grandlinedreams
not a lot, just forever
writer | mdni | side blog | follows back from kikouku | requests: OPEN. see pinned for details. | currently obsessed w the SJM verse
759 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
cokeheadbrian
A Boi Who Is Trash
maoluxury
Mao Mao
narabea06
Niki/Bea :>
lizzy06
Magic Corner
traincoded
carbon fibre marriage zone
Text
|| notes: literally inspired by the fact I got cut twice shredding carrots for carrot cake 😭
|| warnings: mentions of blood, blood eating(?), unsanitary bc ew, injury, can be read as either pre or during s1, mentions of cannibalism, Canon typical gore/violence
Looting is always a gamble. A messy gamble this time, as you eye the remains of the raider, the spew of blood and bone into the sand ㅡ and then sigh and crouch to begin patting the corpse down.
"Don't know why you act like you feel bad for 'em," comes the rough voice of your companion behind you, chastising the way you always hesitate. "Them or us, sweetheart. Remember that."
"I know," you mumble. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."
Cooper stares at you. You can feel the weight of his gaze, weighing before he scoffs and moves off with the jingle of his spurs. He loves to mock you for all the softness the wastelands has yet to beat out of you ㅡ but does what he can to preserve it, in his own way.
He does most of the killing, but you do most of the looting. Your hands are smaller than his, still radaway smooth and nimble. But it's as you're digging around in the raider's backpack (that horribly smells of rotten meat) that something sharp bites into your fingertips, makes you hiss a curse as you tug your hand free.
Bright red blood wells from two fingertips and spills down your skin, warm and smelling of copper ㅡ and you shrug and wipe it off on your jeans before dumping the pack out. Broken glass scatters ㅡ a vial of either radaway or some sort of alcohol, sharp smelling and unsalvagable.
"You about done, honeybunch? We gotta keep movin'." Cooper prompts and you sigh as you gather what you'd been able to (three cans of cram, two metal bottles of water, and a medkit) and shove it into your own pack before you stand.
"Ready," you say, blinking when he stares at you, and your brow furrows. "What?"
He gestures. "You're bleedin'," he says, and you bring your hand up to find it still dripping freely ㅡ the cuts are apparently deeper than you'd thought. "C'mere."
"I've got a medkit, I canㅡ"
"Darlin'." Cooper's expression is unreadable. "I said come here." The 'now' implicit in the edge to his tone and the way he stares you down. You roll your eyes, annoyed as you approach. Cooper doesn't even bat an eye, ignoring your yelp of protest as he snatched your hand.
"Heyㅡ"
He squeezes your hand, folds your fingers so that the bleeding two are still extended, then brings them to his mouth.
The press of his lips around them is strange, and the work of his tongue even more so ㅡ he rolls the muscle over both slowly, dark eyes never leaving yours as he sucks on your fingers.
You're not sure how to feel about it, knowing that he's partaken in eating human flesh, that he could easily bite down and take your fingers with the snap of his teeth ㅡ but he doesn't.
His tongue rolls over them a couple more times before he lets them slip from his mouth, eyeing the now slick digits and humming.
"Satisfied?" You're proud your voice doesn't waver, doesn't give a hint of the heat the action has ignited somewhere in your veins, and uncomfortable stir of ache you don't feel like contending with right now.
"Not really," he answers, voice husky. He still hasn't let go of your hand. "But it's a start."
48 notes
·
View notes
Text
|| this man is an exposed live wire in my brain ok
|| notes: uhh prequel to [this] and [this], semi Canon compliant, pre-s1 but mentions of pre-war Cooper, I love the dynamic 😔👌✨️
|| warnings: hopefully IC Cooper, asshole x asshole dynamic we love to see it, weapons/supply dealer!reader, Canon typical violence, mention of blood/reader is injured kinda, spoilers? Abt Cooper's backstory, kinda enemies to friends/lovers
He doesn't know why he's here.
No, that's a lie ㅡ he does know why he's here, he just doesn't want to admit it. To himself, or to anyone else, for that matter. That he needs help.
Those fancy little bullets for his gun are hard to come by, few and far between when he can't get them by looting and places like Ma June's enjoy extorting as much as they can for so very little.
There's a difference between business transactions and highway robbery, even now. Which is why he's here ㅡ he'd gotten talk about a place that sold weapons and weapon-related supplies at a fair rate, and necessity had made him swallow his pride to go and find out for himself.
Which is why he's not just turning around and fuckin' leaving.
The building is crammed between two others, as ramshackle as the rest being made of recycled tin and wood that's rotted by time and rain in places, but still suggests a stability that won't crumble if somebody breathes too hard on it.
Cooper's spurs jingle as he walks, lost momentarily to the chime of something over his head when he pushes the door open. He looks up, forehead creasing.
Is that a bell?
Rusted but still in working order, it clatters again when he shuts the door, looking around. It's about as put together as any other kind of shop, an eclectic organization to it ㅡ a couple of rifles, a pistol or two, along with an admittedly impressive assortment of knives ㅡ but it's the shine of something on the floor that makes Cooper stop.
His head cocks as he studies the stain, the still-slick shimmer to it that makes him crouch and drag two gloved fingers against it, studying the residue. Coppery, with a hefty dose of some kind of chem to clean it, but still unmistakable ㅡ blood.
Well damn. He doesn't know what's happened here and he's pretty sure he doesn't care to, much beyond the fact that if the runner of this place is dead, that puts a damper on things. Or maybe not ㅡ if nobody's here, what's to stop him from taking what he wants?
