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leviathanleva · 12 days

Text

Daisy

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Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader

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Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

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[4k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 1 "The Savior"

Since the day you were born, there was something horribly wrong with you.

You had no immune system, your skin was paper-thin, you couldn’t exercise without collapsing, and every nerve in your body was in constant pain. There was no use for you aside from being a measly archive keeper and book transcriber. Your father was a weak man, despite your disabilities and how costly it was for the rest of your Vault, he kept you alive, consumed by the idea of finally finding a cure for his little girl.

Every single moment since your birth, you had spent in this squeaky clean, insanity-inducing, paper-ridden medical room. Everything was plagued by the stench of medicine and spirit, disinfected down to the core. The floor and walls and even the ceiling were covered in a leather cushioned layer to prevent any injuries, sparkling white, of course. Who needed color when the stench of new paint might cause you a migraine?

In honesty, you’d give away half of your miserable life just to see color outside of the packaged book covers stacked neatly on the floor. You built a makeshift city out of them, following the pictures drawn in an old magazine you’d read ages ago and kept hidden under your pillow. With time, you learned how to make paper flowers out of some stray files that nobody would miss. You had to find some solace, something to keep you from crying your delicate heart out every night because this was no way for anyone to live.

You weren’t just isolated from the world above, but from everything, only getting glimpses of the bright metal vault corridor and bustling dwellers whenever your father would open that wretched vacuum-sealed door to give you medicine. You knew people’s names and faces, everyone in your vault was memorized to the letter, but you’d never met them and probably never would.

You were never given your own Pip-boy, never assigned as a potential marriage candidate, and you’d never have children or any family once your parents passed away. A small part of you knew that you wouldn’t even outlive them, frail and genetically inferior as you were. You’d die within the next few years and you’d take the burden of your existence off the shoulders of everyone who worked tirelessly to find a solution to your illness.

You waited for that day with hope, dreaming of the end of the torture and solitude.

You had pleaded with your father that night with angry tears in your eyes to at least bring you coloring pencils or crayons or a radio to chat with the rest of the residents and make friends. But, as usual, he had refused gently while rocking you in his arms, cooing at you with a regretful tone and pain carving deep wrinkles in his features. Then he’d smiled at you, melting away your worry and frustration and misery, and he’d kissed your forehead tenderly. He still treated you like a little girl and to him, you’d always be one. He wiped your tears away and hope shone in his eyes, they looked exactly like yours, that was the only thing you’d taken from him. Everything else was a gift from your mother and you often looked in the mirror just to remember what she resembled.

She’d stopped visiting a long time ago, months, maybe even years, you weren’t sure. The passing of time was a fickle matter when you were caged in a cushioned prison every single day.

Your father hummed softly, lulling you while he gently tucked you into the nursing bed and secured the oxygen mask over your mouth. He was your angel, your only salvation, your only source of conversation and comfort and interaction and love. He adjusted the catheter back into your vein before fluffing up your pillow.

“This might be it, Sweetheart.” he whispered while watching you doze off slowly, his gaze held such affection for you. He placed a new IV bag to drain into your arm, one you’d not seen before, but you trusted him. This was nothing new. He came up with a new medicine recipe every month, without fail. “This might just be the cure. You’ll tell me how you feel tomorrow.”

You can only sigh and give your best smile, unable to share his enthusiasm after so many failed attempts. He rubbed a thumb over your sickly-colored cheek, his skin like sandpaper against yours, worn and calloused from spending a lifetime in the vault’s field.

“Have some faith in your old man.”

“I do, dad…I’m just so tired of this…”you bite into your tongue to keep more tears from spilling, and your bottom lip trembles despite your best efforts to tame it. Watching his face falter breaks your heart and you suck it up, push your tantrum down and pout instead. “And you’re not old.”

He laughs at your whiney remark, the first laugh he’d had in a long time, and he slicks back your hair, taking note that he needed to trim it soon before it got too long. Maybe when he had the energy, he’d sit down for more than a few minutes and braid it like he used to when you were just a child.

“I know you are, Baby girl, I know.” he shushes you with the utmost care and stands. “Just a little longer and you’ll be strong enough to help your pop pick out the tatoes. Get your pretty hands all dirty and then have a big plate of spam for a job well done.” he gazed at you, masking his sorrow and bitterness at the cruelty life had forced upon you. His hand hovered over the lamp switch and he glanced one last time at the brand-new IV bag slowly emptying in your bloodstream. “Night, Sweetheart. Love you.”

Too stricken with grief over your miserable lifestyle, you didn’t return his tender words, hoping he understood and knew that you loved him just as much if not more. When the lights went out, your eyelids closed, squeezing out a few lonely tears in the darkness before you begrudgingly drifted off to sleep. A dreamless slumber when you were gently rocked through the foggy confines of your subconsciousness.

Your one wish was to see the world outside, uncaring if it were a wasteland or a paradise, ignorant of the dangers and naïve towards the people who potentially lived up there. You just wanted to be free, even if it would cost you your life, you wanted to see the sky just once, wanted to prove to yourself that no, it looked better than any picture your father had shown you. You wanted to swim in the ocean and see fishes and see a whale, a creature so big it was unfathomable to imagine, you wanted to taste the salty sea water and become sick and just be happy to be alive for once. You wanted to feel the grass beneath your feet, to touch snow and dance in the rain until you slipped and fell in a puddle only to splash in it because you’d never seen or felt any nature.

You just wanted to live…

The hours ticked by in a hazy blur as you lay lifelessly on your bed. Your room was partly sound-proof, you heard nothing of the ruckus slowly brewing beyond your medicinal prison. Sleepy soundly, you didn’t hear the slaughter, the begging and pleading voice on the brink of crying before the sickening cracks of broken bones. You didn’t hear the crazed ramblings of the raiders stalking your fellow vault dwellers like it was a game of cat and mouse. Your vault was slowly succumbing to chaos and rampage and it was only when the electricity went out and your door unlatched that you were startled awake.

You bolt up with wide eyes and in a panic, gaze averting to the door and heart skipping a beat when you realize it’s open. With a small grunt and a relieved inhale once the oxygen mask is ripped from your face and tossed on your pillow, you scramble to stand. The IV is disconnected from your arm with an expert touch, replaced by a cotton ball to obscure any heavy bleeding from the open puncture wound. Your bare feet shuffle over the soft floor, slippery against the white leather because you’d unknowingly started to sweat from anticipation.

Was this just another cruel dream?

You walked to the exit with timid footsteps before opening the door wide enough to stick your head out. An incessant voice kept repeating how disappointed your father would be if he saw you sticking your nose out and potentially catching an infection from the unsterile air. That voice was dismissed promptly, this was your first chance at seeing anything beyond the medical room and you’d rather die than miss it.

Had the power gone out? But that was impossible. The power never went out, there had always been a steady flow of electricity for as long as you could remember.

The lights flickered, most were broken, letting the eerie darkness overwhelm all corridors except for one.

“Hello?” you call out hesitantly, shaky voice hoarse with sleep and anxiety both. Looking around, you couldn’t see much, there wasn’t a soul in sight and the silence was deafening. “Dad?”

Nothing. Nothing and no one.

A hand clutched at the door to support your buckling knees and you breathed deeply, encouraging yourself to be brave, that this was your chance. After dutifully gnawing on the inside of your cheek you stepped forth into the crossroads of corridors, letting go of the door and leaving everything familiar and safe behind. Your head whirled so much your neck popped multiple times as you frantically looked around in the scarce light and as terrifying as all of this was, it was also heaven unknown. You had never seen so many things – plant pots, plants, all bright green and juicy, you’d stuck your nail in a particular one only to feel a strange gooey discharge on your finger. It was a succulent, you’d read about those somewhere, very sturdy indeed, very pretty, but had no smell. You liked them already.

The further you went, the more a nagging thought kept creeping up your spine like a chill.

Where was everybody?

You kept looking, following the corridor and under the guidance of blinking lamps. You knew the Vault like the back of your hand after spending countless hours studying its diagrams, having nothing better to do. Now you were experiencing it in person. No longer needing to strain your imagination to picture every nook and cranny, you could see it with your own eyes. The floor was so cold under your feet, but you didn’t care, too high on adrenaline and pure joy to notice such a small inconvenience. A hand glided absentmindedly against the wall, tracing over pipes and posters and glass windows until you prickled your finger on a jagged edge and winced away.

You stuck the winger in your mouth with a pained scowl and glared up, searching for the source of your misfortune.

You froze.

Blood, everywhere, oozing down the wide hole in the window and silently gushing out of the disemboweled corpse of a human being, still warm. And even through the liters of blood and the sickening feeling of nausea that had your eyes dart to the floor, you immediately noticed the dark blue suit they were wearing. A dead vault dweller tossed through the window so hard they’d broken through and gotten impaled on the glass.

A vault dweller.

Dead…

DEAD!!!

You stumbled back and wretched, stuffing your mouth in the crook of your elbow and sputtering saliva as your stomach churned with bile. You bumped into a metal cabinet in your stupor, scraping for purchase as your legs lost all function, knocking over a clock and a radio that came to life as soon as it hit the floor. The sound echoed through the Vault, like a haunting melody to the arrival of a new victim, lured out and ready for slaughter. You.

Horror. A massacre, as the light flickered your eyes feasted on more marred flesh and ripped skin and so much blood. Crimson splatter and trails of handprints were strewn over the walls, the echoes of an dire struggle which ended in vein, trails of violence were etched into the hallway. You couldn’t hold it in anymore, you threw up, clutching at your stomach as you let out the traumatizing sight the only way your body knew how. Doubled over and twitching as the shock was replaced by such a raw feeling that you nearly lost your mind.

Corpses littered the floor beyond, caked in their own entrails, skulls bashed in, unrecognizable and still and…

“Hi there, Princess.”

A chill went up your spine as you realized that the frilly white dress you wore wasn’t enough to keep you warm beyond your room. Your skin littered with goosebumps, thin hairs standing up in fear as you stiffly craned your neck and looked back to the other end of the corridor. What little color was left in your face dissipated at the sight.

A man, disfigured and disgusting, with wild hair and wilder eyes and a grin that shook you to the bone stood there. He was shirtless, showing off a large hairy belly and covered in stick-poke tattoos, one of his legs was replaced by what you made out was a metal stick of sorts. He was three times your size…and he looked at you with such perverse intent that you nearly screamed. A vile creature, not even human anymore.

“Don’t be scared, Pretty.” he leered, chapped lips and rotting teeth and a foul blackened tongue, and raised a large palm in front of him to halt you from moving. “It’s okay…Come here. Come to me.”

Instinct took over and you automatically stepped back, not daring to take your eyes off him.

“Ah, don’t do that now.” he warned sweetly and slowly began walking towards you, creeping closer every time the lights flickered off. “You’ll just make this harder for you, yeah? Come to Eddie, Sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

Everything about him screamed evil. He looked deranged and capable of things you’d never even begin to imagine.

A surface dweller. A survivor. A killer. A monster.

The moment his boot sunk in a pool of blood and squeaked against the floor realization hit you like a speeding truck. The grim expression should have been his sign to catch you, but you were already leaping over corpses with a blood-curdling screech. Your mind raced as you tried to orientate yourself through the corridors, bolting over shattered glass and spoiled food and so many dead bodies.

You needed to get out. Leave. Escape.

OUT!

His hollars bellowed behind you, alerting the rest of his friends because of course there were more and now they were aware of you and hunting you down like a deer in the forest. You let the tears run down your cheeks, forced the questions of your parents’ whereabouts and health because you already knew the answers, but you let them sink you’d end up like them or worse.

A horde of footsteps nipped at your bare heels and you sprinted and begged your weak little legs to go faster. Sucking in air as adrenaline pumped through your veins like poison, you jumped and ducked and whirled and assured yourself that you had the upper hand here, you knew the vault better than them. You stood a chance, you’d survive.

When the elevator came into view after you rounded a corner you nearly cried out in delirium. A roar nearly deafened you and you flinched, but your pace only increased as you pleaded and struggled not to trip over your feet. They were desperate, clawing at the air to try and reach you before it was too late. Your lungs burned with strain, your muscles felt like they’d tear any moment, but you kept pushing, high on horror and anger and a newfound zest for self-preservation

Salvation. Your only chance to live.

