PLEASE Do Yourself A Favour And Check Out This Wikipedia-styled Template For Google Drive, Made By @

I love this and can't wait to see more! It's cool to see the series starting as little pieces of memories, old and new. Excited to see how you'll take this story Author!

A Wasteland Reunion

Summary: It's been more than 200 years since you've last seen your cowboy. Pairing: Cooper Howard x Reader Word Count: 1,070 (a drabble? what's that?) Warnings: mentions of violence, swearing, A/N: Part of The Cowboy & The Movie Star series, a part 2 if you will. Let me know what y'all would like to see from this series. What snapshots would y'all like to see?

I do NOT consent to my work being translated or published onto third party sites - including AO3 and Wattpad.

A layer of dirt and grime covered every surface of the Red Rocket Gas Station. Outside the sun blazed down, covering the Wasteland in a blazing heat. The wind gave an occasional whistle as it blew more dirt into the gas station’s broken windows. Though you were paying attention to none of that, you were focused on the sound that should not be there. 

The thumping of heavy footsteps on broken concrete. 

So with your back against the checkout counter you reload your gun and cussed Ma June. If this ‘simple favor’ didn’t kill you, you were going to ring the older lady’s neck. 

As the heavy steps get closer your finger tightens around the trigger of your gun. The old bell chimes above the door and heavy footfalls turn into light steps as the newest customer to the Red Rocket navigates around the debris littering the floor. The footsteps grow quieter as the person heads towards the other end of the gas station. 

Taking the opportunity, you slowly crawl towards the open door a few feet to your right. The manager’s office was threadbare, a simple desk and chair sat in the middle of the room with a few filing cabinets sitting behind the desk. It did not offer many hiding places, however you had no interest in hiding. You were interested in getting the piece of tech Ma June was searching for and getting the hell out of the Red Rocket. 

After waiting a moment, with bated breath for the sound of footsteps to draw closer. You were surprised when they never did, coming to the conclusion that the person must have left. Likely abandoning their search when they came up empty handed. Not that you minded, The less people here, the less bullets you would have to use to make it back to Filly. 

Pushing the other person from your mind, you began going through the drawers of the desk. Where you found a handful of plastic forks, a loose cigarette and four caps. With another glance to the open door and a pause to listen for steps, you turned your attention to the filing cabinets behind you. 

The first cabinet was a bust, holding nothing but trash. You had moved onto the second cabinet, only starting to pull the first drawer out when the hairs on the back of your neck rose and a pit of dread opened in your stomach. Before you could turn to inspect, the hammer of a pistol was pulled back. The click echoed off the walls of the dusty gas station. 

“My, my,” A low voice drawled out behind you. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ all alone out here?” 

The voice was low, gravely, distinctly a man’s voice. It trickled down your spine like ice water, setting off every nerve ending within you. But deep down, there was a familiarity in the voice. A familiarity that had your heart tightening in your chest. 

“Just surviving,” you replied., hand tightening around your own pistol. “Wasteland’s a rough place.” 

You tried to keep your voice level, not wanting to give away any of your intentions or give the stranger a reason to pull his trigger. At this point you were ready to call this mission a bust, sure that the tech Ma June was after was not worth your life. 

“Stand up, leave your gun on the ground” the man demanded, leaving no room for arguments. 

Complying with the man, you left your gun in the dirt and stood. Muscles aching and protesting from being squatted for so long. Once fully stood you began to turn around. Wanting to see the man who was likely going to shoot you down. 

The man, no, the ghoul in front of you was menacing from looks alone. A long, leather trench coat covered the rest of his outfit, an ammo belt stretched across his chest, and a weathered cowboy hat was pulled low on his head. A sneer stretched his lips across yellowing teeth and fire burned in deep brown eyes. 

As you locked eyes with the Ghoul a weight of emotions crashed into your chest. If silence hadn’t consumed the gas station you would have thought he shot you.

“Cooper?” The name fell from your lips before you could stop it. 

The sound bubbled in the space between the two of you. Growing with the tension in the room before popping with a deep growl from the man. 

Quicker than you could realize, he was on you. A heavy arm pushing against your throat as he slammed you against the hard metal cabinets behind you. A handle dug harshly into your hip, surly going to leave a bruise. However, you could not find it in you to care. Not when Cooper Howard was standing before you two hundred years after you had seen him last. Two hundred years after you were sure he had died.  

“How do you fuckin; know that name?” He growled, pushing his forearm harder against your throat.

“Coop, please,” You coughed out, struggling to breath past the pressure Cooper was putting on your neck. “It’s me.”

His eyes darkened, a predator staring down at you. “Bullshit.” 

The arm not holding you to the cabinets began to raise, The metal of his gun was cold as he placed it to your temple. 

“I’m only gonna ask one more time.” He pulled the hammer back with a sickening click. “How do you know that name and why are you wearing her fuckin’ face?” 

He was nearly shouting at the end of his question. Fury beginning to take over his composure. 

Knowing you only had one more chance to prove to Cooper that you were standing in front of him, you dug into your memories with Cooper. Going back to a place you had long wished to go back to.

“I told you I loved you for the first time the day the bombs dropped,” you choked around the words, “I had a meeting at the studio and you were getting ready for a birthday party. We were standing in the driveway and you were wearing that damn cowboy getup, but I couldn’t wait anymore so I blurted it out.” 

The fire in his eyes diminished as another emotion took over. With a small sigh, your name escaped his lips in a whisper. Like a prayer he had long since forgotten.

This is such a delicious series, kinda scary and uncomfortable at times (I think it's just because Homelander is scary and uncomfortable at times), but I still keep wanting more. I want to see how far Homelander goes, how far off the deep end reader goes, etc. etc.

I can't wait to see more!

Take Care Author! <3

Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt.3

a/n: "a cigarette pressed between her lips, but i'm staring at her tits, it's the wrong way" - Homelander, probably

Warnings: Masturbation, Explicit Language, General Creepy Behavior, Alcohol Usage, Plus Sized Reader, out-of-date song references.

Summary: Sunday off-work is the perfect time to relax. Unfortunately, your mentor is too interested in shortening that time as much as possible.

Pt.1 Pt.2

Your Instagram account is private, but the flimsy security system paled in comparison to Vaught's cyber team.

 Homelander has put in a special request. Actually carried himself to the lower levels of the Tower, asking one of the insignificant workers for a personal favor. Which they were oh-so-honored to fulfill. He's the Symbol of Peace, a fact everyone, besides you, seemed to understand. And as such, here he sits, spread out like a King on his silken sheets, one hand languidly stroking his length through his briefs, while the other scrolls away on your profile. He's aware of the questioning, that awaits him in the morning. Stillwell knew, he never actually used a phone, didn't need to. But that's a problem for the tomorrow version of himself. There isn't much she can do to stop him, either way. He'll get a slap on the wrist,  perhaps even an exasperated sigh, and he's been dealing with those his whole career. 

You must've had this account for a very long time, because the sheer amount of pictures is staggering. When he first flickered through the entirety of this priceless library, it felt like he hit the jackpot. Photos upon photos of different moments from your life stared back at him, at the shameless display of his interest (which he won't call want, because if he wants something, he gets it, and you're clearly not here). Starting from the very bottom, he began to scroll up, quickly passing at least a dozen pictures of you from your high school years. 

You've always been a little chubster, he laughs quietly to himself, bringing the phone closer to his face. Lights dance across his features, as he watches a short video you've uploaded years ago. It's blurry, the quality is worse than shit, but he can recognize your face through the haze of pixels. A nervous little thing, fidgeting with the hem of your color coded costume. It's some sort of student play, it reeks of amateurism. You're standing by the heavy curtain, knee-high socks digging into the meat of your legs in a way, that is tantalizing even through the screen. Biting your lip, you bounce on your legs, trying to rid yourself of the anxious energy, a habit he's noticed a couple of times now.

And oh, there it is. He recognizes the way you shake your hands, some sort of compulsion moving your limbs, consequently, making your curves jiggle under the costume. And then, you finally notice the camera pointed at you, your friend laughs behind the screen, and for some reason Homelander finds the sound aggravating. But your eyes start to shine, as your lips pull back into a bright, if a bit wavering smile, and you lift up your middle finger. His other hand presses harder against his steadily hardening length. 

Another couple of pictures fly past his eyes. You're showing your hands, dirty with splotches of colorful paint to the camera, and there's that sparkle in your eye again. You're decorating your graduation cap. There's glitter everywhere, in your hair, on your nose, on the tops of your breasts peaking from under a washed out sweatshirt. With a groan emanating from deep within his chest, Homelander's hand sneaks under the waistband of his briefs. 

Really, this whole ordeal started as a way to gather some intel. Genuinely.

 He did not expect to be in this situation, because honestly, what the fuck? The last time he's seen you in person, you were such an interesting enigma, he had to know more, had to figure out how the essence of you worked. Which version of you was the real one? The tired one, who cared for nothing save for her neighbourhood? Or the version, who held his gaze with a straight back? How did you disappear into yourself so quickly, were you putting on a mask, or showing your true colors? 

Who was your favorite Superhero? He was convinced it had to be him, that's why you've been acting so strange around him, a pathetic attempt at fighting off your crush. All in favor of professionalism. 

He huffs a staggering breath, fingers encircling his growing hard-on with light pressure. There's a video of you, again, quite recent at that. You're sitting on the floor, an unfamiliar place, he notes, remembering the look of your living room. Legs splayed out, covered by a flowy skirt, and as his grip tightens, Homelander wonders if you're wearing those same, washed out panties he saw on you the first time you've met. Leaning heavily on the front of an old couch, your entire body overflows with relaxed, leisure energy.

Your friend's hand appears from the edge of the screen, passing you a small box covered in present paper.

- Oh God, what's this? - you ask, your voice slightly distorted by the awful quality of the video.

- Something to hump in the night - your friend answers with a snort of laughter.

You regard them with a skeptically raised eyebrow, but tear into the paper, strips of it falling onto your lap. Then, you open the box, and Homelander groans, his hips lifting ever so slightly from the sheets. Your curious smile fades away into a thoroughly unimpressed expression. Reaching into the box, you lift a small plushie, presenting it to the camera, as your friend shakes with laughter.

- Okay, fuck you - you burst out laughing, the sound rich and so incredibly warm.