"If you're thinkin' of stealing," comes a call that snaps his head up as it echoes from further back in the building, "I'd advise you not to. Less you wanna meet your maker, then I'd be happy to assist."
It's a flat bravado that both amuses him and piques his interest, and he leans against the counter to rap his knuckles. "Not stealin'," he drawls, "just wonderin' what kind of business model you've got if you make customers wait."
"The kind where patience is still a virtue, that's what." Foosteps, unhurried ㅡ and then Cooper is staring at you as you round the corner. You've got a jumpsuit of some indistinguishable color opened to rest around your hips, dingy tank-top underneath ㅡ and a stimpak in your hand. No doubt for the mess of your other arm, bicep wrapped with gauze that's already seeped into a bloom of bright red.
Well now. Cooper wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but you still manage to surprise him. Enough that he's staring, which makes you scowl.
"I know that look," you challenge, "if you think I'm easy picking, you'll get a new place to breathe from, courtesy of the hole I'll put in your head."
Cooper's head cocks. "Well now sugar," he says, "that's not very nice now, is it? Wasn't even thinkin' of that." He turns, jerks a thumb at the half-assed cleaning of the mess on the floor. "That's your doin', I reckon."
You nod. "Don't get trouble much," you say, "but when I do, I make sure to prove a point." You jam the stimpak into your arm, and he watches the tension melt from your shoulders. "Now, what can I do for you besides point out the exit?"
Well damn, Cooper thinks again. You've got a pretty face, but it's at odds with the attitude coming from that nice little mouth of yours. About as welcoming as a rattlesnake and probably just as quick to anger, from the way you bristle as he eyes you.
"Need supplies," he says, and you snort.
"What a wellspring of information you are. What kind of supplies?" You eye him, brow furrowing. "You're a bounty hunter, aren't you? Get your kind in here all the time." You tap a worn boot against the floor, hands now on your hips. "Hope you got means to pay for shit, because I don't do tab and I sure as fuck don't do charity work."
Cooper isn't sure if he likes you or he hates you. Bit of both, he guesses. The like is tentative and the hate is more solid ground, because he hates just about everybody. Makes it easier to do what needs to be done.
"Well, sweetheart," he leans into the counter, tips his hat, "depends on what you got to show me that's worth buyin'."
You stare, unimpressed by whatever angle he's going for. He's handsome, you'll give him that ㅡ but not much else. He also reminds you of somebody, with that hat of his and the way he talks ㅡ the low, drawn out drawl that you've only seen in those movies you manage to scrounge up here and there for your amusement.
Rolling your eyes, you hold up a finger and shrug your arms back into the jumpsuit, though you don't bother to zip it up. "Gimme a sec."
You don't know why you're doing this. Entertaining the notion that if you show him good enough product, he'll become a regular. You like regulars, but most of what you get seem to run on about six months worth of visits and then vanish.
Probably dead. Such is the way of the world, and it's still enough to get by. But you like new faces.
To his credit, he doesn't flinch when you slap the first pack onto the counter, followed by a second, and then a third.
"This is baseline stuff," you explain. "Your usual grade of bullet. Black powder, the standard kick." You shove the first pack at him, let him inspect the bullets. "Then you've got these."
The second pack shoved over, thin fabric parted so he can eye the neat little row of what would be hollow-point bullets if they didn't end with a tiny, pointed bulb of red glass.
"Explosive rounds." Your expression is unreadable. "They do the job, but they need special packing. Unless you wanna be blown up before the damn things even get loaded into the gun."
Cooper hums, eyes the bullet he holds up, the barely there shift of powder in the glass. He watches as you push the third over. "And these?"
"Same, but they pack even more of a punch. I'd recommend only shooting them at shit you want up in smoke." You shrug. "Or people, deathclaws, whatever the fuck you do out there."
Cooper studies you. "Where did you get this stuff? Thought bullets were hard to come by."
You give him a flat look of annoyance. "I make 'em myself."
Cooper stares, then smirks. Another little tip to his head. "Really now," he says, watches you bristle like a viper, ready to strike. Wonders if those fangs of yours pack a punch, what he'd need to do to get you to spit at him. "How 'bout you show me, darlin'? Wanna make sure what I buy is good quality."
You should tell him to shove it. Tell him to get the absolute fuck out of your shop, take his fuckin' yeehaw personality to someone else in the mood to deal with it ㅡ but you don't.
Instead, you sigh and tug the packages back, moving away from the counter. "Well c'mon then," you prompt, irritated. "Don't have all goddamn day."
The back of your shop is half a home and half a workshop, sprawled mess of equipment rusted with time but otherwise well maintained, smell of grease and hot metal and gunpowder that clings to everything.
You don't have to look back to know he's followed you, the jingle of his spurs as he takes his time, eyes missing nothing. The boxes of empty casings and empty glass bulbs ㅡ and the Mister Handy that's slumped in the corner, sparks spitting from it.
"Poor thing got shot first with that...situation earlier." Your voice is quiet. "Gotta fix 'im if I can."
Kind of funny, you sound sadder about the damn machine than the fact you'd killed someone over it. Then again, they'd been trying to kill you, so...eh. Justified, in your book.
The rest of the room is a haphazard attempt at something like a house ㅡ a couch with blankets on it, a short stack of books gone yellow at the edges, a coffee table ㅡ and sitting on it is a shitty little television, staticy and without color ㅡ but that doesn't matter. What matters to Cooper is that he knows what it's playing.