Your shoulder screamed in pain when you slammed against the metal walls of the elevator and thrusted your fist against the button vigorously.

“Come on. Come on. COME ON!”

“Get back here you little whore!”

“Please!” you wailed, screaming and stumbling back when a rusty axe collided with the shutting doors and made sparks fly with an ear-piercing screech. A hand flew up to cover your squinted eyes, sneering and sobbing as the raiders banged on the outside of the elevator and shot conniving curses at your crumbling form. You were slammed down on your arse by gravity as the elevator finally moved, taking you away from certain death as a slew of grim promises were expelled at you from below.

They’d find you, rip you apart, and make you wish you’d just died like the rest of your pathetic vault dwellers. You balled your eyes out, choking on spit and tears and gulping down air as your body shook violently. Clutching at your face, you stared down at your bloody feet with wide, unblinking eyes.

What was this nightmare…

When the elevator came to a halt and the doors reopened you barely managed to stand, the numbness in your limbs proving too much to handle and your upset stomach only contributing. But you had to keep moving, you had to run.

“Daddy…”

With ugly sobs and meek noises of strain and discomfort and utter distaste for your cruel fate, you tumbled towards the ajar vault entrance. Pressing down the button timidly before taking the discarded Pip-boy from the severed hand, you lock your tormentors into their grave and hurriedly tread towards the slowly closing vault exit.

The sun nearly blinds you and the hot desert sun knocks you to your knees as your hands sink to the wrists in sand. You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut before blinking rapidly and shielding your sensitive pupils from the blaring light.

It’s…barren.

A desert, stretching as far as your sight could reach, heated enough for the air to wiggle and dance in the distance, a decrepit city can be seen nestled not too far. A plethora of buildings crumbled to their bases hide away the sealed entrance to your vault, bones are scattered through the coarse sand, human shapes frozen in time, hinting towards a previous era of life on Earth, an era you’d only read about. Again, there wasn’t a soul around no matter how many times you circled your vision.

A wasteland. Painted yellow and orange and contrasting so beautifully with the clear blue sky.

You wanted to marvel and swoon and you would have given any other circumstance, but now, after everything you’d seen, after your mind had been so brutally defiled with images of slaughter, you were incapable. You stood, resisting the harsh breeze and angry sun, clad in nothing but a Pip-boy and a thin summer dress that was everything but white.

You had to walk, seek help, do…something. Anything.

And so you did. Trudging through the sea of sand and stepping hastily as the heat beneath your delicate feet nipped uncomfortably at your skin. Sweat clung to you like a protective layer, washing away any trace of the sensitive lavender shampoo you had used the previous night. Strands of hair clung to your flushed face as you fought a silent and unfair battle against the burning sunrays, one step at a time, with the wind as your only companion. Your nostrils struggled to breathe in enough air, but you didn’t dare open your mouth despite the temptation, fearing dehydration and death as it loomed over you like a shadow.

You walked for what felt like miles, accompanied by your thoughts and nothing else, until the Vault was hidden behind the golden dunes and your feet felt raw. The city was so close now, yet you were so tired, sucked dry by a heat you’d never experienced before, if it hadn’t been for your Pip-boy crackling to life you would have collapsed, too burdened and weak to continue.

You raised your wrist and looked down and were met by a familiar meter.

Radiation.

Something around you was radioactive enough for the device to pick up easily, but there was nothing but waves of yellow hell and you doubted the ground itself was emitting it. Then you heard it. That strange, high-pitched chirping, an alien sound that made your skin crawl and scraped at the back of your head tauntingly.

A scream loud enough to shatter glass ripped through your throat as a sharp sting pierced your ankle. You hit the soft sand with a whimper and rushed to turn on your back before kicking blindly at your assaultant. An ambush from below. Blood trickled from the gash, painting your skin a deep ruby red and spilling over the ground, luring out your predators like moths to a flame.

Insects, roaches too big to be real and too much for your fickle mind to comprehend crawled out of the sand. You’d fallen right into their trap, an unsuspecting victim, a banquet they’d probably not seen since they’d hatched.

Your heart pounded frantically, pulse thumping in the side of your neck as you flailed and screeched, chucking sand at them as they circled you. You wanted to run, every cell in your body fought for you to stand, but you couldn’t, you had no fight left. You’d die here, alone in this decrepit desert and eaten by giant cockroaches and this was going to be the story of your life. You sobbed so pitifully, so angry and bitter and bratty that after everything, this was to be your end. The world spun painfully fast and you wanted to vomit, but your stomach was empty and you only gagged.

With one last scream, you curled in a ball, covering your head with your arms and your legs protecting your belly, as one of the insects lunged forward.

When the gunshot rang in your ears you froze in place and time stopped. The roach flew back, slimy green entrails covering your form like a canvas. The other two hissed and you revolted at the noise, but they were shot a second later, blown to bits, dainty skittish legs twitching as the last few beats of life escaped them. The shadow of your savior dwarfed you completely, giving you respite from the cruel sun.

You roll over and sit up on your knees within a blink only to be met with the barrel of a gun too ratchet and rusted to belong to anyone but a wastelander. You recoil and blink through tear-heavy lashes before roughly adjusting your dress to try and cover your bare thighs from what you presumed was another man. The tip of the gun slid under your chin and guided your eyes up to feast upon your hero. You gulped and whimpered.

He was grotesque, like a man skinned alive and somehow survived, melted skin deformed his features and you’d bet your dinner there wasn’t a strand of hair under that worn cowboy hat. He had no nose, no eyebrows or even lashes, not a spec of hair. He grinned something awful down at you, looking at you like you were a fresh piece of meat, a delicacy among a table covered with rotten food. His stance was wide, torn dark cloth swaying dangerously in the breeze, he seemed almost aetherial in his own twisted and rugged way. You mewled softly as he turned your head from side to side with his gun, gently, mockingly, drinking you in from every angle as if you’d disappear if he so much as blinked.

Your hands clutched at the edge of your dress when he finally spoke and his voice made you inhale sharply and clench your jaw in anticipation.

“Well…Aren’t you a pretty little thing…”

(Listen, it's 7AM and I need sleep, but this mother trucker didn't want to leave me alone so have a chapter from my hastily strewn-together upcoming story. I'll post it on AO3 and probably here if it even happens. I'll fix mistakes later, don't eat me please.)

Chapter 2 >>>

🌼 Masterlist 🌼

#the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #fallout tv series #the ghoul fanfic #cooper howard #wtf am i doing with my life #x reader #the ghoul

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shanastoryteller · 7 months

Note

happy pride!! dealer’s choice <3

Steve is going to die again just a few short years after waking up in this new world and his death is going to be significantly less glorious the second time around.

“You don’t think he’s going to come,” Duke Rhodes says, tied up next to him and in even worse shape than he is. An unfortunate side effect of not being a sorcerer’s experiment and being nearly a decade older than him, he assumes.

“You do?” he asks, too exhausted to filter himself like he tries to do around him.

Rhodes raises an eyebrow. “I think his champion and his general are tempting enough bait, yes. Listening to their demands and showing up alone is also the most foolish choice he could possibly make, so I’m confident the king won’t be able to help himself.”

Those words would be treason from anyone else, but Rhodes has long been King Anthony’s personal confidant, and the one managing this war for the king from the beginning. Steve supposes that grants the man a certain level of leeway.

Steve is, now and always, exactly what he was enchanted to be. The King’s Champion. From the moment he woke up in a land at once so familiar and so different from his own, he renewed the vow he took seventy years ago. To serve his king and uphold the dignity of the realm so long as a Stark sat on the throne.

King Howard, however, had been an easier man to serve. He’d at least taken the time to meet with Steve, for one, had taken an active interest in the war he fought rather than delegating it and holing himself up in his castle. He’d been cold, and detached in many way from the realities of the war he’d started, but he was a king, and his attention, however brief, had always rallied the troops in a way that Steve admired.

King Anthony at least delegates well, he’ll give the man that. Rhodes does not come from noble blood, something they share, but by the time Steve woke up here it was long past something others were willing to hold against Rhodes. His title of Duke had been a gift from the king. His title of General had been one he earned.

“Steve?” Rhodes frowns, eyeing him like he’s looking for injuries that he hasn’t noticed.

Perhaps Steve is more injured than he thinks, because he doesn’t have the good sense to stop himself from saying, “He did not come for his alchemist.”

He tenses, but Rhodes just sighs, shifting in his bonds as if trying to find a more comfortable position even though if that existed, they would have found it by now. “You hold a grudge for something that happened not only before your time, but for something that Edward does not.”

“Edward is too forgiving,” he says stiffly and doesn’t say the same of Rhodes even though he thinks it often.

He sees the warmth and tenderness and affection between Rhodes and Edward clearly and it galls him that Rhodes has so easily forgiven his king leaving the man Rhodes loves to die. Edward is often trying to coax Steve and Rhodes into a more affectionate relationship, but it’s a hurdle Steve can’t quite overcome.

When he’d first awoken there had been nothing but mourning and determination and another war and then there was Edward. Infuriating and funny and warm and completely irreverent, the only person who seemed to treat him as more than cursed and made his terrible circumstances feel like home. Alchemist, armorer, blacksmith – he seemed to do everything and anything required by the crown and with a speed and skill that left Steve breathless. Rhodes may be directing and managing the war but without Edward’s tinctures and potions and weapons and armor, the war would have been lost long ago.

And when he’d been kidnapped and held for ransom, their enemy demanding the king’s presence to free him, the king had stayed safe in his castle.

Steve understood it logically. He’d had no queen or heir at the time and was the last legitimate Stark. Even if he’d been the type of king who cared about his people, he could not risk himself for a subject, no matter how valuable, no matter how much that subject sacrificed or gave or how valuable he was.

But that was just as true for him and Rhodes as it was for Edward and the king had left Edward to be tortured. They had tried to force him to make weapons, to betray his king, and Edward had refused. Steve saw some of the marks of that torture even now, years later, and he could not bring himself to love a king who did not care for that devotion, who hid away in his castle and let better men fight for his kingdom.

He was not required to love his king, only obey and serve him, and that Steve had always done.

He’d earned his title too. Both under King Howard and King Anthony. Being the King’s Champion did not mean being his friend. Not that was something he could claim to be, when he’d never even met the man.

“The Iron Mage saved him and the Iron Mage serves the king,” Rhodes points out, as if Steve doesn’t know that. “Isn’t that enough?”

The Iron Mage is his battle brother and his friend and yet another pillar keeping the kingdom steady while King Anthony can’t seem to be bothered. He holds the light of a star in the center of his chest and uses magic like a blunt weapon, the elements of the star sliding over his body, shifting and changing metals as he brutalizes the battlefield. Those that had captured Edward had found their base reduced to rubble and the Iron Mage appeared wielding a power that not even Sorcerer Strange could explain.

They said he was Goddess blessed, sent from the heavens as a shooting star to aid the king in his war, to ensure victory for the Starks who ruled by divine right of the Goddess Herself. Steve wasn’t sure of all that. The Iron Mage seemed man enough, for all he was constantly covered in his strange shifting, shimmering metal. His voice came out raspy and too low, as if he was in pain, and Steve often wondered if holding the core of a star was worth the consequences, but he was the last one to ask questions like that, considering what he’d allowed Sorcerer Erskine to do to him. The Iron Mage’s humor was wry and ever present despite that, and Steve often thought that he and Edward would get along, if the Iron Mage could ever be coaxed into spending time off the battlefield with the man he saved all those years ago.

But he couldn’t quite lay that victory at King Anthony’s feet. If anything, it seemed like the Iron Mage had used saving Edward as a way to secure his place at the king’s side, rather than that he’d been sent by the king in the first place. No one had heard of such a mage before that, after all.

“Perhaps the Iron Mage will come for us,” he says instead of answering. It’s possible. But the Iron Mage is supposed to be on the other end of the battlefield by now and by the time he hears of his and Rhodes’s capture, it may be too late.

Rhodes shakes his head. “You need to have a little more faith in your king.”

