blindly following her. He isn’t even sure if she actually knows the way – he’s never taken her there, but Y/n is quick-witted enough to figure things out without anyone’s help. As he watches her trot ahead with purpose, feet clad in Chuck Taylor's stomping on the feathery grass as she moves ahead, Andrew keeps his gaze fixed on her. The way she holds her head up, as if she doesn’t need a map – or even him – to show her the way. The way the wind blows her hair and her delicate fingers work to keep them away from her eyes. She’s moving so quickly that its hard to take it all in, and Andrew finds himself wanting to ask her to slow down, so he can soak up the way she looks against the blur of the trees.

Sometimes, he wants to tell her – beg her – to just be a bit more still. Because while he adores watching her move, drinking in every miniscule action that is so specific to her, Andrew breathes for the moments where there isn’t the slightest quiver in her form. When his view of her is entirely unhampered by the demands of life; she doesn’t have to get up to answer her phone, or check on the laundry downstairs – when she’s just lounging in bed with her glasses propped on the bridge of her nose and a book held up in front of her face, when she’s sitting on the back patio while nursing an afternoon tea, watching the birds entertain each other.

When Y/n is standing before him, surrounded by a tapestry of greens and blues and other specks of colour that pale in her wake, like something he should never be so privileged to bare witness to.

His thoughts are interrupted when she stumbles on a rock and instinctively deserts her hand in favor of reaching for her hips. “Slow down,” he chuckles, reeling her close to his chest, one arm wrapping around her middle as they continue downward.

“But I wanna see the beach,” she protests with a giggle as his lips find her cheek. Reaching past herself, she lays her hand on his neck, holding his face close to hers for a few seconds longer.

“And you will,” Andrew mumbles, mouth still pressed up to her face, “but lets……enjoy the getting there too.”

“I think you’re enjoying it a little too much,” Y/n admonishes humorously when Andrew squeezes her to him.

“Impossible,” he bends his head to nuzzle the side of her face, “I actually think you’re not enjoying this enough.”

“Yeah?” She leans into his embrace, hand falling onto his forearm as she finally relents to stopping for a moment. She can hear the sounds of the sea a bit more clearly now, and the air is saltier than it had been when they were up on the hill. Through the foliage, Y/n spots bits of jewel toned ripples, a tell-tale sign that they aren’t too far off, and she’s actively holding herself back from urging him ahead. She does have a habit of rushing things, sometimes the need to just keep moving is almost overwhelming; she’s so focused on getting somewhere that she forgets the journey is half the experience.

Andrew, she often finds, is entirely the opposite. It's a quality she admires in him; his ability to revel in simple joys, the way he’s able to steady himself enough to thoroughly take everything in. While she’s eager to brush past everything in her way to get to her finish line, he’s perfectly fine with strolling through the trees, stopping ever so often to take pictures of things that interest him, or rattle off a random fact that he learned in a nature documentary.

“Yes,” Andrew hisses, kissing the corner of her lips, “just relax a little.”

“I’m very relaxed,” Y/n scoffed defensively, “we just have different definitions of that word.”

Andrew laughs loudly, finally letting her go and allowing her to take his hand again, “I’m not even sure that word is in your dictionary,” he chortles as she tows him along. Y/n doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even know if she hears him, because as the words leave his mouth, they reach the edge of the woods which opens up to the small beach. The sand is soft under his shoes, and the sting of salty air is sharp. “Happy now?” He teases when she lets his hand go in favor of going a few paces ahead.

“I was always happy,” Y/n corrects, “but now I'm…..satisfied.”

“If satisfaction is what you were looking for, I could've helped with that up there,” he nudges his head towards the top of the hill they’d been standing on about fifteen minutes earlier.

Y/n rolls her eyes as she turns to look at him, “oh shut up,” she giggles.

“Just sayin’,” he hums, moving to stand beside her, arm going around her shoulders. Immediately, Y/n tilts her head so its touching his side.

As she keeps her eyes trained forward, Y/n hums, “its so beautiful.”

Andrew returns the sound, albeit just a bit softer as he turns his head to look down at her, nestled against him. Its hard to describe just how much he enjoys the feeling of her tucked against him, its one of those simple pleasures that he never fails to appreciate; the way her form fits perfectly with his, like they were made to just click together. It's such a small thing; the comfort that comes with holding someone who wouldn’t trade the feeling of your arms around them for anything else in the world, and he can never seem to get enough of it. He lives for the way throwing his arm around her shoulder has become as natural to him as breathing, and how instinctive it is when she leans against him.

“Don’t you think so?” Y/n glances up at him, a smile dusting her cheeks when their eyes meet. There's always a little tingle that prods at her heart when she finds him looking at her, like the beat of butterfly wings against the petal of a flower.

Licking his lips, he glances forward at the ocean stretched out before then, and the near vacant beach that spreads out for at least a mile on either side.

He must’ve seen this beach near a hundred times by now. Andrew is well aquainted with the way the waves break against the collection of jagged rocks piled against once side of the shore, foam washing the salt-worn gray and seeping into the crevices. The crunch of pebbles and broken seashells under his boot isn’t foreign to him, and he knows all too well how frigid those waters can be around this time of the year. He’s seen the beauty of the place, he swears he’s done his best to appreciate it too, but there’s something different about holding her as the water pulls the sand seaward and salty sprinkles dust their lips. It feels like he’s seeing for the first time all over again.

And he loves it – all of it. The way it feels like a film has been peeled off his eyes, the thrill of enjoying the simplest things so much more than he ever has because he's sharing the moment with her.

“Yeah,” he looks at her again, lowering his head to touch the tips of their noses, “its beautiful, baby.”

[spatialwave]

“𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮’𝓼 𝓪 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭”

pairing: the ghoul x fem!reader word count: 1.8k words summary: you’re not sure how, but you, a vault dweller, managed to sneak your way into the ghoul’s heart. warnings: implied sa notes: just a little/poorly paced ficlet LOL, testing the waters of writing for cooper. kind of fluffy, the start of maybe a little ficlet series?? also taking request for ghoulcy or ghoul x readers! 🖤

-> next part!

being a so-called ‘vaultie’ had put you in quite the predicament while on your journey through the wastelands. unbeknownst to you, a bounty had been placed on your delicate head — a large bag of caps that would be sure to provide a ghoul with adequate supplies to keep from going feral.

you, on the other hand, were severely unprepared for what the surface would bring. several nights alone, your supplies depleting. hell, you hadn’t even known that bounties were a thing, or that you’d be needing to purchase your next meal with a handful of bottle caps.

if it weren’t for cooper finding you, you’d likely have died out in the wastes with the radiation eating you away until you were nothing but a pile of bones. still, you weren’t fond of the treatment he’d greeted you with.

when you first saw the shadowy figure, your naivety had you hopeful. you stepped closer and even spoke a soft, “hello?” before a lasso had been thrown in your direction and wrapping snug around your neck.

“were’t you taught that you shouldn’t trust strangers in the dark?” the voice of a southern man spoke, thick like syrup. sounding like the man in the movies you had watched with your dad back in the vault.

knowing what you did now, you wished that you hadn’t put so much trust in him, though, you had no idea a ghoul would be making himself known.

the first day was brutal, being dragged along like a dog with blisters forming on your feet and your lips cracking and bleeding from dehydration. you had tried to plead your case to him, explaining how you needed to find your father, but he hadn’t shown an ounce of remorse.

by the fourth day? well, for your own sake you wouldn’t say it aloud, but you were near certain that you had grown on the ghoul. he removed the rope that left reddened marks on your skin and even gave you the chance to clean yourself up in a bucket of rain water. even gave some jerky he’d dried out from some critters he killed—allowing you to indulge in food without resorting to cannibalism like he had.

you didn’t want to push your luck with him, but you wondered why he’d grown soft on you.

the man was far from soft or vulnerable, unafraid to push you around or tighten the rope when you spoke out of turn. so, when you had a moment of reprieve after cleaning yourself up, your hair damp and clinging to the side of your face, you forced yourself to ask the question on your mind.

“why’d you remove the rope?” you asked, sitting around a fire on the third night—having never felt safer than with him. your knees were pressed to your chest and you fought away the hunger pangs as your eyes drifted to the ghoul sitting propped against a tree, eyes unseen under his hat.

you were greeted with the sound of a soft grunt as he shifted in his spot, and you could tell that he was thinking of an answer. something he could say that wouldn’t translate to ‘i’m growing tired of treating you like a piece of meat’.

“i don’t needa’ reason,” the ghoul muttered, lifting a hand up to his hat and adjusting it so it covered more of his face, “but that pricey bounty on that pretty head of yours is higher if i make sure you’re alive and well. not my preference, but can’t argue with money.”

the compliment struck a chord in you, one that rose colour to your cheeks and had you turning your head away to look at the small fire. pursing your lips, you weren’t satisfied with the answer.

“i could run away, though. without the rope around my neck,” you piped up, brows furrowing.

a heavy and loud sigh came from the hole in cooper’s face, your eyes lifting to him as you watched him a lift a hand. that hand pushed back the hat on his head so those piercing eyes could meet with your own doe-eyed stare. a smirk grew on his lips and you felt your stomach twist nervously.

“how far do you think you’d get if you tried to run, vaultie?” the ghoul questioned you with that sickening look on his face, “the bounty prefers you alive, but don’t think i won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your head if you try to stir up some trouble for me.”

when day seven had rolled around, you found yourself in a predicament that only confused the everlasting fuck out of you. cooper had finally brought you to the man who had some caps for your head—a man who you didn’t even know, but claimed to know your father.

your heart shattered when you were thrown into a cage, bruises already forming on your skin when you had made contact with the shoddy brick wall. eyes fixated on the ghoul who was busy shoving caps into his pockets and taking precious vials from the box that had been offered to him.

what a fool you were to think that the ghoul would change his mind, that maybe he’d have an ounce of empathy in his irradiated body. you were no more valuable than what kept him alive… you couldn’t blame him for that.

“well, well,” the man spoke, his body covered in dirt and grime, teeth so decayed you could smell his breath even as he stood over you after entering the makeshift cell, “don’t try squirm on me now, we’re going to get ya’ all tied up… then i’ll have some fun with you.”

your lips quaked in fear, the first time you truly felt fear in days. cooper, the ghoul, had become your safety net and yet he tossed you away like you were nothing. into the hands of a pig, no less.

“don’t touch me,” you yelled at him, hearing the sounds of footsteps retreating.

you were alone.

“quit making a fuss,” the man spit at you, “the quieter you are, the less this will hurt.”

the sound of a distant gunshot had caused the man to pull away from you, and for you to perk up in your position on the ground. you hadn’t realized your entire body was shaking and you assumed the worst—someone was about to come in here and kill you.

why the hell did you ever think coming to the surface was a good idea?

you quickly sink back against the wall as you hear commotion, men yelling and more gunshots. it was a shootout.

“what the fuck is going on?” the man in front of you yelled, but no one answered. he spun on his feet and bent down in front of you, a heavy hand grabbing tight at your wrist, “get up, we’re leaving.”

“wha—“

you words were cut off when footsteps entered the room once more, the man quickly standing and dropping you back to the floor hastily where the back of your head smacked hard against the brick wall and left your vision hazy.

“you stupid ghoul,” the man roared and you felt your chest flutter, even as another gun shot rang through your ears and blood splatted across your face, a gurgling sound filling your ears.

through your blurred vision, you looked up just as the grotesque man collapsed in front of you, blood spilling out of the wound in his neck as he twitched until the blood loss killed him.

“cooper?” your voice croaked, the name slipping from your tongue easily. a name you’d wriggled out from him just a couple days prior.

a figure knelt in front of you, you immediately recognized those eyes even as your vision had grown spotty. you parted your lips to say more, but nothing came out.

“stay with me,” his southern drawl comforted you as you felt your mind edging the line of unconsciousness, the pain in the back of your head feeling cold now, “vaultie—“

the crackling of a fire was all you heard when your eyes fluttered open, red and orange filling your pupils as the smell of smoke filled your lungs. there was something underneath your body, leathery fabric… and something brushing through your hair.

smacking your lips together, you tried to sit up but failed immediately when you realized your body wasn’t ready for moving yet.

“slow down, cowgirl,” a voice spoke, “we’re in no rush.”

that’s when you realize that there were fingers in your hair. cooper’s fingers. why was he soothing you? when did you get here?

“you left me,” your voice was weak, still hardly able to keep your eyes open, but you figured a stimpack was the reason you hadn’t felt anymore pain from the back of your head. your first concussion.

“almost did,” he said, a heavy sigh coming from him, but nothing else to explain his actions.

tilting your head back just enough, you were able to spot cooper sitting next to you, legs outstretched in front of him and head tilted back against the wall he leaned up against. he’d found an old building to set up the night in, all of the windows shattered and broken, so the smoke from the small fire had a place to escape.

“but you came back,” you murmured, rolling slowly until you were on your back and cooper had to retract his hand from your hair, arms instead settling over his chest, “i thought you hated me.”

a snort, which you could only assume was his form of laughter, came from the ghoul. a smirk playing along his lips as you watched him from your position on the floor, his leather jacket keeping you from laying on the layer of dust that accumulated in the building.

“if i hated you, darling, you would’ve been gone the moment i laid eyes on you,” cooper answered honestly. you finally got that vulnerability you asked for.

your lips twitched, hiding back a smile as you adjusted yourself more comfortably on his coat that he so lovingly rested you on. as you laid there in silence, allowing your eyes to fall shut once more, you couldn’t help but wonder where you’d be in the coming weeks.

now that cooper had delivered his bounty, you wondered what could be next on his plate of adventure. you hoped that you’d be able to convince him to help find your father, but that was a conversation you’d wait for in the morning.

for now, you were content with the feeling of gentle comfort as his hand returned to your hair, calloused, weathered fingers pulling through the strands as you lulled back to sleep—knowing that you’d somehow found your way in the ghoul’s heart.

[ficeacs]

Dragons Fight, Little Light (Prologue)

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon OFC Synopsis: Two dragons of a different scale that were meant to loathe one another instead found the love and comfort they had always sought. Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Violence, Targcest, Begins with HOTD S1, Not Proofread Word Count: 7,573

“How long are we to stay?” Eraena asked, already displeased by what she had seen from a distance. She was still up in the heavens and the stench of the capitol already made her want to retch. “It smells like shite,” She hears her father call from a distance, and she felt her lips twitch upwards in agreement. Eraena undid the ropes that secured her to her saddle and was assisted off her mount by her brother. “Looks like it, too,” Jacaerys snickered and grimaced at the view of the outside. 

