#please mind the tags!
Text
— on the fence [into the fire, part ii]
part i | masterlist
cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader
rated e - 3.8k
tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, pwp, restraints, sex for favors, oral (m), exhibitionism, spanking, biting, hair pulling, light choking, sub/dom elements, PiV, radiated creampie
a/n: hi! I had a couple ideas I wanted to explore, which turned into a mini-series. I have them all mapped out & I hope to have them up for you soon! 💖
“Why don’t you show me again,” He husks, “What you’re so good at.”
Your breath catches - eyes flicking warily towards the door, but he’s quick to call you back.
“Hey, now. Eyes over here.” The Ghoul snaps, “You need to worry ‘bout me more than anyone out there.”
(Or - the Ghoul gets you out of your Vault Suit.)
You’re not sure you like the look of this town.
It sprawls wide and low across the desert, the inhabitants gathering in the shadows to escape glare of the sun. A low buzzing murmur that carries with you through the streets.
It feels suffocating, after the open miles before.
Following the dark figure of Ghoul, as you wind through the streets. Partly because you have to - that leash still pulled tight, wrapped around a fist.
Partly because you want to stick close, always.
“-don’t need you slowing me down.” The Ghoul gives the rope a yank, and you scowl, “You get hurt doing some stupid shit, and I’m leavin’ you behind.”
Your frown softens. His words still just as harsh, snarled out. But they’re a far cry from before.
Before, when you were certain he was going to hand you right back over to your Vault, in spite of how far you’ve come. Something significant passing in the journey through the desert, as he had taken what you wanted.
The taste of him has since faded, but he still lingers.
“Gotta earn your keep, too.” His head turns, eyeing you from beneath the brim of hat, “You good at anythin’?”
Unable to help it, you smirk - a brow raising. He scoffs in response, eyes narrowing.
“Anyone can be good at suckin’ cock, sweetheart.” He drawls, unimpressed, “’m not so bad at it, myself.”
Your lips part in surprise and he’s the one that grins, now.
The Ghoul picks up another bounty here. A shady, alley-way deal - keeping you close to his heels as he snatches the faded paper contact off a tattered board.
Running into another pair looking for jobs - a fresh scar splitting across the nose of a man who tries to start a conversation, before quickly retreating.
“Fuckin’ amateurs” muttered in reply to your heavy, silent judgement.
The client is tracked down for more information, after. Wasn’t hard to find the man with cage over the lower half of his face. Spikes that scream Raider with the way they jut through his clothes.
Fifty caps for the “goddamn no-good thief” that wiped out his stall in the night, taking every last bullet and can of cram. Last seen about two days ago, heading north.
Dead or alive, the client doesn’t care.
“Did you see ‘em?” The Ghoul frowns, “What they look like? Give me somethin’ to go off of.”
“Course I did,” The man huffs, “Looks just like me, don’t he? He’s my own damn brother.”
You can’t contain your own sideways look in disbelief, only to see The Ghoul returning it.
He bargains for a hundred, and gets it.
It’s hard not to wonder if he had taken your bounty this way. If your face had been scrawled across a piece of paper. Exchanged in a no-nonsense, disconnected way.
How much had your life been worth?
You never asked him. It’s something you’re not sure you even want to know.
The rest of the afternoon is spent stocking up. Caps exchanged for some more ammo. A couple bottles of watery chems, shoved deep in his bag to join the others.
A way the ease the cough that rattles him every few days. The smallest bottle kept out, wrenched open with a tight fist.
It snags at you - the way he swallows it like ambrosia the second he steps away. Gasping and groaning as if it’s air he needs to breathe.
“I’m good at medicine,” You tell his back - following again. Memories of the Vault pushing their way to the surface, “Could make that for you, if we find the stuff. Wouldn’t have to dilute it.”

You almost run into him, with the way he’s gone still. The tilt of his head, a single sharp eye piercing through you under the brim of a hat.
Shifting over your shoulder. Narrowing.
His hand fists in the collar of your jumpsuit instead, hauling you down the nearest alley and into the shadows.
“Hey!” You protest, your back knocked against the wall. He cages you in, knuckles pressing into your jaw with his tight grip.
The vial is pinched between his fingers, dangled in front of your face.
“You can make this?” He confirms.
You’re able to confirm it now, never quite getting a good look before. RadAway. It would be simple, compared to some of the stuff you’d had to cook up.
“Get me to a lab, some supplies,” You nod, “And I will.”
“Huh.” He’s close - you can’t help squirming in his grip, as he considers you, “Ain’t that something.”
A second, before his grip eases - but he doesn’t let go. Your bound fists rest against his chest, but there’s no force behind them to drive him off.
“Could’ve just asked.” You huff, “You don’t have to man-handle me.”
He almost smiles - his voice coming low, with a tilt of his head.
“Don’t I?”
It flusters you, how his body presses against yours. Your heartbeat kicking up a notch, your chest brushing his with each short breath.
His thumb sweeps, ghosting against your skin. Those sunken eyes dropping to your collar, with a frown.
Another glance down the aisle, before they’re dragging over you - voice lowering.
“Need to get you out of this suit.”
His words make stiffen in his arms, a sharp inhale of anticipation.
“Not so smart, are you?” He husks, his gaze dragging from your parted lips, up to your eyes, “Runnin’ around like this. Downright advertising you’re a Vaultie, when someone’s lookin’ for you.”
He’s not wrong. He tracked you down easily enough. You nod is small, a pang of regret as his fingers drop - as he steps away.
“Come on, then. I know a place.”
The place is an old saloon, the windows blasted out over two centuries ago. The gutted insides filled out with a patched-up bar, the mended tables and scattered chairs filled with patrons. Rooms to rent lining the first - and second floor - if you were brave enough to risk the staircase.
A few stalls set up alongside a wall - a barber ran by a Mister Handy with a looping stutter, the second by another Ghoul. Her few racks are filled with a patchwork of fabric, all in stained and faded patterns.
He gestures, a tilt of his head at the racks, “Pick something out, quick like.”
You’d gape at him, if you weren’t afraid he’d change his mind. Serious about your suit - you’re quick to grab a shirt in your size with only two holes. A pair of trousers, a rip at the knee.
“This ain’t for you.” The Ghoul clarifies darkly in your ear, “This is a trigger-happy town. Don’t need to be wasting my bullets.”
You hum in agreement - undeterred by his tone. The package clutched to your chest as he hands over a couple caps. Stuck over a full two weeks now in the same suit - you’re itching for the soft cotton against the skin.
Turning to leave, but then you’re halting. A couple of the patrons look familiar, hovering just inside the door. Something about that scar-
You’re trying to recall, in the crowd of people you’ve seen today - when a hand clamps down on your shoulder. Wheeling you around as the Ghoul turns to the shop owner.
“You got a room she can borrow?” There’s a change in his tone, almost a sticky-sweet edge to his drawl.
It must work - you’re shown to what used to be an old parlor room. An array of broken chairs, a heavy wooden table. The wallpaper torn and faded, the shades of cream long stained a dull, dirty yellow.
He fills the doorway - an arm propped against the frame, and you hold your wrists out to him dutifully.
You’ve worked at the knots before, to no avail - only to scowl now, as he undoes them easily with one hand.
A moment of silence hanging then, as you give him a pointed look - rubbing at sore wrists.
“You gonna leave so I can change?” You ask, “I’ll just be a second.”
The Ghoul steps forward instead, pulling the door shut behind him. An audible click, as he thumbs at the lock.
“Oh, I don’t think so, darlin’.”
A heat flares to life in your cheeks, “You’re staying?”
“That’s right,” He sinks into an old loveseat, propped up on concrete blocks near the boarded-up window, “Can’t leave you alone in a place like this. Fuckin’ vultures would swoop right in.”
You hesitate, watching him warily as an arm slings across the back, legs stretched out against the floor. If you didn’t know better then you think it was something almost akin to concern in his tone.
Or then again - he might just want to keep your bounty to himself. You had hoped you were past that, but-
“What?” His tongue pokes at his cheek, tone taunting, “Gettin’ shy again?”
The clothes are dropped unceremoniously on the table, your Pip-Boy following. A glare, as you reach for the zipper of your Vault Suit, starting to yank it down.
“Hey, now.” His hand raises, “Slowly. Got it?”
There’s an immediate urge to resist, to test him - but then, you’re catching the look on his face.
It’s hungry, beneath the brim of his hat. You start to feel like you did in the desert, and then the alley - intrigue, and desire, and an ache from his words, all melding together.
So, you take it slow. The zipper slipping from your throat, to breasts, then belly. A roll of your shoulders as you slip your arms from the tight sleeves.
His eyes follow, lingering on each inch of bare skin that’s revealed.
“Turn around.” He growls when you reach your hips, and for him - you do.
Bending at the waist as you unlace your boots and step out of them. Back arched as you wiggle, pushing the suit down past your knees. Down soft legs that part, so you can step out of them.
A glance over your shoulder, then. His head tilts, eyes sweeping from your ankles to fix on the crux of your thighs. They press together on their own, a thrill at being on display for him.
He catches you looking, his hand lazy as it drops to his lap. A lift of his hips as he adjusts, palming himself. The other hand leaving the revolver shotgun that rests on the cushion next to him.
Crooking two fingers at you, silently beckoning you over.
You fit between thighs that inch wider. His hands curl on his lap, before he’s slowly peeling his gloves off. Warm, against your hips, biting into your skin.
“Don’t make ‘em like you above ground anymore,” He idly comments, a flatness to his tone that betrays nothing.
Soft and smooth skin. You wonder if he’s thinking about ruining it - sinking his teeth in and taking a bite. Leaving a mark that you’ll carry.
You think you’d let him.
His grip dents your skin, before his hands are dropping. A heated look thrown your way, as his face tips up to yours.
“Why don’t you show me again,” He husks, “What you’re so good at.”
Your breath catches - eyes flicking warily towards the door, but he’s quick to call you back.
“Hey, now. Eyes over here.” The Ghoul snaps, “You need to worry ‘bout me more than anyone out there.”
It sends a heat rushing through you, knowing that he’s right. You’re locked in a room with the most dangerous man in the city, and it does something to you.
A boldness, in the way you reach behind. His growled out “fuck” when you let bra loosens - joining the blue and yellow suit on the floor.
The wood is rough under your knees. Letting your hands wander, lifting his hips while your work open his belt. Drawing down the rusted zipper.
You grasp at his hips, tugging the faded fabric until he’s free. Fingers tracing over thighs, just as rough and reddened at the rest of him. It’s still not much, but it’s more of him than you’ve ever seen.
Bare beneath the stained pants, cock already thick and full where it curves against his hip. All from just watching you - perhaps a strange thing to be proud of, but fuck, you are.
Your hands curl around his knees, as your head dips. Taking more time than you did before. Lips pressing against the taut base, as a hand twists in your hair again.