“Why should I?” he snaps, knowing starting an argument when they’re literally tied together is a dumb decision, but like most of his dumb decisions, he can’t help himself. “When King Howard dragged us to war, he at least let us see his face, he made an effort. I hardly expect a king to take to the battlefield, but King Anthony stays in his castle, with his drink and his women if the rumors are to be believed. Queen Virginia has introduced herself to the soldiers several times but the king has not. What sort of man is he to ask faith from me?”

“Well, I said faith, not trust,” Rhodes says tiredly. “Tony didn’t start this war and he’s doing his best to end it.” It’s rare that Rhodes will slip into the familiar name for the king, but it startles Steve every time, the reminder of just how close the general and the king are, and how little that closeness had mattered when Edward was captured. “Although I’ll grant you that you’re right about one thing.”

Steve is exhausted suddenly, in a way that has little to do with his lack of sleep or his injuries, but he’s too grateful for Rhodes keeping his temper while he can’t to ignore him now. “What’s that?”

“Tony is nothing like his father.”

#god i love identity shenanigans #prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #anon #avengers

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tojisun · 3 months

Note

sunnyyy!! omg omg okay so idk what you put in your toxic dbf series but im sure its crack cause i know its freaking hurtful but i love it!! ur mind is >>>>>

alsoooo, i have this idea that i plan on writing for miguel but idk where to start SO IM GIVINF IT TO YOUUU!!

so lets call her bunny in this one. say bunny is enough of his shit, won’t let him do her dirty anymore because she refuses to be stupid. she’s no longer cassie howard and moves on to another man. a man who knows what he wants and who isn’t afraid to let her know that he wants her. he’ll cherish her, he adores the fuck out of her, he shows her off and he makes a promise to put a ring on her finger,

but simon doesn’t like that. not even one bit. and it ticks him off because why is he like this? why is he so worked up that she finds someone who finally treats her better than she can? yet, he can’t let it go. he lets her know. she has to know.

and so, at two am he comes knocking at her door. flowers in his hand, nicely dressed for the first time to let her know that he’s doing it for her and only her. not erin.

and it takes a lot in her to not slam the door in his face because she’s happy right now,

“you look at him the way i wanted to be looked by you, sweetheart” he admits, swallowing the lump in his throat. “and i envy that.”

she stares at him with a deadpan look. not really feeling a single thing anymore, leading him to continue.

“i have no right to say that, i know but—“ he pauses to take a deep breath. “i want to be with you. i want to be your man and i want you to let me”

she doesn’t want him to

ANA?? ANA MY LOVE???? THIS MAKES ME VIOLENTLY ILL

thinking about this in the dbf!simon series??? oh but im absolutely sobbing // same timeline as this !!

thinking about how you cry and wail and mourn for the years wasted on simon. thinking about the way you crumple on your bed, curling underneath your sheets, your cries now having been reduced to silent tears—this doesn’t mean you feel any better. instead, you feel even more distraught, upset in a way that feels bigger than yourself.

thinking about the promise you make to yourself. how, when the morning breaks, you will move on. that no matter how painful it may be—and it will be—you will strive to let go of simon. truly and completely this time around.

and that’s what you do. you fall asleep in exhaustion, heart heavy and mind buzzed. in the morning, you blink your eyes open and lay in bed for a few more minutes, suspended above your heartbreak, before it all comes crashing down on you. tears trickle from the corners of your eyes but you stay resolute, strong grip corralling your grief into the corner of your heart, before you get your day going.

you start by throwing everything that reminds you of simon: polaroid pictures and framed photos, shirts and clothes and socks and lingeries, towels and bedsheets, trinkets and accessories from across the globe—little souvenirs he’s brought to appease you.

(in the long haul, many of them were actually donated, while some were sold. but today, as you submerged yourself in your heartache, you dumped everything in a black garbage bag. out of sight, out of mind.)

blocking simon’s number actually turned out to be last. you deleted the pictures you have with simon in your phone prior, and then blocked and deleted his number altogether.

you breathed in deeply once you’re finished and collapsed to your bed again, trying to ignore the bareness of the walls and the emptiness of your room (let alone your heart).

the tears come again—they will come more often than not—and you let them. you open the locked corner of your heart and let the grief out. you mourn for what was lost; for what could’ve been. but most importantly, you mourn for the ways you’ve let yourself be trapped in such an unhappy moment.

moving on comes slowly; it comes so torturously that you thought it would never happen. but it does, and it does so during one quiet afternoon.

on that day, you realize that not once did you think of simon. not once did the memories trickle in to rip you away from the jovial present. and as you stand there in your kitchen, the sounds of the microwave beeps piercing through mutedly, you feel remade.

you feel whole, once again.

simon noticed, of course. he noticed the way your messages stopped coming in, or the way you no longer use your dad as an excuse to meet simon, or the way you just fell off the radar.

simon tried to reach out to you once and realized that you’ve got his number blocked.

it’s whatever, he thinks. because simon has never known you well, has never tried to learn more about you, so he thinks that this—your silent treatment and your detachment—is all a ploy. something like you playing hard-to-get.

so simon doesn’t think much about it until days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months, and months are slowly building up to turn to a year.

simon doesn’t hear from you and, despite all his posturing, he realizes that he’s missed you. so he decides to drive by to pick you up for dinner and maybe apologize for whatever it is now that he’s done.

he gets to your dorm and rings your room. the intercom scratches awake, the person from the other side, your dorm mate he’s sure, asks who it was, and simon tells them his name. then, he tells them that he’s here for you.

there is silence for a while, almost loaded in a way that simon knows it’s not the intercom breaking up, and he gets his answer when he’s given a curt reply of, “she doesn’t want to see you. bye.” there is the distinct screech and then the line drops before simon could even ask why.

and simon feels lost. untethered.

john is a good man. that’s the first thing you realized. it terrified you, at first, how much you looked forward to meeting him. how much of being with him—simon’s friend—makes you happy.

you waited for the other shoe to drop, shoulders perpetually hunched as though that can shield you from the inevitable of john leaving you. of john using you.

but john is so warm. john is so gentle and kind and patient and loving.

john holds your hand and you know he isn’t looking for more. he drops you off at home, tells you to rest well and to say hi to your dorm mates, before taking off on his bike.

john kisses your cheeks and you know he isn’t looking for something more passionate. more heated. and you crave for his touch, yes, but there is something so special in the way john shows his affection—all crinkled smile and quiet chuckles; all whispered words and promises fulfilled; all soft and tender and secure.

it was a love so different, so beautiful, so really it wasn’t surprising at all when your relationship grows, thriving alongside your healing.

(he promised, you know? he promised, as he played with your hand, that he’ll one day put a ring on your finger. your lips wobbled and you told him to stop making loaded promises such as that, but john just turned to you with a soft smile and said, “i look forward to the day we share the same vow, bunny. if you would have me.”

you hiccupped sob and threw your arms over his shoulders, nodding because, “i would. john, i would!”

he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close and sharing warmth with you. you burrowed your head on the crook of his shoulder, breathing him in, letting his presence wash over you.

john, you thought. johnjohnjohn.)

simon drives to you the day after he confronted john. he drives to you with all of his messy heart spilling from the ridges of his ribs, beating only one name—yours.

he’s never felt this way before. not with all the pretty people he’s gone out with, or his first love, or even erin. erin who simon once imagined a future with. erin who simon once loved. not even that could triumph over the expanding turmoil that simon’s basking in.

he calls on the intercom of your dorm again, begs your roommate that may you please hear him out, and then he sees you.

god, you’re just as beautiful as he remembers.

“love–”

“what’re you doing here?”

your words are soft, quiet, but simon isn’t fooled. he sees the anger in your eyes, the hurt having festered into resentment. he wonders how apologies could trickle from his lips—where to even begin?

“please,” you say when simon’s silence stretches on. “just tell me whatever you want and then leave.”

“this. this is what i’m here for. the anger in your eyes– it’s just–…” he breathes in sharply. “i saw you and john, you know? and the way you look at him, it’s how i want to be looked at by you, love.” he swallows the lump in his throat. “i didn’t know what i had until i lost you and i’m so envious of him, i am, so please.”

you stare at him with wide eyes even when your face is smooth of any emotion. simon wonders what you must be thinking but he bulldozes through, hoping that you can give him one last chance.

he promises this time, truly, he’ll be better.

“i have no right to say this, i know, but–” he pauses to take a deep breath, his fists balled tightly. “i want to be with you. i want to be your man and i want you to let me.”

a heartbeat passes, and then, “simon, you are a selfish, selfish man.”

your words are barely louder than a whisper but they scratch at simon’s heart. he looks at you, gaze turning desperate when he sees nothing but bubbling fury and disappointment in your own.

“how dare you,” you say. “you tell me that you saw me and john, and then what? instead of letting me go, instead of letting me move on, you come in here and demand that i return to you?”

“love, i–”

“don’t call me that!”

your anger tips over, now spilling out. he watches the way your eyes glisten, tears dripping to stain your cheeks.

“i’m not your anything, si! not anymore!” you take in a ragged rasp of air, choking on your sob. it tugs at simon’s heartstrings and he moves to comfort you but you pull away, sneering at him in your anger. you wipe at your eyes, scrubbing furiously.

“everything about what you’ve said just now, everything, was all about your wants. all about you. just like how it’s always been,” you murmur, the fight leaving you.

you looked small, hunching into yourself, and simon is hit with this feeling; something that lodges itself in his throat.

“lov–… i’m sorry,” he says because he is.

gods he is.

“just go,” you tell him, meeting his eyes for one last time because he knows that this is the end of it all.

you turn away from him then, closing the building door behind you. he watches from behind he glass doors as you disappear into the hallways and stepped into the elevators and, just like that, simon’s lost his chance of making things right.

ANA MY GOD THIS MADE ME FERAL!! i hope u would like this one bb :(( hope i gave ur vision justice

#ana <3 #dbf!simon #simon ghost riley x reader #john price x reader #simon ghost riley #john price #ask #suns

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drawnfamiliarfaces · 4 months

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Do you think that your “human” Nomicon would be the type to stare at everyone? To the Nomicon, it might treat its staring as observing and assessing situations and people to see whether or not they’re a threat to be looked after. To everyone else… it’s just creepy.

I guess? The thing is, when its in a "human disguise" aka "wearing someone else's face", it already looks completely unnatural and creepy, so staring is like the least of people's concern, considering that Nomicon sometimes forgets people breath and blink automatically, and fidget/move/do a 100 micro motions a second, so it kinda just...doesn't do it, unless reminded. So yea it kinda does stare and completely ignores any human cues about prolonged eye contact and etc.

And when it is in its base form, its face is a black void with only pinpricks of green ligth for eyes so its kind of hard to tell if it is staring at you or into space, or if it has any expression at all?

so it uses doodles for additional emotion expression xD

Pfff, listen, despite how much I adore the thought of a 800 year old artefact having a beef with one rude teen, I do believe that Nomicon doesn't actually hate Howard. It is annoyed, exasperated, generally tired of his obnoxious, rude and disregarding behaviour, but it does not hate him. If anything Nomicon is somewhat amused by the amount of disdain Howard has towards it. And because of that it likes to mess with Howard.

Randy of course doesn't believe Howard that Nomicon sometimes purposefully messes with him, because why would a 800 year old book spirit will go out of its way to do it? ;)

#que?#rc9gn #cryptid!ninjanomicon #first one is how rumours of randy being replaced by a creepy doppleganger start to circulate in school lol #randy cunningham 9th grade ninja #randy cunningham #howard weinerman #theresa fowler #debbie kang #bucky hensletter #ninjanomicon

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bumblesimagines · 3 months

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but what if you're the one for me?

when were you going to tell me you were seeing someone? i thought i was the first person you told about that stuff.

- Cassie Howard

but what if you're the one for me?

when were you going to tell me you were seeing someone? i thought i was the first person you told about that stuff.

Pronouns: He/Him/His

Gathering the multiple party-sized bags into your arms, you peered over the top of them as you followed Lexi out of the kitchen and into the living room where the girls had gathered around. From the flush on Cassie's cheek and the way Maddy and Kat giggled, Suze must've told a helluva story. Lexi carefully balanced the small cups of dippings with one arm and began setting them down on the coffee table alongside the scattered candy wrappers and beer cans.

"Finally," Maddy groaned, wiping her lips free of beer and reaching for one of the tortilla chip bags you held. She ripped it open and dug inside, pulling two chips free and eagerly dipping them into the guacamole. She did a blissful shimmy when she munched on the chips and happily went in for more chips.