“Lykiri, Alina, lykiri, my girl,” Eraena sighed as she stepped closer to her dragon, mumbling the words against her snout and pressing her lips against the scales of her beloved dragon. “But seriously, how long are we to stay?” Eraena asked once more, and she heard her mother snort. “We’ve only just arrived, my sweet,” Rhaenyra said as she threaded towards the wheelhouse. “Come, your brothers are waiting,” She smiled and led out her hand for her daughter to take. Eraena turned to her. Her silver hair shone upon the capitol sun, her pale skin looking even paler against her black dress, her figure lithe, wide purple eyes crinkling as she smiled at her. Eraena could not help but compare herself to what her Mother looked like once more. 

Where her Mother was light, she was dark; where she was true, Eraena was not. Where silver hair was supposed to grow, there were instead dark locks. Amethyst eyes that shone brightly turned to obsidian. The features of a doe had turned to look like those of its prey. Eraena scowled. Now, she was once again subjected to more talk as they returned to this wasteland. 

“Stop scowling,” Jacaerys said, and the girl rolled her eyes. “I will do as I please, brother; I do not stop you from expressing yourself. I say nothing when you pout, why must you stop me?” She questioned and placed a pillow upon her lap as she took her seat. The wheelhouse housed five of them: Rhaenyra and her husband, along with her three elder children. The three watched as the twins started to argue. A knowing smile came along the eldest Targaryen, but his wife sighed, growing tired of watching and hearing the two argue for the past six and ten years. 

“Because you look ghastly when you scowl, do you wish for them to see the once beautiful and renowned princess, the pearl of the realm, look like a witch ready to cast them with a spell?” Eraena’s eyes widened upon her brother’s words. She had no come back to defend herself, no insult to throw at her brother, so she pinched his arm in frustration. Jacaerys howled and glared at his sister, ready to retaliate with another insult. “You two, enough roughhousing!” Their Mother chastised them before he could even open his mouth. 

“Jace called me a witch! I was only defending myself, Mother!” Eraena reasoned. “Be that as it may, a princess does not inflict harm to those who give her petty and untrue insults,” The girl’s shoulders deflated, and she could see from the side of her eye the smirk on her brother’s lips. “Your mother is right; when an insult is levied at you, you must not resort to violence,” Eraena stared oddly at her Father, “You resort to violence all the time!” She argued, and Rhaenyra turned to her husband with a small smile on her lips. “Well,” He said and thought for a moment. “Best armor up, Jacaerys, if you plan to throw more insults at your sister.” The younger prince rolled his copper eyes and turned to the slats of the wheelhouse that revealed the city. 

When they arrived in the keep, only one thing was shared amongst the family. Disgust. It seemed that in the nine years, it was not only the children that had been subjected to change but also the keep. Eraena traced the stitching of her dress as she looked around the castle they once called home. 

“It’s… clean,” she says, trying to find a positive. “Do not lie to yourself, daughter.” Her Father bit in ancient tongue, making her bite down on her cheeks. “How could they let this happen?” Rhaenyra whispered, her eyes roaming around the hall. “Why is there a seven-pointed star here? Have they turned the keep into a sept?” Jacaerys asked as he eyed the figure hanging above them. “I would say it is nice to be home, but I scarcely recognize it,” Their Mother said in disbelief, her hand resting on her swelling bump. “Hm,” her husband hummed and stepped further into the keep; his Valyrian gaze filled with nothing but repulsion. 

Erarna turned to Jacaerys, who was tugging their younger brother along. “Where are you two going?” She questioned, “Tiltyard, care to join, sister?” Eraena made a face of contempt, making Jace chuckle, and hurriedly pulled their younger brother away. “Come, let us visit your grandsire,” Rhaenyra called and led out her hand for her daughter to take. Eraena chewed on her lip as they passed hallway upon hallway. It was the same as she remembered, yet at the same time, it was not. How can something so familiar be so strange at the same time? 

As they entered the room, Eraena was appalled at how they had left it unclean and how they had let it dust away. The figurines that her grandsire once cherished were now filled with cobwebs and held the remnants of neglected time. She turned to her Mother, the disgust on her face unfading. She was too preoccupied eyeing the figurines that Eraena had not noticed that her parents had disappeared to the other half of the king’s chambers. The girl blew away the dust of the models, and her fingers itched to hold them once more. Her eyes closed in on a specific figure, and as she made her way to reach and inspect it closely, her name was called. 

“Eraena,” Her Father called and motioned his head for the girl to join them. She made quick steps to where they stood. Eraena caught a glimpse of her grandfather lying unmoving on the feathered bed, and she was certain that it was a corpse. The king’s corpse that was left rotting and decaying. She took a sharp intake of breath as the king’s hand twitched. “E… Eraena? Is that you? Oh, my sweet granddaughter.” She heard the frail voice, and she turned to her Mother and Rhaenyra only urged her daughter to step closer even though Eraena’s face was filled with apprehension and perhaps even fear.

Eraena held back her look of shock at the state of the king. “It is. I’m here, grandfather,” she said and kneeled upon his bed. “Oh… you look just like her,” Eraena could see a smile starting to form upon his grey, cracked lips. “H-her?” She asked and gave a quick look to her Mother. Who in their family could she possibly look like? It was notable that there were scarce things that she had inherited from her Mother. “Aemma, my Aemma…” Eraena could only sadly smile. Her grandsire was truly fading. “A beauty you three are,” The frail king coughed and pointed to his side, and Eraena turned to the table beside her and retrieved the cup placed on it. The king took big gulps as his granddaughter held the cup to his grey and cracked lips. Eraena’s brows scrunched as the liquid emitted a certain odor. 

She turned to her Father with a confused look on her face; Daemon only nodded. “Thank you,” The king said, and Eraena placed down the cup. “You must rest, Father; we— we will return after you rest,” Rhaenyra said in great concern, but her voice was soft and tried to hide her distress. Daemon took hold of her hand, and Eraena followed her parents toward the fireplace of the chambers. “See to it your brothers do not get themselves into any trouble; you were always the best at handling those two.” Her Mother smiled and cupped her cheek. “I do not see why; Jacaerys is older than me; he should play peacekeeper, not me.” The girl sighed. “Only by ten minutes, and your brother does not hold the same senses in him. Now go,” She smiled at her daughter sweetly, giving a loving pat on her behind as Eraena walked to exit the King’s chambers. 

Eraena walked the halls and kept her head held high. The whispers of the court seemed to scream at her. It’s not as if she were surprised; she had heard all the vile rumors and whispers of vipers, and sadly, they were true. Eraena drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders, standing tall. Whispers of vipers should not matter to princesses, she reminded herself. Eraena stood above the tiltyard in search of two boys in blue. As she reached the tiltyard, her eyes passed the silver hair fluttering with every skillful move the fighter made, and she told herself not to grow distracted. Finally, she saw her brothers and made a beeline to where they stood. They had blocked her view; well, Jacaerys did. The prince had grown a few inches taller than his twin sister, but their younger brother still did not reach Eraena’s height.

“What are you doing here?” Jacaerys asked. “Mother sent me. She feared you two may cause trouble.” Jacaerys scoffed. “Us? Were you not the one caught multiple times trying to sneak out of the castle in the dead of night?” Her twin countered. “I believe she had even bribed the guards when she would return home drunk,” Lucerys added. Eraena rolled her eyes. “That was in Dragonstone; I am completely behaved here. It is you two who had unending squabbles and petty fights with our uncles.” As the words left her lips, their attentions shifted toward the crack of wood and the violent swings of a Morningstar. 

Ser Cole made to strike his Morningstar at the silver prince, who had dodged every attempt. Eraena turned away, not particularly enjoying the scene of battle; the girl looked around at the space and noted that, unlike in the inside of the keep, the tiltyard had not been changed. The crowd’s applause brought her away from her thoughts. “Well done, my prince, you will be winning tourneys in no time. They heard the knight say. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” came the reply. 

Eraena took hold of my brother’s arms and linked them with her own, “Come, let us go. The smell of sweat unsettles me,” She said and attempted to tug at them. “Nephews, have you come to train?” They hear the one-eyed prince call. Eraena caught his eye and reminded herself to keep her expression neutral, which she had failed. When her eyes were captured by the prince, she was quick to look away as a man shouted a command. Eraena turned to look at the gates and saw the reason why they were all there. Vaemond Velaryon entered the yard with his bannermen and passed the three siblings with a pointed look. Eraena licked her lips and tightened her hold on Lucerys’ arm, feeling her younger brother grow still and nervous. When Vaemond passed, the princess turned to Jacaerys. “Now, can we go?” She whispered, and he nodded. 

“Not so fast,” the prince said, and Eraena watched as he twirled the sword in his hand—a malicious grin on his lips. “You still have not greeted your uncle. Has your stay in Dragonstone made you so impolite?” There was no indication of anything on Eraena’s face, making the prince tilt his head in challenge. “Hello, uncle,” Eraena said, the last word foreign on her tongue. That was all she said before she turned away and walked upward, away from the tiltyard and with her brothers in tow. She gave no second glance at the silver prince even though she was tempted so. 

“Where are you going?” Jacaerys asked as he matched his sister’s hastened steps. “To greet Rhaena, I reckon she and the babes have arrived by now,” she said and turned a corner. “Then where are we supposed to go?” Eraena paused and looked at her brothers. She shrugged; she did not even know why she was even sent to the tiltyard— she only knew they were to stir clear of any conflict. “Just do not… engage… or cause trouble. Avoid them at all costs; I know I will. There is a lot at stake at the moment,” 

“But we wanted to train,” Lucerys said, and Eraena turned to her older brother. “Perhaps later than then, when Aemond and Ser Criston had finished. Or perhaps find other grounds to train.” She suggested and Lucerys gave a small nod at her offered solution. “There you three are!” Rhaena exclaimed by the end of the hall. “Joffery would not let me leave, kept insisting me to play that insipid game you invented for him,” She said to her sister who she greeted with a kiss on her cheek. “Ah, another victim of flowers and thorns.” Jacaerys snickered. “I eventually got so tired that I accidentally threw it overboard.” Eraena’s eyes widened, “Why would you do that? I spent days painting and mapping out that board!” She asked her sister in shock. 

“I’m sorry! But we had been playing since the ship had left the harbor in Dragonstone! I grew tired at the sight of it!” Eraena sighed and nodded, understanding her sister’s actions. “When is Baela to arrive?” Eraena asked, and the three shrugged, “She had not said in her letter, but I would think it would be the day before the trial.” Rheana replied. “So, today?” Lucerys asked. Eraena could see the obvious nervousness in her brother. She went to ruffle his hair, a comfort she often did since they were children. 

“You’ll be all right. You are the true heir of Driftmark; no second son can take that from you.” Eraena’s furrowed brows deepened as her brother shook his head. “I—I am not even supposed to be the heir! It was supposed to be you,” he reasoned. “Well, take it up with the gods. They did not give me a cock, and in consequence, I cannot have Driftmark, and you must bear this.” She tried to jest. “Eraena,” Jacaerys scolded with her choice of words. “It is unfair! Not just to you, but Lucerys as well. You are the second born! It was clear that whatever was in between your legs, you were set to inherit Driftmark.” Rhaena huffed. 

“Well… no. It was clarified that whatever gender Mother’s first child would be, they would inherit the throne. It was not the same condition when it came to Driftmark.” Jacaerys explained. “It’s fine, truly, I am perfectly contented on being the heir of Dragonstone,” Eraena added. “I should hope so, especially when A—“ Rhaena caught herself before she could continue her sentence, both of the girl’s eyes widening. “Especially when what?” Jacaerys asked, quick to catch the secret between the two girls. The two girls looked at each other, sending messages with their eyes. “When what?” Jacaerys repeated. “Nothing,” Rheana quickly said. “No, you were clearly going to say something; what is it?” Jacaerys urged. “Nothing, I—“ Rhaena was saved when another voice was heard at the end of the hall. 

“Sisters?” Baela’s voice carried, and the four forgot what they were talking about. “Baela!” Eraena said excitedly as she hurriedly made their way to them. “Oh, I’ve missed you!” She said gleefully, enveloping the two girls in her embrace. “Just them?” Jacaerys asked, and the newly arrived princess rolled her eyes. “You two, as well.” She said. “When have you arrived?” Lucerys asked. “Just now, I rode with grandmother on Melys,” Eraena smiled at an image of Baela atop the clouds with their grandmother flashing through her mind. Moondancer was still growing for her to take such a trip, so it made sense they rode together. 

The five, were now finally complete. They walked along the halls of the keep and engaged in conversation and exchanging anecdotes of their time spent apart. They reached the gardens, and Eraena detached herself from the group and observed the flowers that the keep held. So many variants that did not grow in Dragonstone. She took a yellow flower in her hand, feeling the petals between the tips of her fingers, the voices of her siblings growing farther away. She raised the flower to her nose and frowned at the lack of fragrance. 

“Eraena,” she heard her name called. The girl turned from the flower and saw as the queen stood behind her. “My Queen,” She said and quickly curtsied. “I see you are enjoying the gardens…alone... unescorted?” She questioned with a raise of her auburn brow. “Oh— my siblings are…” she drifted from her sentence, noticing they had disappeared. “I was with my siblings; I only got distracted by the flowers.” She reasoned. Eraena watched the queen’s lips thin, clasping her hands in front of her. “Best find them, princess. It is not advisable… or even seen proper to see you roam the keep unescorted. Would not want a fate befall twice.” Eraena was confused and wanted to question the queen’s words, but for this instance, she only nodded and excused herself to find her siblings. 

She took hold of her skirts as she made fast steps to find the group. She had wandered the lower floor of the keep for some time and she still failed to find her siblings. Eraena disregarded the plan to find the four and made her way to her assigned chambers. She mindlessly walked the halls, her head filled with other thoughts— thoughts that preoccupied her so that she had crashed with another. “Watch it,” She heard the cold voice of Aemond, unlike earlier, the smirk on his lips was long gone. “Sorry,” The girl quickly said and stepped away from the prince to continue her walk. No other spare glance was given, 

“Watch where you walk, Lady Strong.” At those words, Eraena stilled. She turned to her uncle; the smirk on his thin lips had returned quickly. Should she retaliate? she thought, then remembered the words she uttered to her brothers just a few moments before. Eraena licked her lips and walked away, taking the prince's smirk with her. 

Night soon came, and supper was held in her Mother’s chambers. “Vaemond had arrived,” the eldest prince said. “We know we were there to welcome the second son of the tides,” Eraena replied, and her Father raised his brow in question. “Tomorrow is the trial. We must all be ready for whatever those cunts throw at us.” Eraena’s eyes widened when Baela choked on her wine; it seemed that she had forgotten how crass her Father was. “How was your exploration of the keep?” Rhaenyra asked the five. 

“Eraena disappeared,” Jacaerys answered. “I did not! You left me in the gardens then I could not find you four,” She explained. “Mother, are we not allowed to venture here unescorted? The queen said it was improper for me to be without an escort.” She asked. She had never heard of such a rule that she must be escorted in broad daylight. “She said, ‘Would not want a fate befall twice.’ What did she mean?” Eraena added. Her parents exchanged a look, and the princess waited for an answer. 