There it is, his cartoon face stares back at him, as you squeeze the plushie between your fingers. Fuck. His hand speeds up, and he all but yanks his briefs down, freeing himself and immediately going back to work. 

He zeroes in on the glowing blush, blooming on your face, noting a bottle of red wine right next to you on the floor. It's probably sickly sweet, and cheap. Perfect for you. Perhaps, you're pushed by the alcohol flowing through your veins, but Homelander doesn't believe it. He knows you imagine it's truly him, your favorite superhero, as you giggle and press your soft lips to the embroidered face of the plushie, giving it a loud kiss. 

He can almost imagine the moisture of your tongue on his cheek, the taste of wine mingling with that incessant jasmine perfume, you carry around on your skin. A tease, that's what you are, flaunting yourself in front of him in all your softness, all your glory.

- Fuck... - he grits through his teeth, searing the image into his memory, his other hand squeezing him harder - Shit.

Another picture seems to be from that same night. You're noticeably more disheveled, hair sticking out in odd places, your shirt falling off the shoulder. You're standing under the kitchen light, it shines behind your head like an angel's halo. Arms folded, you gaze tenderly at the gifted plushie, holding it close to your chest as one would a newborn baby, your lips pulled back into a drunken, but gentle smile. 

That, for some unknown reason (or known, Homelander is aware of his vices), makes him tumble over the edge, with a drawn out, guttural groan. His movements stutter, hips jerking upwards into his hand, as he feels his release coat his fingers. For a moment, it's completely quiet inside his penthouse, his chest rising and falling from the exertion. His phone clicks shut, and he throws it onto the pillow with a soft thud, eyes closing for just a second longer, savoring the images flashing behind his eyelids. 

Not enough, after a while he sighs to himself frustrated, wiping his hand on the silk sheets, his dissatisfaction leading him to stand up from the bed, and stalk towards one of the gigantic windows overlooking the city at night. With slow, lazy movements, he tucks himself back into his briefs, closing the zipper of his costume, hand lingering in the general area, should he decide to change his mind. 

The night is growing darker and darker by the moment, but it makes no difference for his unnatural gaze, as he focuses his attention on the street below. There, right at the entrance to the Vaught Tower, he can see the top of your head, standing on the sidewalk, tapping your foot to the music coming from the headphones placed over your ears. Homelander observes as a car pulls up, a shiny Uber sign catching his attention. 

Why the hell would you use such pedestrian ways of commuting is beyond him, especially since Vaught's personal drivers were available to you, should you truly need to go somewhere important. Or, you could ask him to fly you, so he can wrap his arms around you, and fuck you mid-air. Now, that's an interesting image. Interesting enough for his hand to twitch at his side, reaching to his belt as if it's working on autopilot. Before he can get too carried away, however, he composes himself with a hard breath sucked through his teeth. 

Curiosity killed the cat, but he's invincible, so what's the harm in indulging himself a little more?

The window to his room opens all the way inside, cool air wafting around his form, as he steps closer to the edge, his cape billowing behind him. And then, he's off. The force of his body lifting into the sky chips the floor of his penthouse, dust falling into the streets below. 

***

One day, every two weeks. That's all the free time you get, for the next six months. 

Coordinating your attendance at a party with the rest of your friends, while on such a tight schedule, bordered on impossible. But somehow, miraculously, you all managed to find that one, elusive Sunday. And two weeks after signing the contract as well. From the moment you've woken up in the morning, you've been filled to the brim with excited energy. While you've begged your friend not to go too overboard on the celebrations, you knew deep down, that people needed some excuse to unwind. And, as such, your joining with Vaught offered such an excuse on a silver platter. 

The Uber takes you through the city, lights flashing past the windows, as you fidget with the hem of your oversized t-shirt. 

God above, you've missed comfortable clothing with a burning passion. After being sucked into Fireball's hero costume for almost two weeks now, the moment you slipped on your cotton biker shorts felt borderline orgasmic. You tried to advocate for some safety shorts, under that stiff monstrosity of a skirt, the costume department provided you with, after the skin on the inside of your thighs tore nearly all the way to the bone from constant chafing. All you got in response, was a bottle of baby powder with Queen Meave's face on it, which felt more like a slap to the cheek, but you digress. 

You'll ask again after tonight. Stillwell might be more receptive to your ideas, now that you've proven yourself to be a model employee. 

The car moves through your neighborhood, your eyes gliding over familiar buildings with a sense of growing melancholy. You decide to push this feeling all the way down, as far as it can go. Tonight's not made for this, you'll allow yourself the luxury of sadness tomorrow, while fighting off the inevitable hangover.

Right now, you can already hear the music, bumping through speakers which saw better days. You can already see flickering lights inside your friend's house, silhouettes of various people moving behind flimsy curtains. You can already taste the horrendous drinks you're about to down. You've missed this. You've been out of here for only two weeks, and in that short time, all you wanted to do, was get back to the familiarity of your previous, non-famous life. The freedom of being yourself, and not this corporate puppet Vaught created.

The Uber pulls up, you pay, and your foot doesn't even have the chance to fully step on the sidewalk, when your friend drags you out of the car. Their smell, their warmth engulfing you entirely, wiping away any remaining worries. They announce your arrival to the crowd of people, more or less familiar to you, and soon, like a blunt at a function, you're being passed around the room. Smiling faces and words of congratulations overwhelm you in the best way possible. Someone pats your head, someone shakes your hand, someone claps you on the back. Someone pushes a drink into your palm, someone else kisses your cheek. 

And before you can even notice, the first notes of Jump Around by House of Pain start playing, and your friend tugs you by the elbow towards the living room, where the center of the party takes place. Bodies swaying, colognes, perfumes, sweat, it all mixes together in an intoxicating wave, and at that very moment Fireball is thrown out the window, locked out of this heaven. In her place, Smirnoff arises, victorious for tonight, and you welcome yourself back with open arms. 

Alcohol swishes around in your veins, a peculiar mixture of lemonade, Sprite and four different types of liquors. Your head is buzzing with the distorted sounds of bass, shaking the glass panes of the windows, your heart beating to the changing tune of another song. And another. And one more. Your hairdo is long forgotten, strands sticking to your sweaty forehead, to the back of your neck. Your voice is almost completely gone, from screaming over the surrounding sounds, and you're certain you won't be able to talk tomorrow.

 But that doesn't matter. Nothing matters, not here, not right now. 

At California Love you find out a group of your college girlfriends qualified for a Vaught sponsored scholarship program. Their hands glide over your waist, as they scream the news at you over 2Pac's voice, and you throw your head back and laugh. Simply laugh. Relief floods you. A feeling you were not expecting, because they're honoring the contract, despite everything you've always known about the company. So it's all worth it.

During Hey Ya!, your neighbor tells you they've managed to score a job at the Tower. The news is interrupted a couple of times, so you all can clap to the music. At this point your muscles are starting to burn from the constant jumping, but that doesn't stop you from shaking your behind in celebration, just like OutKast wanted. 

When No Diggity comes around, your friend invites you to their wedding, requesting specifically for you to come in your Superhero getup. Not really as an appreciation of Fireball's character, they just think it would be funny, and for them, you might actually consider it. They show you the ring, as you both grind against each other, make a pause in said grinding to take a burning shot of Fireball (yes, they thought it would be hilarious), and get back to grinding. 

You're doing good, everyone is doing good, and if selling your soul is all it takes to keep those smiles on your friend's faces, then the price seems comically small in comparison. And yet, something tugs at  the back of your mind, some hidden, biting feeling, wrenching itself under your skin.

By the time No Role Modelz comes up, your head feels so heavy, so filled to the brim with emotions, that you feel like the splintered floor inside your friend's living room will swallow you whole. Suddenly, it's all too much, and far too quickly, and you push past the crowds of oh-so-grateful people, until you all but throw yourself out the front door, half of your drink spilling onto the wooden porch. 

Such a waste.

Smirnoff, oh, Smirnoff, what have you done to yourself, you thins, stumbling through the grass, until your shoes find the sidewalk. Until your ass hits the concrete, and you lean heavily forward, bracing your hands on your knees, hiding your face in your arms. Your stomach feels much too tight for comfort, its contents swirling like a tornado. The music still follows you, the sounds of the party now muted, but still so tangible. Your stomach churns, your eyes start to burn under the mascara.

You won't cry. You can't cry. 

This is what you wanted, those were your terms, you don't get to swallow your own words. Especially since Vaught, apparently, is honoring their end of the deal. And if you were roped into it by an indirect blackmail... Then, so what? Your friend would never be able to afford a wedding, and now they have a date. They're looking at dresses in actual salons, not charity shops. Missus Johnson's kid's school got enough funding, that it's finally getting a whole renovation. Even the drama departament will get some money. You can never cry because of that. 

You don't even know what you're drinking, but you down the rest of it in one go, liquid burning it's way through your insides, until it reaches the already restless stomach. Fireball will surely pay for Smirnoff's sins tomorrow, but fuck that fake bitch, you want to feel alive. 

The song changes again, and you wait until the screams of delight subside inside the house, so you can recognize what's playing. Berkeley's On Fire. It makes you huff a laugh, as you hear a myriad of out of tune voices, yelling at the top of their lungs. You should go back, join them, enjoy this night to the fullest. But your head sways, and your limbs feel like your bones are made out of lead, so you stay in your place, tapping your foot to the distant sounds of the party. It's hard to focus on anything for longer than a minute, and, fearing an upcoming wave of anxiety, you reach into your pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. 

"Put your pom-poms down, you didn't win shit" 

Oh, ha ha, hilarious.

You light one up with practiced ease, inhaling enough smoke to make your lungs burn, make your eyes line with tears, that you simply refuse to shed. Breathing out a cloud of fumes, you relish in the way they curl around your head, the smell both irritating your senses, and calming them. 

- You know these will kill you, right?

Your head snaps up, and as your eyes adjust against the darkness of the night, your breath catches in your throat. Admittedly, before your tipsy brain catches up, the view is quite spectacular. Surrounded by his American flag cape, Homelander descends from the night sky, his movements unnaturally graceful. His feet touch down onto the concrete in front of you, the street lamp illuminating his imposing figure, like a Patron Saint of The American Dream. He's almost beautiful like that, almost enough to fool you. But suddenly the realization of what exactly you're looking at, hits your like a train, and every muscle in your body tenses up, as you stand up quickly, taking a few stabilizing steps. Homelander's face blurs before your very eyes.