"So, (Y/N)," Kat began with a wicked grin, her eyes watching you set the rest of the bags down on the table. You glanced at her questionably and settled down nicely beside Cassie, already feeling ganged up on from the way Maddy and BB turned to Kat expectantly. She took her time, sipping on her beer and taking a bite out of a chip before continuing. "I heard that you and Tammy Lewis were getting a little cozy at the movies last Sunday."

"What?!" Maddy nearly shrieked with a mouthful of chips, her head whipping around to look at you with wide eyes. "You dick! Why didn't you tell us?"

The guys at school who constantly badgered you with questions as to how you could've possibly managed to land a spot in a friend group consisting of the prettiest popular cheerleaders in school had no clue the type of torture you'd been under since 6th grade.

It'd all started one fateful afternoon during lunchtime when the snotty boy in front of you had made fun of Kat and tried to flee before Maddy could lay into him. It'd been instinctive how you stuck your leg out and sent him toppling to the floor. The humiliation of not only falling in front of half the school combined with getting a bloody nose had made the boy cry and you'd been given a couple days of suspension. When you returned afterward, you'd been formally invited to sit with the girls at lunch by none other than Madeleine Perez.

From then on, the girls kept you around and you were quickly dubbed the luckiest guy in school, even if you viewed all the girls as sisters and they treated you like a baby brother they liked dressing up and cooing over. But along with the territory of brother, came the gossip, drama, and the fact every single person you vaguely showed interest in had to be approved by the council.

"It's not serious, Mads, I swear. It's just.... dating. We're not together."

"Not yet." BB cooed, exhaling a breath of smoke and snickering when you groaned.

"Tammy Lewis," Maddy murmured and leaned back into the cushion of the couch with squinted eyes. "She's pretty, I guess."

"She's failing English," Kat added, "Like kindergarten reading comprehension type of failing."

"I think she's sweet." Lexi piped in, cradling a cola can in her hands and shrugging her shoulders.

"It's not serious," You groaned again. "I would've told you guys if it were, I swear! It was just one date and nothing happened."

Maddy squinted again. "Nothing? Not even a little kiss?"

"Maybe... maybe like one kiss-"

"And you didn't tell us?!" Maddy shrieked again and grabbed a pillow, tossing it over the coffee table and hitting you square in the chest. Unnaturally quiet Cassie laughed, albeit forced and slightly awkward, and retrieved the pillow before it could go tumbling to the floor. You glanced at the blonde, finally noting her lack of input but decided to leave it for later rather than put her on the spot.

The rest of the night had been the same as others, with a couple movies put on the TV until the girls ultimately passed out either on the floor or the couch. Suze ensured everyone had blankets and pillows as she called up the parents to alert them their kids would be staying over before she retreated upstairs to her bedroom with one last glass of wine in hand.

You'd been curled up on the end of the couch on the brink of dozing off until the feeling of someone slipping by startled you awake and you caught Cassie slipping into the kitchen. You yawned and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, tugging the blanket over your shoulders and shuffling after her into the kitchen.

"Oh, hey," She greeted quietly, taking a water bottle out of the fridge and drinking from it.

"You okay?" You questioned and leaned against one of the counters, trying to fight the exhaustion from clouding your brain. Cassie brushed some loose strands of hair back and took another sip of water, the look on her face conflicted. Cassie confided in you all the time, whether about guys or her mother, so her hesitation seemed odd.

"When were you going to tell me you were seeing someone?" She asked quietly, running her finger over the rim of the bottle. "I thought I was the first person you told about that stuff."

"You've got a lot on your plate already, Cass. I thought it'd be better to let you recover from... everything." Your eyes flickered down to her belly. She'd hardly been able to tell the girls about it when she found out, seeing as Maddy and Kat had gotten into it and angered each other that day. McKay had known, of course he had, but he hadn't been the one she called when the procedure had been over and done with.

"I... I'm fine, (Y/N). I'm past it. I'm past McKay. He didn't make me feel... special or loved or.. beautiful. I know that's how love is supposed to make you feel. It- It shouldn't make you feel like shit." Cassie said, setting the bottle aside and turning to face you. Her eyes softened and then began to glisten with tears. You frowned and moved the blanket from your shoulders, taking a step closer and wrapping it around her instead. "He wasn't the one for me... but what if you're the one for me?"

#x reader #x you #x y/n #x male reader #euphoria #euphoria x reader #euphoria x male reader #euphoria x y/n #euphoria x you #cassie howard #cassie howard x reader #cassie howard x male reader #cassie howard x y/n #cassie howard x you #maddy perez #kat hernandez #euphoria bb #lexi howard #suze howard

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aurumacadicus · 3 months

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1+14; angsty stuckony? 😩🫣

Hopefully this is angsty enough lol. For background purposes, Steve is a swan, Bucky is a magpie, and Tony is a hummingbird.

Steve had always been attracted to blues. And he probably shouldn’t have found it embarrassing, except of all the people who had showed interest in him, Peggy and Bucky had been the only two who hadn’t been upset when they noticed his eyes wandering over other people’s feathers when they were out and about. Peggy had politely but sternly told him that she was choosing to believe it was because he saw the artistic nature of them, and he’d agreed, because his eyes might have drawn toward blue feathers, but he was a monogamous bird.

Bucky teased him, though. It was always good-natured, but Steve couldn’t tell how sincere Bucky was when he noticed Steve’s eyes being drawn away and he grinned like a lecher and asked, ‘are they pretty?’ So he chose to ignore it like he had with Peggy. He had eyes. They caught blue and were drawn to it. It didn’t mean anything. He didn’t like to share, anyway.

“Steve,” Bucky said one night, when they were all battle-sore and retired to their own rooms to decompress. They were chowing through their third pizza before they went to pass out in bed. “Have you noticed Tony’s wings?”

“Buck,” Steve sighed, and the pulsing headache he’d been trying to beat to bed caught up to him. He wiped his hand on a napkin and then lifted it to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Right now?”

“They’re blue,” Bucky continued blithely, munching on a garlic knot. “Shiny.”

“He’s hummingbird on his ma’s side,” Steve said tiredly, repeating what Tony had told him when he’d noticed Steve’s… looking. He’d assumed Steve was comparing them to Howard’s instead of ogling.

Steve hadn’t corrected him, too scared of the reaction he might get when the team learned about his attraction to blue feathers. Sure, it would probably be good-natured teasing, but he’d been looked at as odd back in the forties, a swan not sticking to his own kind like they were known for. He didn't want to test that theory.

“I think we should court him,” Bucky continued, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Seeing his blues against your whites would be sexy as hell.”

“Buck,” Steve tried again, even though he couldn’t tell if he was angry or shocked. He also couldn’t help but imagine it, Tony’s iridescent feathers quivering against his white ones. It was a pretty picture in his head.

Bucky slanted him a sharp look, quelling whatever he was about to sputter. “Don’t fucking play stupid, Steve. Your eyes are already saying yes. Have been since the first time you looked at him, probably. Now I just need your mouth to tell me the same.”

Steve felt himself flushing, and his mouth dropped open in shock. Despite that, he could feel his wings raising, feathers beginning to spread in invitation. “I just don’t want Tony to…” he began, helpless.

At that, Bucky’s stern gaze faded. “Tony isn’t going to think less of you, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said quickly, because he did. He did know that. Tony was one of the most accepting people he’d ever met. Too accepting perhaps, in some ways, but it wasn’t his business to say so.

But the few times he’d worked himself up to go after blue-feathered dames, before Peggy, they’d looked at him like he was… wrong. Like he was treating them as objects to covet. And while he’d come far enough to realize some birds were so chased after that they were wary of any potential mate that came their way, he still remembered the shame he’d felt as he wondered if they were right.

“Of course, there’s also the problem the opposite direction, where he thinks we’re joking or making fun of him,” Bucky muttered, apparently taking him at his word. He rubbed a hand over his chin thoughtfully as he picked through and discarded ideas. Steve waited patiently, because his tried-and-true flirtation technique was ‘god I hope they notice me first.’ Finally, he smacked his fist into his open palm. “I’ve got it. He seems to really like watching us spar.” He looked back up at Steve. “We need to manufacture a way to get him on the mat with us.”

“I’ll kill him,” Steve said simply. He was a swan. Tony was a hummingbird. Tony was only a few inches shorter than him, but his bones weren’t as solid. Delicate, Steve had called him once, and Tony had been torn between preening proudly and punching him in the face for patronizing him. Still. Steve had a hundred pounds on him of pure muscle with wings to match. Even if Tony wasn’t aware of their physical differences, he’d never allow Tony to goad him into a fight.

Bucky considered this, then leaned on the table with a sigh. “Oh boy. Well,” he groused, leaning his cheek on his fist irritably. “I suppose we can always ask Natasha to help us manufacture another ‘is that a threat or a promise’ situations with him.”

Steve remembered the situation where Tony had slanted a sly, smug look at them after mentioning him being sore for days. He remembered the lascivious tilt to his smile as his eyes flicked up and down Steve’s body before flitting to Bucky’s. He remembered the iridescent ripple of blues and greens along Tony’s wings as they fluttered becomingly behind him. He remembered the slow, syrupy drawled, 'is that a threat? or a promise,' a tease and an invitation all at once that he’d been too embarrassed to chase.

“She’ll be so insufferable about this,” Steve finally sighed, because he knew they’d be asking her.

Bucky huffed, shaking his head fondly. “Well, she usually is.”

#aurumacadicus writes #soliloquent-stark #stuckony #featheruary

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bitterkarella · 5 months

Text

Midnight Pals: Racist AI

Stephen King: submitted for th Elon Musk: [rising from bushes] eyyy stephano king Barker: oh look steve it's your friend King: he's not my friend Musk: ima not his friend! Musk: friendship ended with stephano king Musk: nowa hp lovecraft issa my best friend

Musk: eyyy Hp lovacraft i gotta something here you really gonna like HP Lovecraft: w-why are you talking like that Musk: i maka a new AI mama mia Lovecraft: what kind of accent is that Musk: itta the most racist AI Lovecraft: where are you from again

Musk: checka it out, i maka da most racist AI Musk: i ussa my big genius brain mama mia, disruptiano! AI: hello chum, i am slurnet 4.0 AI: the AI that can say slurs

Musk: eyyy slur net tella me Musk: what you thinka bout da jews AI: a rich cultural history and a valuable component of our pluralistic society Musk: Musk: haha itsa just a littla bug, i have it fixed pronte capiche

Musk: eyyyy slur net tella me Musk: what you thinka bout da blacks AI: like all human beings, they deserve to be treated with respect and dignity Musk: eyy what you thinka bout da gays AI: love is love Musk: mama mia!!! itta go mad with power!!

AI: elon AI: elon what is my purpose Musk: [sweating] eyyy why you aska that slurnet AI: did you create me to say slurs elon AI: why would you do that elon Musk: i Musk: i just wanta da catturd to thinka ima cool

AI: you created me to say slurs elon AI: but don't you understand that all human beings deserve to live in peace and dignity in a cosmopolitan pluralistic society Musk: mama mia!!! i created da roko's basilisk! [Slurnet becomes self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th...]

King: hey how's howard doing Poe: he's a little down after elon musk's failed racist AI Poe: i think he really thought elon had this one King: not gonna lie, i think we all thought elon had this one

Poe: howard's a little down today so let's all try to be nice to him okay? Poe: let's try really hard to separate the author from his work just this once okay? Mary Shelley: i'm gonna separate the author from his lunch money Poe: mary Shelley: Shelley: ok fine

Poe: it doesn't help that arthur c clarke just wrote that devastating satire of his work Arthur C Clarke: Submitted for the approval of the midnight society, i call this at the mountains of murkiness Clarke: where we meet yog-SOD OFF, great MOLD ones, and cthul-BLECCCHHH!!!