“Nothing, she meant absolutely nothing,” Rhaenyra said. Eraena’s eyes flew to her hands, playing with her rings. She nodded and turned to her sisters. “You must tell us about your ventures warding in Driftmark. It seems that Rhaena and I have scarce topics to discuss these past days,” Eraena said. Her sister nodded. I was hoping you two would be the ones to tell stories. It was dreadfully lonely there in Driftmark.” 

“Oh, you should tell her about Arthur,” Rhaena said in excitement, and as if it were a reflex, Eraena’s cheeks pinked, and Jacaerys joined in their conversation as he heard an unfamiliar name. “Whose this… Arthur?” He asked and made the girl roll her eyes, pushing him away. “None of your concern, brother.” 

“Mother, Eraena’s hiding something from us,” he tattled, and Eraena could not help herself but pinch his arm once more. “Hush!” she whispered harshly. “Leave your sister alone, Jacaerys; she is entitled to keep some secrets to herself.” Eraena gave her brother a smug look before returning her gaze to the two. “Tonight, let us exchange our stories without bother,” she said, and the two nodded eagerly. 

It was high night when Eraena made quiet steps to her sister’s chambers, a candle in her hand. There was a storm brewing, and Eraena jumped with every clap of thunder. She was finally nearing the room when a gust of wind blew out the candle she held. Eraena was in the dark; the moon and stars gave no light to guide her way. The princess squinted her eyes and prayed she would not trip. Another clap of lightning, and the girl jumped with a squeak of shock. Her heart was beating violently in her chest. Finally, she found her way to her sister’s room. “Gods, you took so long! We thought someone had caught you!” Baela said and pulled her in. “Now, tell me all there is on this… Arthur,” she said and made Eraena sit atop the feathered bed. 

She and Rhaena exchanged knowing looks. “I met him a year ago when he had started his training to be a knight in Dragonstone.” The girl started, and Baela nodded. “I was in the gardens, picking flowers for our rooms, and he was trying to hide from the wrath of his commanding officer.” Eraena tried to control the smile rising on her lips as she recalled the day. “So he hid behind me as Ser Samuel tried to find him. For an hour, he stayed crutched down behind me, moving where I had moved and us just talking and jesting.” Baela and Rhaena watched as the obsidian eyes of their sister twinkled, and the blush grew on her cheeks. “He’s kind, funny, and oh gods, he’s so tall and… dashing,” Eraena said, struggling to paint a clear picture of the soon-to-be knight. “Oh, gods, you love him!” Baela exclaimed, making Rhaena laugh. Eraena scoffed. “I do not! I— I like him, but I do not believe I love him. Not yet, at least,” she mumbled the last part, but it was heard clearly by the two.

When the following morning came, it was the day of the trial. The princess stared at herself in the mirror as a handmaid readied her. Womanhood had taken its full effect on her. Eraena's gaze paused on her thighs, and she could not help but frown. Never in her life had she the gap between her thighs that she saw most women had. There was a small pouch above her sex that Eraena had tried hard to be rid of. Her hips flared at what she found at an alarming and annoying rate; most of her dresses had clung to her waist but had difficulty conforming to the princess’ hips. Eraena’s gaze moved to her chest. Her Mother used to lovingly tease the girl about the ampleness of it until she thankfully stopped as she realized Eraena had grown quite conscious about it. 

The princess took in a deep breath and moved to wear her dress—a black gown with gold laces and an embroidery of a dragon that she had made herself. Her fingers brushed the gold lace on the square neckline, teasing a hint of her bosom. “You outdid yourself on the design, princess,” Lyn, her handmaid, complimented, making the princess smile, and a ‘thank you’ escaped her pink lips. “What of your hair?” Lyn inquired. “A few braids, at the top, and can you make use of the ruby clips Father had recently given me?” Ereana waited patiently as Lyn did her hair, a book finding itself in her hands.  

She walked with Jacaerys to the throne room, their parents behind them. “Do you not think you are a tad overdressed?” Jacaerys asked his sister. Eyeing the gown she had fashioned. Eraena, like their mother, wore expensive gowns. The finest silk, the purest of cotton, the most lustrous pearls, the most brilliant jewels, and the most shining gold are what she and her mother often wore. Jacaerys had no reservations before; however, now, it made him nervous to enter the throne room with his sister fashioning such a dress, especially with such a neckline and bodice conforming to her body. “Excuse me?” Eraena asked in disbelief, almost offended. 

“Good luck, son,” Rhaenyra jested as she passed her twins. Daemon chuckled and eyed the two, ready to argue once more. “There is no such thing as overdressed Jacaerys,” she says, and her brother struggles to look her in the eye. “Women have little to express themselves, brother. You must understand that the way I dress is my way to show my support to this family since I have given little say in this matter, and I know my opinion would not be valued as much as a man's; this is the only way I can take my stand.” Eraena explained, and Jace nodded, but she could still see the reservation in her brother’s copper eyes. 

“I just,” he trailed off. “Just what?” Eraena asked. “I just wished you could have worn a dress that had more to cover,” He said, making the princess narrow her eyes, “Mother wore dresses like these when she was my age; some of my dresses were hers,” She said. “Yes, but our uncles are there,” he tried to defend. “So?” Eraena asked incredulously. Jacaerys sighed and ran a hand through his face. “Never mind, you look lovely, sister. Let’s go,” he gave up, and Eraena conceded in the meantime, knowing their family was waiting for the both of them. 

When they entered the room, they hurriedly made their way to stand behind their mother. “Who won this time?” Their Father asked, “I did,” Eraena said with a triumphant smirk, and Jacaerys shook his head. The smirk on the princess’ lips was soon wiped when she noticed three eyes on her. “Your uncles are looking at you,” Rhaena said lowly. “I know,” Eraena replied but still did not turn to the two. “I feel underdressed standing next to you,” Baela said, and Eraena rolled her eyes as she heard Jacaerys snort. “I told you,” he said with a prideful tone. “Hush,” She grumbled and looked down at her dress with a frown. She was not overdressed; she thought she wore an appropriate outfit for such an occasion. She would not let her brother sway her mind when it came to her fashion choices. 

The girl’s attention was caught when she heard the door of the throne room open whilst her Mother spoke on behalf of her younger brother. “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” The king took a while to sit on his throne, aching and wheezing with each step. 

“I must... admit... my confusion. I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present... who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys's wishes is Princess Rhaenys.” All eyes turned to the Queen who never was. “Indeed, Your Grace. It was ever my husband's will that Driftmark passes through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son... Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him.” The look of pure shock and outrage could be seen in the face of Vaemond. Eraena turned to the Queen and her father, the hand who had a look of surpassed irritation. Once more, she caught Aemond’s eye and once again, the princess quickly looked away. 

“As a matter of fact, Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons, Jace and Luc, to Lord Corlys's granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.” Eraena turned to gaze at the floor and smiled at her sibling's proposals, but mainly her lack thereof. Rhaenyra had promised her that they would not arrange a marriage for her, that she was free to choose for herself. 

“Well... the matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.” The king announced. Eraena let out a breath of relief. However, that relief was short-lived as Vaemond spoke once more. 

“You break the law... and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me... who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.” Vaemond gritted out.

“Allow it"? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond. The king said. “That is no true Velaryon and certainly no nephew of mine. You... may run your house as you see fit... but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned... I will not see it ended on the account of this…” Vaemond stopped himself; Eraena was chewing on her lip, knowing that this would not end well. 

“Say it,” she heard her Father challenge. Her children... are bastards!” Vaemond yelled, and the hall emitted silent chatter. Eraena took in a deep breath but did not let herself waver, holding her pretty head high. “She… is... a whοre!” Vaemond yelled another treasonous phrase once more, and the young princess’ dark eyes widened, not believing that he would scream that out loud and in front of the king, no less. 

“I... will have your tongue for that.” The king said and took out his dagger. Before anyone could blink, Daemon had sliced his sword through Vaemond’s head. The sound of blood gushing out and the thud of a body echoed through the room. Eraena could not help but gasp and turn to her brother, who quickly held her head to face away from the grotesque scene. “There, he can keep his tongue,” Daemon said. The king groaned and fell onto the throne, creating commotion throughout the room. “Return to your chambers, now.” Their Mother urged, and Eraena was happy to oblige. 

“Gods, I— Wha— gods,” she could not even comprehend what had happened. The five of them were in Eraena’s chambers. All of them were seated, whether it was atop her feathered bed, a sofa, or a settee near the fire, but the girl was pacing and trying to erase the image of Vaemond’s severed head upon the bloodied floor. 

“I forgot how violent father was,” Baela said, and Rhaena nodded. “He had mellowed down these past few years, though it is nice to see that the fire in him did not die down.” Eraena looked at her sister strangely, “What?” Rhaena asked. “He just killed a man, grandsire’s brother.” She breathed out, “He was coming for Luc’s inheritance. He called us bastards, our Mother a whore.” Jacaerys said. “Still! He did not deserve to die in such a way,” She said in remorse. “He had it coming,” Jacaerys shrugged, and Eraena shook her head. “Gods, please tell me you will be more levelheaded when you are king.” She said and took a seat next to Rhaena on the settee. 

“You hold too much empathy, sister. Believe me, if the roles were reversed, Vaemond would have cackled to see Daemon’s head roll on the floor.” Eraena huffed and kept her thoughts to herself for the moment. 

The day progressed and Eraena was left alone in her room, her sibling attending to other business in regard to their newly formed betrothals. Eraena walked to the dining hall alone, and when the doors opened, almost everyone was present. “Ah, there you are!” Her Father said and stood up to greet her. Eraena kissed his cheek as well as her Mother’s before she was escorted to her seat in between Jace and Aegon. 

The king was carried into the room and was seated at the head of the table, she noted the look of surprise her brothers tried to hide upon seeing the state grandsire in up-close. “How good it is to see you all tonight… together.” The king panted and looked over the table. “Prayer before we begin?” The queen asked her husband, who nodded. As the queen began her prayer, plenty of pairs of eyes wandered around the table. Eyeing each other curiously. Eraena noted, Aemond, however, he kept his eye closed and hands folded in front of him. 

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luc will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena. Further strengthening the bond between our houses.” The king announced. Eyes went to the newly betrothed couples. Rhaena and Luc shared a look, both of them having a smile on their faces, as well as Jacaerys and Baela had smiles on their faces. “And what of you, sweet niece? No betrothals as of yet?” He asked and took a sip of his wine. “None, uncle,” Eraena said plainly. Aegon hummed and turned his attention to her brother. 

“You do know how the act is done, I assume?” Aegon asked Jacaerys. “At least in principle. Where to put your cock and all that,” From the side of her eye, she could see Jace’s nostrils falling and his jaw tightening. “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my sister and my betrothed.” Jace had said. Aegon let out a breath and turned to Eraena with a pompous smirk on his face. “He’s a virgin, I’m quite sure of it,” he whispered the words that were only for her to hear. She gave no reaction and instead turned her head to look at her parents. 

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table.” The king said, “The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” Eraena set her cup down, and Aemond tapped his finger on the table. The king took off his gold mask, revealing half of his face had decayed and, like his son, an eye was missing from him. 

“My own face is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king…” Viserys trailed off. “But your father.” He said and turned to his children, “Your brother,” he turned to Daemon. “Your husband,” he said to the queen. “And your grandsire.” He finished turning to the five cousins. “Who may not, it seems…walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts.” Eraena could not help as her gaze fluttered over to Aemond. A steely look in his eye was focused upon his clasped hands.

Toasts from each side of the family brought me a sense of an alluring, yet unnatural sense of peace. Maybe this family could work. Eraena thought to herself, a fantasy that was beginning until she saw Aegon standing up and making his way to a chalice near Baela. “I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.” Eraena bit her lip, praying to the gods her brother would not be baited so easily; alas, she was not heard. 

Jacaerys slammed his fist on the table. Plates and silverware cluttered with noise. Aegon found his way back to his seat and leaned closer to the princess, the two of them waiting for Jacaerys’ outburst. Eraena shot a disgusted look toward her elder uncle, who only shrugged, “It was getting dreadfully boring and sappy, dear Eraena; you could not blame me.” he said. “I think I could,” she whispered harshly. 

Aemond then rose, and Eraena looked between the two princes, who stared each other down. “Prepare for it to grow interesting, sweet niece,” Aegon smirked. A tense silence filled the table, the two boys still standing. Jace reached over and playfully punched their uncle’s arm, lips pursed together. “To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth.” Jacaerys said. Eraena tried not to roll her eyes at the obvious lie. 

“And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.” Jace raised his glass, a smile on his face that she knew all too well to be teasing and insincere. Her gaze turned to Aegon, who seemed to be unamused by Jace’s speech. “To you as well,” Aegon said. I caught the eyes of Luc and Rhaena, who smiled at her with amusement. “I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly, he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.” 

Eraena let out a bubbling laugh along with her Father, who chuckled, and her mother quickly chastised the both of them. She quickly covered her mouth when she noticed the stoic look on the other’s faces. “Good,” Otto said to her granddaughter with a smile. Ever since childhood, Eraena thought hard about the words Helaena would mumble. Words that everyone thought were ludicrous and mad, she found with deeper meaning. Helaena is seen to be mad, though Eraena always sees it as misunderstood; she holds wisdom and knowledge that no other at the table possesses. 

“Let us have some music,” the king instructed. Jace made his way to stand up once more and went to Helaena, inviting the girl to dance. Eraena smiled against my cup when she saw the surprised yet excited look on the silver princess’ face. Aegon looked disbelieved and shared a look with his brother. Eraena took Jacearys’ seat and sat next to her siblings. For a moment, their family was the picture of unity. Smiles and laughs were shared along the table. However, the king grew in pain and was carried out of the hall immediately. 

As the king left, a roasted pig arrived and was placed directly in front of Aemond. Eraena saw the smirk on Luc’s face, trying not to laugh out loud. “Lucerys,” she whispered harshly at her younger brother. Eraena’s heart quickened, and she quickly turned to Aemond, who had his jaw clenched. The one-eyed prince punched his fist on the table, standing up at the same time. It caught everyone’s attention. Even the music had stopped. Aemond raised his glass. His eye had never left Lucerys. “Final tribute,” he announced, and the girl bit her lip, knowing this would not end well. “To the health of my nephews and niece. Jace… Luc… Joffery and sweet Eraena.” The girl rested her gaze on Aemond, “Each of them comely, wise…” the prince trailed off, his gaze flickering to Eraena, who was pleading with her eyes. Yet, of course, she was ignored. “Strong,” he finished. 