Perhaps those last two shots were a mistake. 

- What the fuck are you doing here? - your words come out with a slur, but your voice remains strong, demanding - Are you stalking me?

The illusion is gone with a blink of an eye, and you watch, as his face twists, in what you think is supposed to be an expression of nonchalance. He's really, truly, not as good of a liar as he thinks he is. 

- What? - he scoffs, sells it harder by looking at you like you're insane - No, no way. I have better things to do than stalk little girls like you.

He did not just call you little girl after repeatedly staring at your boobs, like they were ornaments on a Christmas tree. Your irritation flares up, and with a frown you take a quick, steadying drag from your cigarette. Your head sways to the side before you can stop yourself, as nicotine dances with alcohol within your system, his eyes follow the movement with light amusement.

- I was just on my patrol, and saw you sitting here alone - he continues, taking one step closer - Can't a hero check on his favorite Sidekick?

You throw him a withering look, one he brushes off with a (fake) charming smile. 

- Whatever, I'm not dealing with all this tonight - you wave your hand in his general direction.

Still holding your cigarette like a lifeline, you squat down, only to plop your ass back on the sidewalk with a heavy sigh. Homelander watches you with a mixture of emotions swimming through his eyes, and you can't decide which one would be better. Disgust might've been the safest. If he felt appalled by you, perhaps he would just leave you alone, let you slump down on your own. Amusement offered more risks, because you suspected the man was constantly fighting off bouts of boredom (much like yourself, but you were not about to think too hard about it in your current state, or any state, ever). You didn't want to catch his interest, at least not more than you've already done. And then, there was something else, something you were not naive enough to ignore, but definitely too drunk to get scared by. 

- You shouldn't be sitting here alone - he comments, taking another step forward - Someone might take advantage of a pretty girl like you, in such a vulnerable state at that. 

- Someone other than you, you mean? 

You're not sure what pushes your tongue to form the words in such a challenging, flippant manner, but it's too late now. Hanging your head low, you blow out another cloud of smoke, and his eyes follow the fumes, as they curl around your mouth. 

He's never considered smoking to be remotely attractive, but as he stands now, there's something alluring in your rebellious gesture. Usually, he wouldn't tolerate any of this, he's had people removed for far less. And yet, it's been such a long time, since he felt any sliver of entertainment, especially now, after his relationship with Meave ended. 

There is a groan coming out of your lips, and he watches as your body tips, back splaying on the sidewalk. It's instinctual, the way his tongue slips out to wet his lips, at the sight of your soft body molding itself into a laying position. This, borderline offensively, large T-shirt, spills around you, the ghost of your curves peaking at him through the thin cotton material. The hem rides up your plush thighs, exposing those ridiculous biker shorts below, as they dig ever so slightly into your skin. He can imagine the red lines, that would run across your flesh, where the stitches make their mark. He'd like to feel those ridges, map them out with his fingers, his tongue. 

He blinks, frowns, pushing those thoughts down, so he can replay them in the privacy of some unfortunate skyscraper. 

- Why aren't you at the party? - he asks finally, even though he knows the answer. 

He's been watching from the very begining, hidden from a regular human's sight, surrounded by darkness like it belonged to him. Rubbed a quick one to the sight of you dancing, your smile so bright, it almost blinded him. 

You're silent for a little while, eyes closed, as you soak in the warmth from the sidewalk, seeping into your back. The cigarette in your hand is burning, seemingly forgotten, ash gathering at the end, before it breaks off, and falls unceremoniously. 

- I needed some fresh air - not entirely a lie, but not the whole truth either.

Your voice is so quiet, with this tired edge he's noticed before. Like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. He should feel insulted, really. Here he is, slaving away for the same company as you, saving insignificant lives, securing the budget. And what are you doing, exactly? Get wasted the first chance you can, and piss him off with this holier-than-thou bullshit. Acting like you're such a martyr, while getting a check that would make half this neighbourhood shit their pants. The absolute audacity of you, pretending to be tired, to be so bored, when he's standing right here. Your favorite hero.

Quietly, he bristles, blinking a couple of times, to rid himself of this incessant, stinging sensation in the corner of his eyes. When was the last time he's felt this... Aggravated? 

- I think I'm gonna head back to the Tower - you muse after a moment, the way your chest rises and falls capturing his gaze immediately - I've had enough for tonight. 

His eyebrows scrunch at the sudden note of melancholy entering your voice, but he swallows his intrigue, taking on a more nonchalant persona. 

- I could fly you back.

Silence. Your eyes shoot open, as you look at him with an unreadable expression, and he rolls his shoulders under your scrutiny. This is definitely one of the things he hates about you the most. This keen sense of observation. Suddenly, he feels the padding inside his suit a tiny bit more on his skin.

- What? - he asks, trying to sound casual, but you could pick up on the tension in his voice immediately.

- You're really giving me some mixed signals - you muse, the corner of your mouth twitching in a way that is more enchanting, than he would ever anticipate. 

While your words come out quite evenly, the swaying instability of your body, as you try to stand, betrays just how drunk you really are. For what it's worth, Homelander finds it endearing. The way you have to take a couple steps to steady yourself, refusing with a burning passion to even consider holding onto him for support. He wants to scoff so badly, at this pathetic display of independence. Shouldn't you want to put your hands all over your favorite Superhero? 

He opts for staying quiet, however, betting everything on your pliability. 

- I'm giving you mixed signals? - he huffs, bordering on offended, recounting all of your previous interactions.

- Well, yes - you take a step closer, back as straight as it can go, and his nose is assaulted by the smell of jasmine flowers and cigarettes - Since I've met you, you've been trying to charm me, threaten me, all the while harassing me like we're in fucking high school.

Homelander shrugs, waving his hand in your direction, as if trying to swat an annoying fly. And in many ways, that's how he sees you. An annoying, infuriating fly, with a nice pair of tits that you just refuse to share with him. And that just won't fly (he's proud of that joke). 

- Oh don't be so dramatic - he laughs, the sound forced through his teeth - Everyone knows you have to hassle the newbie a bit...

The sound of your laughter is strange to his ears, despite hearing it many times before, albeit, never directly. A cackling, casual sort of chuckle, which shakes your entire being, and brings something strange swirling in his gut. He would never describe this something as a feeling, because this is not some teenage romance drama. But he would like to hear you laugh again, if only to satiate his hunger for any sort of reaction. The fact it's a positive reaction has nothing to do with this, by the way. 

- That's the weirdest fucking hazing, I've ever experienced, then - you muse, a ghost of a smile still present on your lips, as you close the distance between yourself and Homelander, in a couple more steps, than what's necesary - Would you really fly me back to the Tower?

- Of course, Princess - he flicks your chin with his finger, revelling in the way your head bounces back - Consider it an apology, for makin you uncomfortable before. 

For now, you're willing to overlook the nickname, which surely could be considered a term of endearment, if any other person would use it. You mull over his words, looking at him for a moment longer, your eyes flickering all over his features. Even despite the overwhelming darkness surrounding the two of you, his pupils are so small, for a moment all you can see is the ever-consuming blue. He's handsome, of course he is. A bit too America's Sweetheart for you, but objectively, you were staring at a very attractive man. Who, by all intents and purposes, looks sincere in his offer. 

So you shrug.

- Alright - his smirk widens into a smile, those sharp canines making an appearance - So, how do we do this...? 

You look between him and yourself, and Homelander bites his lip, putting his hands on his hips, as he eyes you for a second longer.

- Put your arms around my neck - his voice is quieter, much lower as well, something which, in hindsight, you shouldn't have overlooked.

You do as he asks, stepping even closer, and wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling more than a bit awkward as you do. It's quiet for a second too long, his chest exapands, brushing against yours. But just as you're about to say something, Homelander's hands grab you tightly around your waist, bringing your bodies flush together. 

And then, the rush of air forces your eyes closed, this unfamiliar feeling of your feet suddenly being very much not on the ground, making your heart drop to the very bottom of your shoes.

- Fuck! - you curse loudly.

Instinctually, your legs wrap aound his midsection, as your calves dig themselves into his sides. You can't look. Refuse to, and with an unbecoming sound, you hide your face in the space between his collarbones, the cologne he seems to constantly wear pacifying your nerves for just a fraction. 

And. He. Fucking. Loves. It. 

The lightness of air surrounds him, making his senses even more acute. Your weight, your soft, pliable body, pressed so tightly to him, he thinks he might get absorbed completely. It's so much better, than what he has imagined. Your fingers grab onto the back of his collar, nails biting into the fabric, so close to digging themselves into his skin. Your chest rises in short, panicked breaths, and he feels every single one of them, wants to crawl into your chest and suck the air straight out of your lungs. The heat of your body alone makes his head spin with dark arousal. And your legs are already in position too. It would so childishly easy, to just take you here, under the night sky. 

- Are we there yet? - your voice borders on a pathetic whine, and the sound runs straight to his nether regions, the pants of his suit tightening on command.

Any building would do, he thinks, as he cuts through air over New York. He could land right there, on the rooftop of this sandwich shop you run off to, every time there's a lunch break. And fuck you, until you'd never want to eat in this disgusting, dirty, cockroach-infested place ever again. Or here, just outside the Vaught Tower, where you oh-so-rudely refused to ask him for help, only to cram your delicious body into an Uber. He'll have to punish you for this oversight.

- We're so close - he smirks into your hair, taking a whiff of your scent as he goes. 

Or, he could follow his original plan, and screw you on every flat surface inside his penthouse. 

The window is still wide open, and he slows down his flight, as he aims for the entrance. His arms tighten around you ever so slightly. There wouldn't be much he could do with you, if you knocked your head on the glass pane, and as if responding to his touch, your own grip becomes even more suffocating. If he was a regular human, he's sure, you'd squeeze the life out of him. And then, amidst flying papers and the overpowering smell of his cologne, everything stops. 

Neither of you move. You're too shaken by the flight to detach yourself from him, and he abuses that fact for all it's worth. His lips pull back into a sharp, dangerous smile. Unknowingly, you've just let a Lion carry you right into his den. 

Ahhh this is so good! I know this is just a two part one shot, but if you ever consider making it into a larger series PLEASE add me to the tag list.

I love reading daredevil x reader writing but the angst in this is fantastic! Frank Castle has me in a chokehold I swear.