Your flitting around fades a little as he watches himself on screen ㅡ forever ago, a lifetime ago. Before the bombs, before vault-tec ㅡ when he'd been happy.
He'd loved his life, his family ㅡ and they'd loved him too.
"I've got enough stuff to make another round of flash-baㅡ" You stop, blinking at the way he's staring at the television. "Somethin' wrong? I know this isn't much, but it's my way of living, soㅡ"
"Stop your yappin'," Cooper rasps, and you glare as he shakes himself out of whatever reverie he was lost in. You scowl.
"Look, I know this doesn't seem like much of anything, but this is my business, and my shop." Your eyes narrow. "So try to be a little fuckin' nicer if you want me to sell you anything."
Whatever patience he'd had left promptly snaps like a bowstring as he snatches your arm, grips it tighter than he should. "Listen, sweetheart," he hisses, "what exactly is stopping me from just takin' what I want and leaving?"
Something whirrs behind him, distracts him just enough for the cool, sharp kiss of metal at his throat.
"Do it," you taunt, expression unreadable, grip tight on the blade you hold to his neck. "You're not the first one to try, and you won't be the last."
And there, Cooper notes, are your fangs, ready to sink into his skin. The two of you stare at each other for a good, long minute while the Mister Handy spits and sputters. And then Cooper huffs something like a laugh. "Glad to see you've got some bite to you, darlin', but I still think I could handle you."
A threat and something a little less hostile all in one, even as you yank your arm out of his grasp. "You couldn't handle me even if I came with a fuckin' manual," you snap back, but there's a playful gleam to your eyes. "You gonna buy anything or just lookin' to be a pain in my ass?"
A crooked grin tugs at Cooper's mouth. "Both."
ㅡ
The truce between the two of you is tentative. An understanding in the barest sense, because neither of you are dumb enough to pass up a lucrative, beneficial deal. He gets his supplies, you get caps. Simple.
You won't go as far as to say you're even friends, up until the point that you greet him on a visit with, "You know, you remind me of somebody."
He eyes you. "Really now. And who would that be, sweetheart? You workin' with more ghouls than just me?"
You snort. "Careful," you tease, "you almost sound jealous." Your tone quiets as you drum your fingers on the counter. "Nah, you remind me of that one actor, Cooper Howard."
Cooper stills. Watches you warily, turning a spent bullet casing over and over between gloved fingers.
"He played a cowboy," you say, nodding to yourself. "Talked like you do, too. Good movies, at least the ones I've gotten my hands on." You eye him, playful light to your eyes. "Wouldn't happen to be a fan of him too, would you?"
Cooper debates. He's not sure if you've put the pieces together and if you have, you're polite enough not to say it. He appreciates that, makes that fleeting temptation of putting a bullet in your head all the more temporary. He likes you. Be a shame if he had to cut ties.
"No," he answers. "I can safely say he and I are nothin' alike." Not anymore. He lets himself lean over the counter, too close to your face. Intimidation, maybe, or perhaps just because he likes being able to look at you like this. "Got anythin' else to tell me?"
Your eyes flick over his face, down to his lips as you lean a little closer, the suggestion of your mouth just shy of his. "Yeah," you murmur, quiet. "Next time you come by, work on your fuckin' manners."
#ㅡmine.#fallout x reader#cooper howard x reader#the ghoul x reader#now to get the norm thing done for Lexis!!
87 notes
·
View notes
Note
Me: oh cool some cooper howard content on my dash
Me: WAIT ITS FROM GRANDLINE DREAMS AYOOO YASSS
I'M PROUD TO BE OF SERVICE 🫡
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Deep inhale Cooper's the type to make you get off on his boot and talks down to you the entire time. Tells you "now babydoll don't give me that look, I'm being real nice lettin' you have anything, don't you think?" "Be nice now or I'll just have to go find someone else to be such a good little plaything, hm?" Spits in your mouth too, especially w radaway and stuff
Is this a safe space to say smthing
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
Is this a safe space to say smthing
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
Cooper Howard
#thats it thats the post.#bye#i gotta stop by the office and pick up smthin and then i gotta pick up stuff for dinner#ough#ㅡtalk.
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
COMN FANFIC WRITERS !!
16K notes
·
View notes
Text
Fuck it *ABOs ur fallout* bc I gotta put the brainrot somewhere shameless pretty much pwp coop fic coming sometime soon bc I gotta get it out of my system IM GNAWING AT THE BARS OF MY CAGE
1 note
·
View note
Text
“We should get married.”
The question in and of itself is a strange one, made more so for the fact that it’s coming from Zoro of all people – and the fact that he’s asking you in the middle of a fight. Your back is pressed against his, the heat of his skin seeping into your clothes – and you wonder if he’s gotten hit in the head too many times. Or thrown through too many things – too much of something.
“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your tone is incredulous as you swing your weapon, scowling as you watch another enemy drop with a cry and a splatter of blood. “We’re a little busy right now, aren’t we?”
Zoro grins, expression manic with the deepened shadows of his face from his bandana, adjusting to place the hilt of Wadou Ichimonji in his mouth. “Is that a yes?”
You have the brief moment of considering knocking Zoro out for your opponent – clearly his daily naps out in the sun have baked his brain more than you previously thought. “No!”
–
The question doesn’t turn out to be borne from a brain-based injury flaring up, because Zoro doesn’t let the subject go. He bides his time, waiting about two weeks from when he first asked before he tries again.