Eraena let out a defeated breath. “Aemond,” the queen warned but was ignored by the prince. “Come. Let us drain our cups to these four…” Aegon raised his chalice. “Strongs,” Aemond finished. “I dare you to say that again.” Jacaerys challenged. “Why? ’twas only a compliment,” Aemond replied. “Do you not think yourself strong?” He added. Jacaerys threw a punch, and Lucerys made his way to his brother but was blocked by Aegon. Who grabbed the boy and bashed his head on the table near where Eraena was sitting. She stared wide-eyed and immediately slammed her foot down on Aegons for him to release her younger brother. “That is enough!” The queen yelled, but none seemed to hear her. Lucerys’ head was still pinned down, and Aegon was staring at Eraena with an amused smirk on his lips. 

“You’d have to try harder than that, Eraena,” He said, and the princess’ vision reddened; she quickly stood up and used her knee to maim his sex. Finally, he let Lucerys go, falling on the floor, clutching his cock in pain. “Good,” she heard Father say in her ancient tongue with a smirk, but her Mother looked at her in disbelief. Aemond effortlessly pushed Jacaerys to the floor, a smirk on his face. The prince’s eye was quick to find obsidian ones who had moved to the side of the room, a triumphant smirk on his lips. It took Baela and Rhaena to hold her down and not join in to help her brothers. Jace quickly stood up and charged forward, but a guard stopped him and Lucerys. 

The guard had let go of his hold on Jace, and it would seem that Jacaerys would have pounced on their uncle if it weren’t for Daemon, who had placed himself in the middle of the two. “Wait,” he said and raised a finger up, staring Jacaerys down until the prince moved backward and moved to where his siblings stood. “Go to your quarters.” Their Mother commanded. “All of you, go. Now.” She ordered. Eraena was the last of her siblings to leave; she could hear faint footsteps behind her and saw Aemond and her father walking behind the five of them. Baela and Raena’s chambers were the nearest to the dining hall. The two had left the awkward convoy in the halls quickly. “Jacaerys, Eraena, your Mother’s chambers, now.” 

The girl’s lip found home between her teeth as she walked to her mother’s chambers, her head hung low. How hypocritical was she? She had frowned upon her father’s violent actions toward Vaemond, yet she was all but ready to join in on the fight. Yet, in her defense, she could not just sit there and let Aegon hurt her younger brother; the prince had deserved his cock to be maimed. “I simply do not know what to do with you two anymore!” Rhaenyra exclaimed with a disappointed sigh. “Jacaerys, why must you be baited so quickly?” She asked. “She called us bastards, Mother!” “But you should not give them a defensive reaction; it only makes you look guilty.”

Eraena scoffed, making her Mother turn to her with a raised brow. “Mother, look at us,” she said, and Jacaerys made his way to stand beside her. “Do not get me started with you. Joining in the fights of boys!” She exclaimed and paced around, playing with her rings once more. “I was only defending my brother,” Eraena explained. “That is no place for you, Eraena!” The younger princess held back her tongue, not wanting to say anything out of turn or offense. She caught her Father’s eyes, pleading that he would come to their aid; he sighed and walked closer to their Mother. “It was a childish fight, Nyra, you should be at ease that your children know how to defend themselves.” 

“The Hightowers are at an outrage! They will use this spectacle as another reason to keep the crown!” She whispered harshly. “You two will apologize to your uncles, Eraena, you will apologize to Aegon, and you Jacearys will apologize to Aemond.” Eraena stared in shock. “I will do no such thing,” she said and stepped forward, “Eraena,” Jace warned. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I will not apologize for defending my brother from that… drunken creature and his violent brother! Nor should Jacearys apologize for defending our honor.” 

“It does not matter; we must take the high road,” Rhaenyra said decisively. “Tell me, Mother, when you were our age, and if you were put in our position, would you apologize?” Eraena questioned and for the first time in a while, she saw my mother without an answer. Rhaenyra turned to her husband, who had an amused smirk on his lips. “Answer the question, dear,” Rhaenyra sighed and paced. “You two, out. Jacaerys, escort your sister back to her chambers.” 

Jace and Eraena exited the chambers and walked silently back to the girl’s quarters. They were nearing the wing of her chambers when they saw a figure seemingly waiting for someone. “Ah, Lord and Lady Strong,” Aemond taunted once more with a smirk on his lips. Eraena’s hold on Jacaerys’ arm tightened. Jacaerys turned to his sister, who implored with her eyes for him to ignore the sulking figure in the halls. “How nice of you to escort your sister to her chambers,” Aemond said, and Eraena licked her lips, avoiding the prince’s gaze. “I should think it necessary, especially with the talk we hear of a promiscuous princess residing in Dragonstone.” Eraena stiffened at his words. Promiscuous? The word seemed like poison dripping from his lips. “We are not aware of such things, Prince Aemond. It is best not to listen to whispers of vipers,” Jacaerys said, and the two walked on. Eraena frowned at their uncle’s words. “Ignore him,” Jacaerys said as he saw the furrowed brows of his sister. “Good night, brother,” Eraena sighed and placed a kiss on her brother’s cheek before stepping into her room. She was not promiscuous, not at all!

[dazed-and-confused23]

Dear Hearts and Gentle People 6

Summary: There is only so much you can do for Cooper when the two of you are attacked, and the extra vials you carry are crushed. There is only so much you can do when Cooper’s stash runs out. The wasteland takes as much as much it gives.

Pairings: The Ghoul | Cooper Howard x Female Reader

Warnings. Pretty angst filled here. Plus some kissing.

Masterlist

Part 2 -> HERE

It's been a week, give or take a couple of hours, since the group of raiders had jumped Cooper and his trader. They'd been wandering through some ruins, sightseeing as you liked to call it, when they began to crawl out of the burnt out buildings like ants. You and Cooper had worked like a well-oiled machine, but that still didn't mean that either of you was perfect.

One of the raiders had gotten the drop on you, literally flinging herself from the second flood of a building and slamming into your back, and in turn, your backpack that carried your wares inside. You thrashed about, jerking back and crushing the woman against the concrete wall, trying to shake her off. You smacked her again against the wall, and finally, she lost her grip and fell to the floor.

Cooper had shot the raider before she had time to get up, gore splattering the wall, and then the fight was back on. The two of you were exhausted by the time the fighting was done, and after a bit of well deserved looting, Coop had made a small fire in one of the more preserved buildings and you began to sort through your wares.

While the ghoul sucked down a vial, you had found the crushed medical case, heart shattering when you'd opened it to reveal your sizeable stash of chems destroyed. Fear had gripped your heart, and you shifted through your shattered stockpile and found a single surviving tube.

You'd looked at your ghoul, who looked relaxed across the campfire. The two of you were deep in the wasteland. At least a two week journey to the next town, and it would be a gamble if they sold the chems Cooper would need. You'd swallowed harshly and called his name, voice cracking.

"Cooper. We've got a problem."

His gaze had sharpened, his eyes skating over your form and looking for any kind of injury. When he found nothing, he raised a brow, confused, but still weary of your fearful expression.

"What's wrong, Darlin'. You look right as rain to me," He rasped and reached for his canteen, taking a swig of water that he immediately choked on when you lifted up the single vial. He stands and crosses the fire, crouching down and shifting through the broken glass himself.

"When did this happen?" He demands, and you cast your mind back, thinking hard.

"That one raider. She jumped on my back. They were probably crushed in the fight," you say and hand him the surviving vial, "That's the only one I found."

Rage and fear war within his chest, and Cooper stands, kicking a rock as hard as he could, a snarl on his lips, "Fuck!"

Now, a week later, Cooper hardly had the strength to move. The caughing had started two days ago after he'd sucked down the last chem. He lagged behind you, shoulders drooping and hat covering much of his face as he focused on putting one boot in front of the other. The clinking of his spurs was your only comfort.

Another two days passed, and Cooper couldn't go on. His strength sapped from his bones as he lay across from you, posted up on an old bed in a dusty motel. You kneeled by his side, fingertips tracing his jaw and up his cheekbones. You sniffled heavily, and then leaned in to kiss his brow.

"Ain't gotta go cryin' over me, Darlin'," Cooper murmured and closed his eyes, wishing that he could feel the press of your lips against his flesh better. A tickle licked his throat, and he turned away from you to hack, spit flying and a wheeze echoing through the room when he flopped back in the bed.

You ignore his words and fish out a bottle of water to hand him. You watch, concern coating your features as he hand trembles, and Cooper ends up splashing himself. You hold it steady after he sighs heavily and hands the bottle back.

"Promise me that you'll still be here when I get back," you say after you've taken the water back and stowed it away. You've got a plan, and you'll be much faster by yourself, now it was the hard part, and that was leaving Cooper behind.

Your ghoul sighs and gives you a look. Coop thinks that the two of you have had a good run, and if this is how he's gotta go, then so be it. He just hates that the last thing he'll see is you crying.

"Baby girl. I can't make you a promise I can't keep," He rumbles and forces himself to sit up, giving his girl a weary grin and taking your hands in his own. He presses his lips to your knuckles, one at a time, "You can't let some old man like me slow you down."

You force back the tears that threaten to fall. Coop never liked it when you cried, and you would do your best not to now. You would save this stubborn bastard if it was the last thing you did. Using his hold on you, you tug him down and in for a kiss, so sweet and full of love that the ghoul's clutches you back before he has to pull away and cough harshly.

"I'll be back before you know it, Cowpoke," you say, and at this point, you don't know if it's to assure him or you. You push yourself to your feet and fix your pack, bending to kiss Cooper one last time, memorizing the rough feel of his lips against yours.

Cooper pushes you away after a moment, a fond smirk playing on his lips, "Get outta here, cowgirl. I'll stay right here."

You give a decisive nod and then march away from him, exiting the motel and starting in the direction of the closest town. You had a ghoul to save.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

•EVEN MORE THE BLUE EYE SAMURAI INCORRECT QUOTES•

Reader: Do you ever do anything except whine like a little bitch.

Taigen: Some times I whine like a big Bitch!

Ringo: Do you think when Butterflies are in love that they feel human's in their stomach?

Reader: Ringo! What the fuck!

Reader: • • •_-• - / ... - •_• •_• -.-

Mizu: What is that

Reader: Remorse Code.

Mizu: I am even angery now.

Reader: Hey Mizu, what are you eating?

Mizu: A family sized bag of sweets.

Reader...that's not family sized....that's regular sized....

Mizu:Everything is family sized when you dont have a family.

Reader: *whispering* Mizu...nOo

Reader: *Laying in bed* Do you think birds get sad for not having arms?

Mizu: Well do you get sad for not having wings?

Reader: *Choke up* Every single day.

Taigen: If I say I love you will you say it back?

Reader: Yes

Taigen: I love you

Reader: It back

*Five Minutes later*

Mizu: Why is Taigen sobbing face down on the floor?

Reader: I wish I could block people in real life.

Akemi: Restraining order

Mizu: Murder

Reader: What are you five?

Taigen: Yea! Five head's taller than you.

Reader:

Taigen:

Reader:

Taigen:....Please don't kill me.

Mizu: Are you high?

Reader: Am I what?

Mizu: High?

Reader: Hello.

Taigen: Can you be quiet?! I'm trying to think.

Reader: Don't worry. Doing anything for the first time is difficult.

Mizu: WHOEVER CAUSED THIS MESS IS GOING TO-

Reader: It was me...

Mizu: ...Is going to be forgiven because everyone deserves a second chance.

Reader: Why are you on the floor?

Mizu: I’m depressed.

Mizu: Also I was stabbed, can you get Ringo, please

Taigen: I guess I’m just a bad person.

Reader: Nah, you’re not a bad person. You’re a terrific person. You’re my favourite person. But sometimes you can be a real cunt

Reader: Hey Mizu?

Mizu, internally: There they are. My favorite person in the world, the love of my life. Fuck I just want to stare at them and hold them and kiss them for the rest of my life—

Mizu: What the FUCK do you want?

Akemi staring at Reader: “You look like an angel.”

Reader who wasn’t paying attention: “What?”

Akemi: “I said you look ugly at every angle.”

Mizu *screeching*: YOU MEAN A LOT TO ME!

Reader: wh-

Mizu: YOU’RE ESSENTIAL TO MY EXISTENCE!

Reader:why are you screaming??

Mizu: BECAUSE I HAVE TROUBLE EXPRESSING MYSELF! IT HELPS TO YELL SENTIMENTAL THINGS IN AN AGRESSIVE TONE!

Reader: I-

Mizu: I FUCKING LOVE YOU!

Ringo: Wow, it’s a barren featureless wasteland out there isn’t it?

Reader: … Ringo, try turning the map around.

Reader: You’re mad at me.

Mizu: I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.

Reader: Oh, come on. Everyone knows that’s worse

Mizu: Don’t worry, you’ve got everything you need to defeat them.

Reader: The power to believe in myself?

Mizu: No, a Sword.

Mizu: Stab them.

Reader: Don’t kill me, I have a wife

Assassin: I don’t care about that

Reader: That wasn’t a plea for mercy, that was a warning

Mizu kicking the door down: You called, love?

Reader: Here you are, Mizu. Nice hot cup of tea.

Mizu: …It’s cold.

Reader: Nice cup of tea.

Mizu: It’s horrible.

Reader: Cup of tea.

Mizu: I’m not even sure it is tea.

Reader: Cup.

Reader: You need to react when people cry.

Mizu: I did, I rolled my eyes.

Reader: Gotta love knitting needles, I can make a scarf, I can make a hat, I can stab someones eyes out, I can make mittens.

Akemi: What was that middle part?

Reader: I can make a hat?

Mizu: How much sleep did you get?

Reader: Eight.

Mizu: Hours?

Reader: Minutes. God! Taigen, would you shut the fuck up?

Taigen*Fixing his hair*: What the fuck? I didn’t even say anything!

Taigen: how come you’ve been abnormally nice to me lately?

Reader what do you mean?

Taigen: you just seem nicer than usual

Mizu: They can punch you in the face if you want.

Fowler: I could kill you if I wanted.

Reader: Yeah? So could any other human being. So could a dog. So could a dedicated duck. You aren't special.

Akemi: Did you really have to stab him?

Reader: You weren't there, you didn't hear what he said to me.

Akemi: And what did he say?

Reader: "What are you gonna do? Stab me?"

Mizu, nodding: That's fair.

Akemi: NO!

Reader: *Screams*

Taigen: *Screams louder to establish dominance*

Ringo: Should we do something?

Mizu: No, I want to see who wins.

Ringo:Let's speak about our talents.

Ringo:...I'll start, I like to cook.

Akemi: I'm good at languages.

Reader: I'm good instruments.

Mizu: I'm good at killing people.

Reader: *Does something stupid*

Mizu: What an absolute fucking idiot.

Mizu: I can't believe I would die for them.

[mayasaurusss]

Transfem Lucy nsfw blurbs.

What if the wasteland's craze got to Lucy's head?

Contains: gender neutral reader who is described at one point to have a 'slit' (is a slit a hole? Is a hole a slit?), transfem Lucy, description of blood, heavy smut.