“Come on and thank me, sweetheart.” He growls - urging you upward, “Gettin’ those clothes for you. Make it worth my while.”
It’s different this time. A familiarity in the way your tongue presses against the flushed head. The taste of the salt on your tongue, before your lips are part around him.
A soft groan, when he’s filling your mouth again. You’ve thought about it often since last time. Wondering when he would have you on your knees again. If he’d want more, the next.
Your heartbeat thuds between your thighs, with the shift of his hips into your mouth - chasing his pleasure.
An urge to make him feel good. Without thinking - your hand wraps around his shaft, as your head eases back.
“Easy, now.” He grits, though his eyes are fixed on how your fingers curl around him. How it pumps, squeezing him with spit-slick fingers.
Jerking him into a mouth that parts so prettily for him. Your other hand slipping against his thigh, with feather-light brushes. A short inhale before you take him deep again, your fist sliding down to the base.
The next time you pull him from mouth for a breath, drool stringing from his cock to your lips, he hears himself growling out, “Stop.”
You’re being too tender, and he finds that he can’t stand it. Should have kept you bound, like last time.
The Ghoul’s fingers bite into your chin, your mouth glossy from how you swallowed him down.
“I’m taking you this time. Know you’ve been just aching for it.” He husks, his thumb pressing against your lip. Watching your tongue peek out to taste it, “Go on. Get up, and get your ass over to that table.”
Your desire nearly eclipses everything else. Pushing on his thighs for support, crossing the three steps to the side of the table.
“No,” He follows - the gun clattering on the table top, brought over from the couch. His hands at your hips, guiding you until you’re facing the door, “Right here, sweetheart. I’ll be keepin’ watch.”
It has you remembering where you are - that you’re just supposed to be getting changed. Wondering if you should worry that you don’t care - the thought of piping up, having the risk of losing this chance and denying pleasure again has you quickly adapting.
A hand presses at the small of your back insistently, bending you over it. You can feel him against the curve of your ass, sticky against your skin.
“Cross your wrists,” His thighs shift against yours, as you fix your hands that has flattened against the tabletop.
Making it easy for him to grasp at them with one hand - stretching them further, pressing them against the wood as he kicks your thighs further apart.
Leaving you on tip-toe, arched against him.
“Look at you, listening.” He almost coos, with another lazy rock. His cock shifts, fitting between your thighs, nudging against you.
“I think-” You start, but it’s punctuated by a moan, “Think you just like tying girls up.”
“Now you’re gettin’ it,” He drawls, “Though I don’t discriminate. Theres just something ‘bout havin’ you like this-”
The Ghoul leans over you then, his grip tightening. Pinning you firmly between him and the table, unable to do more than squirm as his free hand slips between your thighs, cupping you.
It’s the first time he’s touched you like this, and your muscles string tight - trying not to buck into his palm. Against fingers that rub against your clit, pressing the sticky fabric to your skin.
“Fuck.” He rasps in your ear. Nails bite into your hips, as he tears the fabric down to your thighs.
Coming back to press against your bare cunt, fingers slipping against your folds. You’re unable to help the soft whimper as he parts you, two fingers teasing at your entrance.
“Please,” You whine, as he pets against you. Smearing your slick up to your clit again, his fingers parting just as he reaches it.
His cock presses against your leg, thick and stiff. A roll of his hips until it’s pressed snug against your cunt - jutting between your thighs just below his hand.
“Your pussy is downright leakin for me, sweetheart,” He growls, “You need it that bad?”
You whine, your head turning to look - watching how he arcs over you. That blown-wide look in his eyes again, as you nod.
There’s a split second as his hand leaves you, before it’s cracking down on the meat of your ass. You gasp in shock as you go still beneath him, the pain unexpected and swirling with your heady need.
“Say it out loud,” He barks out, “Tell me just how much.”
Your skin stings, his fingers twitch before he kneads roughly at the flesh - the burn of it akin to way you ache for him.
“I need it,” You keen, “Need your cock. Want you to fuck me-”
The words cut off - a rough hum of approval before he’s lining himself up, a hand curving to grip your hip. The other flexes around your wrist, before he’s driving himself deep with a single, powerful thrust.
Your cry is loud, this time. Low and rough, pushed from your lungs as your pussy makes room for him.
“Fucking christ, you’re tight,” He grunts, unable to help the shallow buck of his hips, “Better than my goddamn dreams.”
It makes you moan - the gritted-out admission not lost on you.
Even with how wet you are, you still feel like you’re stretched wide. An ache radiating through you, sparking to life as he inches out, only to plunge deep again. The table bites into your hips, back arching as he sets a rough rhythm.
The sharp twinge starting to fade, as you begin to accommodate him. Growing accustomed to the heavy weight of him inside you, the steady stroke against your walls that has you starting to clench down around him.
Your breathing grows shorter, faster. Face turning to bury in the curve of your shoulder, muffling the moans that are pushed from you - until his hand is leaving your hip, twisting in your hair with a sharp tug.
Forcing your head back, his grip anchoring you.
“Don’t think so, darlin’. Know you saw those eyes on you,” He’s lost the steady edge to his voice, words turning rough, “Go on, be loud.”
The Ghoul’s hips pound harder, the rough texture of his cock stroking deep. Each sending a current through you, leaving your fingers and toes flexing, aching for just a little bit more.
“Saw you come in with me. Show ‘em who you belong to.”
“Fuck!” You cry, wishing you had a name to scream. Unable to muffle your ragged breath, the moans he pulls from you.
It fills the room, melding with the slick punch of his cock into your wet and needy cunt. Better than before, because his hands are on you now - leaving your hair, blunt nails dragging down your back. Ghosting across your hip, where your skin presses into the wood.
“Touch me.” You beg, again, “Let me touch myself, I can’t-”
His hand withdraws, and you whine - backpedaling. Afraid that he’s going to pull from you, finish himself across your back or your ass for asking.
“Please. Fuck, please. Don’t, I’m so close-”
He groans at your plea through clenched teeth.
Releasing his grip on you, only for his hand to slide to the base of your throat. His other arm looping beneath you as he hauls you against him, flattening against your ribs.
Palming at a soft breast, as you’re pulled up and pressed flushed to his chest.
“Listen to you, miss manners,” He grins - teeth bared, “That’s more like it, honey.”
The bandolier cuts into your skin, the wood into your thighs. And change in the angle that has your cries growing louder as his cock pounds against a soft spot inside you. Warm breath ghosting against your neck, deep rumbling growls in your ear.
Everything fades, growing hazy. His fingers tighten, but not enough to fully choke the air from you. An implication - your own hands wrapping around his wrist to anchor yourself to him.
You can hear him inhale you, the scrape of teeth against your skin above the heavy press of his fingers. Salvation in the way the hand splayed beneath your chest drifts lower, his voice smooth in your ear.
“This is for listening,” He husks, “You understand?”
Relentless, when his fingers press against your clit. Slick and circling until you’re grinding into his touch, meeting the hard slap of his hips.
The gasping chant of “fuck, fuckfuckfuck, please-” turning into mindless whimpers, his rough rhythm growing sloppy.
“Goddamn, you feel good.” It’s a ragged sigh, “Feel your tight little cunt squeezing me. Gonna make a mess, sweetheart?”
It sounds muted, layering with a ringing white noise. Your nails bite into his wrists as the swiftly building tides breaks. Almost missing the sweet growl in your ear.
“Let them hear how a pretty thing like you sounds coming on a cock like mine.”
You do, with the next swirl of his rough fingers - the sound broken as he rips it from you.
Bearing down around the cock that fits so deeply into you, with each blissful pulse of your release. Forgetting about the rest - about the outside world - as your nerves alight with pleasure.
His hand drops from your throat to brace against the table. Bending you flat again as he feels you flutter and gush around his length, crushing you against the top as blunt teeth close against the pulse point of your throat, biting down.
The sounds of his own orgasm muffled - a ragged groan as his cock throbs, as he fucks himself deep into you. Tasting the salt of your skin as you yelp, clenching around him - milking him until your walls are coated with his spend.
He hadn’t meant to - but the urge to pull from you had wavered the moment he buried himself in your cunt. Abandoned completely, after feeling you come so sweetly around him. An instinct lingers even now - to enjoy the soft press of your body against his, your warmth.
You shiver as his lips brush your neck, the closest thing to an apology as you’ll get - before he’s pulling away from you, leaving you clenching and empty.
A ragged hand slips between your thighs as you prop yourself up on your elbows, catching your breath. Pleasure still radiating from your core as fingertips swipe through the come that is just starting to leak from you.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” He laughs - the sound ragged, with a flash of yellowed teeth.
“Guess this means you better start cookin’.”
The Vault Suit is left beneath the table, a crumpled up reminder that you’re happy to leave behind.
Your cheeks burn as you leave the saloon - the strangers from before cleared out. A definite wobble to your steps - something that The Ghoul certainly notices, the low tilt of his hat hiding the curling pull of his lips.
Outlining the path towards the next bounty as you find your way out, guessing where you might find a lab along the way.
And it’s only as the city starts to fade, that you realize -
He never bound your wrists again, after.
I have the brainrot for this man for sure! Thank you for stopping by & reading 💖 (and I have also been reading so much about the new chem the Ghoul takes! For plot & smut reasons - I am going with RadAway, haha)
#please mind the tags!#cooper howard x reader#cooper howard x you#the ghoul x reader#the ghoul x you#fallout smut#fallout tv series#fallout#cooper howard
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— WASTELAND, BABY
part i. the fear and the fire of the end of the world
[masterlist]
boba fett x f!reader
rated E - 3.4k
tags: fallout au, post-apocalyptic, canon-typical themes, canon-typical violence & death, mentions and use of guns/weapons, death of people and animals, sort of slow-burn
a/n: I’m so excited to share this series with you! Reader is new to the world, so much will be explained (game knowledge not required to enjoy!)
The year is 2297, and your days in Vault 113 are spent among the pages of your books - of fairytale romance, of noble knights and handsome princes. That is, until you venture from your Vault, and are immediately thrust into the harsh and cruel world of the Wasteland.
And when you find yourself being rescued by a man in armor - you can’t help but wonder if those beloved stories might just have come true.
You still dream about the sleep.
In shades of sepia, the perfect days that never seemed to end. That always seemed to be just a little bit familiar, like you had taken each exact step before.
The idyllic neighborhood, slow jazzy notes floating in from open windows. Cars that rolled down the street until they were out of sight, always at the same time. Perfectly behaved dogs, in their neat, square yards.
Now - now that you're out - you don't know why it took you so long to notice.
Maybe you didn't care. Were content to play through that single, perfect day. To ignore - at first - the glitches. The fuzzy part of your brain that said that something wasn't quite right.