Now That We Don't Talk | Frank Castle x F!Reader

BONUS FIC

See this post for more information on my Valentine's Day Special & Follower Celebration, but these fics can be read separately!

Read Is It Over Now? for better clarity.

Pairing: Frank Castle x F!Reader (past Matt Murdock x F!Reader)

Summary: You go home with the guy from the bar, and he makes you forget about your ex.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), oral f!receiving, use of "attagirl", slight Dom!Frank, song references, unprotected p in v, dirty talk

Word Count: 2.9k

A/n: You wanted a part 2, so you're getting a part 2! Anyway, I don't write Frank often, so I hope it isn't too bad. It's also not as spicy as you probably expected, but I wanted this to fit the vibe of the previous fic (link above). You don't need to have read it to understand this, but it is highly recommended because some references might confuse you. Thank you all for taking part in this event!

You believed that your life had ended when you lost him. He painted your world in the brightest colors, but by breaking your heart, he took them away. All that was left to see was a boring shade of gray in a sea of sadness. 

Matt told you from the start that being with him wouldn’t be easy. You were willing to try. He needed someone, and you wanted to be that someone to him. You accepted him unconditionally. 

In the end, giving everything wasn’t enough. He chose her over you, and the castle you two had built came crashing down on you while he stood idly by. 

You’re not a bitter person, you have never been, but he made you fall for him; he made you believe that there was hope for the future and that you would grow old together. He stole years of your life in which you were trying to save him from himself. In return, he took the best care of you, but that doesn’t matter much now that he has taken your heart and shattered it like a glass of red wine on a white cloth. 

When you left him, you thought the distance would kill you. You truly believed that this was the end of everything, not just your relationship with the man you thought was the one but yourself as well. “This isn’t what it looks like!” he said the day you found out the ugly truth.

“I trusted you,” you remember saying. You couldn’t even cry. The pain burned brighter than the sun, and it dried your eyes before they could even shed a tear.  

He argued with you that, “It was just a kiss,” but you not once believed him. 

“Are you sure about that? ‘Cause if I ask Elektra, I’m sure she will tell me the truth.”

“No.”

It was at that moment you lost all of your trust in him—in what could have been or should have been the two of you, forever—and it was also the moment that Matt realized he had lost you. 

You believed that he took everything you ever were that day because your life revolved around him, and only him. 

You remember him opening his mouth, having the audacity to apologize. “I’m sorry,” he said, begging you not to leave. 

“Fuck you!” you had never sworn at him until that day.

You still remember the way the necklace with his initial felt when you tore it off your neck and tossed it at his feet. He knew you better than anyone, and you felt like you finally belonged somewhere. That necklace was a symbol of your undying love, or so you thought, anyway. Now you know that he may have known you to some extent, but you didn’t matter enough for him not to climb into bed with his ex-girlfriend.

You couldn’t even look at the necklace. He told you, “This is a piece of my heart,” when he gave it to you on a snowy Christmas Day three years ago. You cherished it the same way you cherished his soul. He was broken, but he was your broken man. He was everything to you. 

Matt Murdock was your moon, your son, and your entire universe. It all seemed far away that you could ever feel about anyone this way again. 

You saw a future with him. Married, a house in the suburbs, and working with Foggy and Karen in their new law office after everything they’ve been through. You were a hopeful person back then.

Karen told you that he went to a party a couple of weeks after you separated. He didn’t look like himself. You wonder if he felt anxious, knowing his only source of comfort was no longer there. You wouldn’t know until you asked him, but you refused to answer his calls.

Part of you felt euphoric, knowing that he was broken too, but you also felt angry because he was the reason you found your heart beyond repair as he stepped on it like a burning cigarette, and in your mind, he had no right to feel this way.

You’re a fucking traitor, Matthew Murdock! I wish we’d never met.

“Another one for the lady,” a voice says beside you. 

Your empty glass of tequila disappears and a full one slides in its place. In your drunken haze, you see a head of brown hair, and his smirk makes you wonder if there’s more to him than he lets on. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, tipping your glass to the stranger. 

“Nah, don’t thank me.” He gets up from his seat and sits down on the empty bar stool next to you. “You look miserable,” he says.

“What if I am?”

“I’d tell you I know the feeling.”

You huff but offer the stranger your hand. You introduce yourself. 

He smiles. Your name rolls off his tongue effortlessly. “Frank,” he introduces himself in return. “Castle.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say. 

You thought nothing and no one could pull you out of the dark hole your breakup tossed you into. You believed yourself dead and long beyond the point of redemption. You accepted it. You swallowed in your misery, giving up on finding a new purpose in your life because the one great thing you had was no longer yours. He fell into a grave that he dug for himself, and he dragged your relationship down with him.

Looking into Frank’s eyes now though, you no longer feel like a corpse. And you realize that you are not dead, not at all—you are very much alive. 

The door almost breaks off its hinges when Frank shoves you into his apartment and back against it. The decision to come back to his place was fueled by a lot of alcohol and the way he looked at you. You were desperate to feel something other than the hollow ache that has consumed you every day for months. His eyes told you that he may be able to give you just what you need, no strings attached.

The way he kisses you breathes new life into your mangled soul. He swallows your mouth and your needy moans with his own, and his tongue forces itself down your throat as your teeth clash in a fight for dominance. You’re both tipsy, but he seems to know just what he’s doing.

His calloused fingers burn against your skin. In the back of your mind, Matt is still so present. His hands are the ones you can’t help but compare him to. 

The way he used to kiss you before fucking you into the mattress for hours on end, switching between tasting and fingering you until you were whimpering and begging him for release might have screwed you up forever. He told you one night that he wanted to ruin you for any other man. Back then, you both still believed that you would grow old together.

It is truly ironic how fast things change when you are truly happy and believe that nothing can burst your bubble.

Frank’s large hands brace against the door on either side of your head. His lips disappear from yours. “Who is he?” he asks, his voice rough like gravel.

You meet his eyes, unsure of what to say. Your mind is everywhere but here, and yet it is right with him. Whether it is alcohol or self-loathing, you’re not sure. 

“What?” you whisper.

“You’re trynna forget someone. Who is it?”

He is a lot more perceptive than you thought.

You swallow, blood rushing to your head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t–” you didn’t what? Think? You feel utterly pathetic.

Instead of throwing you out though, like you expected he would, he reaches out to caress your cheek. His eyes soften as they gaze at you. “Whoever he is, he obviously didn’t treat you right,” he says. “If you want to go, I’m not stoppin’ you, but if you wanna forget whoever is fuckin’ with your head, I’ll make damn sure you forget his name by the end of tonight.”

There is something excitingly terrifying about the look in his eyes. A shiver runs down your spine, and your thighs clench at the thought of feeling his hands somewhere other than your face. Somewhere other than your hips and thighs. His kisses knocked the air out of your lungs. You want more, you need more, but you don’t know if you can take it. Not him—even though you’re also not quite sure if you can take him—but also the offer he is presenting to you. As lucrative as it sounds, fuck, you are not over Matt. And you’re not sure if you can ever forget him.

You want to though. You have to. And you want to be thoroughly fucked into the next day and forget the name of the man that makes you so fucking angry.  

“Talk to me,” Frank coaxes your head toward him. “Do you wanna forget the useless bastard that made you feel this way?”

“Yes,” you manage a breathless whisper.

“Did he hurt you? Break your heart?”

You nod.

“You deserve better.” His grip tightens, and his hand slowly slides to your neck. “I’m not, but I’ll fuck you so hard, you’ll forget his name and scream mine loud enough for this fuckin’ city to know who’s making you feel good. ‘s that what you want, hm?”

He’s dangerous, but that has never turned you off, even when it should have.

And when you finally open your mouth and tell him, “Yes, please. Make me forget,” the switch inside of him flicks completely.

He takes his time to worship between your thighs. His tongue buried in your pussy, his lips sucking on your clit without mercy. He eats you out roughly but sensually, keeping you spread wide open for him with both of his hands and a force unmatched—like a five-course meal, and he has all the time in the world for you. 

You’re lost in the throes of pleasure. You want to buck your hips against his mouth because no matter what he does, you’re on fire and you just can’t get enough, but he is so powerful that you can’t fight him. He has you at his mercy, your body in his hands, and all the control in the world over you. 

You pull at his hair, moaning helplessly as he feasts on your pussy. You’re going mad, you’re sure. He’s doing this on purpose, driving you to the edge before stopping the wave. Frank waits until your orgasm is just far enough for you to last a little longer, kissing the inside of your thighs, and then he dives right back into your wet folds. He thrusts his tongue into your hole, licks up to your clit, and then sucks on the swollen bundle until your legs are shaking in his hands. 

“Jesus, Frank!” you moan out. A trail of sweat runs from your temple down to your breasts. 

Your hands search for something to hold onto, tangling in the sheets and the pillow behind your head before pulling at the fabric. You tried pulling at his hair, but he wouldn’t let you. 

“That’s right,” he growls. “Come for me.”

Your back arches off the mattress. His name leaves your lips in a desperate shout as your orgasm crashes into you. 

“Attagirl.”

Your brain is hulled into an endless fog, but Frank doesn’t stop. 

Soon, you’re on your stomach, gripping the headboard as he pounds into you from behind. He is long and thick, and with every thrust, he forces your face deeper into the pillows. Your eyes have rolled back into your head. He hits that spongy spot inside of you whenever he pleases, and the gurgled moans from the pit of your throat spur him on to speed up, change the angle and thrust even deeper. 

He pulls out all the way, thrusting back into you with full force until he is completely sheathed in your pussy. Your heat consumes him, and he sees red. But so do you. He has reduced you to a few incoherent thoughts, babbling his name in the wake of the drool that is dripping from the corner of your mouth. 

And when you come this time, it is pulled back straight against his chest with his fingers rubbing circles over your already abused clit. You come with a scream of his name, and nothing else matters but his cum in your cunt and the unbelievable depth of the feelings he is eliciting within you. 

You drop to the mattress like a wet towel, covered in his and your cum, and your sweat that has mingled with his. His smell lingers in the sheets as you bury your nose in it. He collapses on top of you. The crushing weight of him offers a sense of comfort that almost makes you cry. And he holds you as though you mean more to him than a One-Night stand he picked up to help forget a man who broke her heart. 

“What’d he do?” Frank asks into the silence later that night.