This time, the stars are a witness to his buffoonery – now fueled by the bottles of sake he seems to have squirreled away everywhere on the Thousand Sunny. You watch as he tips the bottle to his lips, the brief shimmer of liquid that beads at his lips before it disappears as he swallows.
“We should get married,” he says, and this time, you scoff. It isn’t one of disdain, rather of amusement as you wait for the alcohol induced flush to rise to his cheeks. “‘m serious, you know.”
“No,” you counter softly as you scoot closer to him, reaching up to wipe a drop of sake from the corner of his lips and bring it to your own for a taste. As ever, his own choices in alcohol seem to be tailored for him and him alone – sake still isn’t your thing. “You’re drunk.”
Zoro hums, eye flicking from the night sky above to you. “Is that a yes?”
You press your lips to his warm cheek. “Ask me again when you’re sober.”
–
The third time that he asks, he’s waited so long that you’ve almost forgotten that he ever asked in the first place. After all, Roronoa Zoro has never seemed like someone interested in the intimate entanglement of marriage – you have absolutely no clue what has possessed him to suddenly ask you with this kind of tenacity.
“We should get married,” he says, and you resist the urge to sigh as you stare at him, his head pillowed against your thigh. Below the shade of Nami’s tangerine trees, you can hear Luffy’s bright laughter intermingled with Usopp and Franky’s.
This time you aren’t in the middle of a fight, nor is he drunk. This time, you take a moment to study his face, the dapple of sunlight through waxy green leaves, the scent of citrus in the air. You love him, you’re sure of that – as sure as you’ve been of anything in your life.
“We’re pirates,” you answer, tapping your fingers against his cheek in an echoed rhythm of one of Brooke’s songs from the night before. “Pirates don’t get married.”
“Sure they do.” He’s watching you now, with the kind of intensity he usually only reserves for battle, and you look away. “Captains can officiate marriages. I asked Robin about it.”
You blink and let your attention shift to Luffy for a minute – you love your captain, you do. But the idea of him being serious about much of anything beyond what matters to him (food, his crew’s safety, finding the One Piece – in that order) makes you giggle. You can’t imagine him officiating something like a marriage.
“What if I want a ceremony?” Your fingers find his cropped green hair, stroking gently across his scalp. “Those are expensive.”
He shrugs. “We’d find a way. I’m sure Nami would help.”
Your lips curve in an amused smile for a moment before it dims at the edges. “It’d be dangerous,” you point out, and he answers with a short bark of laughter.
“Not any more than shit we’ve already faced.”
“Rings?”
“We don’t need that fancy stuff.”
Your smile fades completely, hand stilling in his hair. “Why do you think we should get married?”
There must be an edge to your tone now, because Zoro refocuses on you, all signs of mirth gone. “Because we love each other, right? Sounds like the next logical step.”
Your gaze hardens. “So you’re asking because you think we should? Or because you want to marry me?” He sits up, and you get to your feet.
“Is that a no?” he asks, and you pause.
“Ask me again when you figure things out, Zoro.”
–
“Marry me.”
This time, his voice is quiet. Soft and vulnerable – for the late hour or the intimacy of his bare skin against yours, you aren’t sure. His hand drifts up and down your back, counting the bumps of your spine over and over.
You shift against him, face nestled to rest against his chest. “Zoro–”
“I’ve thought about it,” he cuts you off. “So just be quiet and listen, okay?” You don’t say a word, waiting for him to continue on his own. “I don’t want to marry you just because I think that I should, I want us to get married because you...you mean a lot to me. You’re important to me, and I –” He pauses, struggling. This kind of thing is not Zoro’s forte, you both know that – but after a moment, he resumes. “I don’t see myself being like this with anyone but you. I don’t want to be like this with anyone but you. Just want you.” A moment of silence, hearts beating in tandem.
You move, adjusting enough that you can look at him properly, the gleam of moonlight against his face. And you kiss him. Slow and sweet, eyes sliding shut as you linger for as long as you can before you pull away.
“Marry me,” he repeats.
This time, you don’t squawk at him like he’s crazy. You don’t accuse him of being drunk, don’t deflect him for fear that he’s doing it because he thinks he should, not that he wants to. This time, you smile.
“Yes,” you answer. “I’ll marry you.”
4K notes
·
View notes
Note
Mmmmhmmm yep yep I found the most absolute exquisite writings on this silly website. Thank you for your service, your copper fic is literally.. beautiful. I can’t even put it into words. If there’s more parts then I found a reason to live. If there isn’t…. Rip.
Wkdjdhss pls I have so many ideas, I have a prequel meeting fic for that particular 'reader', an abo!thing bc fuck it abos ur fallout, some pre-war stuff AND some stuff for Norm and Maximus!! Pls this show is front and center rn I'm foaming at the mouth
1 note
·
View note
Text
writing self indulging smut is the most vulnerable act a writer can commit. you're exposing yourself so much it feels inappropriate, exhibitionist even. here, have a list of my kinks, preferences, fears, traumas, and desires disguised as two blorbos fucking like rabbite
#real#'hey u'll never guess what i discovered abt myself after two glasses of wine and staring at this blorbo long enough'
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
|| welcome fellow Ghoul fuckers ily
|| notes: sequel to [this], got nothin' to really say beyond reader and Cooper make the most fucked up implied pseudo parents for Lucy lmao, Canon somewhat compliant, post s1, gonna have to wait for the prequel meeting dic to know why reader knows Coop's whole name
|| warnings: weapons supplier!reader, Canon typical gore/violence, something something save a horse ride a cowboy, NSFW ㅡ fingering, edging (i had to take a lap around my house), irradiated cream pie, unprotected sex (supposedly those swimmers are FRIED but I can dream),
The low croak of a crow echoes over the barren stretch of sunbaked, irradiated earth ㅡ and the creature itself lands on the bent, rusted post of a long gone sign. Tilts its head this way and that, blinks liquid black eyes ㅡ three of them. Then squawks indignantly when a bullet narrowly misses it, jet black wings flaring as it takes to the sky to complain in that low, creaking voice.