The itching memory, that something bad was going to happen. Something you had picked at, until it was raw and aching and oozing.
You wonder if that is why you woke up. That something in your brain triggered the stasis - the reason why on that morning, your eyes opened to shades of green and grey.
A dome of glass overhead, a sick pneumatic hiss when you hand flattened against it. The mask you tore from your mouth and nose as you were born onto the tiled floor, shivering and confused.
It had all come back to you.
The blaring of the siren.
The man, ushering your family into the vault.
The promise, whispered with clasped hands.
It will all be okay.
We'll be together, don't worry.
Climbing into the pod, the slow sleep that came after. Waking up, in your old life.
Never waking up that way, again.
You had sat in silence, for hours. Unsure of what to do, where to even start.
Freezing in place when there was a whirr, the sound of movement - as a robotic being rolling into the room, checking the readouts on the large display.
With thick treaded tires, and a sleek, domed head. A mass that looked like a brain floated inside with one large, fixed mechanical eye. It churned your stomach, as it chirped at you.
You are 1825 days ahead of schedule. Please return to your tranquility lounger.
The pod wouldn't let you back in, though you had tried. The red button pushed flat, the screen unresponsive. Leaving you alone and helpless as you looked at the circle of others.
Of your family and neighbors and friends, still in their perfect dreamland.
You lingered there, a while longer. Too afraid of what was beyond its safe walls. Only nudged into moving when the cramp of hunger became unbearable, until you couldn't take the repeating, robotic lines any longer.
Metal doors had opened into other rooms. Empty and sterile and shades of grey steel. Bits of your memory came back - the hallways you ran through. Glimpses of what lied in them, in your rush to the pods.
Eventually, you found a mess hall. Twin machines lined the walls - white with cherry red accents, rows of cafeteria-style tables in front of them. They were still humming with life when you approached, reading the lettering across the top in blocky, silver print.
VAULT-TEC FOOD SYNTHESIZER
The press of a button dispensed thick, pink paste onto the metal tray beneath. It felt like mush in your mouth, the vaguest flavor of something, but not enough to mask the unpleasant texture.
But, much like everything now - the loneliness, the isolation - you learned to bear it.
There are some things you found, in the days that came after, that were not quite so horrible.
A room full of beds, where you tested each one to find the best. Stripping the pillows and blankets, until yours was as close to cozy as you could get.
There was a device you found, in a room full of bubble-screen computers, with their black screens and green, blinking text. It sat half-out of its box on one of the tables, and you were unable to resist removing it from its casing.
A screen sat in the middle, on top of a thick, leather strap. A booklet fell out - the pages now dog-eared and crinkled from the amount of times you read it. The first lines still seared in your memory.
If you're reading this, a scorching wave of atomic fire has likely turned the surface into a wretched husk of its former self... which means your Vault has been activated! You now have in your own hands one of America's finest, easiest-to-use personal-computational tools: the Pip-Boy.
It becomes one of your prized possessions.
Sitting heavy on your wrist, an endless supply of screens and dials that entertained you for hours. Readouts and documents and even simple, chirping games to fill the empty hours with.
The other thing you came to cherish most was the library.
Well, you called it that - though it barely compared to the ones in your memory. It was a small room - a pair of plastic chairs, beneath a thick, metal shelf lined with books of all shapes and sizes.
You'd read them all, in the months you stayed there. Even ones that made your eyes burn with their dryness; Dean's Mechanics, Infiltration Techniques Vol. 2, Pugilist Quarterly.
Fingering tracing over the thin pages, trying to make sense of things you had never heard of before.
But your favorite were the fairy tales. Just four books, among the two dozen.
Grimm and Perrault. Andersen and Lang.
Their books thick and illustrated, the spines and covers stamped with gold.
The romances were the ones you visited, again and again. Younger you would have loved the macabre - evil witches, plucked out eyes, soul-wrenching betrayal.
But in this new world, you couldn't bear it.
You got lost in the pages. The girl who fell in love with the Beast, who was not so monstrous after all. Another, who risked everything to dance with the Prince, only to abandon him at midnight when the spell was broken.
When you grew bored, you created your own tales. Princesses that were swept off their feet. Knight fighting dragons, a fluttering in your chest when you thought about the romance.
The twisting and twining of limbs and tongues, the slow build that lead into soft, contented sighs.
They became your comfort, as the days passed.
So similar - in ways - to the ones when you had been asleep. The same routines. Paste, read, sleep.
The same clothes - the blue and gold jumpsuit you had woken up in. That the others wore as well, in their sleep. Each one the same, with the vault’s number emblazoned across the back.
On your Pip Boy you read it was to protect you from the elements outside - but here, it only added to the monotony of your day.
Every variation of an afternoon you had done at least once. Poking into every corner of each room. Fingers tracing over the glass screen of the pods, watching your family sleep.
Reading the books again, and again. Using the bits you picked up to learn more about your Vault, what had happened.
It took you a solid month to key into the computer terminal in the main office. Clicking on different words in the scramble of letters that poured across the screen, trying to crack the password protection.
Getting frustrated and giving up - only to come back again the next day.
Finally, the beep as you were let in. Clicking through the files, piecing together a mess of text that was scattered across numerous logs over the years.
That you were in Vault 113. That it was created in partnership with several more, and a copy of the previous, 112.
That some of the Vaults were created to be an experiment. A test to see how humanity would fare, released in key waves after the Great War of 2077.
Held in a cryosleep stasis - the first to be opened at 25 years, and then at 50. Continuing every quarter-century until 225 years has passed. Ending with your vault, scheduled to be released last.
The dread settles in as you started to understand what they had meant when you woke up.
That you were early.
That all you can do is wait.
You don’t even know where you’d even start - no idea if they would fare as well as you did, to be woken up ahead of schedule.
And so, the days ticked by. The marks you scratched on the wall next to your bed slowly increasing. One for each morning you woke up, until there's 182 of them lined up in neat rows.
Finally - coming to the realization that had been nudging at you for days, for weeks. The one that had been keeping you up at night, though you wished for the unconsciousness of sleep.
That you can't sit around for 4 and a half more years, just waiting. That wasn't a life, any way to live.
That you'd go mad, talking to your Pip-Boy, the robots that only had a few lines of verbal programming.
You had to know, to see. To go out.
Into the world. Alone.
You'd watched the videos.
The short animated films. The cartoon boy with the vault suit like yours, as he explained life after the fallout. How it would be different - tips on survival, how to keep sharp, how to use your own experiences and talents to your advantage.
It helped, giving you an idea of what to expect, but you hated them. The little acronyms, the cheesy animation - they seemed to mock the massive loss from nuclear annihilation.
The grainy, black-and-white recordings you find, after.
Prepared and left by the Overseer that no longer stayed there - who passed on the responsibility to the robobrains that still stood watch, when another Vault position opened.
They had made you weep, to think about what happened. Until you chest ached and your eyes stung. You couldn’t watch some parts, thinking about all those who had not been able to get away. Unable to help wondering about your extended family - your friends.
But it still hadn't prepared you for how vast and cruel the Wasteland was.
It had taken you another two weeks to actually open the Vault door. Dragging your feet as you collected supplies. Trying to pack everything you'd need while also trying to leave plenty in case someone else woke as you did.
Canteens of water, extra vault suits. The pink mush spooned into glass jars, clinking in your backpack, as you checked the space another time.
Leaving a note on the terminal, where you hope they'd find it.
But eventually, you had to try. You'd stalled long enough.
And so, after marking the Vault’s location on your Pip-Boy - you left.
You’ve been out for a week now. That alone feels like an accomplishment.
Not expecting how barren the world would feel, even with the preparation. It mirrors the muted browns from your dreams, though there's no hazy edges here.
Just a broken landscape of trees - still standing, stripped bare and bleached by an unforgiving sun. Crumbling roads, and what little grass endured was burnt and brittle. The air dry and thick in your lungs with the dust that kicked up, as you had carefully left the vault.
Misfortune had befell you almost immediately.
Barely out of the crumpled building that held the Vault, down the worn asphalt path, when there had been a scuttling sound. Fear and bile in your throat when a roach the size of a cat crept from the ruins, poised to spring.
Unable to do more than to grasp at the ground, fingers wrapping around a solid bit of wood. You can still hear the crunch of collision when you close your eyes, before you took off running, not wanting to see the aftermath.
The petrified branch still sits by the door, just in case.
In the half-standing farmhouse you've set up base in, until you're brave enough to wander further. That has been unnerving as well - seeing places that were different from your memories.
You had gone home, first.
It had seemed natural, though the fear lingered in your stomach, making your steps heavy. Following the road for three miles, all the while trying to force the puzzle pieces to fit. Broken bridges over dead streams, street signs that lead to crumbling, empty lots.
The road you lived on had been hit hard. It had ached - nothing left but the skeletons of your life before. Tumbling brick and rotting plaster. Chipped tile and broken floors, creaking under your feet as you stood where the kitchen once was. Must like your life before, it was just - gone.
The sentimental part of you had rooted around. Finding a rusting, red bottle cap in the ruins. A silver spoon found in the shattered remains of the counter where you grew up baking cookies.
You took them both, tucking them into your bag.
The farm you had found next, late the first night. You had been there before as a child.
The owners opened their property for apple-picking, hayrides, bonfires with sweet, melting smores. It had been a memory you had forgotten, until the bit of still-standing roof appeared on the horizon, beckoning you to it.
You'd do anything to have more of them. The memories.
The owners are gone now, as is the orchard. Just rows of thin trunks left, the branches dead and brittle.
With the wasteland around you - so very different from the safe, metal walls, the honeycomb of simple rooms - you wish you had stayed.
But much like waking up, you knew you couldn't. That you couldn't undo what happened, or forget the things that haunt you now.
Now - you spend your days wandering out. Poking around the barn to see if there's anything to take with you.
Finding a bit of joy, in some small moments.
In your books, as they soothe you to sleep. The stories are long-memorized but still bringing such comfort.
In the funny, two-head cow that had half-scared you to death when you first found it - that you know think is sort of cute. Almost poetic, in a way.
She wanders the fields behind the barn, and sometimes you go out to sit with her - keeping watch from a distance.
In your Pip-Boy, with the radio that hums out tinny tunes throughout the day - there's only a few of them it picks up, the songs on loop.
Picking through the holotapes of data - finding out that your new friend is called a Brahmin, mutated after years of radiation. It’s not much, but it's something.
It gives you hope that there might be someone else out there. It gives you the strength to think about moving on.
And you do find them - a semblance of civilization - but not in the way you hope.
You’re sleeping when it happens. Curled up in a bedroom on the second story, trying to avoid the holes that litter the hardwood floors.
It’s barely morning, the sunrise a weak, watery yellow as it peeks over the ridge. Though with a start you realize it’s not the light that has woken you. That rarely made a difference, after your time in the Vault.