You are lying on his bed, covered by only his thin sheets. He’s sitting on the other side, nursing a glass of Bourbon. He held you, he cleaned you up, and he offered you some clothes, which you denied. He is kinder to you than you thought he would be, and it warms your heart in a way you can only deem utterly dangerous with how vulnerable you are. Broken people make dumb decisions, and you do not ever want to go through the same pain again. 

At least you know that you are still desired. That you’re not dead. Perhaps, there is still hope for a better future. You made Matt Murdock your life for the longest time, and maybe, as you realize now, that was a mistake. There is more to life than him, and you can live without him. That it took fucking a stranger after weeks of being miserable baffles you, but some things are just meant to happen. Maybe it was destiny, after all. 

You look at him when Frank repeats his question. “What’d the bastard do, hm?” he asks.

Where do you even start? 

When you last checked in on him through your mutual friends—you know it wasn’t the best choice, but you couldn’t help it—they told you that grew his beard, and he last had a haircut when you were still together. It suits him, apparently, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at a picture of him.

Foggy told you that he isn’t taking home girls when they go to a bar, even though he could have all of them. He’s sad. He drowns himself at work and beats his fist bloody every night. The old you would have jumped up to help him. And it is true that you will probably always love him, in a way, but you refuse to crawl back to him.

The more you gave, the more he took, and at the first chance at getting a woman he claimed to no longer love when she came back into your lives, he took her. He couldn’t have wanted you as badly as he claimed if that was enough for him to flush years of loving each other and going through hell together down the drain, knowing it would break your heart into a million pieces. That is probably the worst part about all of it.

You take a deep breath. Frank is still staring at you intently, waiting for an answer. “He fucked his ex,” you finally confess. “Four years of being together and it still wasn’t enough.”

His grip tightens around his glass. “Want me to pay him a visit?”

You chuckle, but you know that he would. “No. But thank you.”

Matt was fading long before you left. Even if you did choose to forgive him, you couldn’t be his friend, so things are better the way they are now. You paid the ultimate price for sacrificing your heart to a man who had too many struggles to deal with himself.

In the silence, you find a little light. “At least I don’t have to pretend to like Jazz anymore,” you say. 

Frank takes another sip, asking, “Jazz?”

“Yeah, Jazz. He loves it. He…He’s special. Well, he was to me, anyway.”

“Special? Fuck, the guy did a number on you, huh?”

You scoff. “You have no idea.”

The only way back to your dignity is to learn how to be without him. You have to turn yourself back into a mystery and learn how to trust someone again before your fragile heart breaks again.

“You still talk?” Frank asks.

You shake your head. “No. It’s over now,” you say. “We don’t talk anymore.”

“Told ya. You deserve better.”

“Nah.” You reach for his glass, taking a sip of the bitter liquor that you used to despise. Looking up at him through hooded eyes, you stretch his leg toward him. 

You need to keep forgetting Matt’s name, no matter what it takes or the reminiscing will surely kill you.

“Right now,” you murmur with an irresistible smirk that makes him leap at you as soon as the words pass your lips, “I just need to forget he ever existed by screaming someone else’s name.” 

Frank captures your lips in a bruising kiss, leaving you speechless and breathless all the same. 

Matt chased you, he caught you, and then he lost you. And now that Frank has you, you never want to look back. 

Now that you don't talk.

I don't have a tag list for Frank, so I'm just leaving this here.

As a bag balm fan, I'm insulted. But also I totally understand lol, maybe try Aquaphor or Vaseline! A bit pricier but works really well, and doesn't smell like sheep.

Me, to a group: hey it's like bitter cold and my skin's killing me, old lotion isn't cutting it

Group: try bag balm, it's amazing! Cheap! Farmers use it on their hands and put it on a cow's udders in cold weather! We swear by it!

Me: cool, I'll grab some!

Me, 2 days later:

I SMELL

LIKE FUCKING

SHEEP

First reblog is for you souliebird <3

The person I reblogged this from is someone I enjoy seeing on my dashboard.

how i sleep knowing i will pirate every single thing released on disney plus

Ahhh the slow burn is rough with this one 😭😭

Poor reader, geez! But also... The ghoul turns around and suddenly the reader is missing, lol.

I knew what they were as soon as that nasty dish was in front of us. What else would be in that!?

Fantastic chapter, and I am on the edge of my seat! Can't wait to see more.

From A Previous Life (Pt 3)

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Preg!Reader

Summary: You rush to the Ghoul's aid, but find that hospitality doesn't come cheap in the wasteland.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, pregnancy, talk of cannibalism, mention of child loss, canon-typical violence, blood, angst, grief, yearning, rejection.

Word Count: 8.8K

A/N: This is late! I'm sorry this wasn't finished last week, but it took me a while to get the ending to a place where I was happy with it. Part 4 coming up next! I'd love to know what you think 💌

Part 1 | Part 2

In the weeks that followed, a palpable tension thickened the air, suffusing every moment with a sense of unease. The Ghoul, ever cautious and seemingly intent on minimizing any unnecessary interaction, forwent sleep altogether. Instead, he adopted the role of a silent sentinel, perched upon whatever seating deemed acceptable as he watched over the entryways of your temporary shelters. There he would remain, a solitary figure in the dim moonlight filtering through shattered windows, his hat pulled low over his ghoulish features, shrouding them in shadow.

As you lay awake, restless and watchful, your gaze was repeatedly drawn to him, silently pleading for him to abandon his post and join you in the refuge of your shared space. Still, he remained steadfast, his bed beside you still empty and unused by your departure the following morning.

During the days, you travelled in silence under the relentless glare of the blistering sun, each step bringing you closer to your elusive destination. You would pause occasionally, your keen eyes scanning the barren landscape for any sign of abandoned treasures that could be sold for a fine price. Each discovery was accompanied by a hopeful glance towards your companion, a silent plea for approval. More often than not, his response was a grunt or a dismissive shrug, leaving you to carry the weight of your excitement and disappointment alone.

He had truly reverted back to the aloof and distant man he had been before that fleeting moment of connection shared around the crackling fire—the night he had gifted you the Pip-Boy. It had felt like a heavy reminder of the vast divide between you, a symbol of the distance that must remain for your child's safety.

The internal struggle waged within you relentlessly, tearing at the fabric of your resolve as you walked alongside him. On one hand, the instinct to protect your child, to prioritize their safety above all else, pulsed through your veins like a guiding light. But on the other hand, an undeniable longing stirred within you, a selfish desire to throw caution to the wind and reach out for him, to seek the comfort of the companionship you had felt briefly.

You remembered the warmth of his arms briefly wrapped around you, the intimacy of talking freely together like you had done that night by the fire. The memory tugged at your heartstrings, igniting a fierce longing that threatened to overwhelm your senses. And despite your best efforts to bridge the conversational gap, to break through the walls he had erected around himself, he remained stubbornly distant.

The silence between you grew more pronounced with each passing day, a distinct barrier that seemed to stretch endlessly between you. You couldn't help but feel a sense of resignation settle over you. Some divides were simply too vast to bridge, and perhaps, you thought with a heavy heart, yours and the Ghoul's were among them.

It wasn't until one particularly hot mid-afternoon as you battled against a relentless radscorpion that had sprung at you from beneath an overturned refrigerator in that evenings shelter, the Ghoul's patience reached its limit. With a single, precise shot from his magnum, he dispatched the giant arachnid before turning to you with a sour expression.

"Outside," his voice commanded, firm and unwavering.

You followed behind him obediently, watching in silence as he collected the empty Nuka-Cola bottles scattered on the porch and lined them up along the railing. Once satisfied with his work, he turned to you and nodded, signalling you to follow him. Together, you descended the steps and moved further away until you reached a spot that provided a clear shot at the makeshift targets.

You eyed him cautiously, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your resolve as you waited for his next instruction. But when his gaze settled expectantly on the gun holstered at your hip, you knew what you were to do. With quick hands, you fumbled to unholster the weapon, your fingers closing around its familiar grip as you prepared to face the challenge that lay ahead.

Despite the sweltering heat and the sweat that trickled down your brow, you squared your shoulders and raised your weapon, determined to prove yourself to the Ghoul—to show him that you were capable of holding your own beside him. And as you took aim at the makeshift targets, a sense of determination surged through you. Today, you vowed, would be the day you proved yourself worthy of his respect.

Pulling back the hammer, you let out a shaky breath as you pinched the trigger. The shot rang out, reverberating through your body like a thunderclap as you felt the recoil jolt through your arms. Taking a step back to steady yourself, you lowered the gun and peered ahead at the targets, your heart sinking as you realized that all five bottles remained stubbornly intact, mocking you from their perch.

A sense of annoyance bubbled up inside you, mingling with the disappointment that weighed heavy in the pit of your stomach. You heard the Ghoul sigh from his spot to your right, where he leaned against a a utility pole with his arms crossed.

"Again," he said, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation. "And keep your eyes open this time."

His words jolted you out of your reverie, pulling you back to the present moment with a sharp clarity. Despite the simmering frustration within you, you nodded in acknowledgment, steeling yourself for another attempt with the gun raised.

"Feet further apart," he instructed, his tone firm and authoritative. Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and adjusted your stance, grit crunching beneath your boot. You heard him tut, then suddenly felt him beside you. His heavy boot kicked at the inside of your own, widening your stance even further. His gloved hands pressed against your shoulder with a firm tap, guiding you into position before withdrawing just as quickly. "Again."

As the Ghoul moved back to his post, you steadied the gun out before you, pushing down the giddiness that surged through you like a current. It was an unexpected sensation, sparked by the lingering heat left behind by his brief touch—the first physical contact he had initiated since your embrace around the fire. You took aim at the first bottle, and with the memory of his guidance in your mind, you pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, its echo reverberating through the desolate wasteland. A split second later, the sharp noise of the bottle smashing reached your ears, the shattered pieces scattering across the ground like sparkling jewels.

"Yes!" you exclaimed triumphantly, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you raised your arms above your head in victory. Turning to your mentor with a wide grin, you hoped for words of praise, but you were instead met with a stoic nod of approval, his expression unreadable as he regarded you with a steady gaze. Disappointment panged in your chest, a fleeting moment of deflation amidst the rush of triumph.

"Four more, then you can celebrate," he gestured towards the remaining targets and you eyed him with defeat as your arms dropped to your side.

Eyebrows furrowed in determination, you rolled you neck as you prepared yourself. A brief glimmer of pride flickered in his eyes as he watched you turn back towards your targets with a raised weapon.