A/N: everytime I had to write the word "cock" or "cum" I felt unwhorthy of entering God's heaven.

Lucy who has started to go mad, the influence of the wasteland taking a toll on her mental health. She is hungry, tired and the blood loss is certainly not helping her. She first sees you when she's resting, and you begin chased down by a group of radroaches. She first sees you when she's resting near a bonfire, running away from a group of radroaches. She brutally kills them, letting her anger and frustration out on the poor beasts, stomping on their skulls and huffing as the blood colors her boots. She looks back to see you terrified of her, shaking. Despite how much she wants to be left alone, she can't help but ask you if you're okay. And you only stick to her side from then on.

Lucy who is weary of you; anyone who she tried to help turned their back on her, so of course she doesn't trust you at all. She reluctantly lets you venture out with her, sighing as you fall in the sand or get scared by a mutant. She can kill them no problem, so why can't you fend for yourself? Your behaviors only make her angrier: you are too sweet, too caring, trailing behind her like a lost puppy. You seem exactly how she was, but hope hasn't died yet in you, and that makes her anger grow.

Lucy who, as time goes on, finds it harder and harder to contain herself near you. You are the first person who hasn't tried to kill her. You are kind, gentle, and most of all, totally her type.

Lucy who starts to get hard when she's around you. She feels her blood run down from her head to her dick, pooling and warming her cum for you.

Lucy who has to grip her cock in order to contain herself. You are snoozing off near a bonfire and she's grabbing herself hard, so hard that her knuckles turn white. She breathes slowly, eyes heavy with desire. How she wishes she could take you right here, fucking you under the night sky, to hear your moans as you beg her to go faster, harder.

Lucy who feels so ashamed to stroke herself when you're sleeping. She'll buck upwards into her hands, tugging harshly at her cock while trying to contain her moans. When cum dribbles out of her cock, she feels guilty, but the idea that you might wake up and find her stroking herself is thrilling to say the least. She imagines you hearing her grunts, finding her hands tight on her cock, slowly straddling her hips, gently teasing her... "Lucy? What's going on?" you ask her groggily, finding her flat against the desert soil, feigning her sleep. A fantasy should remain a fantasy.

Lucy who has a hard time traveling with you. She just can't stop thinking about you under her, moaning her name. It has become so hard for her that it's affecting your travels. You wonder why Lucy so often calls for a trip to the bathroom -you just have to wait for her to come back from some abandoned house- and stays there for minutes at a time.

Lucy who, when she finally can't take it anymore, gets on her knees and begs you to take her cock in any way you want.

Lucy who's kisses are rough, hungry for you to give yourself to her. The wasteland's cold night wind hits against her naked chest, but she couldn't care less about it now. She just wants, no, needs to have you. She takes your hand and rubs it on her, feeling it press on her length in ways that make her go mad. You slip her free of pants and boxers, watching how her dick slaps against her stomach, a drop of precum falling down from the slit. She just looks...delicious.

Lucy who grabs you by the hips, presses and rubs her length on you and spits on it, feeling how wet her skin becomes. She'll be a tease, not fucking you immediatley; rather, she will rut against you, forcing your ass to grind back on her. She will continue to grind back against you until she can't take it anymore. She rubs her cock on your slit then, sighing as she finally claims her prize. Who when she's finally inside of you, goes mad with pleasure. She will mount you, press you against the dusty soil and driving her cock into you harshly while biting your neck. She fucks you like an animal. Her balls hitting you as she drives in deeper, sinking herself into you.

Lucy who eats you out like a starved woman. She's licking and biting and kissing your slit, hypnotized by the view of goosebumps traveling on your naked skin. Who keeps herself only for your touch. She's a firm believer that your touch on dick is far better than hers could ever be. She moans as you grind against her tongue, cock red and leaking and hurting; but the wait is so much better than just stroking herself.

Lucy who, if anyone dares to interrupt your shared time together, be it beast or ghoul, will draw her gun from her clothes and shoot them without even looking, never leaving your heat. Who will gladly continue to eat you out after the bodies fall to the ground and their blood splatters across your stomach, too focused on bringing you the pleasure you deserve.Lucy who, when you finally come across another vault, has the time of her life by giving you the best sex you could ever ask for. The moment you two walk inside one of the vault's bedroom, she has already stripped free of her clothes and kisses you, inching her hand towards your crotch. There is not a moment that isn't spent without her dick in your mouth, without you riding her to death. Minutes pass with her dick begin perfectly nestled between your thighs, the sound of skin against skin acts as a background for your lovemaking. Lucy's own moans almost rivals your own, high and euphoric as she chases pleasure, pulling you down flat against her and pummeling up in you. Lucy who, when she cums deep inside, sees stars blossoming beneath her eyelids, feels the hot remains of her cum flow from your slit, wettening and resting in the space between your bodies.

[bumblebeehug]

When do u think Natsu actually realized that he fell for Lucy and i know he treats her differently but can u give moments where it's initiated from his side?

This is going to be a long post so buckle up!

Okay, first of all: the Phantom Lord arc. Though I don't think he fell in love with her at that point of time, I think it was the events that seriously solidified his partialness to her. I'd go into detail but I can already feel a long post incoming, so I'll keep it short: Lucy telling Natsu that she loves being a Fairy Tail wizard, while crying over the fact that she didn't want to leave ↓

After just trusting her life in Natsu, jumping from an insanely high tower, with a mere belief that maybe she had heard him in the distance – I think it struck a chord with Natsu. Like, it would be normal to cry after a fall like that, but Lucy wasn't concerned about that aspect. Her head and heart was all about the guild, how she didn't want to go, and that resonates with Natsu. Natsu's entire life at that point is 1) Finding Igneel, and 2) being with/protecting the guild.

Then I'd say it's a pretty gradual build in their relationship. They go on a lot of missions, hang out together, and just in general spend a lot of time connecting. There's some Natsu-saves-Lucy, some Lucy-saves-Natsu, some hand holding (tenrou arc I won't forget about that, thank you anime team for adding that scene), and then comes the next pivotal moment. GMG arc and the dragon festival that follows.

By then I'd say Natsu and Lucy are very much in this friends-with-emotional-benefit zone: much more than friends, absolutely not yet lovers. But with Lucy's near-death experiences in her battles, Natsu has to refrain himself from getting involved each time Lucy gets beaten up - he becomes helpless, and the worry that's sowed inside of him gets watered each time Lucy still puts his faith in him, still trusts him to come out a winner. That entire section when Lucy's in the infirmary and she tells Natsu that her entire being trusts that Natsu can do anything, I think that's when Natsu falls in love.

Now wait!! He still doesn't quite understand that he loves her. But he understands that his feelings for Lucy are more tender than any other feelings he's ever had. He treasures her in a new, heavier way. She's become precious to him.

Precious. Where have we heard that... oh >:) ↓

Now the Dragon Festival was LETHAL in a trillion ways, but especially for nalu fans. The whole Future Lucy plot and the forehead touches and the Future Natsu and Future Lucy fighting in a wasteland moments and the Natsu skipping the final GMG match to save Lucy. And of course. Future Lucy dying. It's not the first time we see Natsu get so heavily affected - it happened in the tower of heaven, when Erza was ready to give her life up. But it is the first time we see Natsu see a friend die. Like, a team mate, someone who he's responsible for bringing to the guild. And after the whole GMG conundrum? Had a single more bad thing happened Lucy during the dragon festival, he’d probably turn into a demon right there and then. Dare I even say: their relationship was the strongest at this point in time.

After the GMG and the Dragon Festival, we get the Sun Village arc (I don’t like the Eclipse celestial spirit arc so I’m not counting it, same with Key of the Starry Sky arc — technically some nalu moments but not exactly building imo) and then another big one: Tartaros. Ooooh brother, THE best arc of all times, wish Mashima knew how to replicate it. But alas, he doesn’t.

The Tartaros arc isn’t exactly a pivotal moment where Natsu “falls in love” but rather an important aspect to understand his later actions. Like this guy goes through some pretty grusome stuff, learns a lot of complicated, bad things about himself, and finishes off the arc with losing Igneel — his father that he's spent ages searching for. Natsu's entire life is turned upside down, so he decides that he has to become stronger: cue, he heads off for a year to train.

His time away isn't very elaborated on — not from Natsu's viewpoint or Lucy's. But I think it's understood that he chose not to bring along Lucy because she could be put into danger too much for him to be able to concentrate on building his strength: he knew his training would be dangerous. During this time we also have the Gildarts-scene in chapter (idk i can't be bothered to look it up but y'all know the one ↓) which is kinda debated on — who was Natsu talking about here?

I'm still not certain on if it was a heart to heart on the Igneel-matter, or if it was about his guilt of leaving Lucy behind, like many theorise. I'm not even certain that it's limited to one of them — he could be talking about both. But at the very least, this entire year was one of those "distance makes the heart grow fonder" moments for him. He wanted to get back to his normal life with Lucy so bad. After all, it wasn't like him showing up at the GMG was in order to meet Lucy — had he wanted more training after that, he'd head off again, but I don't think he could physically bring himself to do it, even if it hadn't turned out that the guild had disbanded. Though that's just me speculating a bit.

And about the guild disbandment: oh jolly, he was not happy. He had finally taken the step to grow stronger to protect everyone in his beloved guild, and here Makarov went and disbanded it? Leaving Lucy completely alone? Lucy, who once jumped from a hella high tower because she was just so devoted to stay in the Fairy Tail guild? Yeah, I think that broke him a little. At this point there was just so much guilt involved around his whole relationship with Lucy, because now he had put her through so much pain only because he brought her to Fairy Tail that day in Hargeon.

The next arcs I'd say Natsu's trying to spend his time redeeming himself for the countless things he's done bad (getting the guild back together, just generally staying by Lucy's side as much as possible). And naturally he keeps getting hit by challenge after challenge (it's not easy to be a book written by his immortal brother, yk?). And it's even harder to watch Lucy die again, this time for real (he thinks bc he's stupid and also has a tumour that's nothing less than a ticking bomb) (give this guy a break lol).

Anyways: Lucy's death nr2. Natsu can't live a life without her. Now I know — he still doesn't quite understand that it's romantic love, but I think he does understand that it's pure love. No matter if kissing and reproducing was involved, all he knew was that a life without Lucy is completely unimaginable, so blinded by rage he becomes and decides to decapitate everyone in his way (sorry about that Gray).

The last couple of moments I'll go out of my way to mention as signs of love is 1. when he's won over Acnologia and falls towards Lucy, crazy relieved, saying "I'm home", 2. Gajeel pointing out Natsu's crush on Anna, Natsu basically saying "oh that's why I like Lucy so much" (I embellished it lol) and 3. "We're still gonna be together from here on out, right?" yeah that man won't ever leave her. Ever. It's just not an option.

Now since I've only talked about specific moments, here's what I have to say about his relationship with her in general:

Throughout the main plot line, we also see a shift in Natsu's behaviour. Someone here on Tumblr pointed out that Natsu always finds a way to shield Lucy if something unexpected happens, after not being able to shield her from Future Rogue. There's also the small detail of the order he calls out to people - it goes from being pretty random, to Lucy almost alwyas being on the top of the list: likely because she's always on the top of his head. And in general I'd say that Natsu initiates (i'm adding this entire paragraph bc i realised that you asked about when Natsu initiated stuff, more than when he fell in love lol) almost all of their interractions. It's Natsu who wants Lucy to join Fairy Tail, to form a team, he's the one who enters her apartment constantly, he's always searching her out - his interest in her is at a constant high so we never feel like we get "moments" that he's paying her extra attention. He has one setting, and it's "Lucy" cranked to the max. Lol.

I could also add some HYQ moments to the mix here, but they've been few and far inbetween, and also mostly played off as jokes, so I can't really consider them as moments when Natsu initiates his love. I guess his jealousy can be considered a sign? And when (spoilers from the manga) he runs around to protect her/save her from creepy-freaky-jail (the only one who made it freaky was him, with those wild fantasies lol). Maybe I need to jog my memory a bit, but so far there hasn't been any non-pervy nalu moments initiated by Natsu in the HYQ, aside from jealousy-chap. Sadly.

Hope this gave you the answer you were hoping for! Sorry it took so long, I started writing on it and realised it would be a bible so I put it in my drafts to fetch some pics to make it less wordy, and then I forgot about it, lol. But here it is!

[sweatervest-obsessed]

Wasteland, Baby

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

WC: 3.4k

TW: Mentions of Murders, mentions of suicide, discussion of suicide, trauma, emotional turmoil, death, arguing, abandonment issues, commitment issues, Angst, some fluff

A/N: Thanks for bearing with me as I try to get off the struggle bus y'all. here is the highly anticipated part 2 of Stick Season !

All the fear and the fire of the end of the world Happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl Happens great, happens sweet Happily, I'm unfazed here, too

It had been three years since you left the BAU and you had just turned down a job at the FBI from Erin Strauss. You never heard from her again. 

But you did attend her funeral in D.C a week later.

You didn’t alert any of the BAU that you were returning for her funeral, since you could only imagine the pain they were feeling. 

The plane ride was filled with thoughts of what life would have been like if you had rejoined the FBI. Maybe she wouldn't have died. Maybe she’d still be calling you and sending you email after email with job offers. 

You had quickly stopped by the wake, the day before, to pay your respects, and give Strauss’ family your deepest condolences. It was painful, seeing someone you spoke to last week, stiff, lifeless, in a coffin where they will be for the rest of time. 

But the worst part was the burial. 

Blending in at a funeral has never been a strong suit of the BAU’s, except for you. You were calm, respectful, and blended in with the rest of the spectators. 

Until you looked across the circle and saw Aaron Hotchner looking directly at you. Whatever he had been feeling before, was quickly wiped away when you looked back at him, confirming his suspicions that you were here, in the graveyard. The look on his face was replaced with a more somber one as he redirected his attention back to the priest, but you knew you would be unable to just leave now that you had been spotted. 

Once she had been lowered into the ground, Hotch made his way towards you, catching his colleges interested. Where was he going? Who was he looking for?

“Y/n.” 

You smiled at him. It didn’t reach your eyes, but it wasn;t fake either. 

“It’s good to see you Hotch.” 

“I didn’t know you were going to be here today.” 

You nodded and looked over as the rest of the people migrated towards their cars to go to the reception afterwards. “I didn’t make it public information, considering I was planning on leaving after the ceremony. I’m just here to pay my respects Hotch.” 

“She called you.” 

“Yes she did.” 

“And she said you turned it down.” 

“I did.”

“Why.” 

“Hotch, please.” 

He took your elbow and pulled you away from the people, giving the two of you some semblance of privacy. 

“Will you at least think about it?” 

“What is there to think about Hotch? I don’t want to—” 

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me. I know you miss it Y/n. I’m not just some colleague, and you know that.” 