"Get lost," you tell the bird, glancing at the way Dogmeat tracks the creature. Then she whines, licks at her muzzle like she wants to go catch and eat the damn thing.
"Don't even think about it, pup." You inform her, soothing the disappointment with rough scratches to her head that have her nudging for more before you walk away, sharp whistle summoning her to your side. You don't know why, but she's taken a shine to you over your companions, and you're not about to push her away.
The set up for tonight isn't far off, but it's the skitter of some other creature off in the distance paired with the ominous rumble from above that gets your attention ㅡ and you click your tongue at the foreboding, electric green that rolls in the clouds, cracking with lightning. It isn't nightfall yet, but it's growing closer with that mess on the horizon.
There's a pitiful attempt at a fire being made by Lucy when you return, and she offers a smile that you echo briefly before moving to Cooper's side, nudging him with your boot. "Storm's rollin' in."
He grunts, tugs his hat from where he'd been shading his face ㅡ pretending to sleep to ignore Lucy's still-attempting-to-be-friendly rambles, you suppose. "How far out?"
You shrug, slinging your pack back onto your shoulders. "About an hour, give or take."
Lucy flicks a confused look to both of you as Cooper gets to his feet as well, and her head tilts. "Why're we moving?"
You raise an eyebrow. "You want radiation sickness, vaultie?" It's worth it for the way she bristles, and you snicker. "Come on. There's something of a building not far from here."
You're kind enough to wait for her unlike Cooper, who heads off with Dogmeat while you trail with Lucy.
The building was probably an apartment complex at one point for the squared off, honeycomb like interior, the sections that remain halfway decent.
The presence of scattered, long empty supply packaging ranging from stimpacks to tins of cram says that you aren't the first to be here though, and you split off with Cooper to scout out the place, leaving Lucy with Dogmeat.
You're just as quick with tongue and trigger as Cooper ㅡ Lucy has learned that the hard way over the last week or so. But there's still a softness to you that Lucy likes, gravitates towards ㅡ and figure that Cooper likes it too, for the way she spots him watching you sometimes, pretends not to notice when he looks up and glares at her.
"Clear," you report, pulling her from her thoughts as you toss her a bedroll and a spare blanket. Where you got them, she doesn't know. And the dark stains of what absolutely is most likely blood tells her she doesn't want to know.
What she does know is that she's allowed what constitutes as a room to herself ㅡ three walls and a roof that won't cave in are enough for her to take it without complaint. Dogmeat goes with her, and when she looks up, she knows why with the unspoken way you and Cooper split off for the same little room a couple broken spaces down from hers.
"Get some rest, Lucy," you tell her, offer a small smile that makes her beam as she settles down for the night, deciding that she is far, far better off not thinking about just how close you and Cooper actually are.
"Cute kid," you remark as you finally trail into the room after Cooper, earning an amused scoff.
"Fuckin' annoying is what she is," he grouses, and it's your turn to laugh as you shrug off your pack and kneel, digging for your own bedroll.
"Considering that's what you called me when we first metㅡ"
"No, I called you an annoying bitch."
"Potayto, potahto." You tug the bedroll free and roll it out, blinking as Cooper settles himself over it with a groan and then a sigh. "Excuse me."
He peers up at you. "What now?"
"This is my bed." You snip, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. "Up, Cooper."
"Nah." He folds his arms behind his head. "You like the vaultie so much, go cuddle up with her."
You stare. "Cooper Howard," you say, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous of the kid." He's silent, and you raise an eyebrow. "Are you?"
"No." The words is sharp, and he lifts his head to eye you. "Don't need to be jealous when I know what's mine," he rasps, "now quit bitchin' and c'mere."
You don't know what it says that you do so without fuss, settling yourself to straddle his hips as he sits up, draping your arms over his shoulders.
"There," you snip, adjusting to flick at the rim of his hat. "Better?"
He watches you with eyes as dark as an oil spill, and you don't miss the flick to your mouth and back up. "Gettin' there."
You snort. "You know," you murmur, tone dropping lower, "if you wanted to kiss me, all you gotta do is ask."
He smirks, the flash of his teeth. "Where's the fun in that, sugar? I like the chase. Besides," he lowers his tone, leans in further, "you're the one bitchin' when we can share this sad excuse for a bed. And the way I see it, you're gettin' the better deal anyways."
You roll your eyes, act like you're annoyed ㅡ but the way you don't tell him to shove it or get off of him speaks volumes enough.
Poetically, it starts raining just as you kiss him. The fingertip drum of it on the roof, sour-sweet smell of it that still reaches you because this isn't a real bedroom, just some shitty excuse for it. Doesn't matter, because this is far better than the kisses you've stolen over the last few days when you're absolutely certain Lucy isn't watching either of you.
Cooper seems to think so too for the way he deepens the kiss, cups your face as he nips at your lower lip and licks into your mouth when they part.