Too afraid of the dark to turn off the light.
It’s the bellowing.
At first, you don’t know why it makes your skin prickle. After all, Minnie made those sounds when she first saw you - snorting and pawing at the packed earth, both sets of eyes dark and wide. Slowly settling, in the hours after - when all you did was watch from behind the fence.
The pieces click into place.
There was something out there.
You’re just getting up to look, when you hear a wild shout. The sound echoing, followed by a sharp, echoing crack.
The bellowing stops.
Your gasp is loud in the silence. Hand pressing over your mouth as your heart thuds in your chest - aching. The floor beneath you creaking as sink down onto it, trying to make yourself small.
But the voices move closer. Different tones overlapping, arguing - from the open field, then to the barn.
Then, to the house.
Your breath in your throat as the front door bangs open, a sharp voice cracking through the air.
“-lay off the fuckin’ Jet, mate. You’re fuckin’ paranoid as hell.”
The floor creaking as they move through the living room. An annoyed grunt, the rattle as something metallic clatters to the floor, making your stomach flip.
“Told you man, I heard somethin’,” Another voice answers.
Your heart drums so loudly in your ears, you’re certain it has to be audible. Tucked underneath the window, in clear view of the staircase.
If you don’t move, they’ll see you. You’re certain of it. The videos had warned you of the lawlessness, but nothing could have compared you for the fear that paralyzes you.
But, you try to be brave. Three feet to the right and you should be safe - your heart in your throat as you shift your weight, to move just out of sight.
The floor groans.
The voices downstairs stop.
You bolt.
Feet like lead, disconnected from your brain as you make for the stairs - thinking you can make it out. Skipping steps at a time, hoping that you won’t fall and break your neck. Ankles aching as you hit the bottom, sights set on the door the left open.
Almost making it out, when there’s a shout. A sharp “fuckin’ knew it” that sounds entirely too close. A gloved hand that reaches out, snagging your elbow.
Sending you off balance, slamming into the brittle wall. Pain radiates from your hip, the wood splintering from the collision. The hand closing around your ankle, yanking you hard.
The man pulls again - dragging you to the side, through the open doorway.
You’re gasping for breath, trying to yell - though nothing comes out. The air knocked from your lungs as you’re tugged across the porch, one of the steps cracking against your head as you try to grasp onto the railing.
It splinters under your grip, one of the spindles breaking free. He lets go when you reach the bottom, calling up to the second that lingers in the doorway.
“Check inside. See if there’s any more.”
A foot pressing against your shoulder, pinning you to the ground as he leans down, barking out a harsh laugh.
“Thought you could hide?”
He’s even more terrifying up close. Dark paint smeared around his eyes, dripping down his cheeks like tears. Dressed in a mismatch of leather clothes, nails driven up through the fabric at the collar. A spiked shoulder pad made from bent metal, the sharp edges a deep, rusted red.
You take a deep breath… and then swing.
The makeshift weapon collides with the side of his head, and then shatters. With a loud yell he stumbles, and you scramble - pushing yourself onto shaking knees, and then feet.
“Goddamn bitch,” He snarls, and there’s footsteps from the house, calls coming from the barn.
You don’t make it to your feet before you’re looking down the barrel of a gun. Fear and a strangled whimper in your throat as you hover in a half-crouch, hands coming up to shield your face.
A shot fires.
There’s a bright red light that sears through your closed eyelids, the smell of something burning. You open them just in time to see the man pitch to the side, his body glowing with a heat you can feel. Disintegrating as you watch, turning to ash before he hits the ground.
You can barely hear the yell from the others, the sound of your heartbeat drowning the world out. Faintly aware of one cracking shot, and then another, a deep reverb echoing across the flat plane.
Rocks skittering on the ground around you, the tremor of heavy steps and sharp mechanical hisses. Loud cries and shots traded as you cower, unable to look away from the scorched earth where a person just was.
And then, everything goes quiet.
A shadow falls across you, and you’re looking up. Seeing the figure that’s crumpled against the stairs. The unmoving peppering of bodies littering the ground, out near the barn. Never making it any further.
Up, and then up - to where a giant suit of armor towers over you. Painted in shades of green that you thought you had forgotten. A long rifle tucked in the crook of its thick arm, the end a hot, steaming red.
It’s head tilts - as a low, mechanical voice breaks through the silence.
“Its dangerous to wander the wasteland alone, ad’ika.”
ad’ika - little one
thank you for reading! 💚 part ii will be out thursday, the 9th! and if you’d like to get tagged, please fill out the series taglist here!
(0-pressure tagging some friends that liked the sneak peek 💕: @spaceydragons, @luladoll, @obiknights , @wingofshadow , @bobathirstaccount, @reluctant-mandalore, @ohheyitsokay, @floral-force , @valentine-tx, @dreamlandcreations, @vellichormybeloved)
#please mind the tags!#boba fett x reader#boba fett x you#boba fett x f!reader#boba fett imagine#fallout au
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[fic] To each their own
He wants him to bleed. He wants him to hurt, and for gasping breaths to burn his throat the same way they did Tuco's. He wants his hands drenched in the proof of his revenge.
---
Day 3 of @dollarstrilogyevent: Betrayal.
[read on ao3]
#dollarsfandomevent#dollars trilogy#the good the bad and the ugly#tuco ramirez#the man with no name#blonco#please mind the tags!#fic tag
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I wrote a weird little Vilco ficlet!
Tagged: Medical Procedures, Shimmer, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, unspoken consent, Viktor is stoned out of his gourd but he's into it, Trans Viktor, Hand Jobs, Character Study, Silco is His Own Warning
Viktor needs to borrow more time. He finds a lender.
———
Silco looked down at him, like a vulture examining a carcass, like a noble at a banquet. “You seem to be taking it well.”
“I think you are saving my life,” whispered Viktor.
“I am saving your life. How does it feel?”
How could Viktor answer? His skin felt electric. This wasn’t medicine. It was something else, something luminous. He sighed and arched on the bed, reeling with the pleasure of every little movement, every brush of his skin against the tarp underneath him.
“...I lack a frame of reference.”
#viktor#viktor arcane#silco#silco arcane#vilco#viktor x silco#arcane#arcane fanfic#please mind the tags!#comments are deeply appreciated if you enjoy reading this ❤️
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Nativity
Downtrodden college dropout Byleth inherits Garreg Mach Pastures from her estranged grandmother, Rhea. Byleth hasn’t set foot on the ranch after moving away with her parents fifteen years ago, but Dimitri, the ranch caretaker, is eager to show her the ropes and help her settle in.
Life on the ranch is idyllic. Byleth feels a sense of peace she hasn’t felt in so long.
Until cracks begin to show in disturbing ways.
--
Written for Dimileth Trick or Treat 2023!
Art by @sema_alo, @Razhward_, and @claudeycore!
Read it here!
#dimileth#fire emblem three houses#otp: hold on to me forevermore#spade writes#fe3h#please mind the tags!
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youre (not) good for me - ch 1 💖
a.k.a the one where they're mean little shits, and eddie should spray steve with a water bottle
#please mind the tags!#this is something completely different to my usual soft and sweet#because we all need palette cleansers sometimes 💖#steddie#steddie fic#my fic#youre not good for me
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: 나의 나라 | My Country: The New Age (TV)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Nam Seon Ho/Seo Hwi
Characters: Seo Hwi, Nam Seon Ho, Seo Yeon (My Country: The New Age)
Additional Tags: Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, Self destructive Hwi is self destructive, Grief/Mourning, Ill-advised grief fucking, Spoilers for Episode 10, emotional masochism, Hurt(!)/Comfort (?)
Summary:
Forgetting, even for a few moments, feels like a mercy he doesn't deserve. Not when he has work to do. And yet he finds himself wanting it, wanting the respite of it—losing himself in the undeniable pull of Seonho's body.
A year after his devastating loss, Seo Hwi--injured, grieving, and self-destructive--wakes in an unfamiliar room. He is not alone.
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Fandom: Anne with an "E"
Rating: E
Word Count: 2548
Tags:
Christmas Party, Christmas Fluff, Aged-Up Character(s), Diana and Jerry are both in their early twenties, time skip, The year is 1906, Diana is a famous concert pianist, Jerry is an animal trapper who runs a business with his father, road trip fic, book and TV canon divergence, Sexual Tension, Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, slight gothic vibes, i just really like dreams okay
Chapters: 2/12
Summary:
It has been 7 years since Diana Barry left Green Gables for Queens, and only six since she left the rural shores of PEI for continental Europe and became the Parisian Opera’s next rising star. The Barrys bid Diana return for the holidays every year, but due to her career demands, she’s unable to acquiesce most of the time.
The Christmas of 1906 brings her across the Atlantic to see her family and attend a friend’s Christmas party. Almost immediately upon her arrival to Green Gables, her parents throw suitor after suitor at her in the hopes that she will like one and settle down—forsaking her newfound career and freedom.
When the Barry household as well as her newest suitor fall ill, Anne volunteers Jerry to escort Diana to the party. Will new love be reborn from the ashes of heartbreak, or will Diana and Jerry discover that some wounds cannot be healed with time?
You can start at the beginning here.
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OzQrow Week, Day 2: Corruption/Worship
@ozqrowweek
Title: Fishbowl Souls
Summary: Ozpin is a priest with a comfortable life - a comfortable life that is quickly disrupted when a tall, dark, and less than sober stranger stumbles into the church. His relationship with Qrow Branwen leads to questions, complications, and revelations...of all manners.
Fandom: RWBY
Warnings: None
Rating: E
Pairings: Ozpin/Qrow
Chapters: 6/7 & 7/7 (complete)
Words: 6.9k
#that's right - we have resurrected our oldest fic for this prompt#please mind the tags!#rwby#ozqrow#cloqwork#qrow branwen#professor ozpin#ozpin#our fic#fishbowl souls#ozqrow week#ozqrow week 2022
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Hi. I had some ideas I wanted to mess with. A bit of a common Slig theme, plus a little detail from Zombie’s story, plus a recurring character behavior in Dee.
I will publish something not as brutal at some point, I swear. In the meantime...enjoy?
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Ok sisters, we start 1899 now.
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— common ground [into the fire, part iii]
part i | part ii | masterlist
cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader
rated e - 4k
tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, pwp, sex for favors, 1 spank, sub/dom elements, light degradation, use of chems, shotgunning chems, riding, PiV, canon-typical violence and death
a/n: the scene where he complained about doing all the work had me like 👀 (reimagining), so here we go! 💖
“S’that right? Need me to fuck you? Fill up that greedy little cunt?”
His head tipping back as he hums, as if disappointed. Each word exaggerated, with his slow drawl, “Well, I’d sure like to sweetheart… but it seems to me like I’ve been doing an awful lot of work around here.”