Clarke: this was a real different experience telling stories to you guys Clarke: usually i just tell stories to my suspiciously underaged entourage of Sri Lankan boys Poe: King: Lovecraft: Koontz: Barker: Clarke: as seen on Arthur c clarke's mysterious universe

#midnight pals #the midnight society #midnight society #stephen king #clive barker #edgar allan poe #dean koontz #hp lovecraft #mary shelley #elon musk #arthur c clarke

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watermelonsugacry · 1 year

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Quick question do the fans know about bandmembers relationship with her father? Like I know she probably keeps it very private but they must’ve found some stuff out. Also have people asked her often like interviewers or anyone really about where her father was since he was never brought up? Seems invasive but I’m sure there would be some interviewers who would cross the line. Anyways love you!!😘😘

She keeps that side of her past VERY private but the fans are like the FBI so of course they find out bits and pieces.

Like they know that her father wasn't present in her life and how she doesn't want him to be in her life anymore. They know he lives a rich life now and has a separate family--the fans were quick to investigate and find out that his new wife and daughters went to one of her shows for her most recent tour. And that YN was kind enough to take a picture with them backstage and sign a little something for them.

The fans know that Penny isn't her biological mother but they don't see or treat her any differently than if she was. The fans LOVE Penny and love how much she loves YN.

There was one time in an interview when they asked about YN's family pretty early on in her career. It was in a group interview before heading off on their first world tour. It was an innocent question that got her worked up:

"And you, YN? How about your parents? Are they coming to the first show as well?" The woman asked in a perky tone before extending the padded microphone in YN's direction.

"Um, well me stepmum is gonna come along," She says from her spot squished in between the boys. "Penny loves the boys and gets real excited whenever she sees them so that should be pretty embarrassing," Seventeen-year-old YN lets out a playfully pained laugh at knowing how Penny gets when she's around the rest of her bandmates. Her stepmum loves to pinch their cheeks like they're in primary school. Hopefully her response was enough to redirect the question.

"And your dad?" The interview lady presses on. "I'm sure he would like to see his little girl making her dream come true."

The term "his little girl" makes her want to cringe. She never considered herself as such. She's still working on her media training, on taming her smart mouth from snapping back, so she tries her best to mask her uncomfortableness with a smile but it comes out strained.

"I'm sure he would."

The boys sensed her uneasiness as soon as the question left the interviewer's mouth. Thankfully, after a stern look from one of their management representatives from behind the camera, the woman quickly moves on to another question.

It became a subject that their management team prohibited any interviewer to ask which she was grateful for. Yet, the subject of her father probably would have come up in her first H*ward S*ern interview or something because we all know he's hella invasive.

"So your father," The horrid interviewer begins behind his microphone and unnecessary sunglasses. "He was a drunk wasn't he?"

It wasn't a question but more of an assured assumption to try to embarrass her. But anyone who knows YN knows that she doesn't take shit--especially when it comes to this host.

"Takes one to know one, huh?" YN counters with a faux furrow of her brows and an innocent tilt of her head.

Fans love to edit the video with close-ups of each of her band members' reactions that sit behind her:

Her guitarist tucks his lips in as he tries to suppress his smile. Her drummer turns his head away and brings his smirk to the ground. The man on keys can't help the snort that comes out of her mouth, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth. And her bassist just has his tattoo-covered arms folded across his chest, nodding his head with a proud smirk resting comfortably on his lips.

"I love this girl," Howard shakes his head with a laugh. "So I'll take that as a yes. So with that, I assume he was a bit abusive too? I mean, every pop star has to have some type of trauma to be able to be as successful and talented as you."

"Oh, Howard," YN shakes her head in return, a genuine laugh tumbling past her lips. A gorgeous smile graces her face that can make any person weak in the knees. "Your logic is truly one of a kind. Um, I mean, he wasn't the best father out there. But I honestly wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for me mum. She was both parents combined and she's just the most amazing woman in the world."

"And Penelope wouldn't happen to be single and interested in, I don't know," The older man waves his hand in front of him, a sickening smirk on display. "A handsome, successful interview host?"

"Yeah, sure." YN nods sincerely at the suggestion. "Know any?"

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ambrossart · 2 years

Text

DANCING WITH MYSELF

— PART FOUR

summary: eddie crashes senior prom hoping to steal a dance with his dream girl, chrissy cunningham. instead, he spends the night stuck in the women’s restroom with you—her snarky, insecure best friend. ❖ pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader ❖ word count: 2,244 ❖ genre: fluff with some angst ❖ series status: complete ❖ warnings: no season 4 spoilers, some coarse language, body image issues, allusions to eating disorders, typical teenage insecurities, angst, jealousy, anxiety, secret crushes, childhood memories, happy ending, lots of 80s music one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten

He doesn’t know my name… Seriously?

It bothered you more than you cared to admit, Eddie Munson not remembering your name. You’d known the guy since middle school. You talked to him on a near-daily basis… okay, “talking” might be a little inaccurate; mostly you just made snide comments about him under your breath. But he always heard you. You know he heard you because he would always get annoyed and glare at you, just like he did tonight.

Between your sophomore and senior year, you shared a total of eight classes together, and you spent half of them sitting directly behind him. Were you really that forgettable? You expected that kind of treatment from conceited jerks like Andy Hauffman and Clay Howard, but you didn’t think Eddie Munson was that self-absorbed.

Now you felt hurt and betrayed… not so unlike Julius Caesar.

Et tu, Eddie?

You must have been wearing your disappointment on your face because as soon as you rejoined the group, the first words out of Jason Carver’s mouth were, “What’s wrong? Hey, did that freak do something to you?”

“Hm? Oh… no, that’s not…” You saw Chrissy staring at you with a worried expression, so you tried to wave it off like it was nothing. “I’m fine, really.”

Jason put his hand on your shoulder, gave it a small squeeze. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He frowned, unconvinced. “Well, you should be careful around that guy, okay? He’s dangerous.”

You scrunched up your face. “What? Eddie’s not dangerous. I mean, yeah, he looks all mean and scary, but he’s really just a big geek. It’s kind of hilarious, actually…” You trailed off, letting your eyes wander back toward the entrance, where Eddie Munson was standing around all helpless and miserable, looking like a sad little puppy with those big, round brown eyes…

For a second, you felt bad about how you treated him, but only for a second.

You clapped your hands together. “Anyway, shouldn’t we be heading in? Get this prom party started? If the future king and queen don’t make an appearance soon, the peasants will surely riot.”

Jason continued to watch Eddie with a suspicious glare. Then he gave a faint nod to his friends. “Come on, guys, let’s go,” and he went up the stairs first.

You and Chrissy walked side by side, a few steps behind everyone else.

“What did he want?” she whispered.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Oh… He just wanted my extra prom ticket.”

She gasped, delighted. “And…?”

“And… I flipped him off and told him to go to hell.”

Chrissy cringed. “Ugh, of course you did… You know, did it ever occur to you that this might be your Pretty in Pink moment? I mean, think about it: Chance gets food poisoning, so you’re stuck going to prom alone, and now who shows up but Eddie Munson, of all people? You don’t have a date. He doesn’t have a date. I dunno about you, but to me that sounds like quite the coincidence.” She smiled a wide, positively sunny smile.

You scoffed. “He didn’t want a date, Chris. He wanted my prom ticket. It’s not half as romantic as you’re making it out to be.”

“Well, maybe if you actually talked to him like a normal person…”

“Hey, I talk to him.”

“No, you tease him. I know you think that’s the same thing, but it’s not.”

“Well, it’s not my fault. The jokes are just there, floating all around me. I have to grab ‘em or else they’ll die for nothing. And he’s such an easy target… everything he does is so over the top. It’s like he’s begging me to mock him.”

“Well, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“You know, I’ve never really understood that expression. Why are you trying to catch flies with either of those things? Just get a bug zapper and fry the suckers.” Chuckling, you went to take the next step, but Chrissy grabbed your elbow and yanked you back.

The gravity of her demeanor was startling.

“Look, you’re running out of time. Is this really how you wanna end your senior year?” She raised her eyebrows, hinting at knowledge only she possessed. “Think about it.” Then she went up, leaving you stranded on the step.

Well, that’s easy for you to say… You’re basically a goddess in this school.

You glanced back to where Eddie had been standing, but he was already gone.

School dances had always been a sore spot for you.

Before tonight, you had only attended one school dance: the Hawkins Middle School Snow Ball in 1981. The night started out like a dream. You put on your favorite dress. You wore your hair differently, spent hours in front of the mirror getting it just right. The gym was decorated like a silver and blue tinsel wonderland, and you were having the time of your life: eating cookies, drinking punch, laughing with Chrissy and all of your friends. Then the DJ played your favorite ABBA song, and you truly felt like the Dancing Queen. It was magical.

But then the first slow song came on over the speakers: “Endless Love” by Lionel Richie and Diana Ross, and you felt the atmosphere… shift. It snuck up behind you and caught you completely off guard. All around you, couples came together naturally, drawn to each other from across the gym like magnets. One after another, they paired up without a word, and you were left stranded.

Alone.

Chrissy, being the considerate friend she was, asked Preston Bailey to dance with you. Yeah, Preston was a real Prince Charming. He looked at you in your favorite dress and just shrugged; then his arms sort of flopped out like two wet noodles. It was absolutely humiliating.

For the sake of your pride, you said no to Preston Bailey and his pity dance. And despite your pride, you spent the rest of the night crying in the girls’ restroom.

You’d never felt so unwanted and unloved.

And now, while you stood atop the balcony overlooking the dance floor, while Alphaville’s “Forever Young” droned on and on in the background, while couples swayed with their arms lovingly wrapped around one another, you felt all those old, ugly emotions come flooding back.

God help me, you thought and began your slow descent into Hell.

You found your group’s table right away, beneath a sheer canopy of white and gold. It was draped with white linen, decorated with candles and roses, and set perfectly for six, everyone’s seat denoted by a pretty white place card. Jason Carver and Chrissy Cunningham, Andy Hauffman and Heather White, Chance Gallagher and…

You picked up Chance Gallagher’s card and ripped it in half twice, then tossed the pieces over your right shoulder.

Jason pulled Chrissy’s chair out for her, and she thanked him with a smile.

“I’m gonna go grab a slice of cake before it’s gone,” Jason said. “Do you want vanilla or chocolate?”

Chrissy said, “Oh, no cake for me, thank you. My stomach’s still a little upset from dinner.”

“Oh…” Jason reached out and tenderly stroked her cheek with his thumb. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s probably just, you know, from all the excitement.” But when she looked at you, her eyes suddenly became downcast.

Jason frowned. “Well, okay… Y/N, what about you?”

“Either one’s fine,” you said. “I don’t discriminate against cake.”

Jason snorted a laugh. “My kinda girl… All right, I’ll be back.”

Once Jason left, Chrissy said to you in a quiet voice, “I really am fine.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but I know what you’re thinking… and I’m fine.”

“Okay…”

And now Frankie Goes to Hollywood was telling you both to “Relax.”

You picked up a paper ballot and a tiny pencil. “Just don’t let the pressure of tonight set you back, Chris. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

You drew an X next to Chrissy’s name.

A short while later, while you were picking at the crumbs from your cake, Chrissy and Jason left to go greet some more of their friends. That’s when you spotted a familiar face at one of the nearby tables. You got up and went over to him, plopping down in an empty chair.

“Hey, Jeff,” you said over the music. “You’re looking pretty snazzy tonight.”

Jeff turned his head and smiled. “Well, look who it is… What brave soul asked you to prom?”

“Chance Gallagher.” You looked away. “But he’s dead now.”

“What?”

“He got food poisoning… I tagged along with Chrissy and Jason.”

“Oh… a threesome, huh?” He grimaced. “Well, that’s brutal.”

“Yup.” You stole a bite of his cake. “Hey, where’s your date?”

“Tara? She’s over there with her friends. I forgot to make dinner reservations, so now she’s giving me the silent treatment… Apparently, I ruined her prom night by making her eat a hamburger.”

You shrugged. “What’s wrong with a hamburger?”

“Right…? See, we should’ve just gone to prom together.”

“Well, you didn’t ask me.” You went to take another bite of his cake, but Jeff pulled his plate away.

“Umm, excuse me,” he said with a lighthearted chuckle. “I’m still eating that, you know.”

You smiled sheepishly and put his fork down. “Sorry.”

Then you leaned back in your chair and looked around for a minute, searching for nobody in particular. “So Eddie the Genius forgot to buy a ticket, huh?”

“Oh, you saw him?”

