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brimbrimbrimbrim · 4 days

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I just read the first chapters of Seed of Human Kindness and its already bookmarked, subscribed, kudoed, loved and protected by me. JDOSXIOWIXIWSIS I AM LITERALLY IN CRUMBLES BC AT THE SAME TIME I READ SOMETHING SO GOOD BUT I NEED MORE TO BE SATISFIED – call me the cook because im eating this fic up like its some man yumyum –

If its annoying, just ignore, but do you have a estimate of when the next chapter will be out?

Btw. Loved ur writing so much, u got the vaultie and the ghoul personality down to a T!!

You bless me with this ask. My heart is all a flutter and my insides all a bother. Thank you. I’m really happy that you’re enjoying the first two chapters so much. I’ve been having a blast writing (my muse is back, baby!) and I’m, once again, so humbled to find fellow weirdos that like what I like.

Chapter 3 will be out this Friday at the latest. Here’s a lil preview. Pardon any spelling or grammatical issues. It’s still a rough draft. :)

“The sun is setting… right? Maybe we should make camp? Find us some shelter, and I’ll make dinner. The salted Fiend is still good, and we got those canned beans from last night. Unless you’ve got any other ideas, Gunslinger?”

She’s asked for his name no less than two dozen times before turning the nickname into an insult for not offering up anythin’ else. The cook’s told him her name just about as often, but it does shit to him her cookin’ can’t satiate, and he’d instead get butt fucked in a dirt grave than admit he’s been thinkin’ ‘bout taking her stupid vault suit in his hands… of ridding her of it… breaking her in like a mare in the middle of no man’s land, chanting that fuckin’ name as he fills her with that sticky sap she’s after.

‘Foul fuckin’ thoughts of wanton violence and devious lust, indeed.”

Thankfully, he likes her an’ the grub enough not to fuck up a good thing. Minus the chatter, she’s been painless company so far…

The Ghoul glances down at her as she scans the horizon: a ritual when she began noticing the position of the sun and his corresponding decision to make camp. She’s spied many forgotten ingredients on their path east, of which she’s found uses for plenty. In the several days he’s been saddled with her, The Ghoul’s eaten well: eggs ‘n tato hash, chili with hard tac, pan-cooked peaches topped in gingersnap crumble, not to mention all the well-cooked steak and shikabobs of whatever root vegetable she’s been able to spot.

On cue, his stomach starts to rumble and cramp, eager for another well-cooked meal.

“Not much but radroaches out this way…” he states, matter o’ fact and intently uncaring until he feels like bein’ mean just for the fuck of it and bites out, “Unless you wanna bait us a Fiend or two, hm?” The Ghoul takes in the openness around ‘em, wondering how long it’d take for her to attract some curious cowpoke if he dangled her over the highway…

“Betcha we’d have us some fresh meat in half an hour with your luck.”

No answer.

The silence stretches a half-second too long, leaving him spooked enough The Ghoul turns on his heel, leather brim cutting out the sun, and finds himself alone.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he curses, “Where’d that bitch run off to…”

#ask #anon #the ghoul #fallout #monster boyfriend #fanfiction #writing

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brimbrimbrimbrim · 11 days

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The Seed of Human Kindness (The Ghoul/F!OC)

CHAPTER ONE/TWO/THREE/FOUR/FIVE/SIX

Summary: The Ghoul stumbles upon a piece of walkin' talkin' meat out in the Boneyard. Instead of eating her, he takes her on as his personal traveling chef. Only this chef is a smoothskin vaultie looking for the seed of human kindness, which is exactly what it sounds like, though comin' from a Vault of all women, she's gonna take some convincing on where to find it.Tags: Cannibalism, Sadism, Body Horror, Misandry, Dehumanization, Vault Experiments, Vault Dweller, Cunnilingus, Cum Play, Rough Sex, Power Dynamics, Breeding Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Voyeurism, Non-consensual Exhibitionism, Sexual Awakening, Canon-Typical Violence, POV Male Character

A/N: This is nasty. Please heed all the tags for your fair warning before reading.