He squeezes at your hips, snakes his fingers back under your shirt, pinches and tugs and maps until you're squirming in his lap as he shoves your shirt off completely. He pulls, coaxes you into an arch that lets him mouth at your ribs, nip and sow sparks of pleasure in your veins as he leaves little patches of bruised pink skin in his wake.
He likes marking you, he realizes, the subtle claim without him having to say it. Mine.
He welcomes the grind of your hips against his, your body soft in all the ways that his isn't, filling in the cracks and rounding out all his sharp edges until he can't think of anything but getting his hands on you properly.
The pop of the button on your jeans is easy, the slip of his hand deliberate ㅡ you're louder this time, covered by the storm above as you whine and moan and buck into his hand and the sinful, clever work of his fingers.
And then just as you're about to crest that wave of pleasure, he stops. Smirks at the way you glare, taps your nose with his other hand. "You know you don't get nothin' for free around here, sugar."
He's teasing though, pushes you back to work his belt open, pants down ㅡ then dragging you back over him. Groans, tips his head back at the teasing glide of you before he's adjusting to line himself up and guiding you down.
The gasp he gets is music to his ears, nearly lost to the gutteral, hissed noise he makes himself at the tight, warm squeeze of you around his length. His eyes roll, and he bucks his hips up.
"C'mon sweet thing," he rasps, "don't make me do all the work. Ride for me."
The rhythm is stilted for the way he grips your hips anyways, reluctant to let you pull off of him too much ㅡ but it still feels good. Your breath matches the staccato movement, hands splayed on his chest for balance and head thrown back, looking for all the world like some sort of dedication to a long gone diety that he'd gladly worship to the end.
And he does still, reverence to the way he touches, kisses, bites ㅡ throbbing vitality in your veins calling to him, sweet siren song wrapped in those plush lips of yours. Soft skin squeezed under his fingers, forgiving for all the ways he can't be gentle, desperate as he is.
It's the throttled clamp of your warmth that says you're coming undone, gooey and wet and warm in all the right ways that has him clutching at you, cursing as his hips jerk and he fills you, mouthing at your pulse point as he does.
Heavy breathing sets the undertone of the roll of thunder outside crumbling walls, rapid beat of two hearts, and there's something dangerously soft, romantic in the way he lets you melt into him.
You drape over him, whisper soft kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his mouth until he kisses you back, slowly, selfishly, dangerously sweet.
"You," he tells you, "are absolutely no good for me." He slings an arm over your waist, softens the bite until it's nonexistent.
After all, what's one more vice?
ㅡ
In the morning, the four of you leave ㅡ there's a lot of ground to cover, after all. Lucy walks beside you, Dogmeat and Cooper just a few feet ahead.
"So," she begins conversationally, "what're those marks on your neck from?"
To your credit, you neither flinch nor blush, busy yourself with fussing with something at your hip. "Mosquitos."
Lucy hums. "That's funny, didn't realize mosquitos got so big. Best be careful then, huh?"
152 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hnnng I'm a slut for abo!aus I blame Alex for this shit now renting space in my head
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
|| i regret nothing I need Cooper Howard viscerally both pre and post Ghoulification
|| notes: semi Canon compliant, spoiler-ish for end of s1, semi-shifting pov, Lucy is adorable but baby girl you will be chewed up and spat out pls grow more spine, Dogmeat has never done anything wrong ever, godbless Cooper having a southern accent bc that's my accent, yeah, gonna do a sequel to this and a prequel on Coop and reader's first meeting, ok bye
|| warnings: weapons supplier!reader, couple of allusions to cannibalism, reader is not specifically gendered, NSFW ㅡ fingering/touching
“Where are we going?”
Not for the first time today, or even the last week, Cooper questions why he's letting the Vaultie (“Lucy,” she informs him primly, “my name is Lucy.”) tag along. The dog, at least, is a good, reliable companion. Dogmeat trots dutifully at his side, her tail wagging as he stops to glare at Lucy.
“Supplies, Vaultie,” he tells her, relishes the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Need supplies or we'll both be knee deep in shit.” He pauses. “More than we already are.”
She mumbles something he doesn't care to catch as he resumes walking, rolling his eyes as he adjusts his hat. He knows he could stand to be a little more sympathetic with the bombshell she's still dealing with, but he can't bring himself to ㅡ not when his daughter might still be alive out there, somewhere. (And his ex-wife, who he's pointedly trying to not think about too much.)
Lucy is blessedly quiet for a good while, all the way until they get closer to where they're going. Cooper doesn't need that piece of shit vault-tec device on her arm to know where he is, but Lucy says it anyways.
“It's a town,” she mumbles at the cluster of ramshackle buildings, surrounded by the clustering of trees so much like Filly ㅡ but isn't. “Is thisㅡ”
“Yes,” he answers, “now shut it and walk.”
Lucy huffs. “I don't know if you've realized neither of us have means to pay for anything,” she protests, “but the general rule ofㅡ”
“Vaultie.” If looks could kill, she'd be six feet under. He's never had much patience, but she’s already reached the bottom of it and keeps digging. “Shut the fuck up about your goddamn rules. If you haven't noticed, nobody up here gives a damn about playing by what's wrong and what's right.” He gives her a meaningful look. “Now if you don't want me to leave your ass to whatever comes along next, you'll be quiet and let me handle it.”
Lucy's mouth shuts with an audible click, and Cooper turns on his heel to resume walking, Dogmeat at his heels.
Like Filly, the center of buildings bustle with the day to day of so many others, the cacophony of animal sounds along with chatter ㅡ Cooper spares Lucy a brief glance to watch her struggle to keep up and scoffs to himself, shaking his head as he continues.