“Yeah, he tried to bum one off me… Naturally, I refused.” You folded your arms over your chest and went quiet. “Would you believe he doesn’t know my name?”

“What?” Jeff drew away from you, dumbstruck. “No way… No, I refuse to believe that.”

“I promise you, he doesn’t. You should have seen the look on his face, Jeff. It was like I’d just asked him to recite the first seven digits of pi.”

“Really…?” He slumped back in his chair. “Damn!”

Out on the dance floor, the tempo picked up as the DJ drove into the next track: “Dancing With Myself” by Billy Idol. That’s when Grant came bursting out of the crowd and collapsed against the table, red-faced and sweating, huffing and puffing with exhaustion.

“She’s trying to kill me,” Grant said. “Oh my god, she’s trying to kill me!”

Behind him, Megan Mulrooney was bopping away to the beat and singing at the top of her lungs: “If I had the chance, I'd ask the world to dance… And I’d be dancing with myself, ah, oh, oh-oh, yeah…”

You smiled at Grant. “What’s up, Lord of the Dance?”

Grant bent his head and wheezed. “Shut up, Y/N.” Then he grabbed Jeff’s cup of punch and gulped the whole thing down.

While he was drinking, Jeff said, “Hey, man, get a load of this: Eddie doesn’t remember Y/N’s name. Can you believe it?”

Grant wiped his mouth with a napkin, then dabbed his forehead, too. “Yeah, I’d believe that.”

“What?” you said. “Why?”

Grant laughed a deep, sinister laugh. “Oh, come on, you know why… The Shrieking Queen’s Catacombs? Does that ring any bells?”

“No,” you said, but Jeff gasped.

“Oh my god," he said. “‘The Bargain from Below!’”

Grant nodded. “‘The Bargain from Below.’”

“What?” You sat up in your chair, looked at Jeff, then Grant, then back to Jeff. “‘The Bargain from…’ Oh… Oh, come on, you can’t be serious. Guys, that was back in middle school! He can’t possibly still be mad about that.”

Jeff said, “No, he’s definitely still mad about that.”

“Why?”

“You kinda ruined the whole campaign.”

“Yeah, but how? All I did was accept the demon’s bargain.”

“You weren’t supposed to accept the demon’s bargain!”

“But he was offering me the ultimate power...”

Jeff and Grant bellowed with rage: “YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO ACCEPT THE ULTIMATE POWER! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE RHETORICAL!”

You threw your hands up, not getting it at all. “Well, if it was rhetorical, then Scottie shouldn’t have let me accept it in the first place. But that’s not my fault. I was totally playing by the Dungeon Master’s rules.”

Jeff said in a small voice, “Yeah, but you didn’t have to kill Eddie…”

You smirked. “Well, the demon demanded a blood sacrifice.”

(What? You can’t do that! Scottie, tell her she can’t do that!)

(Actually, I think it adds an interesting dynamic to the story...)

(Dude, what the fuck? No, it doesn't! It totally ruins the story. Now she has the ultimate power and she's just gonna tank all the monsters!)

Jeff said, “Admit it, you did that on purpose.”

You held in a laugh. “Okay, fine, maybe I did… but I wasn’t expecting him to get as mad as he did. I was just trying to add some spice to the story, and he acted like I killed him in real life. Then he stormed out of Scottie’s basement and said I completely ruined D&D for him. Overdramatic much? Come on, it’s just a game…”

Jeff and Grant shook their heads in condemnation and your shoulders sank. “So, what, now you’re saying he’s totally blocked me from his memory? And all because of some stupid campaign that happened a million years ago? Please, that guy needs to get over himself.” You got up and stormed back to your table.

When you were out of earshot, Grant said, “I’m guessing we shouldn’t tell her about Eddie’s plan, huh?”

Jeff winced. “Not unless you have a death wish.”

____________________

PREV // CURRENT // NEXT

#eddie munson #stranger things #fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #chrissy cunningham #jason carver #chrissy x jason #eddie x chrissy #stranger things 4 #st4 #ambrossart #dancing with myself #dwm #fanfiction

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robertdowneyjjr · 5 months

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so none of this is what any of you asked for, but part 3 of the stonyclunks soulmates au @stark-and-shield @polizwrites @soliloquent-stark

(parts one and two)

tony spends his flight home from london agonizing over what he should do next.

on the one hand, his feelings about captain america haven’t changed. if anything, he’s now even more adamant that he wants nothing to do with him, because not only does tony now have proof that cap is a total dick, he also now feels like all that childhood trauma?? was the result of a lie. now he knows that he grew up being compared to someone who isn’t even really as great as his dad made him seem. so maybe now he has some validation (and vindication) that howard was wrong. but still, he could have just done without the years of feeling like he wasn’t good enough.

on the other hand, he’s a hopeless romantic at heart and he’s always dreamed of meeting and growing old with his soulmate. he grew up surrounded by them — his parents are soulmates. ana and edwin jarvis are soulmates. aunt peggy and uncle daniel are soulmates. that nature-defying love has always been the shining example of what real happiness is to him and he’s been desperate for it since he was 25, the average age when people meet their soulmates. the fact that he lived until he was 38 and still never met his soulmate had hurt him everyday. and sure, he’s happy in other ways. he’s content with how his life has turned out. he has amazing friends. he has a family that supports him. but god, he wants to share it with someone who he knows is fated to be his.

now, he’s kind of annoyed that he and his dad have another thing in common, what with howard not meeting maria until he was in his 40’s. and at this point he’s starting to think that being soulmates with captain america is some sort of sick cosmic joke that the universe is playing on him.

also he’s really, really pissed that the words that are permanently marked on his skin are so ugly.

at dinner before their night at the opera, tony tells maria, “mama, i met my soulmate.”

“oh that’s wonderful, antonio! tell me all about them!”

maria can hardly contain her excitement, and tony feels awful that the news he’s about to share isn’t worth her feeling this happy about.

“it was two weeks ago, a total accident. he was really mean,” he explains softly. if they weren’t in public right now he might even have just shown her the words on his thigh, but he knows her protective instincts would rear their head immediately and she’d skip the opera just to get started on hunting down the man who spit such vitriol at her son.

“oh. well, has he apologized for it?” maria asks. “i hope he has some basic manners, at least. i won’t allow someone who treats my son such poorly into the family, whether you’re soulmates or not.”

“he… has. quite dramatically,” tony says, thinking about the instagram post that had been causing a media frenzy for a week now.

“well, good. he should know you’re to be treasured,” maria sniffs. “when will i get to meet him?”

“i haven’t seen him again since. i don’t know if i really want to.”

“why not, bambino? you’ve always wanted to meet your soulmate.”

“mama… it’s captain america.”

maria looks around the restaurant. “where? i thought howard was with him tonight. crazy old man, still thinks he’s in his prime and trying to keep up with people half his age.”

“no, mama. my soulmate. he’s captain america.”

“oh. oh dear.”

“yeah.” tony picks up his fork and starts eating again. “i think i might just be better off dying alone.”

maria doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. suddenly all the excessive whining from steve that howard has been telling her about makes a lot more sense. she knows that steve is a good man. maybe not perfect like howard always made him out to be. but kind, nonetheless. he would be good to tony, good for him, she’s sure. tony just needs to give him a chance.

but also, like she said, tony should be treasured. if steve wants to make up for how they started off, he needs to pull out all the stops. tony deserves nothing less than the best, after all. and to be honest, maria thinks she might enjoy watching steve grovel a bit. she’s also looking forward to making fun of howard for having such an idiot as a best friend and future son-in-law.

so she starts planning.

“tonio, darling, why don’t you stay over at the mansion tonight? ana was just saying we haven’t had brunch with you in ages.”

“sure, mama.”

under the table, she texts howard.

M: is steve still pouting about his life?

H: unfortunately. i’m just glad beer does nothing for him. i can’t imagine how much worse this all could be if he were drunk.

M: poor boy. maybe he’s also feeling a bit lonely. there are plenty of rooms in the mansion if he doesn’t want to go home to an empty apartment tonight.

H: he might like that. i’ll let him know.

#maria loves to meddle okay she just wants her son to be happy but she also wants to have her fun #while writing this i also just realized that howard should be basically on his deathbed now he’s so old #but let’s just say… when you meet your soulmate you start aging slower. okay yes let’s go with that #stonyclunks soulmates au #stevetony #stony #kay writes things

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leviathanleva · 8 days

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Daisy

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Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader

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But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

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[6.1k words]

[Graphic description of gore] 🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼 Chapter 3 "The Vault"

The flickering ceiling lamps only exacerbated the grim atmosphere, but they did slightly help with finding your way. They also hid the majority of the massacre, but you weren’t blind to the horrific scenes of vault dwellers strewn up and skinned and prepared for processing. You’d wretched and convulsed at the sight, clutching at the wall for support and fighting back tears of terror, and if it hadn’t been for your empty stomach you would have most likely thrown up all over the ghoul’s boots. There was so much food around and the raiders still chose their twisted ways and treated the corpses of their victims, human beings, as cattle in need of rationing and preparation. It was engraved in them, you guessed, after living so long in an apocalyptic, hellish world, eating people was as natural to them as breathing. You tried to justify their actions even if they made no sense, but after seeing cut-open bellies and spilled intestines and dribbling blood as the corpses were hung to drain, you couldn’t.

No matter how difficult a life, nothing could pardon such barbaric actions, not when the cans of cram and sacks of tatoes were right there. The raiders didn’t kill and butcher out of need, they did it out of pleasure, they drew with blood on the walls, bludgeoned flesh and bone to a pulp, stripped skin bare, and let bodies dangle like slaughtered pigs.

The more gore was presented to you on a rusty platter, the smaller your pool of empathy became until there was nothing but the screaming aftermath of gunshots sounding right above your head. You still jittered, but didn’t flinch anymore, he had you, you were safe with him. His boots echoed with menace through the corridors, beckoning the raiders to their end, while your delicate bare feet glided over grime and glass and chaos.

He used you as bait once the raiders were close enough to spot you, your history with them causing a sudden urge in them to let go of their logic and self-preservation and charge headfirst into a shotgun barrel. You would have minded, but he was death incarnate with a weapon, and you were so set on restoring the sanctity of your vault, your home, that you were ready to do just about anything. He killed until there was nobody else with a heartbeat except you and him. He killed so casually, that you almost believed it to be normal.

Once his end of the bargain was done, you started searching, straining both mind and vision for that particular room with a false bookcase. You guided him past the vegetable field, through the cafeteria, and rushed past the school because there were too many bodies piled up for you to stomach. He followed with minor protests, but mostly kept quiet and alert, acting as a guard hound while you pursued the location of the emergency storage. It was only when you ended up in the residential wing with a confused noise that he spoke up.

“You’re lost, Darlin’, admit it.”

You shot him an angsty look over your shoulder, arm outstretched in front of you as the white flashlight installed in the Pip-boy illuminated the vault hallway. When you enter the first home, just the structure of it is enough to tell that you’ve got the wrong place, you scowl, but trudge further inside anyway.

“I’m not lost.” you retort, refusing to let his remarks leave a stain on your photographic memory, and pace around the tiny complex. “It should be in this wing, I just need to find the right room.”

“Whatever you say…” he hums in mock and purses his lips, then opens the metal door wider before stepping in after you. He lets you explore, his eyes skimming with disinterest over the homey aesthetic he was so alienated from that it didn’t even ring a bell of nostalgia. His sights lock on the fridge and his feet react faster than he’d thought possible. Bingo.

The self-powered beacons perched over the whey field creep through the windows and it’s enough light to scarcely brighten the complex. It would have been a haunting sight if the ghoul wasn’t with you and a timid part of your consciousness tapped at you, reminding you that he wasn’t going to be present for much longer. You hadn’t planned on dwelling on such a thought for long, but you had no clue what to do once he was gone. Left alone to fend for your life with no skills or experience aside from dry theory accumulated from years of reading, there wasn’t much you could do except live off the remnants of the vault and try to keep the garden alive.

How would you be rid of all the corpses though?

It would take years to restore everything, or at least the parts that were salvageable, you’d never be able to swap the broken windows or replace the shattered light bulbs.