"Four more, then you cook dinner," you countered and he laughed quietly, a short huff of air out his nose that was barely perceptible.

As the afternoon wore on, you focused all your concentration on the task at hand, determined to prove yourself capable not just to the Ghoul but to yourself. With each bullet that flew past its target, the Ghoul's sighs of irritation echoed in the stifling air.

He had retreated to the scant shade offered by a nearby fence, his slumped posture a testament to the oppressive heat that hung heavy in the air. From his vantage point, he observed your progress with a stoic demeanour, offering little in the way of encouragement as you struggled to find your mark. Still, you refused to be deterred by his silence, channelling your frustration and determination into each shot. With each miss, you adjusted your stance, honing your focus. Finally, the satisfying sound of shattering glass filled the air as the last bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, scattering across the ground.

Pride swelled within you as you looked down at your gun, a tool that had once seemed so foreign and intimidating. In that moment, a sense of awe washed over you as you realized just how far you had come from the life you had once known. The image of yourself as a wife, a homemaker, seemed like a distant memory, a remnant of a time before the world had been plunged into chaos. 

As you stood there, gun in hand, dirt under your nails, and a sense of purpose burning within your soul, you couldn't help but wonder how absurd your former self would find this scene. The thought of her reaction brought a smile to your lips, a bittersweet reminder of the person you had once been, and the person you were becoming.

A slow clap from behind you drew your attention, and you turned to see your partner walking towards you, his lips pulled into a wry smile. "Well, as long as no one moves, you might just cut it."

Despite his teasing, you welcomed the familiar banter, a reminder of the rapport that had developed between you before it's abrupt end. With a smile, you looked him over, a wave of gratitude washing over you. "Thank you, for this," you said, gesturing with the gun towards the broken glass. "I feel like The Man From Deadhorse."

With a playful grin, you raised your gun towards the Ghoul, a glint of mischief in your eyes. "I hope you like the taste of lead, you commie son of a bitch."

The sudden shift in atmosphere caught you off guard, the playful jest dying on your lips as the Ghoul's demeanour transformed with alarming speed. Before you could react, he closed the distance between you with swift, purposeful strides, his grisly features contorted with rage.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun from your hand, the dull thud as it buried into the sand was loud in the tense quiet. Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched in stunned silence, your wide eyes snapping back to him when he seized your arms in a vice-like grip.

"You don't play like that, you hear?" he scolded, his voice low and harsh, the intensity of his gaze drilling into you like a laser. His leather-clad fingers dug into your flesh, leaving behind faint impressions as he held you firmly in place.

With a shaky nod, you swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "I hear you." The tension hung thick in the air between you. "It was from a movie, I didn't mean nothing by it."

As he regarded you, the intensity of his grip slowly eased, his features softening marginally as he released you from his grasp. Though his anger still simmered beneath the surface, there was a hint of remorse in his eyes, a silent apology for his outburst. "This ain't no movie, darlin'."

"I know that," you said wistfully.

"Then act like it," he grunted, a wheezing cough escaping him before turning away. "Let's get moving," he muttered, his voice tinged with resignation as he retrieved the gun from the sand and handed it back to you.

You holstered your gun, a sense of caution settling over you as you eyed him warily, your footsteps echoing softly against the gravel path as you followed him back to your shelter. He stopped abruptly a few steps ahead, his posture rigid as he doubled over, sputtering into his closed fist.

Instinctively, you moved toward him, concern etched into your features, but you halted in your tracks at the sight of his outstretched hand. "Get back," he rasped, his voice strained, a clear warning in his tone.

You watched with growing unease as he struggled to regain his composure, each laboured breath sounding like a heavy weight upon his chest. The deep, chest-rattling wheeze that emanated from him sent a shiver down your spine, but despite the urge to rush to his aid, you knew better than to defy his command. With a reluctant step backward, you maintained a cautious distance, your eyes never leaving him as you waited anxiously for the bout of coughing to pass.

The coughing had started a few days prior, coming sporadically but with increasing frequency, especially when the Ghoul worked himself up. At first, you had dismissed it as the inevitable toll of his years spent wandering through dust and dirt, but as the days passed and you witnessed the panic in his eyes one evening while he counted his stock of liquid-filled vials, you knew it was something more. The sight of his trembling hands, the frantic glint in his tired eyes, sent a chill down your spine,

You didn't fully understand the significance of the vials, only that they were his medicine—but for what ailment, you couldn't be certain. You had assumed it was for pain, a necessary relief for someone who had endured the relentless exposure to radiation for so long. You knew better than to ask him about it directly. Even in moments of calm, when the worry over his dwindling supply wasn't etched into his furrowed brow, you knew that prying into something so personal would be met with resistance.

The Ghoul staggered back to the shelter and you followed behind him with growing concern, your heart pounding in your chest. You watched in silence as he grasped the stair rails for support, his normally steady gait now faltering. It was a sight you had never witnessed before—him weakened and vulnerable—and fear shot through you like a bolt of lightning, unwelcome thoughts of what this could mean racing through your mind.

You quickly put the invasive thoughts aside, hurrying to join him inside where you found him hunched over his saddlebag. His movements were frenzied as he loaded a vial into the inhaler that distributed the medicine. With a deep, shaky breath, he puffed the inhaler, the sound echoing loudly in the confined space. Minutes stretched into eternity as he fought to regain control of his breathing, his chest heaving with each ragged inhale.

You held your breath in anticipation, watching as his chest heaved and then settled, but your frown deepened when a groan escaped him. He threw himself back against the wall, his movements laboured and unsteady. His arms hung limp at his sides, the inhaler discarded and forgotten on the ground beside him. His hat slipped from his head, tumbling to the dirtied tiles below, leaving his bald head glistening with perspiration, the droplets of sweat trickling down his tired face.

It was a sobering sight, one that filled you with a sense of helplessness as you stood before him, unsure of what to do to alleviate his suffering.

"Told you to stay away," he breathed, his voice weary as he met your gaze, exhaustion evident in his eyes. "I'm fine," he muttered, though the strain in his voice betrayed his words. "Just need to close my eyes."

As his eyes fluttered shut, you moved to his saddlebag with haste, your heart pounding in your chest as you searched desperately for another vial to bring him back to you. But as your trembling hands sifted through the contents, your heart sank like a stone—empty. He had been rationing his vials for days now, telling you there was a place up ahead to get more, but that you weren't to come with him. Another one of his solo trips.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you realized that he was going nowhere in this condition. His shallow breathing reduced you to panic as you fumbled at the inside of his heavy duster, your hands shaking with urgency. Ignoring the incessant clicking of the dosimeter, you pulled out a weathered map that he had drawn up at the beginning of your journey, showing you just how far you had to go until you'd find the haven and the stops that you'd make between.

Your gaze swept over the roughly sketched lines and symbols, tracing the route ahead with a growing sense of urgency. Finally, your eyes landed on a cluster of squares topped with triangles, situated close to the location you recognized as your shelter on the map. Beside them, a lone letter "V" was scrawled, signalling the area designated for his next collection of vials. The distance seemed manageable, just a half-day's journey at most—perhaps even less if you pushed yourself.

The prospect of venturing out alone was daunting, yet despite the risk of leaving him vulnerable, of being scolded for leaving upon your return, you knew there was no alternative. He relied on those vials, and you relied on him.

With a heavy heart, you removed his gun from its holster, carefully positioning his gloved hand around its grip before settling it on his lap. Adjusting his hat back on his head to shroud his closed eyes, you hoped that any passing traveller might be deterred by the implication of a formidable foe awaiting their approach.

Taking a deep breath, you glanced back at your companion one last time, the weight of your decision settling heavily upon you. With a silent prayer for his safety, you asked him to wish you luck before turning away and setting off towards your new destination, determined to retrieve the vials and save the Ghoul.

The two-story house stood large and imposing before you, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon casting long shadows across the grounds. Its faded white paint was peeling, revealing the weather-beaten wood beneath, and its roof sagged precariously as if it could collapse at any moment. The yard, overgrown with tall grass and weeds, was littered with the carcasses of rusty, broken-down vehicles and an assortment of discarded debris, each piece a story of neglect and abandonment.

Stepping onto the sprawling porch, the creak of the wooden boards seemed to echo through the still air as you steadied your nerves. You rapped your knuckles against the front door that hung slightly ajar. 

"Whaddya want?" a disgruntled voice hollered from inside, and you stepped back as the door was torn open to reveal a man, his greying hair unkempt and greasy, clinging to his weathered face that was etched with deep lines and one large, pink scar from eye to jaw. "Well, what is it?"

Clearing your throat to dispel the tension, you attempted a friendly smile as you greeted him. "Hello, I'm hoping you can help me," you began, holding the unfolded map up to show him. With a pointed finger, you indicated the spot marked by the Ghoul with a "V." "I'm looking for vials, is this where I can get them?"

He peered closer to the map, beady eyes squinting as he considered it. With a dirty hand, he rubbed at the white stubble of his chin as he hummed, his gaze flicking over you quickly before straightening. "Vials, you say? You're in luck," he gave you a toothy smile, displaying his blackened teeth.

Despite the turn in your stomach, you breathed a sigh of relief. Tucking the map away in the side of your bag, you smiled gratefully. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that," you laughed.

"Well, don't dilly-dally on my porch all night, girl," he said, ushering you inside.

Stepping into the dimly lit home, you were hit by the musty scent of decay and mould. The house was cluttered, filled with stacks of old newspapers, broken furniture, and various knickknacks. The man led you through a narrow hallway into a small room that served as both a living space and a workshop. A cluttered table sat against one wall, covered in tools, scraps of metal, and various mechanical parts.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to a rickety chair near the table. "I'll see what I got."

You sat down cautiously, the chair creaking under your weight. The man rummaged through a pile of junk on a nearby shelf, muttering to himself as he searched. After a few tense moments, he produced a small wooden box and placed it on the table in front of you.

"Here they are," he said, his tone gruff. "How many you need?"

You glanced at box, your heart pounding with a mix of relief and anxiety. "I need as many as you can spare. How much for all of them?"

The man scratched his head, considering your request. "Caps, or trade?" he asked, eyeing your bag.

"I have caps," you replied, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small pouch. You poured the caps onto the table, counting them quickly. "Is this enough?"