“Findin’ this place. Cleanin’ it out. Gettin’ you clothes.” A sigh, before his voice drops, “Makin’ you come.”
“Think you oughta return the favor, don’t you?”
(Or - you take the Ghoul for a ride)
"Fuck!”
You crouch outside as another loud shotgun blast fires - the wooden door next to you peppering with bullets.
This wasn't what you had in mind.
You had thought you'd find a chem station in the next town. A pharmacy, an old hospital. Something somewhat respectable - not standing watch as the Ghoul blew his way through a long-abandoned two-story home.
The layered yelling dies off with each pull of his trigger, until everything going silent.
He finds you there a moment later, still curled in on yourself. A roll of his eyes when he sees you - still unused to the violence.
"It's clear." The Ghoul beckons, "Let's find that station."
You follow him inside, your gaze boring a hole into his back. Trying hard not to look down, nose wrinkling when you almost trip over a set of legs that sprawl across the floor.
A hand pinches at your elbow, keeping you upright.
"What?" He asks, at your expression.
"Did you have to..." You start, as he checks down the hallway.
It's empty - the doors leading to two bedrooms. The bed frames bare and rusted, the rooms already picked through.
A shrug, "They shot first."
"You goaded them."
You could hear him, even from outside. That knowing tone - some kind of warning. A rough laugh, and then the firefight had started.
"We're looking for a chem station, sweetheart." He scoffs, head cocking as he backs you up against the door he just closed, "Think they're gonna share with you like you’re on a goddamn play date?"
"They-" You blink up at him, "They might have."
He clicks his tongue, giving you a long look,"You still got a lot to learn, Vaultie."
A second, before he steps away.
"These weren't those kind of people."
You find it in the basement. A man slumped just outside the cracked-open door, the weathered lab coat stained and splattered red on the left-hand side.
Anything salvageable from above must have been brought down here. Three threadbare mattresses behind a makeshift wall. A long couch that faces a television that still runs, the picture blurry with static.
The station sits along the back wall. A beaker still bubbles over the burner, the smell acrid. Bottles litter the surface - something being made in a batch.
Your mind is already racing ahead, eyes scanning for things you'll need. Too-large gloves shoved on, disposing of the burnt mixture while you search for an empty glass.
Missing how he angles the couch to watch, feet propped up on the wooden coffee table. That ever-steady wariness waning with your focus, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sinks into the cushion.
You're too busy to notice. Sorting the different ingredients, littered across the counter.
There's an excess of toxic soot flowers, their petals papery between your fingers. Opened packages of Med-X, a spilled pile of Buffout. A jar of acid.
Psycho. Cut with something else, something stronger. You think the Ghoul was right - maybe you had been foolish to underestimate them.
You try to shake the thought away, as you gather what you need. Antiseptic, from your own bag. Three jars of glowing fungus, found beneath the sagging counter. Ground up and tipped into a dusty beaker, the heat turned down low.
"Can you get me some water?" You call from over your shoulder, a jar held in your hand.
There's no answer. Silence, until something hard presses into your back, pinning you against the table.
It feels familiar, the way his hips nudge against yours, and it sends your mind back. An urge to arch - bend low. Mimicking the days before, where you can still feel the twinge of him with the stretch of your thighs.
"You think you're callin' the shots now, sweetheart?" His voice is low, the brim of his hat brushing your head as he leans over your shoulder.
"No," You squeak - caught off-guard, "I just-, I can't leave this until it thickens."
"Mm.” His hum is low. “Too bad. Would've liked to see you try.”
Heat blooms in your cheeks at his words, that rough drawl, even after the last couple days. A thin layer of suggestion in his tone, as he shifts closer - his chest bumping into your back.
Your mind flickering through possibilities, before his voice cuts through.
“Said you need water?”
"Yes. Please," The nod you give is small - you have to start your stirring over, losing your rhythm, "I saw a few cartons in the kitchen. If you don't mind."
"Polite little thing, when you're distracted," He husks, "I'll have to remember that."
The Ghoul makes no effort to move, though. Fingers wrapping around the glass. His other hand gripping the edge of the table, boxing you in. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart thuds in your chest, eyes fixed firmly on your work.
“Where’d you learn to do this?”
It takes you a second to answer - he’d had never offered many questions. Responses that were no more than a couple of words, over the stretch of long hours on the road.
“Uh, my Vault. We were short on hands, my mother was a chemist.” Your words are slow - a still-painful topic, “Used to make all kinds of stuff. Medicine and… and chems, alike.”
People who left were always brought back. Dazed and half-sick from the world above, whatever they had seen. Left at your doorstep to be patched up, if they made it that long.
You always told yourself that wouldn’t be you.
That when you were gone, you’d stay that way.
“Hm.” His tone flattens, “Wouldn’t have guessed. Don’t seem the type.”
“Yeah?” You head turns, catching his shadowed ones. Leaning into the welcome diversion, “What type do I seem like, then?”
The Ghoul’s eyes narrow, an unconscious flick down to your mouth.
“Trouble.” He husks, with a shallow roll of his hips. You can’t help the short inhale that he’s certain to hear, the way your fingers tighten around your instruments.
“Though I’m still workin’ out what kind.”
It’s there that he leaves you. Flustered and silently revisiting evenings before, a familiar anticipation curling low inside you.
The steps creak behind you as he slips upstairs. Returning some time later with what you need - twirling a dented pot found in the kitchen, so you can purify it. Folding himself onto the couch when you tell him it will be a while.
A cut glass decanter salvaged as well, that he drinks directly from. A rough gasp as the bitter alcohol floods through him. Helping himself to the chems that litter the tabletop - before his feet kick up, the hat tipped low over his face.
You think he does rest - a rarity.
You examine him then - as you wait for the water to boil, and then cool, before you can use it to mix with the other components.
Taking the rare chance to do it freely.
In the Wasteland you’ve learned to stay cautious. That you can’t fall behind. That surely he would notice, if your gaze lingered on him for too long.
But here, time seems to slow for a moment. Nothing to do but wait, as your fingers drift to your neck. Pressing into the bruise, as if you could feel the indents of his teeth.
His presence feels the same.
A mark left on you. Something you can’t help but want to touch, even if it aches. A reminder that lingers, and there’s a part of you that wishes it would stay.
It has you wondering, as your eyes sweep across him. Over the long-faded clothes, hiding rough and reddened skin - every inch of him wrapped away.
If you got close enough-
Would you find that he bore a mark of his own?
You make enough for a little over two weeks. Carefully poured and sealed into a variety of small bottles and tubes you’ve scavenged, scraping out every last bit that you can.
In the less-than-stellar conditions, it didn’t turn out so bad. The vials you had seen him buy was a thin, piss-yellow that had made you cringe. Poor work to begin with, and that was even before it was cut with more water.
What you offer out to him is thick - a sheen clinging to the glass as it sloshes, when it passes from your hand to his.
Liquid gold, in comparison.
“Mm.” The Ghoul hums - eyes greedy, as he examines, holding it up to the bit of light.
Before they’re focusing on you. Flickering from head to toe - considering - before his legs spread a bit wider. A hand clapping down against a thigh.
The look you give him is blank. A squeak when his fingers hook around one of your belt loops and pulls - hauling you onto his lap.
“You think I’m just gonna take somethin’ you cooked up?” His brow lifts, hands pinching against your hips, “Not a chance, sweetie. I think we oughta try this together.”
The Ghoul’s fingers slip up then, rucking up the hem of your shirt. His tone turning knowing.
“And I don’t think you’ve got enough in you.”
Your cheeks burn at his insinuation. More than aware, your breath catching as the rough tips of his leather gloves drag across your skin.
“Bet I’ve been leakin’ out of you since last time.” The Ghoul rasps, “Wouldn’t want to waste this, would we?”
He’s solid beneath you. Your thighs splitting on either side of his waist, knees digging into old cushions. Close enough to kiss - if you weren’t so certain he’d bite.
Lost though, on how to proceed. You don’t know the rules to his game. Always keeping you at arms-length - wrists bound, caught in his grip.
Would he let you touch him?
He mistakes your hesitance, his brow pinching.
“Spent enough time starin’. Lookin’ like you wanted to take a ride.” Acid slips into his tone, teeth bared, “Change your mind, now you’ve got a front row seat?”
That knocks you out of your thoughts - embarrassed that you were caught staring at him. Annoyed by his assumption. A scoff, as your hips start to move, a slow roll. Hands coming up to rest against his shoulders, meeting his eyes.
They’re pretty, like the rest of him. Shades of light brown - looking like they’re caught the sun, even underground. Thick lashes, above the deep hollow of sunken eye sockets, the split cavern of his missing nose.
Something that had startled you, the first time you saw him. Now, you hardly even notice. And his mouth -
“I’m not scared of you.” You murmur, watching the way his lip curls in a sneer. A soft sound bitten back as you grind down, feeling how he’s stiff beneath you.
You wonder how long he’s been this way. Hard, from watching you work. Waiting.
Another exchange, though you wish you could tell him it doesn’t have to be that way. You had meant what you said, when you had made your offer - even if you mean it a little differently, now.
Maybe you still could.
“You should be,” The Ghoul growls - hands ghosting over your sides, up to the thin cotton, “If you had any goddamn sense. Letting me touch you like this-”
A hand is cupping your breast now. A hard swipe of his thumb against your stiff peak, your fingers biting down into his jacket.
Your hips jerk against his. A soft moan, when the seam of your pants catches against your clit - leaving you clenching around nothing.
“I want you to.” You confess - catching the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, “Told you, whatever you want.”
The Ghoul makes a rough sound in his throat, watching as you tug the cups down to fit beneath your breasts, putting yourself on display for him.
“Haven’t learned, have you?” He warns, his voice low, “Don’t make an offer you can’t follow through on.”
The pinch of his fingers sends an ache down to settle between your thighs, the hint of pain pairing with your pleasure.
Your own hand wandering, wanting to see more. Sliding against a leather vest, the stained shirt beneath that was once as blue as your suit. Frayed, looping embroidery on the faded collar.
Feeling the warmth of his skin as you tug at the snap at his throat. An inch, and then another, before he’s catching your hand.
Dragging it up to his shoulders, fixing you with a look, “You best keep those right here.”
“You don’t want me to touch you?” You ask, eyes flicking down to the peek of skin at his throat.
“I want these off.” He tells you instead, snapping the waistband of your pants against skin.
You have to leave him to do it. Watching the way his arms stretch across the back of the sofa, as you kick the pants off, then your underwear beneath.
Bare again, as you settle. Fitting yourself against the curve of his cock. Leather and metal kissing your skin as you move against him, until his lips are parted with a ragged breath.
You can feel your muscles clench. The slick slide of your pussy against his bulge, barely nudging at that deep-seated ache to be filled.
“Makin’ a mess, sweetheart.” He husks, his hips lifting to meet yours. Gloved hands moving to curl around your waist - pulling you down to meet him, coaxing a lazy rhythm from you.