He knows where he's going, a little shop shoved between two others, narrow but deeper than the other two, because he's been here before. Several times, actually. Which accounts for the familiarity with which he strolls over the threshold and leaves Lucy and Dogmeat to follow.
There's the jingle of what might be a bell over Lucy's head when she follows, blinking at the interior. Neat and tidy, or at least as much as can pass for such things on the surface ㅡ rows of weapons and other assorted things on shelves and stands.
Lucy watches The Ghoul rap his fist on the counter. “I know you're here,” he calls, “you never leave this damn place!”
She expects whoever it is to come scuttling out with the tone of voice he uses and being as accustomed to his rougher attitude, and she listens to the clatter of something further in the shop.
“If that's your greeting nowadays,” comes the answer, “you can fuck off.”
To Lucy’s surprise, The Ghoul husks a laugh instead of offering another threat. Footsteps approach, and Lucy blinks at the person who rounds the corner.
“You,” you accuse, finger almost into his chest, “thought I told you I was done dealing with you if you couldn't work on your manners.”
Lucy stares, and watches as you turn towards her and raise an eyebrow, eyeing her with unrestrained curiosity, then at Dogmeat. “A vaultie and a dog,” you say, then glance back at The Ghoul. “So, taking in strays, huh?”
The Ghoul grimaces. “Guess so.” He clears his throat. “Need supplies again, sweetheart.”
“Figured as much,” you say, arms folding across your chest. Lucy decides she likes you, because you're standing up to him ㅡ and he's letting you. “Take it you have no way of paying, again.”
Lucy wants to tell The Ghoul I told you so, because he can shit on all her little rules all he likes but the surface still deals in keeping the scales balanced. You have to eat too, so it's fair that you're expecting payment in the nonexistent caps they have. The Ghoul, on the other hand, tries a different route.
“Oh come on now sugar,” The Ghoul wheedles, tone almost what could be considered as sweet. Playing at a gentleman for the way he leans against the cobbled together counter, even goes as far as to take his hat off and place it down. “Don't be like that.”
“Don't you sugar me,” you counter with an attitude that honestly startles Lucy for both the lack of genuine bite or answering hostility from The Ghoul. This isn't the first time you've met, she realizes, and is also quietly a little horrified to register that this almost sounds like flirting. “You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”
The Ghoul almost grins. “At least I'm consistent. Besides, you know you miss me when I'm gone.”
You snort, pressing your lips together to hide a smile. Lucy feels a tiny bit uncomfortable with the atmosphere, like she's watching something she shouldn't be privy to.
“Yeah, yeah,” you answer, bustling around to shove several fabric wrapped packs into his chest and giving him a meaningful look. “You owe me.”
It's definitely flirting now, Lucy notes as The Ghoul's face lights up in a way that's still entirely human, tracking your movements with something far softer than anything she's ever seen from him.
The turn towards her and head jerk to her and Dogmeat is as clear as dismissal as she's ever seen, to make herself scarce ㅡ so she does, but not before she catches the peripheral glimpse of the way you let him reach for you, almost melting into him for the way he moves to undoubtedly murmur something.
That something is not the sweet words of a long time lover, but it's probably about as close as you're going to get with things the way they are.
“Anyone causin’ you trouble lately?”
You roll your eyes. “Besides you?” He gives you a look, and you shake your head. “No, and even if there was, you know I can handle myself.” You turn to throw him a teasing look over your shoulder. “Don't tell me you're getting soft on me, old man.”
It's Cooper's turn to snort, even as he moves to follow you. There's a sort of peace to watching you sort through boxes of shell casings and bottles of powder, letting his gaze drift over your body.
When you turn, he doesn't even bother to hide the way he's watching you, and you arch an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothin’,” he returns. “Can't I admire you?”
You roll your eyes. “I'm too expensive for you, Cooper.” It's a playful taunt, one that incites a little flare of something in his eyes as he approaches, the jingle of his spurs as he comes to loom over you, cages you in against the shelves of “inventory”.
“Really now,” he drawls, leans in, eyes predatory dark. A lifetime ago, you might have been scared. But the wastelands made no qualms about beating fear out of people just as quick as it snuffed out life all together. “Here I was thinkin’ I might get a discount.” He reaches, thumbs at your bottom lip with his gloved digit. “What's the askin’ price, sweetheart?”
This close, he smells like the wastelands and sunbaked leather, with a little bit of blood ㅡ but you don't mind. Never have, not sure you ever will. Not when it comes to him, anyways.
He's a dangerous man. A man with a reputation that's well-earned, spoken in hushed whispers and anything but nice. But you let him slot a leg between yours, lean in, press his lips to your hair. You smell like gunpowder and hot metal, grease stained fingertips and more than a couple bruises and scars for your efforts.
Sometimes Cooper contends with the idea he might need you just as much as he needs that chem that keeps him sane. Admits it here and there, quietly to himself when he wanders in, squashes it down that he makes the trips sometimes just to make sure you're still alive. Not like he'd know if you were, till he sees you. Not sure what he'd do if he someday came up and found you gone. No note, no goodbye ㅡ quick and quiet, the cruelty of the wastelands.
“Didn't answer my question, darlin’.” He mumbles, lips to your cheeks now. Soft skin, kept carefully with rationed doses of radaway and a healthy heap of keeping your cute little self out of business that doesn't involve you. “Come on, I asked you real nicely.”