He scooped up the caps, weighing them in his hand before shaking his head. "Not hardly," he said, pocketing them as he stared down at you expectantly. You quickly fumbled in your bag, trying to find something to offer. "How about that there contraption?"

Your eyes followed his to the Pip-Boy on your wrist. What would the Ghoul say if you returned without it? He had insisted you keep it on, gifting it to you as a means of gaining some semblance of control that you desperately wanted. Granted it had recently become an unwanted reminder that loneliness would be your only companion until you met your baby, but he wouldn't want you to trade it. Yet he wasn't here, and you were in desperate need of those vials.

"Please, anything else," you pleaded, one last ditch attempt at negotiation as you rifled through the contents of your bag. "I have scrap, copper, toothpaste, you can even have my gun," you continued, listing your items in a desperate ramble before throwing your gun onto the table beside you. 

The man's narrow gaze swept over the array of items you had laid out, his expression a mask of disdain. Without hesitation, he seized your bag and upended its contents onto the worn tabletop. With a rough hand, he sifted through the items, emitting grunts of disapproval as he scrutinized each one.

"No, no good," he muttered, crossing his arms in a gesture of finality. "That thing's worth more than all that junk combined." His lip curled in distaste as he indicated the Pip-Boy resting on your wrist. "It's the gadget or no deal."

Desperation gnawed at you. You needed those vials; the Ghoul's life depended on it. Leaving empty-handed wasn't an option. Fighting back tears, you took a deep breath and looked up at the man, striving to keep your voice steady. "Fine, it's a deal," you conceded, fingers trembling as you unclasped the precious device from your wrist, placing it reluctantly into his filthy palms.

His cracked lips curled into a predatory grin as he regarded his newfound treasure. With a casual shove, he pushed the box of vials across the table towards you. Eagerly, you reached for it, anticipation tingling in your fingertips. But as you pried open the lid, hope turned to bitter disappointment at the sight within.

"There are only three vials here," you stated, disbelief colouring your voice. "We agreed on the Pip-Boy for everything you've got."

A mirthless chuckle escaped the man's throat as he he leaned back against the table, a smug gleam in his eyes. "There it is," he declared, gesturing towards the meagre contents of the box in your hands. "Lesson learned, darlin'. Always check the goods before sealing the deal."

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and frustration, cursing yourself inwardly for falling prey to such a blatant deception. Anger surged within you, fuelled by both the injustice of the situation and the man's smug satisfaction.

"That's not fair!" Your voice rose, laced with indignation, drawing a startled expression from the man across the table.

"Now listen here, you little-"

"What's all this hoo-ha about?" a woman's voice interrupted him as she entered the room. She was about the same age as the man, greying and wrinkled, but whereas his face was stern, hers warmed when she saw you. Her hands went to the apron tied around her thin waist, wiping at the dirty fabric as she spoke. "Well, who do we have here?"

The man released an exasperated sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Just a fool not knowing when a deal is done," he muttered, flinging your empty bag in your direction. "Collect your shit and hit the road."

Before you could react, her hand shot out with startling speed, connecting with the back of his head with a resounding smack. He recoiled, irritation contorting his features as he rubbed the offended spot.

"Goddamn, woman!" he exclaimed, shooting her a venomous glare. "She got the chems, I held up my end of the bargain."

Her eyebrows arched inquisitively as she scrutinized you. "And what might someone like you want with those?"

"My friend, he's unwell," you explained, rising from your seat to begin to deposit your items back in the bag. 

"So, he sent you to fetch them," she deduced.

You nodded, choosing your words carefully as you gauged the situation. Despite her apparent kindness, you sensed it wise to withhold certain details of your predicament. "Something along those lines," you replied cautiously, then pointed to the three vials. "I just hoped there were more."

"There are more," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she delivered a swift reprimand to the man beside her. "Edwin, why are you lying to this poor girl?"

Edwin, still nursing a sore spot on his head from her earlier blow, shot her a disgruntled look. "Can't a man try and make a profit in this economy?"

Ignoring his protest, she turned her attention back to you, a friendly smile gracing her features. "My husband will whip up as many vials as you need, don't you fret," she assured, her reassurance a comforting balm to your frayed nerves. Casting a disapproving glance at Edwin as he started to object once more, she added, "And to make amends for his rudeness, I'll whip you up a plate."

You breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, but I really must hurry these back to my friend," you insisted.

"Of course you must," she affirmed, her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled again. "Edwin will go fetch you some from the cellar. We can't keep such valuable stock out in the open, you understand." Her explanation was delivered with a nod of assurance, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Edwin grumbled, leaving the room presumably to fetch the vials.

"Why don't you and me wait for him in the dinin' room," she suggested, her voice carrying a hint of Southern charm from the old world. "You ain't tasted nothin' till you tried my brahmin roast." 

Your protests dissolved into silence as she gently guided you into the room from whence she appeared. A grand wooden dining table commanded the centre of the space, its unpolished surface bearing the scars of time and use. Two weathered candelabras sat empty upon the worn tabletop framing an intricately designed vase that stood proudly in the centre, its once-vibrant bouquet now reduced to a collection of decaying flowers, a red hue faded to a sombre brown. Despite its faded grandeur, there was a certain charm to the room, a nostalgic reminder of simpler times.

Memories of your past life flooded your mind. You remembered the stressful joy of hosting gatherings, the meticulous attention to detail as you fretted over the correct placement of place mats and whether the centrepiece was in keeping with the latest trends from the home magazines you avidly read. Glenn, ever the laid-back husband, would often be found nestled in his recliner, savouring a glass of whiskey as the radio drowned out your worries. He only intervened when you were on the verge of tears, calling for Patti to come and mend his frantic wife.

As you took in the scene before you, a pang of nostalgia tugged at your heartstrings, a bittersweet reminder of a life left behind in the wake of the bombs. In this dilapidated dining room, this family had somehow managed to create a semblance of normalcy amongst the disorder. You only hoped to do the same for your own child.

"I'll have Junior walk you back to your friend," she announced, her voice carrying a gentle authority as she guided you to a seat amidst the array of mismatched chairs. "He's a good boy, you won't come into any trouble out there with him by your side." 

With a tender smile, she disappeared through a swinging door, leaving you to ponder her offer in the dimly lit room. However, your contemplation was interrupted by an unpleasant odour that wafted through the doorway, assaulting your senses with its acrid essence. The stench caused your stomach to churn uneasily, and you couldn't help but wrinkle your nose in distaste.

As she returned with two steaming plates balanced delicately in her hands, the offensive smell accompanied her, its presence overwhelming. Recoiling slightly, you fought to suppress the urge to gag and wondered how the woman wasn't doing the same.

Setting one plate down before you with practiced grace, she deftly produced a worn napkin from her apron, gently draping it across your lap with an air of hospitality. Expressing your gratitude, you watched warily as she took her seat opposite you, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Since your escape from the vault, you hadn't consumed anything that hadn't been prepared by your own hands or originated from a tin can. While her gesture was undoubtedly kind, you couldn't shake the apprehension that gnawed at you, fuelled by the putrid scent emanating from the meat on your plate.

You hesitantly prodded at the dish, watching as the jellied fat quivered around the thick bone it encased. A wave of revulsion washed over you, and opting instead to sample a carrot, you found it had been thoroughly drenched in the juices and carried the same off-putting aroma as the dubious meat.

Swallowing heavily, you mustered an encouraging smile for the woman across from you as she observed your reaction, her gaze expectant. Despite the foul taste in your mouth, you smiled in appreciation, hoping that it was enough to mask your unease. 

"It's delicious," you fibbed, delicately patting the corners of your mouth with the napkin. You eyed the door you had entered through. "Will your husband be joining us soon?"

You didn't want to push, but the urgency of your situation weighed heavily on your mind. Every moment spent away from the Ghoul felt like an eternity, and the thought of his deteriorating condition filled you with a sense of dread. You could have left with those three vials, but what guarantee did you have that they would be enough?

You knew nothing about his condition, nor did you possess the knowledge to provide any meaningful assistance. All you could do was return with as many vials as you could carry, hoping that the sheer quantity would be enough to appease him and alleviate any resentment he might harbour towards you for leaving.

"It's a big cellar," she offered in explanation, her tone carrying a hint of apology for her husband's delay. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, her gaze unwaveringly fixed on you. "Gets a mite lonesome in this old house."

You offered her a sympathetic smile, sensing a shared understanding of loneliness in her words. "And Junior, is he your son?" you asked.

"One of 'em," she replied with a wistful smile, her gaze drifting momentarily into the distance. "The only one left. Tall as a redwood and about as sharp as one too, bless his heart." There was a fondness in her tone, a mother's unconditional love for her child evident in every word. "But us mothers, we love 'em all the same, don't we?" she added with a gentle chuckle, her eyes flicking to your pregnant belly before returning to meet yours with a glimmer of joy.

Your eyes widened in astonishment at her revelation, and a surge of vulnerability and protectiveness welled within you, prompting your hands to instinctively cradle your bump. You had grown noticeably, your pregnancy now too pronounced to conceal any longer, compelling you to discard your vault suit in favour of garments salvaged from an old dresser. Amidst the solitude of your journey with the Ghoul, encounters with others had been rare, limited to a handful of oblivious traders who had failed to notice your condition. This unexpected revelation felt like a breach of privacy, like divulging a secret that had been shared exclusively between you and your companion.

"Of course," you replied cautiously, sensing the weight of her words.

"I'd move mountains for my boy, just to ensure he's fed and breathing. In this world, that's about all a mother can aspire to," she murmured, eyes glistening with the threat of tears. "It's a pitiful state when a mother can't even provide that much for her own kin."

Your heart constricted with anguish, fears surging to the forefront as you contemplated the prospect of being unable to provide even the most basic necessities for your unborn child. The notion of welcoming a helpless infant into a world of scarcity and violence filled you with terror. You had been hesitant to confront the reality of impending motherhood, unsure of how you would navigate the responsibilities that lay ahead. Despite clinging to the hope that sanctuary awaited you at the haven, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the recesses of your mind.

As you looked into her sad eyes, a pang of empathy tugged at your heartstrings. This poor woman had endured unimaginable loss, yet here she was, seemingly trying to cling to a semblance of normality by creating a home for her remaining family in the wasteland.  It was a fragile existence, one that could be snatched away at any moment, and as her resilience struck a chord within you, you wondered: Could this be your future as well? The thought lingered in the depths of your mind, weighing heavy on your chest. 