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The Los Angeles Census Bureau looks about as inviting as it did in the seventies: a delightful courtyard of bones and failed dreams bordered by brutalist cement beds spilling with dead flowers. As he and his spurs jingle-jangle up the pavilion, a decayed hand staked between two dead bushes catches his eye. A blooming stalk of bleached bone, phalanges bent into a middle finger like some 'fuck you' posey straight out of the afterlife. Call him a presentist, but just the fuckin' sight of it makes his lip curl.

'Fuck the establishment, indeed.'

The Ghoul's been following this endless trail for a while now; turning over these little slices of American bureaucracy is just another dot on the map, but a barbeque on the wind has urged his heels into a proper trot. Hungry as he is. Savory, smokey… mouthwatering, bringing to mind Saturday cook-outs with Barb and Janey, that ol' good boy Roosevelt at his heels, waiting for burnt hotdog tails and the stray charred burger as the martinis pile up. Those good times were lived by another man playing a good old American boy role. Those bygone memories come like a miasma: toxic. It's delicious in its own right, and he's just lucky the aroma seems to be coming from this building right here. A 'kill two birds with one stone' scenario, it would seem.

He can hear the muffled commotion of chaos inside and the clatter of something heavy. Judging by the reverb, a bullet snaps concrete. It must've hit wiring too because the sign above those broken doors flickers—time-yellowed plastic covering a photon tubing of loops and flourishes.

'The American dream…'

A broken, clipped shriek presses out the thin crack of busted glass and splinted wood ahead of him.

'Oh, if life ain't grand.'

What once were crying mothers standing in the breadline are mothers on the breadline, he thinks, some of that ol' Cooper Howard making a show again. He pushes that moralistic nuisance down and surveys the exterior once more, and… judging by the crude bullseye bloodstains on a single Brahmin skull, used creatively to keep the doors ajar (not to mention the smell)… they're cookin' folks on a spit inside. Fiends, most like…

Still, two hundred years later, the LACB is where folks get eaten alive every day.

Quiet-like, The Ghoul enters Feind territory, The Gun heavy front and center.

The aroma of fatty meat, both freshly shorn and sour, curls under his nasal ridge, drawing him through the decayed lobby. He steps carefully, spurs quite over toppled queue barriers, avoiding broken glass and crunchy piles of clothes. There's a burnt stroller with tiny bones and floral blankets he chooses to ignore, giving them and its mother's remnants a wide berth, focusing intently on the triangle of flickering firelight cutting from the ajar breakroom door.

Silent as a corpse, The Ghoul leans into the doorway, The Gun raised, and takes in the gruesome scene he's seen a hundred times, both worse and better but never benign. Eventually, someday, he won't feel sick at the sight of such horrors. Who's to say whether that'll be a good day or not?

There's five of them, counting a naked woman hanging from a crude bleeding rail, 'cept she ain't being bled out, just cut down slow and sweet, as if the fear and pain is the finest marinade. Her body jolts, and another wail rattles his eardrums as a rail-thin Fiend saws off another strip of thigh meat from her bucking body, tits bouncing with delicate pockets of curvy fat jiggling deliciously.

The Ghoul's stomach growls, and something else further south twitches, but his empty belly is more worried about being without food for much longer. Nothing but vials and rainwater means he's more inclined to find human flesh aromatic. Thankfully, the pretty rotisserie's screams are so fucking loud it makes his unceremonious entrance nigh fuckin' soundless. There's no reason to announce himself anyway—no reason to keep any of 'em alive for questioning since he's sure none of these boneheads have worked a computer system before, let alone know how to read logs.

The first slug blasts a hole into the back-head of the closest one: a suit-wearing twitchy son of a bitch sitting by the fire. Their brains spray across their friend's face, who yips as some chunky bits catch with a hiss in the fire. With the second one blinded by brain matter, The Ghoul turns at the hip and blows off the arm of a ratty-headed man still beating his own meat to dinner being sliced and spitted. A shot from his rotating revolver beneath the jawline into the brain puts that one down, even though chems seemed to have ruined it already.

That leaves two left.