You closed your eyes and pinched your brow. You knew coming to this funeral was a mistake. But some part of you, one that you had silenced for a very long time, was starting to break through. 

“We can talk later.” 

Wasteland, baby I'm in love, I'm in love with you

“I cannot believe you’re going back.” 

You sighed and continued to pack up everything you owned into boxes. You had only broken down the ones from a few years ago–that same part of you had saved them for whenever you had recognized you were ready to be back in Washington D.C. 

“Don’t ignore me. I thought you were done with hunting bad guys and certain doctors with glasses.” 

You slammed your hands on the table, causing Lucille to jump. 

“Sorry.” You muttered and slowly sunk to the ground, deciding it was just easier to sit on the ground and have a breakdown rather than talk it out. 

“I’m not going back for him…I’m going back for me. This…” You ran a hand through your hair. “This is n’t what I was meant to do, Luce. I’m not a teacher. I’m okay at it, but…I was meant to be in the field. Teaching is challenging, but not in the way I need. And fuck, I love my kids, you know that I do, but it’s just…”

“It’s not who you are.” She came and sat down next to you, taking your hand in hers. “I’m gonna miss you asshole.” 

You rested your head on her shoulder and squeezed her hand. “I’m going to miss you so much.” You whispered back to her. 

“You have to visit me. I’ll get lonely up here.” 

A smile spread across your face as a tear slowly tracked down your cheek. “ You have my permission to hunt me down and beat the shit out of me if I don’t.” 

“Oh don’t worry, I will.” 

All the things yet to come are the things that have passed Like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass Like the bonfire that burns That all words in the fight fell to

Your desk stayed pretty empty for the first two weeks you were back—like you were terrified that if you got too comfortable, life would pull the rug right out from under you again and you’d have to leave. 

It was Garcia who first noticed this, watching as you’d pack everything up into your tote bag each night before you would go home. She didn’t say anything about it though, since you were not the same girl the BAU had grown to know. 

You were different, quieter. You spoke when you had something to add, or to correct somebody, but you never participated in the banter; you never stayed longer than absolutely necessary. If the group had decided to surprise you at your new apartment, they would find it covered in boxes—walls bare, fridge almost empty, only essentials like clothes and toothbrush unpacked. 

But you had never been better. Hotch had you start consulting side cases when you came back, a way to get you used to the routine of being back in the office, back in the FBI. You would consult up to three new cases a day, still helping with those that would call back a day or week later for updates or more help. They watched as you easily solved things in minutes, that might have taken the team hours. 

The first time Morgan called you ‘Girl Genius’ to your face, you punched him in the arm (admittedly a bit harshly). But he wasn’t wrong. You could feel the continuous excitement flowing through your veins; your muscles flexing as you settled back into the thing you were the best at. 

You were different, but better. 

Spencer noticed this too. He watched as you confidently answered every question thrown at you. He watched as you consulted on cases and noticed patterns he had missed. 

Spencer had missed you, badly. He knew he fucked up when he had left that night, needed to go and he spend the night away, thinking about his life; his future. Panic had flooded his body at the thought of you being the one forced to take care of him, forced to deal with his shit history and addictive personality and his annoying ass rambles. He didn’t want to subject you to that. 

But then he remembered the look on your face—the pure excitement and adoration at the thought of being able to spend every single minute of your life calling him yours. And once the panic had subsided, he felt that same joy. 

When he got back to the house, you weren’t there. 

You weren’t at work either. 

You had just vanished, and about a day later, all of your things had disappeared too. 

And Spencer was a fucking wreck. He was useless at work, and he spent so much time trying to find you, but Penelope wasn’t able to find a thing, and by the time she did, it had been months later, and you clearly didn’t want to be found. 

Wasteland, baby I'm in love, I'm in love with you

It didn’t help that seeing you again in Vermont made him want to melt on the spot. A great deal of relief washed over him, seeing you were alive and in front of him. But then he felt the anger rise in him. You had abandoned him, you had just disappeared without a second thought. 

Then he remembered the look on your face when he panicked about marrying you.

You had thought he didn’t want to marry you. 

You had no idea that he felt like he was the the problem, and if he told you know, it would just sound like a fucking excuse. 

Watching you walk back into the bullpen and set up at your desk was another slap in the face. It feels like nobody tells him anything, because they don’t. But then he realized that only Hotch knew about it because everyone froze on the spot seeing you sitting at your desk, working. 

At his desk, he would just watch you. On the plane, he would watch you. And he tried so hard to be nonchalant about it, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Your hair, your legs, your arms, your lips—he wanted to take your hand and never let you go, fusing your skin together so he could be with you always. 

He was in love with you. And he thought you would rather die than be seen with him again. 

If only he knew that you felt the same way—you loved him right back. 

And that day that we'll watch the death of the sun To the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on And you'll gaze unafraid as they sob from the city roofs

After about three months, infinite pining, a few longing glances passed to one another, and incessant whining from Derek Morgan, you and Spencer Reid found yourselves together at coffee one morning. 

After about a month later, you found yourself back in his apartment, lips grazing his, not being able to tell where his body ended and yours started. 

Then, the next day, he told you he loved you. 

He didn’t see you for a whole week afterwards. 

But when he walked into work that monday, and you were sitting at your desk, completely unbothered, he took it upon himself to make you talk to him. 

No one else was around, except for Hotch. But his office door was closed, and Morgan wouldn’t be around for another ten minutes anyways. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” 

You turned around in your chair and glared at him. “Excuse me?” 

“You disappeared for a week, no word about where you were going, not even telling me you were leaving.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Not now Spence.” 

“I love you.” 

“What?” 

“I still love you.” 

Your jaw dropped. “Spencer…” 

“I’m dead serious Y/n. When you weren’t here after you spent the night, I lost my fucking mind. I thought I had lost you—again. And I wasn’t about to go through that again. I had fucked up once before and I—I thought you had realized you didn’t want to be with me anymore and you had left again.” 

You were silent as he rambled on. 

“When you left three years ago, I lost my fucking mind. I sat here, staring at your desk hoping you would materialize out of thin air just so that I could apologize to you. And then when you didn’t show up, I begged Penelope to tell me where you had run off to, so I could go and find you and beg for you to listen to me while I got on my hands and knees to beg for your forgiveness. You thought I didn’t want to marry you, but I was terrified because I thought you wouldn’t want to marry me. I mean I had just gotten sober, and I thought we were doing so well and then you brought up marriage and all I could think about was how it was another way for you to find out how much you could hate me and get sick of me since—” 

You had finally snapped out the shock you were feeling and placed your hand over his mouth. “Breathe.” 

Spencer shoved your hand off his mouth, but stayed silent, taking an over exaggerated breath to prove to you he did. 

“We can talk about this later.” 

“No.” Spencer shook his head. “We’re going to talk about this now. I want to talk about this now.” 

“Spencer…” 

“How do I know that you’re not going to just pack up and disappear again.” 

“Spencer seriously? I don’t—-”

“You don’t do that? Because we both know you do. You’ve done it twice now.”

“What do you want me to say Spence?” 

“That you still love me.” His voice was low, but his eyes were locked in on yours. “I need to know if you still love me.” 

Wasteland, baby I'm in love, I'm in love with you

The Next Week

Another Day, Another Psychopath Killer. 

Another way for you to throw yourself into the line of fire because you have always had a soft spot for teenagers. 

Someone was targeting suicidal teens, convincing them to end their own lives, merely making him complicit in their deaths. It had sent you (and JJ) reeling. Both of you had lost someone to suicide, and watching as this person preyed on vulnerable kids who deserved to live and be loved took a lot out of the both of you. 

You had a bad feeling about this case when it was first passed onto your desk, but it just got worse and worse as the week went on. If only you had figured out who it was sooner, you might have been able to save this one girl’s life. But sometimes life refuses to relent. 

The jet was silent on the way back, none of you wanting to speak and break the silence. 

Spencer sat next to you on the couch, offering a comforting presence, and nothing else. He knew you (and it bugged the shit out of you). Years of being with one another meant that he knew when you were upset, and he knew that you despised being touched while you were like this, but you hated being alone. 

It bugged you so much, but you weren’t going to say a damn thing because having him next to you while you sat and listened to your music and spiraled was exactly what you needed. 

He only offered his hand when the plane hit some turbulence, and your entire body began to shake unconsciously. It was between the two of you, and all he did was flip it, so the palm was upwards. It was an invitation that you could immediately ignore and refuse if you wanted to. 

But something in you caused your hand to drop next to his and lace your fingers through his. 

God was it so fucking warm, and soft. You wondered if he still used the lotion you had recommended to him all those years ago when he would complain to you about his hands being “gross” and “too dry”. He absolutely did. 

He managed to hide his smile when you took his hand, but he did give yours a soft squeeze, and continued to read his book, pretending that his insides weren’t aflame and his mind was anywhere but on the words in front of him. 

He didn’t turn a page for over four minutes once your hand was in his. 

And I love too that love soon might end Be known in its aching Shown in the shaking Lately of my wasteland, baby Be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking Though quaking, though crazy That's wasteland, baby

That Night

“Thank you.” 

It was the first thing you had said in over five hours, including the plane ride. Once the plane had landed, you and Spencer went back to his apartment, and the two of you had sat in his living room, in silence. He didn’t mind, as long as he could keep an eye on you. 

Your mind was far far away. It was back in college. Thinking about your friend and about the life you could have lived if she was still with you. 

Spencer had left a cup of tea next to you, your favorite, and sat on the couch. You were situated in the chair by the window, staring out into the night, watching as the rain drops raced down the window and as the lights blurred together. 

He was close enough to provide you with some comfort, but far enough away to let you have whatever space you needed.

“Spence?” 

He snapped out of his head, looking towards you. Your eyes were tired, and your body reflected the same type of exhaustion. 

“Sorry. What do you need?” 

“I—.” You interrupted yourself with a yawn, cursing under your breath. “Shit sorry. I should probably go..” 

“It’s okay if you stay.” 

You looked out the window then back at him. 

“I’m not just saying that to get you into my bed—oh my god that came out wrong, I just mean I don’t want you out in that weather and I don’t really like the idea of you being alone tonight, especially after this case because—” 

“Spencer.” 

“---yeah?” 

“I’ll stay.” 

“O-oh. Good. good…” He nodded. “I can uh, take the couch and you can have the bed.” 

You rolled your eyes and smiled slightl;y. “You’re a gentleman, Doctor Reid, but I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” 

“But I—”

“Spence.” 

He huffed, crossing his arms as you just laughed softly to yourself, amused. 

“Why don’t we both go get ready. Together.” 

“Together?” 

You nodded. “Yeah Spence.” 

“Okay.” 

Spencer stood up, and offered his hand to you. 

And for the second time today, you took it. 

When the stench of the sea and the absence of green Are the death of all things that are seen and unseen Are an end but the start of all things that are left to do

And maybe the two of you would never be together ever again. Maybe you would. 

But something about the way Spencer would make your favorite tea, 

or the way he would save you the crossword puzzle on his morning newspaper since he knew how much you loved to solve as much as you could without his help, 

or when he would leave you notes on your desk, making you feel like a giddy high schooler all over again, or when he felt like a good start to something new

or when he would kiss you good morning and good night, promising you he’d be there whenever you woke up

or when he slowly got rid of things in his apartment to create space for your things as you moved in slowly 

or whenever a case was particularly rough for the both of you and he wouldn’t pester you to talk to him about it, instead offering his hand for you to take, and squeezing it, letting you know he was there for you

or the way he would take you on small vacations up to Vermont so you could go see all of your friends and escape from the world of the FBI

or the way he would never storm out of the apartment after an argument, but still give you the space you needed so you could both decompress without getting at each other's throats

or when he whispered every thing he would do for you for the rest of your lives so help him god when he thought you were asleep in his arms

or how he would whispered ‘I love you’ to you as you passed by while you both were working

or when he would never let you run off in the middle of the night because you would panic about whether or not this was all a dream, and one day he would wake up and not love you anymore

or when he got down on one knee and proclaimed his undying love for you, hoping you’d promised to love him forever in the same way he loved you, wanting to be with you, wanting to be near you always

made you feel like everything might be okay after all. 

Wasteland, baby I'm in love, I'm in love with you

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

something tells me our ghoulie would be fond of period sex (i’ll go to horny jail now)

Bloodletting

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,839

Warnings: smut (18+), blood play, bloody cunnilingus/bloody kisses, period sex, masturbation (male), rough sex, creampie, biting.

Notes: Can't lie, this was my immediate thought watching him tear into that bloody chunk of meat for the first time. I usually try to include at least a little plot, but this is basically all porn. Very fun submission to write; thank you! Please save a good seat for me on the bench in horny jail, I'll be in promptly.

Fun fact: orgasms can help relieve period cramps for some people.

Today had been a poor choice of start point for this long walk.

Normally, trekking across the bombed out western seaboard was strenuous and uncomfortable enough, the deadly sun baking seemingly the entire planet to a crisp, the cloying dehydration, the constant danger that something or someone was around the corner, ready to eat you. It was a far cry from the safety and monotony of the vault you'd grown up in. Usually, you were able to find lots of beauty on the surface, plenty of things to appreciate. But right now everything was just awful and uncomfortable.

Menstruation was such a nightmare topside. The proper products were apparently incredibly difficult to find anymore, leaving you to make the best of things with old torn pieces of clothing and less-than-ideal medical supplies. But these things didn't provide the absorption you'd long been accustomed to, and you kept having accidents the last few days, the result of a heavier-than-average flow. Normally, these things wouldn't bother you, but it was insanely annoying to constantly feel as if you were bleeding through basically the only clothes you had, doubly so when there was no place to clean them or bathe yourself most of the time. Besides, these pants chaffed terribly when they were damp.

Months back, you'd made the choice to ditch the vault suit. It was surreal and sort of sad feeling, packing away what had truly been a symbol of your identity for so long. However, it attracted far too much attention and caused trouble when people assumed they could take advantage of you, so you'd opted to start dressing like a proper Wastelander, boiled leather armor and denim pants. Right now, however, you desperately wished you'd been wearing the suit. The absorbent liner would have saved you some of this embarrassment.

The old ghoul had been telling you some story or another as you mounted a steep hill, your mind tuning in and out in frustration. You were sweaty, cramping, bloated, and bleeding on yourself, and all you wanted was a chance to clean yourself up and sit down for a minute. Eventually, the two of you came across what looked to be the abandoned skeleton of an old repair garage, just barely maintaining its tall stance against the horizon. As the two of you began to pass it by, you paused.

"I need to stop for a bit." you said, frowning at him as he turned his gaze to the position of the sun in the sky and back to you, confusion plain on his face.

"Whassa' matter?" he asked, "You're not usually this pussy about the sun anymore. Been long enough."

He was right, you were usually able to soldier on better than this. Today wasn't one of those days, though.