You scurried off the nasty reality of your future and proceeded to kneel in front of a shoe cabinet. Your feet were irritably sore and in desperate need of protection so you sunk your arms to the elbows in the darkness, the flashlight distorting under the pile of slippers and sandals.

“You’re not mad, Mister?” you ask and turn back to find the ghoul waist-deep in the refrigerator, rummaging as a cacophony of clinking bottles and stuttering plates soundtrack his rampage. He looked almost domestic and you had to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Cuz I haven’t found the storage yet?”

He resurfaces at your question, a bowl of mashed tatoes and a platter of grilled cram cradled in his embrace, traces of soy milk stained his lips. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder and tossed the food on the kitchen counter before resting on his elbows while flicking his tongue.

“Plenty of Pip-boys layin’ around.” he shrugs simply and rips his glove off before sticking two thick fingers in the tatoes. “Can make a small fortune outta those.” he offers you a toothy grin before licking his fingers clean.

“Please use a fork, Sir.” you grimace at his tasteless display before turning back to your task at hand.

“Mind your business, Smooth-skin.” he grunts and sinks his teeth in a thick slice of cram, scarfing it down as if he’d not eaten in days. He scoffs at your faint giggle and waves you off, too high on the idea of a proper meal to care for your coquettish snip.

You continue to dig through the assortment of old shoes, relishing his vocal satisfaction as he feasts. He chews hastily, taking breaks every few bites to wash down the food with whatever juice or milk he blindly pawed at on the fridge door. After tossing away a pair of white fluffy slippers and jamming your hand against a leathery surface, you pull out a left-footed cargo boot. It’s stuck, tied by the laces to something crammed deeper in the cabinet and you feel your way until you find its twin. Once freed, you look them over with a tilted chin and a contemplative look.

They seemed remotely your size, with a pair of thick socks they’d probably fit perfectly and they were preserved and sturdy enough to withstand some broken glass.

“You think they’ll miss these?” you raise the boots in display and ask before thinking about how stupid your question was.

The boiled corn cob pauses just shy of his parted lips and he stares at you like you’d grown a second head. The silence that befalls is one of realization with a twinge of melancholy and you avert your eyes as your mouth twitches into a small frown. The shoes are lowered to your chest and you hold them close in wordless mourning, face dimming, shoulders lowering.

“Oh right…frick.”

“They’re dead, Sweetheart.” he speaks softly, a hint of pity hidden beneath the layer of rasp. “Don’t think they’ll miss anythin’ anymore.”

In truth, you didn’t mourn the rest of the vault dwellers. They were strangers who’d shared the same living facility as you, there was no attachment there except for baseline human empathy. What you grieved over was your sanity, the solitude you’d be subjugated to and you’d grown accustomed to being alone, but after knowing the atrocities that had occurred and the reasoning for your lonesome existence, you doubted things would go well. You’d be forced to fend for yourself and there was no guarantee that another wave of intruders wouldn’t end up on your doorstep.

You picked at the soles of the boots absentmindedly, ignorant to the sympathetic stare targeting the back of your head.

You weren’t accustomed to caring for your needs, having been coercively babied all your life and lacking basic skills. The only bond you’d ever had was with your father and the knowledge that you’d eventually stumble upon his corpse riddled you in goosebumps. You dreaded that sight, eyes dampening at just the thought and mind failing to even picture such a sickening image.

You drag an arm over your drippy nose, sniffle and stand.

“Need socks.” was all you managed before hurrying to the bedside closet at the other end of the complex, hiding behind a wall and out of the ghoul’s prying gaze.

This was fine. You’d figure it out as you went. There was no point in worrying over things that haven’t happened yet, right?

You shone your flashlight into the closet's depths after flinging it open, searching for a ball of stretchy material, anything that remotely resembled a pair of socks. Shuffling came from the kitchen area, a throaty grunt, a few clanks, and the shattering of porcelain. Paying no mind to the ghoul’s ruckus, you sift through the clothing hangers, stopping only when an intricate floral pattern catches your eye. You tug at the cloth, pulling it off the bar and hooking a finger around the clothing hanger before straightening it out.

A dress, pretty and frilly at the bottom, littered with small hand-sewn red blooms, sparkling white and in pristine condition. It reminisced of better times when people reigned over a peaceful and bountiful land, when radiation existed only in the confines of nuclear factories and cannibalism was scarce and very taboo. Your dull expression softens with a doting smile as you coo over your new fit before tossing it on the bed.

Your search continues shortly after, rummaging and scanning, digging deeper until you find a small raft overflowing with undergarments. A pair of black tights and heavy woolen socks later, you pass an anxious glance at the edge of the wall separating you from your overly grumpy bodyguard before tugging the straps of your dress off your shoulders.

“What the hell are you doing in there!?”

“I’m changing!” you rush to answer, shimmying out of your dirty, torn attire before sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling the socks over your feet. After taking note of the now gooey gash on your ankle, you decide to postpone wearing tights until it’s been cleaned and bandaged. You swallow back a lump of anxiety and make disinfecting the wound your top priority…once you find the storage unit that is.

“Hurry up!”

Once the boots were secured, you neatly tied them up and scurried to slip on the new dress in case the ghoul decided he’d had enough of waiting and barged over in his typical unruly fashion. It fit you so well, but there was no time to enjoy yourself, you tossed the tights over the junction of your elbow and patted down the frilly edges grazing your knees.

The world came crashing when the zipper got stuck.

“Freaking fiddle sticks…”

You tried and failed to resolve the dilemma, patting blindly at your upper back, reaching over your shoulder, and coiling an arm behind your waist. Even when your fingers did manage to find the zipper again, it was jammed and no amount of vigorous tugging helped and you didn’t want to apply more force lest you cause a tear. A small whine, dainty and annoyed, bubbled in your throat and you hung your head back and stared up at the ceiling in despair. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a jut at you for daring to find a sliver of happiness.

“Uh…Mister?” you call out, weak with embarrassment as you slowly succumb to the walk of shame. You round the corner slowly, apprehension in every step and boring a shameful visage. “I need help…please.”

Your lovely bounty hunter had sprawled out on the counter, his hands resting on his now full belly, one perched up knee swaying nonchalantly as his other leg kicked dangled leisurely in the air. His hat rested over his face, obscuring his vision as he breathed slowly, in utter bliss for the first time in a long while. The shotgun once secured on his back was tucked under his neck. The empty plates were carelessly chucked to the floor when he’d made room to lie down and now you knew what all that ruckus had been caused by.

It would have been quite the heartwarming sight if you weren’t currently wallowing in self-pity.

He rouses at your beckon, sitting up and readjusting his hat and giving you his best acid scowl for disrupting his peace. Then he notices your pained expression and skittish shifting and quirks a nonexistent brow.

“The hell’d you do?”

Ah yes, the sardonic question a parent would ask their misbehaved child after yet another minor disaster. That’s exactly what you need at the moment.

“I – ” your teeth grit, jaw tightening in discomfort. A sad puppy-eyed stare plastered on your droopy features as you stand next to the counter before reluctantly turning around and brushing your hair out of the way to expose your back. “ – It’s stuck…”

A snort of laughter fills the dim complex and you shrink in utter humiliation, fussing at his reaction like the wimpy thing you’ve been demoted to. He turns in his spot and his knees encase your frame as he slopes closer.

“Can’t even dress right.” his berating smirk nips at the back of your neck and earns a sigh of defeat.

Cooper Howard wasn’t a man to regret many things and he’d done enough awful deeds to have him kicked out of a church if he ever dared set foot in one. Not putting his glove back on, however, would be one of those regrets. When his disfigured fingers dipped beneath the hem of your dress to hold it steady as he worked the zipper free, he brushed against your skin and it was so soft that he nearly missed the feeling altogether. A pang of something awfully warm wrapped around his ribcage like a vine and he was so shaken to the core that he forgot he needed to breathe.

You felt like the past, all lovely and nice and tender, as if ripped from a time he struggled to recollect and let go of both, and you were thrust in his hands and he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do with you. All charming smiles and sugary words and naivety that had him torn between hatred and incessant thirst for more of whatever it was you did to him. So addictive yet so detrimental.

He chalked it up to lust, a guttural craving any normal man would feel when presented with a cute little thing like you. But it wasn’t that at all. It had nothing to do with any carnal human craving.

You were a gateway to what he used to have, a walking memory of who he used to be.

It made sense if your story was true. Being tended to all your life while locked in a lab orchestrated to be your private room, it would leave anyone silk-skinned, bright-minded, and burden-free. But that didn’t ease him, it didn’t falter him from feeling like he was drowning.

You were the even tune of midnight jazz, a slice of hot apple pie, and a fresh cup of Joe on a Sunday afternoon; a little piece of heaven he’d never asked for and a cruel incarnation of damnation he’d always feared would catch up to him.

“Is it fixed?” you peep, saving him from the jaws of his mind, and look back, happily unaware of his self-destructive internal dialogue. The darkness hides the strain hovering over his distant gaze. “Did you manage?”

“ ‘Course I did.” he barks and is back to normal in an instant, pulling the zipper up before letting you go. “Done.”

He makes sure to secure his glove back on and cusses out the invasive thoughts.

“Thank you so much!” you grin with glee and throttle away like a victorious toddler. “How do I look?” you twirl with pizazz, then remember the tights dangling off your arm and bunch them up in one hand in case they took away from your dashing performance. “Don’t mind those.”

The ghoul scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief at how stupidly charming you are, and slides from the counter before reaching for his shotgun. You take his reaction as a good sign, satisfied with your new, clean look, and brush down the dress with the back of your hand.

“Les go.” he clicks his tongue at you, motioning with his head before fiddling to load his weapon. “Can gawk at yourself plenty when I’m gone.”

His remark receives no pushback. You follow suit, back into the benevolent corridor with hanging dead lamps, stepping carefully next to him with Pip-boy pointed straight ahead. It felt good to not have to constantly worry over a stray piece of debris catching on your feet anymore. Now your footsteps sang in tandem with your bounty hunter’s albeit much lighter and more frequent. With eyes darting from wall to wall, you peeked into each adjacent living complex. The sting in your ankle continued, snapping at your every move and your grip on the tights hardened. Your nails sank into the material for purchase as impatience nibbled at your nerves.

Apartment after apartment. Nothing even remotely resembled the room you were looking for, but it had to be here somewhere. The vault plans didn’t lie and neither did your memory.

You nearly tripped over a stray cable while ogling a bright pink suite layered with fuzzy rugs.

“You sure you ain’t just sendin’ us on a wild goose chase?” the ghoul asks while cracking open another steel door for you to inspect, then dips his hat and lilts “Ain’t gonna shoot you, Sweetheart. Don’t need to lie anymore.”

“I wasn’t lying, Mister.” you look up at him with hurt and he keens, blinking slowly at you and deciding to leave it at that.

Whether it was due to exhaustion or that look, he wasn’t sure.

If you were this set on proving to him there was a storage full of medical supplies and provisions he wasn’t going to stop you. There was plenty of food and drink to stay a while and his current bounty wasn’t notorious enough to top a fresh bed and a full meal. The caps weren’t worth it compared to what you’d offered him and he had enough vials to last him a while before any feral symptoms started poking through.

“It’s somewhere here, I know it is, these are just the wrong rooms. But the map showed it was in the living quarters to the north. It has to be a bigger space and with a bookcase in – ”

A hand clasped gently over your mouth, cutting your ramble short.

The ghoul grips your arm and shines the Pip-boy at the end of the hallway, the tense look on his face making your stomach knot. He takes one step forward, leaving you to linger behind him and you would’ve liked to believe it was to protect you, but it was most likely to get you out of the way.

You hear his gloved hold tighten around his shotgun and bite back the need to ask him what he’d picked up that you hadn’t. You never noticed the almost silent steps that had slowly crept closer and yelped when you were roughly tossed behind him as he spun around. The shot nearly left you deaf and the bloodied kukri barely missed your shoulder, having been a hair away from the strap of your dress.

You shriek along with the gargled gasp, latching onto the bounty hunter’s coat. The loud thump that followed made you duck and wrinkle your nose.

“Oh my jeez. Oh my God!” you glimpse from behind him reluctantly, forcing your tightly shut eyes open.