You hook your fingers in the loops of his belt, pull him closer. He can feel the jump of your heartbeat under his lips, now at your jawline. A soft, shaky inhale. Selfishly, he wants to keep you. Steal you away, greedy to keep you for himself. Hates the idea of whatever scum that rolls in that you have to deal with on your own. You can handle yourself, he knows that.
Doesn't stop that little piece of him that's still truly Cooper Howard from worrying. But he knows better than to think he can protect you, because he can't. So he does what he can.
Your skin is soft under his teeth, forgiving to the nip of them, the blooming blossom of pink that reminds him of strawberries. The noise you make is just as sweet, and he wonders if you'd taste like that, too.
“I'm waiting,” he prompts between little nips, mouth curving against your flesh when you grip at him tighter. There's a lot he could do to you, and not a lot you wouldn't let him. “Don't tell me this big ol’ cat’s got your tongue, little songbird.”
Your lips part, and he expects either a sparky response or a soft plea for what this is tilting towards, partaking of something far softer than anything he's used to nowadays ㅡ but you’ve always had a taste for throwing him for a loop, and you do it now.
“Take me with you.”
That snaps him out of his little hazy, touch-greedy daze, enough that he pulls away to look at you properly. “Repeat that?”
“You heard me.” You tug at the loops of his belt, eyes steely, expression firm. “Take me with you. Tired of this shitty little outpost. Figure it's time to move before I get myself into trouble I can't get out of.”
Cooper laughs. “Think you're runnin’ straight into that fire by askin’ what you're askin’, sweet thing.” A warning and a plea, mixed mish-mash in his words. Part of him wants you to stay here. Concrete, much as it can be, where he knows where you are. Other part says it'd be easier to watch your back if he saw it all the time.
“That's not an answer, Cooper.”
He snorts, softens at the edges again, a little sadder as he reaches to stroke your jawline, leans to bump his forehead to yours ㅡ radiation warm against radaway cold. “Wanna make sure you know what you're asking for, darlin’. I ain't your babysitter. Got my own shit to do.”
“I know.” There's that fire in your voice, the kind he loves and hates at the same time. “Wasn't asking for you to babysit me.”
He swallows roughly. Lets his hands drift up your sides, tug at the tuck of your shirt, underneath to drag sun-worn leather against the soft skin of your abdomen. Relishes the way you shiver, leaning into his touch. “Can't promise nothin’, you know that.”
Your smile promises the same kind of heartbreak his own words do, the kind rooted in the reality that the world doesn't deal in any absolute but death, and sure as shit won't give happy endings. Not anymore. “I know.”
Cooper can't think of what to say to that, at least anything he's ready to, so he kisses you. Your lips are too soft against his, the warmth of your mouth reigniting that greedy, needy, human thing inside him. He pulls, digs his fingers into your soft, pliant skin, and he takes.
Takes what you willingly give him, hand over hand with nothing but that pretty little smile of yours. He muffles your gasp as he wedges his leg a little firmer, coaxes the part of your legs with a rough husk of, “just like that, dollface,” and delights too much in the sound of you moaning for him.
Hushed, quiet enough that there's no reason for Dogmeat or Lucy to come back yet (he doesn't know what they're up to nor does he really fuckin’ care at the moment), he lets himself indulge in the pleasure of your body against his. The sweet little sounds, half-gasped as he mouths at your neck, hitched to something almost like music as his hands wander.
Pauses long enough to bite at the tip of his glove and tug, one then two, the bare, radiation scarred wander of his fingers over your body. It's selfish, the way he covets every little twitch and jump of your muscles, the choked gasp as he guides you into rocking against his leg.
“You're so sweet for me, sugar,” he coos, syrupy as he picks you apart meticulously, piece by piece. Fingers still far too good at what they do when he replaces his leg with the press of them against you, remnants of a past life for how well he gets you to whimper his name. “Like ambrosia.”
His fingers stroke, deceptively gentle, working over your slick, too-hot, achy skin until you’re panting and gripping at him, pleading for a relief only he can give you. And that’s exactly how he wants you, where all you can see and think of is him.
The expression you make when he finally lets you come might truly be the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a very long time. Headier than the Jet, dizzying and making him swear as he jerks his clothed hips against yours, breath sharp in his chest.
“Gonna be the death of me, I swear.” He bites at your neck, digs a little harder, scrapes his canines into your sweet, yielding flesh. He could devour you, take bite after sweet, sweet bite and actually test that theory about the strawberries. Crack the cage of your rib, feast on that beating yolk of heart that thumps so hard in your chest.
“Gonna let me do it, sweet thing?” He rumbles against your ear. “Let me have it all?”
Your eyes flash, lips pretty and swollen as they part to answer ㅡ and the bark of that damn mutt ruins it all. At least it's a warning for you both, because he's stepping back and letting you fix yourself with surprising speed as Lucy and Dogmeat return, an expectant look on the fuckin’ vaultie's face.
“Well? Got what you need?"
Cooper snorts, tracks you instead of answering as you press your hand to his for a second, gone around the corner. Lucy frowns when you return, pistol strapped at your hip and a bandolier slung over your shoulder like his, broad pack strapped to your back. Like you planned for this.
And you did, he notes, but it hadn't been contingent on his agreement. Idly, he notes he never did answer you, not really. But he just hums, then turns towards Lucy, who looks between the two of you, confused.
“Yeah,” he finally answers, “got what I need.”
327 notes
·
View notes
Text
Oops 👀✏️📜
78 notes
·
View notes