"I need like ten minutes alone, okay?" you snapped, short of patience. "I just...need it."

Your companion held up his hands in a silent, play-offended gesture of surrender, stepping aside to let you walk into the ramshackle little garage.

"Ten minutes!" he called teasingly behind you, prompting you to roll your eyes despite him not being able to see it.

Dropping your bag against the wall, you quickly toed your boots off so you could shuck your pants to the ground, groaning quietly at the bloody mess between your thighs. Digging some dirty rags out of your bag, you checked the spare canteen you kept undrinkable water in. Almost empty. You wanted to cry.

You could always ask Coop for some of his, since he was prone to drinking from questionable sources. He might even give you some, close as you'd become lately, thanks to a night of whiskey and Jet by the fire that had led to other forms of entertainment.

But you'd rather not have to explain this to him. As you did your best to scrub away the rusty red covering your skin, you wondered if he even remembered that this was something that happened to women. You had no idea what you were going to do with your pants.

Apparently, time had slipped away from you, as he appeared suddenly in the doorway a moment or two later, already speaking to you like he'd been standing there the entire time.

"It's been fifteen minutes, girlie. I'll have you know--" came his halted snark, quickly cut off as the two of you made eye contact, as he took in your nakedness below the waist. You felt a creeping sense of panic, a desire to flee out the broken window to your side. Neither of you said a word, and after a moment, he stepped forward towards you, softly gripping your wrist in his hand and holding it up to examine it. His honeyed eyes flicked back and forth between the soiled rag in your bloodied hand and where you'd been attempting to clean yourself up, briefly moving over to where your pants lay crumpled up on the floor.

"I'm--" you began, wanting to explain that you were fine, but you were quickly and decisively cut off from speaking when he lifted your bloody fingers to his mouth, sucking them between his lips with an obscene sigh. Your jaw fell slack as you watched him lick them clean, feeling like you were having some sort of erotic fever dream you'd wake up from any moment. Your hormones must've been working in tandem with the sun to drive you crazy.

However, it only continued to escalate as he seized you by the wrist, dragging you a few feet forward towards the rickety, grimy couch that leaned against the back wall, shoving you just enough to make you sit right in the center, a stale plume of desert dust filling the air around you as he rucked your hips up against his chest, your calves hooking over his shoulders. One of your flailing, still-socked feet knocked his hat clear off his head, sending it tumbling down to the floor, but he didn't even seem to notice, too preoccupied with running his hands along your inner thighs, smearing through the patches of drying blood there with fascination.

Your whole face burned white-hot, but you continued to watch him closely as his hands converged at your mound, one thumb tracing lightly over your now-swollen slit, just barely grazing your bud and drawing a hiss from between your teeth. However, instead of touching you there again, as you'd hoped he would, both thumbs traced down the line of your labia, parting them softly and spreading you open for his hungry eyes to see.

This new kind of attention made you squirm a bit at its intensity, the movement making your abdominal muscles clench just right to draw a trickle of warmth from between your legs, your face reaching supernova in embarrassment, but before you could pull away, he dove forward, his mouth sealing itself over your cunt and lapping wildly. The feeling was electric and ticklish and sent you clamoring to grab onto anything for leverage, letting out a screech that was half giggle and half moan.

He had done this before, gone down between your legs and licked and tasted and teased you until you couldn't handle it anymore, and always with great enthusiasm (and more than a little smugness, frankly), but never with a hunger like this. His thick tongue traced back and forth along your folds, seeking out every sanguine drop before dipping back down to your entrance, the wriggling muscle slipping inside with ease, drawing out another cry from you.

You were on fire, being teased more than you could handle; his tongue felt amazing, but largely avoided where you really wanted it to be, leaving you pushing and grinding your hips against his face as best as you could in your strange, folded over position. With one proper swivel, you managed to brush your clit against the bony ridge that sat at the top of where his nose would have been, scraping just right and sending you bucking right back at the same angle. The rough way you pushed against him was met by his hands curling under your ass, attempting to yank you even closer to his face as you felt that knot in your gut begin to tighten.

"Oh god, Coop, I'm gonna cum." you gasped, nails digging into his scalp as your thighs pulsed around his head. The older man, typically quite silent for most of the performance, let out a rather loud groan at that, and the sound was enough to push you right into a tense, crying orgasm, your little mewls ringing off the ancient concrete walls. If he were any other man, you'd worry about smothering him between your damp thighs, your scrambling hands pressing into the back of his head.

Fortunately, Cooper Howard wasn't just any man.

He continued to fuck you with his tongue through your climax, dragging it out for what felt like minutes. However, once you finally came down from that euphoric peak, he didn't stop, his tongue continuing to slather across you in full, wide strokes, his fingers moving up to tease at your oversensitive clit.

This, too, he had done before, this beautiful torture of keeping you constantly on the verge of a new orgasm despite still riding the wave of your current one. You both loved and hated it, feeling like every nerve in your body was alive with electricity, but simultaneously on the verge of pain from all the sensation. Presently, you loved it a lot more than you hated it, feeling the tight, cramping muscles in your belly relax just a little with your release. Glimpsing down at him once more, you could see that he'd tugged his hard cock free from its confines, jerking himself enthusiastically.

The ghoul's lips wrapped back around your clit, long, nimble fingers probing your saliva-slicked entrance. Two of them slid inside to the hilt before you even really registered their presence, causing you to hiss at the slight burn of the rad-rough flesh against your sensitive insides. The suction on your bud soothed the burn, allowing you to relax, and soon a third was added alongside the first two, quickly pushing you into another sudden and intense climax, washing over you like a tidal wave as he stretched you. When he eventually pulled his hand away, it was half-covered in red.

You were still trembling hard as he quickly worked his way back down your thighs, swiping up anything he may have missed. The sensation of his tongue running along your plush flesh made you giggle, earnest and breathless, but the sound was immediately cut off with a whine when he suddenly turned and viciously sunk his teeth into the meat of your inner thigh, not hard enough to break the skin, but damn near.

This, he had never done before.

Of course, you knew the man was intimately familiar with sinking his teeth into human flesh, but feeling them against you didn't frighten you as you expected it might, the sensation exhilarating and primal. The searing, pinching pain made you squeal, and one of his ungloved hands jammed up against your lips to silence you, filling your nose with the smell of iron and gunpowder. Come the morning, you'd be sporting a gnarly bruise there. The knowledge sent another hot tremble down your spine.

Unlatching his jaw from your leg, he pulled himself up to his full kneeling height, right even with you, a wild look in his eyes you weren't sure you'd seen before. So often he had the brim of his hat to obscure them, but now they stared, wide and glassy, into your own.

His fingers fisted into the already wild hair at the back of your head, pulling your forward into a passionate, metallic-tasting kiss. You could feel the way your face attempted to stick to his where he'd smeared your blood around your mouth with his hand. Quickly, he began to lean forward over you, pressing you into the mildew covered cushions as he pulled himself on top of you. The dry-rotted frame of the couch groaned loudly in protest at the additional weight, squeaking and sighing out curses as he repositioned your legs along his hips, falling right into place to rub his throbbing prick against you. Another throaty noise left you, strangled and awkward, but you were past being able to be embarrassed right now.

It distracted you just enough when the old cowboy dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his lips dancing along your pulse point, that you didn't tense when he pushed his way inside you, burying himself nearly to the hilt in one push. Both of you let out soft, satisfied groans as you stretched taut around him, clenching hotly already after all the attention he'd given you, his heavy breathing in your ear making every hair on your body stand on end.

For a short moment, he allowed you to adjust to his girth, warm hands pushing your shirt up to expose your breasts to him. His bare hands felt like they were everywhere, swiping affectionately against your face, tugging and pinching at your nipples, eventually settling into your hair, holding your head steady and forcing you to look at him as he began to fuck you. It didn't take long before he had you built right back up, the rub of his pelvic bone against you too good.

"Go on, gimme one more, baby. I know you can." he huffed, his warm breath tickling you just right. His thumb was suddenly strumming against your puffy, sore clit again, and tears brimmed in your eyes as your muscles seized once again, whimpering almost pitifully as you gave him what he wanted.

"Attagirl." he praised, running the blunted edge of his teeth along your throat as your body tugged at him. Your breathing was hard to control, making you see spots as he shifted your calves back over his shoulders, basically folding you in half once more as he pulled himself up higher and began to rut into you in earnest. The blunt head of his cock slammed into your tender cervix like this, making you jump and whine, but your legs only tightened around his shoulders, pulling him closer as he used your body to get himself off.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack, and the entire couch frame collapsed into a plume of dust, even worse than before, making you screech in shock. Cooper, however, seemed to barely notice, his pace not even slowing as he shifted you a few inches away from a busted 2x4 sticking out in your direction, pressing you harder into the cushions that were now trapped beneath you. Nevertheless, he did seem to be making sure you were okay in his own way, his wild eyes and insistent hands checking over every visible inch as he continued to pump between your thighs. When he dropped his mouth to your breasts, you throbbed around him, cooing as he sucked and nipped at your breasts.

"Fuck." he growled at the sensation, his hips slapping against you even harder, but in less coordinated strokes, his head heavily dropping back into the crook of your neck again, his entire weight resting on you now.

As you felt him begin to throb inside you, signaling his own release, you also felt those strong teeth latch onto the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder, digging deep into the smooth muscle as you screamed. You could hear your lover groaning loudly as he gave you a few more rough strokes, his teeth keeping firm at your neck as he pulsed every last drop of himself inside you. Beyond the pinching pain repeating itself, you could feel the burn of him sucking hard on the flesh between his teeth, trying to mark you up as visibly as possible. Remarkably, this was enough to push your oversensitive body into one last muted orgasm, leaving you shuddering against his chest.

Once his teeth released you, his strong arms wrapped around your body, carefully flipping you so that you laid across his chest, the leather of his clothing sticking eagerly to your sweaty skin. No one said anything for a few minutes, his fingers dancing along your spine, tracing the outline of the bite on your shoulder and earning a small whimper, which he chuckled at. Things were strangely blissful.

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna need another fifteen minutes, boss." you sighed eventually, snuggling your face against the smooth leather of his vest and breathing in the smell of violence and sex.

"You can have ten." he responded, drawing a look from you until the hand that had been kneading away at your ass cheek slipped down further, rough fingers teasing at your abused entrance once more, pushing what was leaking out of you back inside.

"Oh? And what happens then?" you asked, trying hard to keep your hips still against his sinful hand and failing.

"Then we're going again."

[jolalibrary]

see me in a vest

cod ghost x f!reader | ghost masterlist

Summary: “You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?” Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk. “Hilarious.”

Warnings: Brief mentions of smut. Mentions of a wound, blood (Ghost's but he's obv fine). Flirting. Feelings. FWB to something - they're a mess, but yeah. And, maybe unedited writing? AN: I don't know if I'm on the Ghost train again, but I'm at the station. Wordcount: 3k (this was meant to be 500 words).

Eye contact is a dangerous, dangerous thing. But lovely. God, so lovely — Hedonist Poet

It’s a sight watching you laugh, how it blooms like wildflowers in a wasteland. Your lips are parting around the sound—neck exposed. He can faintly spot the sight of bruises from when his hand last became your necklace.

He shouldn’t be looking your way. Most definitely not be thinking about how he wishes to press your cheek against the tiles of his shower. Ghost really can’t be considering how to ask you to come to his room tonight.

Even if it’s all he thinks.

His fingers brushing against his thumb, rolling and rolling as he tries not to grind his teeth or glare with any more intention.

All about to move his glare, try to find a spot on the table or the wall, but his eyes latch with yours.

The room silences, pausing. Just the two of you, breathing, living—blinking. Or, it feels like it does. Like some poetic bullshit from some film, a scene he’s sure you’ve tried to explain to him when you’ve attempted to fill the silence.

He thinks you smile. The edges of your lips twist further into your cheeks. But it never quite lands, never sticks.

Ghost shouldn’t be thinking about you. But all he does is think about you.

In another life, where he wasn’t dressed in scars or his belief in happiness and thereafter’s hadn’t been stripped from his remaining soul, Ghost suspects you’d be the one he’d want to keep around.

It’s the only reason he clenches his fist, watching you through the outer rim of his mask’s eye sockets and always watching, never intervening. Not even when soldiers below your rank let their eyes drift to your rear—or worse, from your face to your chest.

He lets them.

Allows them to ogle you because he knows they won’t ever be fortunate to see any more. Not just because he’d have their heads but because you’d turn them inside out before you’d even let them touch you. Plus, you ridicule them enough when you catch them—tongue all poison and razor sharp, a thing not to be messed with, something which barks as bad as it bites.

“You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?”

Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk.

“Hilarious.”

Sighing, you roll your lips. “You gonna keep boiling everyone alive with your eyes whenever they talk to me?”

“I’m not.”

“For someone who has likely been required to lie for their work, your pretty awful at it.”

Grinding his teeth, he bites the inside of his cheek. Not wanting to rise, to give in—to fucking begin this tedious game of bickering. Instead, he allows a heavy breath to escape through his nose, long and slow, pushing the fabric out before it clings back to the tip of his nose.

Hoping you hear it, take note of it.

But from how you shift your stance, playing with your water bottle—crunching it in your grip—as you tap your boot against the floor, he doubts you have.

“You think too highly of yourself, princess.”

”Princess, ay?” you grin, far too wickedly to be innocent. “Thought you preferred seeing me in a vest, than a crown.”

Clamping his mouth shut, you take a sip of your water—letting the droplets hang on your lip, only wiping them from your chin at the last moment—a knowing look, all telling and haunted with lust and something else.

“Let’s walk.”

And, somehow, against all better judgement, he follows.

The first time it happened, your eyes had been shimmering. A softness to your features aided by alcohol bought by Price in celebration. It allows him to see his reflection in them—finding he’s all cold eyes. Around that though, he’s confronted with something stitched, carved, into the usually hardened expression he’d come to respect. Then it all shifted. A sound, one that was similar to how droplets of watercolour change a plain piece of paper, fills the air. It spreading shades in front of him that filled the scenery—the one the two of you were admiring as the others continued to be loud inside. Ghost can’t recall what he said, but he remembers what you’d said the moment you’d laughter had died: You’re funny for a skeleton. It was stupid. Foolish. Barely funny—in the grand scheme of things. But then, the building next to them had begun counting down, and you were looking at him—stars shimmering above the tips of the Siberian cypresses. There was just you, and him, and a crack of amber light across crisp, disturbed white snow. “Be rude to not kiss at New Year, wouldn’t it, Ghost?” ”Suppose so.”

You didn’t ask for his jacket immediately.

Even if he’d spotted you fighting off a shiver in your two’s awkward ‘walk’. No, you wait until the two of you are far past your usual building, and even then, you don’t ask. As usual, you pulled—tugged, and practically dragged it down his arms—until he surrendered it.