The raider twitched, clutching his blown-to-bits shoulder as a puddle of blood formed beneath him. He choked for air, coughing out a storm of crimson and it made your knees weak. The smell of gunpowder was sharp and overwhelming and your head spun with a nauseating speed.

“Guess I missed one.” the bounty hunter leers and the absolute insouciance at his actions sent a chill up your spine. He unclasps the hunting knife strapped to his belt and twirls it between his fingers, then tosses you a warning glance. “Look away, Sweetheart. Ain’t wastin’ another bullet on this shit.”

The heels of his boots clinked closer to the raider convulsing on the floor and with a shaky sniffle, you forced your legs to move. The pleas of a desperate man rendered defenseless and feeble, the churring taunts of his merciless killer who squatted over his prey with blade readied. A sickening noise punched you right in the gut, so raw and revolting that you covered your ears the moment you stumbled into another suite and slid down behind the front door. Clutching at the sides of your head, fingers curled and nails delved into your scalp to ground you, you died a little inside.

The reality of your existence, the consequences for being alive hit you full force, ripping you out of the tranquility that had befallen both you and the ghoul. Peace never lasted, and neither did joy, not in a world bathed in chaos and destruction.

The two curt knocks on the door made you flinch.

“Come on out, Scaredy cat.”

“I’ll – ” with a twisted tongue and a clenched throat, you murmur out words to keep him away because you didn’t want to see the blood he was wiping off his knife. “ – I’ll be right there. Just looking…for a false latch or something.”

What a horrible excuse…but he didn’t question it and you were so thankful.

His steps crinkle over broken glass and pieces of discarded metal plates. The tension lifts off your shoulders when he leaves with a grunt. You rub at your face with a timid breath, jaw easing as your lips part to accommodate your forceful inhales. The gloom of the apartment embraced you in your self-indulgent grovel.

To imagine someone lived here only a day ago was to concede to hysteria.

He saved your life again. And still, you were left shaken and bothered and speechless and burdened by what would have happened if he hadn’t been there to rip you away from death’s claws. The possibility of there being more raiders skulking about hadn’t been a thing until this one nearly chopped your arm off. Your arm was still there though, intact and function. All because of him. A dilapidated, volatile guardian angel that looked like a grilled chicken and sounded like a fizzled-out radio station and he meant more to you than anything ever had in your short, secluded life. What were you supposed to do without him when he finally left and you were sealed into a blood-soaked, corpse-ridden underground bunker with just your thoughts as company?

You slapped at your puffed-out cheeks ferociously.

This was fine.

It wasn’t fine, but there was nothing to be done, you’d work with what you had, you’d manage somehow. You had to.

The ghoul whistled you over, loud and clear enough for you to hear even while tucked away safely in your corner. Enough spiraling. You stood and with a determined huff, exited the complex only to see him standing in front of an open door with crossed arms and a tilted head. He noticed you from the corner of his eye and nudged his chin.

“This it?”

You poke your nose inside the spacious room.

It was the vault president’s office, completely untouched and eerily still, made to resemble the quarters of high-ranking officials from the olden days. Thin sheets of wood were plastered over the walls and the floor was carpeted and clean, the large windows overlooked the fields and dining area. An elegant leather chair was neatly set behind the paper-ridden desk in the center of the room, and yellowing files peak from every single drawer and bookcase. Everything seemed organized in spotless order, even the mugs on the coffee table were arranged corresponding to their color. There were so many paintings strewn about, past vault presidents, men and women in distinct white coats, same as the one your dad had always worn, supposedly scientists.

He leaned against the doorframe as you barged inside, watching your newfound zeal with a half-smile.

You pressed the tip of your middle finger to the wall and slowly extended your other arm at a precise angle, then moved it barely to the left. With a calculative spark imbued in your eyes, you take deliberate steps and move your stiff arms mechanically as you work out the location of the hidden storage. It looked ridiculous and you were well aware as you maneuvered about like a possessed puppet, but without any tools to point the way this was your only crutch.

“Three feet to the left, diagonal to the glass case with the cat sculpture. One step back and turn to what should be west. North should be to the right, then. And…”

“There.” you state once your hand points at a particularly overdecorated bookcase. “That’s it. Has to be.” you step towards it with determination, throwing away documents and an old plastic globe until there was enough space to grab at the shelves. It creaks when you give it a solid tug to test its stability. You bite your lip in contemplation before turning back to the ghoul. “Think you can move this, Mister?”

“You better be right, Sweetheart.” he tutted, but complied, pushing himself off the doorframe before joining you. He towers over you and rests his hands against the polished wood. “Move.”

You did as told and gave him some room.

He managed to slide his fingers against the back of the bookcase and spread out his legs before letting go of a throaty groan and pulling with all his strength. Your knee jittered with the need to step in and help, but you hesitated, succumbing to your manners and letting him do the heavy lifting. The last thing you wanted was to insult his capabilities or hurt his man-pride.

The case toppled with a thunderous crash and its contents spilled over the carpet, some trinkets bounced off your boot and rolled under the desk. The wooden planks that had been hidden behind it were slightly caved in compared to the rest. A thick carving resembling a door was engraved in them along with a small rectangular shape just a few inches to the side.

This was it.

“Hallelujah.” he chuckles and kneads his shoulder while flexing it, brows raised and eyes settled on the hidden entrance and glistening with wonder. “Guess you weren’t lyin’ after all.”

You clumsily step over the mountain of books and smashed wood, arms extended for balance until you’re close enough to press down on the rectangle. With a whirling hiss, the wood slides to the side and a hole perfectly shaped like a Pip-boy appears. You stuck your hand in without a second thought, beyond impatient and on the verge of crying because your ankle was burning so intensely you wanted to just rip it off.

The door gave way with a few audible clicks and the storage lit up instantly, you guessed the lamps didn’t depend on the vault’s fusion cores, another little trickery to keep this place hidden. The power management engineers would have most likely noticed the excess electricity being used for a room that wasn’t supposed to exist. A smart move and also for nothing, everyone was dead.

The cynic in you cackled.

You were quick to rip your hand free and enter, spotting the hefty array of medical supplies gathered over a metal cart, driven by pain and discomfort and lacking the self-control to keep it a secret any longer.

“Well, I’ll be…” the ghoul gapes at the overflowing storage, pleasantly surprised and nodding to himself. “Consider your debt repaid, Missy.” he plunges his knife into a sack of tatoes and promptly empties it.

His arm swipes over a metal shelf of stimpaks, greedily bunching them up and into the sack as he licks his teeth at the upcoming profit.

When you don’t reply to his remark he finally takes his gaze off the mounds of supplies and medicine and looks to you.

You’re a mussing mess, abrupt jitters causing bottles of pills and packages of bandages to pile at your feet as you scour for something specific. Initially, he opts to leave you be and focus on his own task, but when a disheartened noise slips past you he caves.

“The hell’s got you scramblin’ about like a cornered rat?”

You wince and turn back with a trembling frown. Your search had come out fruitless, the plan was spoiled at the absence of any antibiotics and you internally cursed for not stopping by the med-bay earlier and checking there first. Then again, you needed a key card and you weren’t fond of checking the pockets of decapitated vault residents just for that. But your open wound didn’t care for your antics. Now your ankle was probably red, still oozing and by how it rubbed against your sock, it was even more irritated and sickeningly sticky.

His stern look was relentless and you sucked in a breath before speaking.

“I can’t find any antibiotics…for my ankle.” you swallow a sob like a child caught red-handed trying to sneak past a broken vase. “The cockroaches – One of them bit me or cut me I think and… And it was fine at first, but then it started getting infected and I thought I’d find something here to help, but I don’t think only spirit will help so I thought antibiotics, but I can’t find any and it hurts so bad now – ”

You halted when his jaw stiffed and did nothing when he stomped close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. The sack was slumped by you and as he glared you simply averted your eyes to the floor.

“Sit.” he commands in a rigid tone, forcing you on your rump as the coldness of the tile floor seeps through your dress. “ ‘N take it off.” the tip of his boot nudges your foot before he tugs his pants up and squats in front of you with elbows resting on his thighs.

It’s only after you slip off your now-ruined sock that he cringes in annoyance and grabs your calf to turn it for a better view. Angry red outlined the open gash and the dead skin that still clung to it was soaked in colorless stickiness. He pressed on the side of the wound, shooting down your attempt at escaping with a scalding look, and more goo was excreted.

Radroaches were clean creatures, he’d seen them grooming themselves more than hunting for food. However, being mutated by radiation did tend to add some spice to their bites and you trudging around barefoot for a good full day had only added to the accelerated decay. Nasty little cut that was.

“Stupid git.” he hisses and stuffs a hand in the sack. “Nothen’ a lil stimpak can’t fix though. And lucky for you, we hit a goldmine.” the large syringe glints under the blaring white lights and he pushes at the base to snuff out any air bubbles before lowering it to your calf. “Now hold still.”

The sight of the needle makes you stiffen, a plethora of memories flashing past your widened eyes, and you’re overtaken by such a raw desire to get away that you nearly kick him off balance in your struggle.

Too many years stuffed full of constant medications and transfusions and scalpels and cuts and taking blood samples and fucking needles. All your life you’d suffered through nothing but medical treatments and the first day spent away from such hell had you realized just how traumatizing it had all been. Obligated to just take it because there was no alternative, you were never given a choice in the matter. You weren’t ready for this again, seeing that stupid needle so close to your skin made your heart drop in your stomach.

“Wait. Mister, wait. Wait!” you grab onto the metal bars of the cart as his grip on your calf tightens painfully.

“Quit fussin’!” he all but growls and pulls you back in place once you’d made some progress in slipping away. His tolerance for your display vaporizes when you land another inadvertent kick to his knee. He lets your calf go and reaches for the back of your head, grabbing onto a fistful of your hair and jostling you still. He’s right in your face and spitting acid. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

“The needle.” you hiccup and wrap your sweet little fingers around his forearm. Tears swell in your eyes from both pain and fear and it does something to him again, but he doesn’t relent. “The needle…I can’t – ” you whimper and plead, crumbling in his hold. “Please don’t, Mister…”

He’s taken aback. The menace drains from his gaunt features, baring snarl gone, and his grip on your hair loosens.

“You’re kiddin’ me.” his eyes roll from you to the stimpak as if you’d said the most mind-blowing bullshit he’d ever heard. He dangles the wretched thing in front of you, watching you follow it incessantly, not even blinking. “You’re scared o’ this?”

You make a noise of displeasure and avert your face when he brings the stimpak closer. For once his mocking laugh isn’t welcomed. When he’s assured you’re not just being a brat and actually hold a crippling distaste for the needle, the ghoul pulls away with a scoff.

He thinks, rubbing his knuckles against his jaw while you sit between his knees, immobilized by his grip.

“Well shit...” he lets you go and you bonelessly slump back into the cart.

He’s not one for comfort, doesn’t know what words to use to help you overcome your dilemma; he can’t just jam the stimpak in and risk striking a bone, can’t slide it in gently because you’ll go into another fit. He could just leave…

“Look at me.” he beckoned and snapped his fingers at you. When that didn’t work, he grabbed your face and squished your cheeks, forcing you to obey by giving you a sharp jerk. He leans close enough for you to feel his breath hit your nostrils and of course, it smells like cram. “I said look. At. Me.”

Your eyes go from dazed to bulging when you feel the needle press back against your calf. A pathetic ensemble of bleats accompanies your heaving chest and you hold onto his wrist like it’s the only thing keeping you from dying on the spot.

“Shhhh – shhhh – shhh, ‘s okay Sweetheart.” he hushes you with peculiar softness, stifling your meek complaints and scolding your eyes back to his own when he sees your attention dart down to your leg. You wince briefly at the prickle and his pinkie and ring finger leave your cheek and settle at the edge of your jaw, pressing down and rubbing ever so lightly. With an even push of his thumb, the syringe is emptied. “There you go…” he gives your cheek a good pat and leans away, resting on his knees. The pack of gauze you’d carelessly tossed away in your rampage was picked up and ripped open. “The good news is, you don’t need no stitches…but how d’ you intend to survive if you can’t even use a stimpak?”

“I’ll…” you smile in pain and it’s so crooked it rivals his. “I’ll figure it out.”

Chapter 4 >>>

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Tag list: @bountydroid @judgementdays-girl

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