The blind bastard's still swiping grey slop, blood, and skull chips from his eyes as his buddy rushes on The Ghoul's left with a sticky knife, leaving the girl to sway on her ropes, panting and cursing the Lord's name. This one's mean, sadistic… having enjoyed eating that smoothie alive. He's got janky teeth bared like an ape, poised and ready to take The Ghoul to his grave… again. 'Course, a quick backhand of The Gun stock puts him to the ground with a yelp, and two .357s to the chest keep him there.

'Three down. One to go,' he muses, cracking his neck with a grunt as the last one curses and snarls. Still blind but jet-fueled, his eyes open and swimming in red offal, the remnants of his hit still smoking out his mouth. He stands like some western cowboy at a sunset showdown. The man even looks the part with two bandoliers and some sweet cowboy boots. Cooper Howard smiles with his straight white chompers as the Fiend tries to unholster a gun that ain't there, spewing nonsense through his teeth, but Coop's dead and gone.

"Ugghh—fuggin'ghoul, ruin'dinna!"

The Ghoul's grin turns ugly and strong. He's the gunslinger—the outlaw—death personified by time and decay—somethin' outta Hollywood again, just not the good guy.

With a snap, aim, and trigger pull, the last little Fiend's no more than maggot-meal slumped over The Ghoul's first empty-headed victim. Their dinner has been officially ruined, well… more like taken over. With the barrel still hot, The Ghoul turns to the naked smoothie with a careful eyeful of flesh, ignoring the way her gaze squints in fear before surveying his efforts with frenzied understanding. She's either gonna die or she ain't, and it's clear which one she thinks is 'bout to happen.

"P-please… please. I-I can… I can-"

"Hush those tears now, sweetheart," The Ghoul cuts her off, wetting his lips for a dry whistle before holstering The Gun, "I ain't here to eat ya." Though he turns to the fire, drawn in by the smell of cooked meat and sustenance—the promise of a full belly and a level head for a time… it'd just take a half-pound of juicy, tender-

'No… not yet.'

It takes a heaping spoonful of willpower to turn away, to look back at her without seeing a hanging steak, begging him to sink his fangs in, tear apart, and swallow hole. But The Ghoul manages, somehow. With a Cheshire grin, he thumbs his hat up, brim lifted to show off his radiated smile—proof he means no harm. And when her breath slows and her eyes shine over his chops, he's only slightly surprised to find her more curious than afraid.

"Welp, it seems your dinner guest's got a little too careless, leavin' the door open like that an' all. Could be anyone come walking through those doors."

He takes a step closer, daring her to scrunch her nose in disgust, though she just blinks… some old tears falling off her lashes. Minus some missing meat, a bloodied face, one shiner, and… maybe two weeks of constant immune system shock, she's too healthy lookin' to be anything but a Vaultie. A pretty little thing that only good food, shelter, and generational-bred naivety could create. The Ghoul already don't care much for her.

"You from one of those Vaults." He doesn't ask, all ambivalence and peckish know-how. His survival instincts lure him from her to the spit over the fire again, where it looks like some of her thigh meat is slow roasting. She's lookin' real fuckin' tender over the licking flames…

"S-seven," she pants, shock and pain makin' her sound small, "V-v-vault seven…"

The Ghoul makes a sound of understanding, though he couldn't give two shits these days about which of the Big Four's Vaults she came from, even less which fucked up experiment they ran down there. For some reason, her being a Vaultie makes him even hungrier…

He glances back at her over his shoulder and smirks, all crude oil and a lil' starvation there, too, no doubt. It's been weeks since he's eaten, and before that, it was expired cram and a soggy snack cake, and she seems to know it. The smoothie can see it—notes the look in his eyes and deduces quickly what he's thinking. At first, she yanks on the rope, choosing to struggle against her bonds, though that works as well for her as before he showed up… 'cept it gives him another free show of the goods usually hidden from his eyes. Her tits are perfect.

That southbound lurch kicks up his belly, threatening to confuse his ache for food for something else, so The Ghoul snaps his teeth and points a leather-bound finger her way.

READ THE REST OVER on AO3 HERE

#fanfiction #the ghoul #fallout prime #fallout show #monster boyfriend #the ghoul fanfic #writing #heed the tags peoples

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