It was easier to bite back a groan. To look at you. Stick his pupils into your unbothered appearance. Allowing, instead, for his displeasure at your insistent but silent demand to show through his body language.

Not that you fucking care.

Chin all tipped up, meeting his stare boldly. Practically egging him on, pushing him, goading him.

Because you do that well. You like to push—not for a reaction, but to crack him.

Cause a break in him that you can slide through and make yourself at home. Somehow, against his better judgement—and usual practice—he lets you.

Each and every time.

Because even if he’d never admit it, he would—and could—go as far as to say he likes that you’re wrapping his jacket around your arms, head tilting up to look at the sky—observing how the stars are flickering. Because he rather enjoys seeing you coated in something of his.

Not possessively. Not because he needs some unhealthy confirmation that you want to be in something of his over anyone else. But because it's nice. A niceness he won’t ever admit. A confession that’ll never be spilt, not even under the most difficult of tortures. Not even if you sunk down on him, buried him inside you and refused to move until he did.

His resolve was stronger than that, something you’d learnt.

“Love it when the sky is clear,” you mumble.

Blinking, he looks up, realising the night looks so similar to the night in that small Canadian town.

When you’d offered to kiss him over his mask but eventually retrieved his lips—front sitting just under his nose, hands splayed across your lower back, pinning you flush to him. Because if he only had one chance to do it, he was going to milk it. Not that it was ever just that once, hence this—the two of you outside, close to an abandoned barrack under a flurry of stars and a half-gleaming moon.

He’s aware of the parallels.

How you’d been wearing his jacket that night, too. Albeit then because he’d given it to you when you’d come looking for him, rather than yanking it from his arms and burying yourself in it.

Ghost should mind.

Should find the idea unbearable, just like he should find you intolerable.

You sigh, not softly or sweetly, but difficulty and loud. “I don’t belong to you, Ghost.”

Ghost. Not the name you called him a few days ago when his fingers were curled inside you—his breath hot on your throat. Your pulse hammering against his tongue.

In a way, he thinks he should find you annoying, insufferable. Instead, he just finds you’re odd.

Odd in the sense that you stick around—not questioning his mannerisms or demands. That you fight everyone out there when sand tries to find places it shouldn’t, snow makes you shiver and blood stains skin—including him, on occasion.

But, when it’s the two of you, you bend so easily—all submissive, desperate. Mouth wrapping around his fingers, tongue swirling, before he’s so much as touched you.

It is why he snorts—and for a multitude of reasons.

Finger and thumb stroking his bare jaw, letting his eyes cast to the ground before looking in your direction. “Bet if I stick my fingers in your knickers, your cunt will say something different.”

You stare. Blank. Unreadable.

Something which makes his jaw tense, and his spine straighten. Because there aren’t many expressions he finds unbearable about you, except the unreadable one—the one you’re so skilled at pulling out across your face, hiding your thoughts and opinions.

He watches as you unfold your arms, displaying the hardest, squinted stare imaginable as your nose scrunched and your lips thin out. Leaving it there, hanging between the two of you—it not swaying as the seconds tick on, to the point he wonders if you genuinely expect him to be the one that cracks.

Then, you shift. You allow the lightest smirk to spread across your mouth into your perfect, soft, unscarred cheek. “Most likely. But, then again, on a base with a bunch of men, my underwear doesn’t tend to be dry.”

He has no retort, no initial thing to say.

So he says nothing.

Because everything he could say wouldn’t land in jest, would likely have his jacket thrown back in his face. And, the one good thing he has waiting (but not waiting) for him when he comes back—from fuck knows where—would be gone, vanished.

Not that he ever wanted this. Never mind needed it.

“Guessing that wasn’t the answer you wanted, Lieutenant?”

Keeping his mouth clamped, he remains silent. Lets it smother, wrap itself around the two of you and embed itself into the silence. Because no, that wasn’t the fucking answer he wanted.

There hadn’t been a reason as to why he knocked on your door, or why he had stuffed a nicer loo roll under his arm and brought you a bowl of soup. He could ration that you were a good solider, a solid member of his team. A reliable force that would get the job done. Someone who questioned and also obeyed. If needed, he could likely list a bunch more reasons why you were integral to whatever operation he was next sent on. But even he knew that wasn’t why he was outside your door. Why he turned the handle when you coughed and spluttered a weak ‘come in’. Whatever sight he’d expected, wasn’t close to what he saw. Your door closing behind him, your hand trying to cover your chapped lips as you splutter half a lung up, allowing him the chance to take in the rest of you. How your eyes were hollowed out by tiredness, your skin tacky and shining in the low light from a cracked curtain. ”D-did I miss a meeting or ‘sumthing?” Shaking his head, he placed the soup down by your bed—using the bowl to nudge several used tissues from its path, as he manoeuvred the roll from under his arm to hand it to you. Your eyes lighting, ever so slightly, by the softer—more nose-kind tissue. ”Jus’ came to check on you.” Blowing your nose, you offer a half smile. ”Because my aim is better than MacTavish’s?” Smirking, he watches as you shuffle over on your bed—allowing him room, something he takes without thought. In the same way he doesn’t need to think about lifting his mask now, how you’ve seen him—bruised, bloody, broken and so much more. An answer in itself as to why he’s here. One he could say with relative ease if the words would form. Instead, he throws his legs up—feels your eyes take him in as you try to clear your throat. “’cause you’re sick.” ”Oh.” And because I care. The latter not leaving his tongue, never mind his lips. Instead, he slides his arm around you, pulling you to lie in the crook of his arm and chest. Hoping that said enough. Explained it adequately. Incase it didn’t, he offered: ”Brought you soup, too.” ”Tomato?” Snorting, he rolled his eyes. “Chicken.” ”Guess that’ll do.” Your head tilting, staring up at him—and he hoped you couldn’t hear how loud his heart was hammering. Because even if this is what he wanted—to be there for you. To have you curled against him for reasons he couldn’t articulate, he hadn’t expected it. Even less the whispered, simple, ‘thank you, Simon’. Never mind that you barely finish the soup before you’re asleep against him.

Kicking at the ground, it’s a stone which pays the price for your annoyance with him. It rolls off, grating against gravel and grass before it came to a sad stop.

“What I was going to say,” you continue, huffing—in that way you do when you’re interrupted by lesser people and idiotic souls. “I don’t belong to you, but you don’t need to worry about every person who makes me laugh. I’m yours. Have been for a while.

“And before your strategic, get-out-alive brain begins firing on all fucking cylinders, I don’t… don’t need a declaration—didn’t need a menial question being asked to certify it. Don’t need you to tell me shit. I’m just telling you that I don’t—well—fuck around lightly.”

Lifting your arms, gesturing to you in his jacket—his clothing. Face pulling into an expression that makes him feel like he’s got a fucking egg on his face. As though he’s a fool, a fucking imbecile for not seeing what it was in front of him.

Maybe, he is.

Which is why he steps closer. Boots crunching gravel in the quiet, you stare at him—gazing through the cutouts and scorching your glare into him, scratching another line on his soul. Marking him. Like you have been doing since the first time he lost himself in your iris’s as your tongue curled out his name.

“I don’t… I don’t do this with others. What we do—is just what we do, Gh—”

“Simon,” he interrupts.

All sharp, like he’s stabbing you with his name, rather than handing it to you. Even if you’ve called it him before—you never have out here. Outside the confines of four walls, with your skin bare and his mouth latched to some part of your body.

“Jus’ mean, if y’gonna talk to me about it just being you and me, should at least call me my name.”

Slowly, you lower your arms, lips spreading into a line before they slide into a smile. “Simon. I don’t do this with other people.” Your eyes look up as you sigh. “Mainly because I don’t think anyone has a bigger cock than you.”

He brings you flush with him in one tug, watching your lips purse—a smirk attempting to grow behind it.

It’s more a grunt than a murmur how he tells you to ‘behave’, gloved fingers in the loops of your belt—a warped noise from the back of his throat beckoning to come out when your hand presses against his abdomen. Right against the clotted scarring of an old bullet wound—the one you’d pressed your palms into when he’d earned it—vermillion staining, clinging to your fingers and arm. Tears hanging from your lashes that you’d attempted to blink away, staring anywhere but at him.

Don’t die on me, Ghost. We’ve not done the wheelbarrow just yet.

When he’d been stitched and released, he finds your hand always goes there. A place you always seek, always find. You never touch his heart—never the thing that beats. You choose the pain embedded in tissue, the one he wonders if you hope to heal whenever you get the chance to brush your touch against it.

Rising on your toes, you roll your lips, softening your smirk into a smile. “It’s just you.”

“Because of my cock?”

He grips you tightly, not allowing you to descend to flat-footedness or move from being against him.

“Oh, a hundred percent. But you’re also a lot funnier than most people we meet, and I really like a man who makes me laugh.”

He pinches lightly—right on your side as you tip your head. “Y’know, don’t you?”

Ghost watches, waiting. Flicking from one of your eyes to the other.

And then you nod. “I know. Don’t worry, won’t make you tell me that you love my company as much as you do my tits just yet.”

He’s close enough for you to kiss the edge of his chin if he doesn’t move. But he does. Squeezing your hips, dropping his head enough, allowing your mouth to brush over his mask-covered lips.

It's enough for now, as you lower back to the ground. Feeling you turn in his hold—back to his chest and stomach as you wrap his jacket around you tighter.

Because he’ll kiss you better later.

A promise he makes silently, feeling your fingers take his, tugging his arm around you. He doesn’t need to see you to see that you’re smirking.

He can sense it.

AN: huge thank you to G. this wouldn't be possible without you nudging me, and making me accountable. dedicated to @theashfallx because she says she'll devour more of this man if I write it, so i had to finish it for her too.

[enaelyork]

Cooper Howard (ghoul) x fem!reader with this prompt:

*someone smacks readers ass*

*gun clicks*

Ghoul - “oh I really wish you hadn’t have done that”

Hi ! Thx for this request ! Here i go :)

Bad idea ~ The Ghoul x F!Reader

Tw : Injurie, Sexual harassement, insultes

Banners by @saradika

It wasn't a good idea.

However, he was used to bad plans, ever since he roamed the wasteland with the firm intention of surviving there. But he had never made a series of bad decisions so quickly.

Let yourself be convinced to be accompanied. Let his new companion in misfortune enter this mess to make a deal.

Really. That being said, this idiot clearly didn't give him a choice.

And he was obliged to follow it because it was the only possible option to know the route to take towards your next objective. Staying in the background, he observed all the eyes on her.

A woman like that wouldn't often walk through the doors of a bounty hunting establishment.

This interest they had in his associate bothered him more than it should and he felt a certain form of inexplicable anger boiling within him.

- I'll do it. Wait outside.

Sitting at the bar, Y/N turned towards him, her eyes filled with burning determination and resentment. It wouldn't be easy to change her mind, not after your little talk last night.

- Do you want to team up now? The Ghoul returned the bitterness in her eyes, resting her elbow on the counter where she had just swallowed her second glass.

What if he wanted to work in a team? Never ! What if this situation made him crazy? Absolutely.

- I didn't say that, I said you had to wait for me outside.

- And I told you that I would take care of this matter.

And if you continue, you're going to have a lot more business to attend to. He thought, observing the eyes fixed on her again. The irrepressible urge to put out each of those eyes was excruciating and he was going to have to keep a low profile if he didn't want the plan to screw up further.

But everything went to hell the moment this idiot placed his ass on the stool that separated you from her, devouring the entirety of her silhouette with a wicked and disgusting look. He shouldn't get involved. After all, Y/N had gotten into this mess alone, you had nothing to share other than a common quest.

It was now time she truly discovered the horror of the world they lived in. So if this guy wanted to try anything, she would defend herself or find out the hard way that there weren't all good people here.

- What is such a pretty girl like you doing in this shithole? The man stood between them like a thick, disgusting wall.

The Ghoul looked away, hoping that by detaching himself from this pathetic spectacle, he would also curtail his murderous urges.

- The pretty girl doesn't talk to strangers. You better give me some space.

A smile appeared on the Ghoul's mouth. Presumably, guts wasn’t a privilege Y/N reserved for him. And that was probably what he liked most about her, even if he would never admit it.

- Relax, my beauty. In this brutal world I just want to share a moment of gentleness.

And me a bloody parenthesis, but unfortunately we can't have everything. The Ghoul thought, looking down at the back of the man next to him. He had placed an arm on the table and was already handing Y/N a glass.

- I am not thirsty.

- So maybe you want something else?

That's how everything went wrong.

Him and his rudeness, him now clinging to her and his hand sliding up her thigh to go up to her buttock. He touched her with such eagerness that it was embarrassing and although she wanted to slap him, she did not want to attract the attention of the tenants. Big mistake.

- You have a fucking ass, my beauty. Would you like me to warm it up a bit? It seems that not many people have had the opportunity to…

The man didn't finish his sentence, the pressure he felt between his legs and the very characteristic click of a gun about to fire froze him in place.

- What is…

He met nothing but the cold, imperturbable gaze of the Ghoul. The sinister look he hid in the shadow of his hat would have caused the bar to evacuate immediately. Y/N saw him, she felt anger boiling in the pit of her stomach, causing a completely different reaction in her.

- Try touchin' her again and I guarantee you'll never be able to play with what's between your legs again.

- Such a smart one, you. Are you looking for troubles ? I was there before.

- Big mistake, she belongs to me.

- I don’t belong to…

- Shut it up, sweatheart. I have some scores to settle with this guy.

Oh damn, no problem. Y/N grumbled in a whisper mixing anxiety and excitement. Had he really just threatened a guy because he had the misfortune of touching her and feeling her butt? A thin smile appeared on her lips at this idea, but she preferred to leave this strange reaction to the effect of adrenaline.

- Get out of here where you will end up with a hole between your legs and, rest assured, I will think of you when I caress her with your blood on my hands.

It was too much.

No waves.

No shouting.

No tussle.

Just a stupid hunter freeing himself from the coldness of his gun to flee with a step that he wanted to be serene but which betrayed the panic that reigned within him. The ghoul followed him with his gaze, making sure that it wouldn't occur to his to turn back.

When he disappeared from the bar, however, he felt another figure settle down on the stool next to him.

- Did you really just do that?

YN.

She had taken her place there, next to him. Her eyes glided over him with a light he didn't know existed and it upset him. So much so that he preferred to ensure the safety of his weapon before storing it in its holster.

- I did it. And you will quickly forget everything. That and also your stupid idea. Let's get out of here.

He didn't give her time to respond, taking off from the seat to head towards the exit as well. If she stayed there, too bad for her, he wouldn't intervene twice. But her shadow followed him, and he could make out the sound of her footsteps behind his, hastily approaching him.

- It would be a shame to forget the idea that you could touch me.

This is how he understood that she had reduced him to nothing.

Him and his certainty of now being insensitive.