“Rubbin’ up against me like a bitch in heat. Should make you clean that up.”
It coaxes a whine from you, as you let him move you. The sound does something to you - the layered approval in his tone, the low rasp of his voice. Not so unaffected as he seems, with how hard he is beneath you.
He must see it in your expression, a hand leaving the couch to grasp at your chin. Flexing up and into you, letting you feel the hard ridge of him.
“This what you want, sweetheart?”
Making you meet his gaze, as you answer. All dark eyes and the flash of teeth, under the brim of his hat.
“Yes.” You keen, “I need you, please-”
“S’that right? Need me to fuck you? Fill up that greedy little cunt?”
His head tipping back as he hums, as if disappointed. Each word exaggerated, with his slow drawl, “Well, I’d sure like to sweetheart… but it seems to me like I’ve been doing an awful lot of work around here.”
The hand leaves your chin to drop down. Slowly loosening a belt buckle, letting it pool on the cushions. Your cheeks heating when you see the slick shine to the front of his pants, where you’ve rutted yourself against him.
“Findin’ this place. Cleanin’ it out,” His eyes are on yours - your breath short as he tugs the zipper down. “Gettin’ you clothes.”
A sigh, before his voice drops, “Makin’ you come.”
You moan at that, a soft sound caught behind your teeth - fingers pinching into his shoulders.
Waiting for him to draw his cock out - fist wrapped around the base. Flushed and thick in his palm, inches away from where you need him.
The Ghoul does grin then, a wicked thing that shows his teeth.
“Think you oughta return the favor, don’t you?”
He’s giving you an inch - seeing if you’ll try to take a mile. A firm handle, still wrapped around a fist, but loosening the reins.
Letting himself watch.
“Seems fair.” You manage, breathless.
“Then go on,” He husks, “Show me how you can take it.”
Your hand reaches down, but then he’s clicking his tongue - fingers fixing back on his shoulders.
Leaving you to lift your hips. His cock slipping against your slick core, your teeth biting into your lip as you line yourself up - the rough head catching at your entrance.
It’s different this time. Sinking down on him, feeling each inch as it splits you open - instead of suddenly filling you to the hilt.
“Fuck,” You sigh, with the stretch. It twinges deep inside you, where his hips fit against yours.
Lifting yourself only to sink back down, his arms flexing beneath his coat as he lets you ride him, your pace slowly picking up until you’re bouncing on his cock.
As much as you enjoyed last time, there was something about this. Fully able to watch the way his lips part, hear the rattling groan when you tighten around him.
See the way his eyes skate across the bruise on your neck, only to drop down to watch the sway of your tits as your fingers lace behind his neck.
“Goddamn, sweetheart.” His hand flattens against the small of your back. The other gripping your hip, tugging you towards him, “You sure know how to ride.”
Not giving you time to answer, before his head is dipping. The brim of his hat knocking back when it hits your chin - the tips of your fingers just catching it. Slipping it on your own head for safekeeping before he can protest.
It earns you a sharp nip against the curve of your breast, before his lips close around the tight peak of a nipple and sucks.
You cry out, chasing the pressure that builds in your belly. Growing even more wet with the slick swirl of his tongue and the scrape of teeth - his cock grinding against a spongy spot inside you as you arch into his mouth.
“Please,” You whine, fingers flexing and then curling. Needing more friction against your clit, where your heartbeat has dropped and settled.
Trying so hard to listen, a whine between your gritted teeth. Your tits glossy with spit when he leans back, giving you a knowing look.
“You wanna come?” He husks - his eyes dropping, as you nod, “Only if you lean back and show me, sweetheart.”
Relief sings in you, as you adjust. Thighs spreading, as you grip onto his shoulder. Leaning back until he can watch the way he spears into you. How he shines, all slicked up, with each roll of your hips.
Your other hand loses its grip in his coat to slip down, press where your bodies meet.
Fingertips circle, a low moan at the much-needed touch. Your rhythm grows sloppy until his hands hook beneath your thighs. Guiding you into a harsh rhythm, each pound of his cock winding you higher and higher as the couch creaks beneath you.
“Come on, cowpoke.” He rasps, his hand cracking down against your ass, “Is that the best you can do?”
It builds - your fingers pressing harder against the slick bud. Whimpered noises that are more sound than words, as his thighs spread, feet planting so he can drive up into you.
“I said come on.” He growls, “Wanna feel you come on my cock again.”
Like before, it feels like the control slips through your fingers. Your own touch brings you close to that edge, but it’s the pounding of his cock that makes you fall.
Your back arching, crying out as your core clenches. Pleasure bursting deep inside you, racing up your spine and down to the tips of your fingers and pointed toes.
The quick thrust slowa into a lazy grind. A low “atta girl” that he grits out, as he feels the way you come hard around him.
Eyes dropping from your face to watch the greedy press of your fingers as you draw it out - until his own hand is wrapping around your wrist.
Tugging your hand away as the pleasure still courses inside you, hips still chasing the last ripples as you ride his cock.
Bringing your fingers to his mouth. Fitting them against teeth and tongue as his lips close around, tasting the slick that clings to them.
It makes goosebumps raise on your skin. The briefest thrill of fear. Certain that if you pulled your fingers free right now, the flesh and muscle would peel from you - leaving only bones behind.
He groans loudly around them, teeth indenting your skin. Tongue swirling against your knuckles, his hips rocking up to meet yours.
Freeing you, only to grasp at your hips - urging you to move faster. A loud slap of skin until his jaw is clenching - and he’s bringing you down once more against him with a rough sound.
Coming inside you again, but this time you get to see the way his head tips back with his snarl. How his fingers bite into your skin as you feel him throb - throat bared as he spills deep inside you with each rough jerk of his hips.
A flare of something flicking to life in your belly, knowing you did this to him. The groan he made when he tasted you echoing in your mind, giving you something to keep.
You make to move when he goes still, but a hand grips at your hip - holding you in place. Keeping you full of him, as the afterglow still glitters in your veins.
His eyes are dark, fixed on you. Taking in your shadowed, half-lidded gaze - sweat-dewed and bare skinned against him. His hat, still perched on your head. Looking like it belongs there.
A hand digs around in his bag. Pulling out the inhaler for his serum. Snapping it together without his gaze leaving you.
Bringing it to his mouth after - sucking in a deep, held breath. Those eyes closing with a low, contented groan.
A broad hand slips from your hip to splay across the back of your neck, fingers digging into your throat. Pulling you down to him - just as his head tilts to press his lips against yours.
Just as you soften, he exhales - the RadAway flooding through your parted lips. A stinging, metallic taste of iodine that makes you shudder, before you realize he’s deepening the kiss.
You lean into it without thought. The ache in your gums fading with the brush of his tongue. His grip anchoring you in place as he takes, licking into your mouth while his cock still fills you.
Leaving you breathless. Letting him, as your own arms wrap around his shoulders to keep him close. Meeting the messy scrape of teeth and swirl of tongue. The sharp taste fading, layered with the whisky and a hint of you that still lingers.
Before he’s pulling back far too soon, eyes dark as he pants.
“Fuck.” He rasps - his tongue tasting where yours had been, flicking across a lower lip. Before he’s looking at the inhaler - shaking it for another use.
“Looks like I might just have to keep you around.”
You make what you can with the rest of the supplies afterward - waste not, want not. An extra stimpak. Swiping the rest of the mentats, keeping the grape and berry ones for yourself. Refilling your canteen with more of the purified water.
The rest of the chems you gather - packing them in a tin. Tossing them his way, a low whistle when he sees what’s inside.
It’s late enough that the Ghoul decides it’s best to stay here, and leave at dawn. Certain that he will catch up to the bounty tomorrow, already sure of two places where he might be offloading the stolen wares.
You don’t mind. The uneasy thought of sleeping in a house with corpses quickly overshadowed by the real mattresses waiting in the basement. Stained but there’s still bedding - patched up blankets.
A fire, that he coaxes to life in the fireplace upstairs. Dinner, roasting over it.
It almost feels like something. A moment you can play pretend - that these walls will keep you safe.
That maybe you could clean it up.
That maybe he didn’t despise you, and maybe he’d want to stay.
It’s a foolish thought, a sigh as you push it from you. Digging a spoon into the rusted can of Pork ‘N Beans you had scavenged - not trusting the look of the skewer he had been tending.
A thumb running across your lower lip, as you chew. Remember how his had felt. Examining the angry marks pressed into your knuckles.
His shadow crosses over you, then - you have to crane your neck up to see him. His hat back where it belongs, much like your own clothes.
The tilt of his head, as he considers you again. Before his hand is slipping into the bag that slings across his shoulder.
Gloved fingers curling around something - tossing it silently into your lap, before he’s disappearing upstairs to finish his sweep of the house.
It’s golden, in the light of the fireplace. Seems like he’s already done a little looting of his own. A rolled up bag, the tube and needle tucked inside.
And a bottle of the RadAway you made for him.
save a horse, ride a cowboy and all that 🤠💖 (thank you so much for reading! would love to know what you thought if you enjoyed!)
#please mind the tags!#cooper howard x reader#cooper howard x you#the ghoul x reader#the ghoul x you#fallout smut#fallout tv series#fallout#cooper howard
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— WASTELAND, BABY
v. you are unbreaking, though quaking
[masterlist] | [part iv]
boba fett x f!reader
rated E - 4.2k
tags: fallout au, post-apocalyptic, canon-typical themes, mentions of violence & wounds, guns & weapon training, flirting during said training, mild body horror (descriptions of Fennec’s injury and modifications)
The meeting of a new friend, a very interesting lesson, and an afternoon spent lending a hand.
It's not long before you're taking Boba up on his offer.
A chance meeting in the marketplace - a dip of your head from across an aisle as you pass by. He's deep in conversation with a shop owner, a glint from the sun catching on the dark visor as his head tilts in your direction.
All it takes is two beckoning fingers for you to abandon your plans, veering off the path to wait quizzically next to him. Wondering if he had some task for you, something you needed to run to the Mandalorian, or Fennec.
"I was going to see her." He tells you, cryptically - as the conversation quickly wraps up, "I was hoping to run into you. Would you like to come?"
Your brain trips helplessly over his words - a little jolt as you remember, “Oh! Yes, please.”
With a nod, you're following after him. Back through the streets, though you circle around the tall set of stairs to an entrance in the back.
Entering the Palace at the ground level - winding your way inside an refurbished underground parking garage, until you're arriving at a set of metal double-doors, tightly bolted shut.
Boba pauses then, as you hover at his shoulder.
Removing his helmet to clip it to his belt, his gaze shifting your way. Thinking for a moment, before he retrieves a bundle of cloth from the bag that hangs from a shoulder - passing it to you.
You frown, as it unfolds. A soft and worn black shirt - long sleeves and fraying at the edges.
"Put this on. I thought perhaps, if your smell was familiar, she might be more comfortable." He explains.
Understanding dawns, and you resist the urge to bring the shirt - his shirt - to your nose and inhale.
"Of course." You murmur - slipping it over your head, pushing the sleeves up your arms.
"You ready?" He asks, and you just miss the slow sweep of his eyes as you tuck the edge of the shirt into the waistband of your trousers.
The nerves are still rattling around in your chest, but you nod, "Yes."
He unlocks the doors with a key from one of his pouches, a press of a bare thumb to the pad bolted on the wall. The doors are thick - grinding and loud as they open inwards, gradually letting in light.
Walking in confidently, as you trail just behind. Shoulders hunched, your heartbeat skyrocketing as you see the swish of something large and shadowed. A skittering of stones and sand shifting with the weight of a heavy foot.
One step, and then another. The arc of light from the opened door spilling out, slowly revealing the creature as she moves closer. A rumble of a deep growl that has your chest pressing into his arm, the sound of a nose snuffling.
The growl pitches up, and then it's moving. Covering the ground faster than you thought possible, as your fingers dig into the canvas covering his bicep.
Your breath catches in your throat as it lopes forward on four legs. Thrusting itself into that light - and all you can see is the snarl of sharp teeth, curling horns, it's gray, leathery skin.
You can't help it - your head presses into his shoulder as your eyes shut. Reading about them wasn't the same as seeing. Even though time has passed in the now, there were just some things your mind hasn't managed to wrap around.
Like 9-foot tall beasts that could almost swallow you whole.
Hot breath washes over you, an inhale as she sniffs both you and Boba. He coos at her, his body shifting as his other arm raises, stroking the bridge of her nose.
Your eyes peek open, then. Seeing the way her eyes shut, the low rumble as she pushes into his touch. They way he smiles like a proud father has your grip loosing, and then he's curling an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him.
"Muchi, I've brought a friend today." His voice is low and soothing, "She wanted to meet you."
His head tilts towards you, taking on a quieter tone, "Are you doing alright?"
Heat rises in your neck, curling up to your cheeks as you squeak, "Just fine."
He laughs, that grip around you tightening. The touch on her nose changes to a scratching at her jaw, as she rumbles again.
"You’re a good girl. Aren't you?"
You never thought you'd be jealous of a deathclaw, but his praise does something to you. Suddenly aware of how he's holding you, how your hand splays across the armor covering his chest.
It takes all your strength to drag your eyes away from him. Up to her, to actually take her in under the flickering bulb above.
She's fascinating, something like awe settling over you now - like the time you had seen the life-like model of a tyrannosaurus rex at the museum. Marveling over her size, even as she crouches to lower her head to his level.
A shift of her feet brings you down to her claws - each one long, deadly sharp.
Still an apex predator, even here.
"Would you like to touch her?" He asks, and your eyes are widening.
"Do you think she will let me?"
"She will." His head cocks to the side, "Do you trust me?"
You do. You nod.
Boba's hand takes yours, mapping your fingers. Carefully and slowly bring it up to her muzzle, patting your fingers against her cheek - just under a bright, golden eye.
Muchi makes another noise at that. It sounds almost happy, and you find yourself smiling. Fingers gently petting the rough skin, her eyes shutting in what you think is contentedness.
Your opinion of her swift rises.
"She's beautiful." You breathe, your smile widening, "Is she... is she happy, here?"
The room extends into darkness. Transformed from a storage space for machinery into something akin to outside. Large boulders, a scattering of small shrubs.
When you look at him, he's always watching you. A flicker of his expression as he masks the hint of tenderness, but it still lingers with his smile.
"She is. They prefer darkness and quiet for their nests." He explains, "Sometimes at night I take her out to roam. She takes direction well enough."
The arm stays carefully wrapped around you. Keeping you close, selfishly, protectively. Only stepping away from when she becomes restless, a swishing of her tail as she noses at his bag - smelling the food tucked inside.
Chasing after the pieces he throws, as his rumbling laugh brightens the space.
Yours, soon joining.
Time ticks away - and when you finally leave, you don't think to offer to give his shirt back.
And he doesn't ask, either.
Your days in Mos Espa continue to pass - each one bleeding into the next. You have been feeling a little more grounded each day, getting used to the routines.
More familiar faces, acquaintances that inch into something more.
You learn the Mandalorian's name. Din. It's gifted to you close to two months after that first walk around the city. Fennec's odd jobs often included ones for him - collecting and pieces that he could use on his own Power Armor set. Trading for fusion cores to power it.
Part of you wondered whether he just grew tired of you calling him Mando all the time, thought he was called that often enough. But eventually, you decided that maybe - just maybe, you were friends.
Perhaps because you bring him snacks, or because you ask him about his foundling. He's opened up a little, since the beginning - sentences growing longer. You can recognize the tilt of his helmet to mean one thing, now. The cock of his hip as he leans, as another.
You pick up things about Fennec, as well.
Right now, you're tying not to look at her hands too often, where they drift to press against her abdomen. The way she seems distracted, her answers coming a little more slowly.
Lingering, after you had dropped off what she had asked for - a small crate of copper, from Goodneighbor - to repair the generators that went down during the last big storm. The first of the shipments exchanged with the new supply line, their courier meeting you just outside Mos Espa.
It had been strange to step outside, through the line of barbed wire and tall, stone walls. Not that you couldn't see it from the windows of the Palace, but just the vastness sprawling in front of you - a reminder that you don't know what the world looks like, anymore.
Eventually, you can't help but ask.
"Are you alright?"
Her face is a swirl of emotions - the briefest flicker of appreciation. Quickly covered with annoyance, not wanting to be fussed over.
Not her style.
"I will be, later." She brushes the question off, but it's half-hearted. A glance outside, checking the angle of the sun for time, as she hands you a stained slip of paper, "I have one last thing. Can you give this to Din? He has something for me, and you're supposed to start training with him."
"Training?" You frown.
"Yes, training." Her smile is small, the slightest curve of your lips, "We all know you don't know how to use that."
The toe of her boot extends, to the holster around your waist. Where the gun from the farmhouse remains, never removed.
You don't even know if it's loaded - you just know that the safety is on, and it's stayed that way. More to blend in, than anything else.
"I think I've been managing okay," You hedge, resisting the urge to fidget with the brass buckle at your waist.
"Mm, well this comes from the boss," Her grin turns sharp, "So you'll have to take it up with him."
Your stomach flips at the reference. It had been hard not to think about him - the night he came to your room. His questions, something about them feeling more pointed than just merely "checking in".
Daydreaming about that stolen moment of time, tucked against him when you had met Muchi. Your brain twisting the moment late at night - making you unsure whether that touch - his shirt - had just been his attempt at comfort and safety, or whether it had something more.
The occasional run-ins after had left you feeling the same. Leaving you wondering if his gaze really did seem more intense, lately. If he had been closing the polite gap that most people held, standing a little closer than you remember he did before.
Each time, you decide that it's just your imagination.
Wishful thinking.
Fennec mistakes your silence for sullenness, her tone softening.
"I think it would be good for you. To know you can defend yourself, if you ever need to."
She's right - you still have dreams about the farmhouse. Waking up with a gasp, brow dotted with sweat. So different than the old dreams - those slow loops you had been stuck in, day after day.
Year after year, more like.
So, you find yourself agreeing - trotting off to the edge of town. Where the group of houses break apart and then fade, where the cobblestone turns to dirt roads. Off to find Din, or so you've been told.
You find him, the sun glinting off the shining silver of his armor. A row of crates lines up to make a barrier, a handful of younglings in the mid to late teens taking turns at the makeshift range, under closer supervision.
A wash of emotions come over you - a sadness that those at such a young an age are learning this. Unable to help the small smile at the way they turn their heads for approval as they hit a target - looking for Din. His soft "good job, kid" that leaves them beaming.
A curl of embarrassment - at having to practice with them, worrying you'll make a fool of yourself.
He sees you coming, a tilt to his head and his hip as he keeps watch. Taking the paper, reading it quickly before tucking it into his bags.
"Was wondering when you'd be sent my way." Din greets you, helmet tilting down as his gloves ghost over the guns resting on the makeshift table. Halting on a long rifle, before passing it over to you.
It's heavy and solid in your arms, as he walks you to the end. Fishing a few bullets out the pouches at his waist, carefully conserved. Scarce in the Wasteland - a reminder to take this seriously.
"This is uh-, a lot bigger than I was expecting," You trail behind him, as he guides you down to the end of the range.
Showing you the basics - where the safety is, how to hold it in your arms, nudging your feet into position.
Your first shot going so far wide that it disappears into the Wasteland. Fingers fumbling as you copy how he ejected the old casing, replacing it with a new one.
Wanting desperately to do well, but it’s hard with him standing at your shoulder. Silent as a statute, but it doesn’t make you feel any less pathetic.
The next round goes just as poorly.
“I’m making you nervous.” He observes, stepping back. Placing a few more bullets on the barrier, “Take some time, get comfortable with the weight, and try again.”
You can breathe again, when he leaves. Hoisting it back into place, peering down the sights.
Barely grazing the upper right corner of the target, but at least you’re hitting something now.
When you look up again, there’s no glint of silver. Replaced with a swatch of green instead, your eyes drawn so easily to it as Boba moves down the line, as Din had.
The younglings settle, with their new teacher. The idle teasing and chatter disappearing as they begin to concentrate.
Rewarded with solemn nods of his head, that they eagerly soak up. Advice taken with wide eyes, their attention transfixed as he crouches - pointing down at the targets.
A clap on the shoulder as their stance is adjusted, something murmured that makes them beam.
When he finally reaches you, you’re realizing you’re been staring this whole time - the rifle dipping down towards the ground, brushing against the grass.
There’s the quirk of his lips as his eyes meet yours, as you smile at him in greeting. But then he’s gesturing with two fingers that point towards you, then flick towards the target.
“Show me.”
Your smile fades, already anticipating missing. Taking your time to line everything up like you did the last time.
The careful pull of a finger, followed by the loud bang - a wince as the stock kicks back against your shoulder.
A mark appears, a clean hole showing just outside the largest red ring.
Your grin appearing again, as his head tilts.
“Not bad,” He says, as he steps closer, “A lucky shot, but you made it.”
Your eyebrows raise, “Lucky?”
“I could see you flinch from here,” His arms cross, as he leans on the barrier. “You closed your eyes, anticipating the recoil.”
You hadn’t even realized you had. Firing was part you disliked the most - the rumble in your hands, the thud of pressure against your shoulder.
“And you’re twisting too much. Here.”
His hands are at your elbows, as he steps behind you. Tucking them closer to you, then gently adjusting your fingers.
So close that it’s hard to concentrate fully, your attention split as his armor presses against your back. Wanting him to stay like that - mourning when he takes a step back to give you room.
“Again.”
You fire. This time it’s lower, closer. The impact not as harsh - and he’s there again, stepping into your space as you both look down to see you’ve hit the third ring from the center.
“I hit it!” You exclaim - missing his smile, as you point excitedly.
“You did.” He nods with approval, “Good girl.”
And god, it’s so different when it’s directed at you.
Before, it had felt like a little jolt to your brain, as silly as that was. Now, goosebumps threaten to prickle down your arms, in spite of the heat. A little hitch of your breath as your heart pounds.
There’s a tug, as he takes the rifle from you. A ghost of his fingers against your hip, the thigh. The sound of a button snapping as he works your pistol from holster, pressing it into your hands, instead.
“Now, this one.”
You look down at it as the flutters in your belly start to wane - your companion from the beginning. One that you know nothing about.
“This one?” You echo.
It’s so much lighter. Stocky, a short barrel and a thick handle - heavy in your hand.
“This is what you’re carrying. You should learn to know it.” He advises, as you look down.
“I don’t even know if it works.” You admit, “I just took it, like you told me to.”
Before you can blink he’s plucking it from your open palm. A quick inspection before his arm extends - the briefest moment before he’s putting a hole through the dead center.
It sends a different kind of thrill through you. Something breathless as you remember just how skilled he is, how this is nothing.
Your eyes are wide as he presses it back into your hands. Fingers lingering, his chest so close to yours as he leans - as all you’re able to do is blink dumbly up at him.
Din appears at his shoulder then, and your eyes drop - stepping back, as you nudge the safety on. Cheeks warming at getting caught, though you remind yourself that there was nothing to catch - he was just helping you.
He passes a small, golden cylinder to Boba, "Just came in, had to go pick it up. Thank you for keeping an eye on things."
"Think nothing of it," The cell is turned around in his hands, checking either side for wear or damage, "She's not happy, we've cut it too close."
There's a sigh, Din folding his arms as you reholster your pistol.
His voice low, not wanting to be overheard, "My contact said there's some Gunners making trouble. Out towards that settlement to the east. They didn't want to move the product until I sent an armed escort.”
A look passes between them, before Boba turns his attention to you, "Do me a favor, sen’ika. Take this to Fennec, she’s in her quarters."
You take the cell from him automatically, a quick look thrown his way for confirmation. Never once have you been in Fennec’s room - she was too private of a person.
But he’s already turned back to Din, and by now you’re used to such a dismissal. Not taking offense - actually appreciating the interruption because it meant that you could breath again.
Trying not to think too much about how his arms fit around you - the “good girl” he had murmured. Curling sweetly on his tongue and making something in your lower belly ache.
The door is shut when you arrive, as you knock on the wooden door. Her room was on the second floor, down the wing from where you’ve heard Boba’s is.
Trying not to think about that, as well - as you wait for her answer. Her voice sounding weaker than usual, as you enter - having to use your shoulder to nudge the heavy door open.
“Was hoping he’d send you,” Fennec grimaces, half-slumped on a couch, tucked off to the side.
The small gun in her hand clattering to the table as you cross the room quickly, lowering to your knees in front of her.
“Stars, are you okay?” The worry is back in full force, catching the sweat on her brow, her pinched expression.
“Yes,” She huffs, her grin grim, “Well, fine enough.”
Growing serious for a moment, “I need you to help me with something, bluebird.”
“Anything.”
There’s a twitch to her lips, at how quickly and genuinely you answer, “Usually Boba does this. But I think you’ll be better suited.”
Her eyes drop to your hands, where they press into the worn fabric of the couch.
Another long moment, and for some reason - you think she might be nervous. Which is laughable, considering everything you know about the assassin.
Never seeming afraid or ruffled by anything.
It makes you want to comfort her. Your voice going low and soothing, like it had years ago - helping your family with their scrapes and bruises, “What can I do?”
“Easier to show you, I think.”
Her eyes flick up to yours, before she pushes herself up to a seated position. Fingers hovering at the dark, thick band at her waist - before she’s tugging it back.
You’re unable to help the small gasp.
Where soft skin should be, there’s a cavern. Filled with bundles of wires and tubes, metal replacing flesh.
“Who did this to you?” You breathe, looking up at her.
Where’s she’s watching, the apprehension more evident. But at your question it eases - a small, rueful smile replacing it.
“Boba did.”
Your heart plummets, fingers curling into fists.
“Easy, bluebird.” She soothes - though you still can’t draw your eyes away, “He saved me.”
That catches your attention, gaze finally lifting to yours.
“I was shot and left to die.” Fennec tells you - her words automatic, practiced. Softening, just a bit, “Boba found me in the Wastelands, and fixed me. Some things had to be replaced, but it was a while ago.”
A pause, as she reiterates, “I’m fine.”
You settle then, the fear and distress easing. Risking another quick glance down, and then away - not wanting to stare.
Realizing your tight grip on the fusion cell, holding it out to her.
“Does this… go in there?” You ask meekly, not sure how else to word it.
She laughs at that - a sigh, as if she’s been holding her breath, “Smart girl.”
Taking it from you, angling some wires out of the way - to where to can see another cell fitted against the metal side.
“The one I have is low. Almost out. It powers a lot of the pieces in here. If it runs out, it will be very painful.” She lets the words hang.
You’re sure it would be more than that. She’s been moving slowly all day, the discomfort evident in her typically-easy tone. One last question works it’s way into your mind.
“Will it hurt you?”
Her jaw grits, “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” You shift on your knees, focusing on the fitted cell - holding out your hand for the new one.
It’s cool in your grip. You can do this - you’ve gotten good at tinkering since you’ve woken up. Just don’t think about this cell powering the stomach of your boss and friend.
A moment, as you take a breath.
“You can do this.” She tells you.
You nod, “You can, too.”
Trying not to think too deeply about it - about fucking it up - as you reach in. Fingers brushing the curved edge of the cell before they wrap around, gently tugging.
There's sharp hiss of breath through clenched teeth, her body tensing as you tug it free. As the small green bulb attached to the casing dims down to nothing.
Quickly and carefully, you fit the new piece in, nudging it until it clicks back into place.
Both of you taking a breath then, relieved. The cover fitting back into place, as you move to sit on the other edge of the couch instead.
"Fuck, that’s better." She sighs, rubbing at her abdomen. Some of the color coming back into her cheeks, her expression less pained.
But there's something that settles in your heart after - a small ache.
"Fennec." You ask, as her head turns your way, "Were you worried to tell me? About your-"
You search for the words, "…cybernetics?"
She sighs then, easing back against the couch a little more, "Yes, and no. It's not easy, being part synth. There's a lot of distrust in the world, now. Especially if you are... different."
You nod slowly, an edge to your words, "Unfortunately, that sort of thinking isn’t new."
"Then I'm sure you can understand where I was coming from." Fennec answers grimly.
Another silence settling for a moment. Giving you a moment to take in her room - the table just off to the side. The wide bed, set in the middle of the connection room.
Bits of her collections scattered throughout the rooms, her rifle sitting on a long worktable next to the tall windows.
You've come a long way, since you first arrived.
"Well, anytime you need help - you're welcome to my nimble fingers," You smile, holding them up, wiggling them towards her.
She scoffs, hiding the bit of smile. Pushing up then, as you follow. Taking her lead, knowing that if you were in her place, you'd want to rest.
Her voice, halting your steps in the doorway.
"Glad you stuck around, kid."
It's kind, genuine. The unspoken understood - and not just for this. A small offering, something that is not extended often.
The gesture tugs at you.
Making you think about your time here. About Din - his gruff kindness - slowly coaxed out his shell.
The way Boba had looked at you, those weeks before - eyes intense, as if trying to read your mind. The almost vulnerable way he had asked if you were going to leave.
How you hadn't wanted to. Not at all.
You smile.
"I am, too."
sen'ika - little bird
ahh more 👀 feelings 👀 this week (with more to come!) thank you for reading 💚 part v will be out thursday, the 6th! and if you’d like to get tagged, please fill out the series taglist here!
(0-pressure tags 💕: @spaceydragons, @luladoll, @obiknights, @wingofshadow, @bobathirstaccount, @reluctant-mandalore, @ohheyitsokay, @floral-force, @valentine-tx, @ri-a-rose, @dreamlandcreations, @vellichormybeloved, @writeforfandoms, @winchestershiresauce, @monada43, @rescuethewretched, @thegalaxys-edge, @honeydjarin, @ray-rook, @dumfanting, @bedky, @thirsty-boba-fett-posts, @dukeoftheblackstar)
#please mind the tags!#boba fett x reader#boba fett x f!reader#boba Fett x you#boba fett x female reader#fallout au#boba fett imagine
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Bruce: Jaylad, I need you to be at the Wayne gala this weekend.
Jason: But why me, B? Why not pretty boy, Dickie? I'm sure the ladies miss him.
Bruce: Your brother has a double shift this weekend.
Jason: How about the brat? He needs the socialization.
Bruce: Will be at the Kents' for a sleepover.
Jason: How about -
Bruce: The rest of your siblings will be busy, lad.
Jason: But Bruce, I'll be busy too. And even though I wasn't, I don't want to be around those pretentious fuck - people.
Bruce: Diana will be there.
Jason: Why didn't you start with that? Absolutely! I'll be there, old man. And I'll need a new suit.
--
at the gala
Diana: Aw, you look really handsome, little prince.
Jason blushes and smiles like the little boy who saw Wonder Woman for the first time.
#please jason you're such a fanboy#my mind is back at this again#incorrect batfamily quotes#incorrect dc quotes#incorrect batfam#incorrect quotes#batfamily#batdad#wondermom#yes this tag#bruce wayne#jason todd#diana prince#batman#wonder woman#wonderbat#dc comics
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This season, on Hermitcraft...
(speedpaint)
#i never ask for reblogs But this is a special occasion so pretty please reblog reblog reblog! thank you ^_^#hermitcraft#rendog#vintagebeef#tangotek#i'm not tagging everyone :0 those three get tags bc they were the more important ones lore-wise this season#i'm tempted to also tag grian scar and mumbo for the Exposure but i'm not gonna#edit: changed my mind i'm tagging them i have no shame#grian#goodtimeswithscar#mumbo jumbo#mcyt#fanart#special shoutout to hc recap bc i watched all of the recaps for s9 and took a Bunch of notes to figure out what and how to draw for this#(and i still didn't manage to draw everything i wanted to bc of just sheer amount of stuff that happened this season lol)
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A little semi realism experiment with leon
reblogs are appreciated!
#leon s kennedy#resident evil 4#leon kennedy#resident evil#fanart#mangosart🦐#leon kennedy x reader#adding this tag please dont mind me#re4#tumblr tags please be gracious today🙏
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