"Don't feel sorry for me, darlin', I got my time with my boys," she assured you, reaching across the table to rest her hand gently on yours. 

You smiled sadly as you regarded her. "I can't even imagine what you've been through," you admitted, your voice laced with genuine sympathy.

"No, I suppose you can't," she replied softly, her hand withdrawing from yours as she settled back in her chair. There was a moment of quiet contemplation before she spoke again, her words carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've come to realize in this world that it's not about what's been done to us, but what we are willing to do."

You nodded in agreement. You had been thrust into this harsh reality, subjected to the horrors of the vaults and the betrayal of those who promised salvation. Yet, despite the trials and tribulations you had faced, you had fought tooth and nail to survive, to carve out a place for yourself in this dangerous new world. And now, with the imminent arrival of your child, that determination burned even brighter within you.

"Are you willing to do anything for your baby?" she asked, her voice soft yet resolute. Without hesitation, you nodded, unwavering resolve in your eyes.

Her gaze dropped to the table momentarily, lost in thought, before lifting once more to meet yours. "So am I," she declared softly, an edge in her voice that belied her gentle demeanour.

With a swift motion, she brought her index and middle finger to her lips, emitting a sharp whistle that pierced through the stillness of the old house. Your brows furrowed, trying to make sense of her action before Edwin shuffled into the room, trailed by a looming figure whose long hair obscured the majority of his face. "Christ, Mag, I thought we'd be waiting all night," the older man grumbled. "Junior, grab the girl."

You turned your gaze back to Mag, the panic rising within you like a tidal wave, but as your eyes searched for reassurance in hers, you found only avoidance. Her gaze remained fixed on the table, refusing to meet yours, her expression inscrutable.

Junior closed the distance with two swift strides, his towering frame engulfing you as he efficiently yanked you from your seat, flinging you onto your back on the table with a brutal force that stole the air from your lungs. The table's decorations rattled to the ground, mingling with the scattered food in a cacophonous crash.

As Mag's now stern voice echoed through the room, a cold shiver ran down your spine. "Don't leave any marks, Junior," she scolded, authority in her tone. Her son nodded in obedience.

Your hands trembled as you instinctively reached for your holster, only to curse under your breath when you found it empty. The realization hit you like a sledgehammer— you had handed your gun to Edwin during the negotiations, a decision that now seemed foolish in hindsight. Defenceless, vulnerable, and at the mercy of forces beyond your control. Like a cruel nightmare, you were back where you had started. 

"Can't sell meat that's all bruised up," Mag's words lingered in the air as she left the room and your eyes widened in terror as the door swung to a shut. You scrambled to rise from the table, but Junior pushed you back down, though this time with less force. 

"Please, you don't have to do this," you begged, tears welling in your eyes.

"She's not for selling, she's for eating," Edwin interjected callously, disregarding your pleas as he seized your ankles. Junior seized your wrists in an iron grip and pinned them above your head, stretching you out before them. 

"Says who, you old coot?" Mag challenged, reappearing with a hefty butcher knife gripped firmly in her hand. The awful smell filled the room again, and you felt bile rise in your throat.

"Says me, the one who got her inside in the first place," he retorted, grunting as you struggled against his grip. "Besides, I'm sick of that rancid meat. He's been festering in there for weeks." He nodded toward the door where the putrid smell was emitting from.

His words sent a chill down your spine as you glanced at the mess of food scattered across the floor. Your eyes honed in on the repulsive meat that now lay splayed on the grubby carpet amongst the ceramic shards of the plates. Brahmin meat, she had told you, but now you realized it was another poor soul who had crossed this family's path.

Perhaps you were naïve to not consider the act of cannibalism in this dire new reality, but your mind reeled at the images of teeth ripping through bloody flesh.

"Please, why are you doing this?" you cried, tears hot on your cheeks as panic consumed you, each futile struggle met with unyielding strength from Edwin and Junior. Mag moved to your side.

"We've had this conversation, darlin', you know why," Mag whispered, her face looming mere inches from yours. The warmth that once suffused her features had now drained away, replaced by a chilling resolve as she gazed down at you. "Motherhood demands sacrifice, and this is the sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Her gaze shifted to your belly, assessing it before turning to address the old man. "We'll keep her for meat and sell the babe for a hefty sum," she declared, eliciting a triumphant whoop from him. As her hand tenderly caressed your sweat-dampened hair, a shiver ran down your spine at the realization of your fate. "I want you to know that I mean you no ill will," she murmured, her voice a soothing contrast to the horror of her words. "But my boy has to eat."

The gentle touch of her hand offered little comfort as you recoiled from her touch. When you shook your head in a futile attempt to rid yourself of her grasp, she stepped back, her voice hardening once more.

"I wish I could promise this won't hurt, but there's only one way this baby's comin' out," she stated matter-of-factly, her words ringing with finality as the weight of your impending ordeal settled like lead in the pit of your stomach.

As the blade hovered menacingly above you, your mind raced with desperate thoughts. You couldn't shake the image of the Ghoul alone, abandoned where you'd left him while you embarked on this ill-fated rescue mission. What if he awoke to find you gone, vanished without a trace? Would he think you'd left him, angry over what had transpired between you both? Or perhaps that you'd waited until his weakest moment to finally run from him. The mere notion tore at your heartstrings.

You needed him to know the truth, to understand that your departure was in aide to help him not abandon him. You couldn't die knowing that he may think so badly of you, even though you weren't sure why it mattered so much. He'd been difficult and stubborn, scolded you and made you cry, but there was a yearning that you felt for him beyond your own understanding. With every fibre of your being, you silently pleaded for a chance to return to his side, to make things right and ensure that he could never doubt your devotion.

But you were trapped, with nowhere to run and no escape from the horrors unfolding before you. The full stretch of your body left your bare stomach uncomfortably exposed to the imminent danger. The cold, unforgiving blade of the knife traced a path across the swell of your belly, its touch sending shivers of dread coursing through your veins. Though the first cut was not deep, the sting of pain accompanied by the trickle of blood down your side served as a grim reminder of the perilous situation you had walked yourself and your unborn child into.

Since escaping the clutches of the vault, you hadn't dared to picture your future, quickly learning that the dangers of the wasteland were capable of shattering your reality with ruthless brutality from one moment to the next. Yet, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing had remained constant: your unwavering determination to protect and nurture the life growing within you.

From the moment you heard the doctor confirm your pregnancy, a flicker of hope ignited within you. Despite the deceit of your husband, the looming threat of war, and every obstacle that stood in your path, you had clung to the unwavering belief that you were destined for motherhood. It was a truth that resonated deep within your heart, but you felt it slowly being swallowed by the hollow ache of despair and regret.

With a heavy heart weighing down every fibre of your being, you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for what was to come. In that harrowing moment, a chilling realization swept over you like a tidal wave: if you were to remain conscious through these next moments, you would meet your baby. You were so far from carrying to full-term, but why would Mag go to such lengths unless she was confident that your baby would survive. Afterall, a living baby must be worth a fortune in the wasteland. A commodity, as the Ghoul had described you. 

Then, the thought pierced your soul: your baby would enter the world alone, without you, unaware of what transpired or why you weren't there beside them. Growing up to think that their mother never loved them. You couldn't let it happen.

With your last shred of resolve shattered, a primal scream tore from your throat.

A distant crash from another room shattered the tense atmosphere, bringing the woman's relentless pursuit with the knife to an abrupt halt. All three members of the family turned their heads towards the doorway, their eyes widening in shock as it was obliterated before them. A deafening cacophony of splintering wood filled the air as a single bullet burst through, sending wooden fragments flying in all directions.

Instinctively, you turned your head away, seeking whatever meagre protection you could get. In the midst of the commotion, Edwin's agonized holler pierced the air, his body recoiling as the bullet sliced through his neck. With a forceful impact, he was thrown back against the kitchen doorway, his form crumpling to the ground with a heavy thud that reverberated throughout the room.

Junior's anguished wails pierced your eardrums. Despite his distress, his vice-like grip remained unyielding, keeping you firmly in place even as he grappled with the shock of his father's demise.

Meanwhile, Mag offered only a fleeting acknowledgment to the lifeless form of her husband before her attention snapped back to the now-open doorway. There, a figure emerged, a silhouette framed by the shattered remnants of the entrance. With each step, the sound of spurred boots rang out like a beacon of hope.

As the Ghoul's hulking frame filled the doorway, a wave of relief washed over you. He appeared worlds apart from the unconscious man you had left behind in search of aid, and as you took in his daunting appearance, you noticed the inhaler clutched in his hand, an almost empty vial inserted inside. 

Locking eyes with him across the room, you watched as his weary gaze swept over the scene before him: you, splayed out and held down on the table, a small cut marring your belly, tears streaking your face.

In that fleeting moment, his expression darkened with a silent fury. With swift and merciless precision, he raised his magnum, his aim unwavering as he first targeted Junior. In an instant, the sound of gunfire shot through the room, a single slug piercing through Junior's skull, extinguishing his cries in a heartbeat.

Mag's horrified gaze barely had time to register the terror before her own fate was sealed. She turned to the Ghoul with venom in her eyes. "Coop—"

With ruthless efficiency, another bullet tore through her chest, sending her crumpling to the floor beside her fallen son. In the span of mere seconds, the room fell almost silent, the only sound being the Ghoul's heavy breaths as he surveyed the aftermath of his swift justice.

A low groan echoed across the room, drawing the Ghoul's attention to the source of the sound. Without hesitation, he fired off two more shots into Edwin's chest, putting an end to his suffering. As the final ring of gunfire faded, the Ghoul lowered his gun, his gaze fixated on you once more. His eyes, dark and brooding, seemed to bore into your very soul, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable in their intense scrutiny.

With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up to sit on the table, the weight of so many emotions swirling within you like a windstorm raging inside your chest. Fear, relief, guilt, and gratitude warred for dominance, each vying for your attention as you struggled to make sense of the harrowing ordeal that had unfolded before you. In that moment of uncertainty, you found yourself paralyzed by indecision, unsure of how to proceed as you watched the Ghoul, awaiting his instruction.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he holstered his gun and tucked the inhaler back inside his coat, the look of anguish etched upon his scarred face. With a silent understanding passing between you, he beckoned you to him with a curl of his fingers, a wordless invitation for comfort that you never thought possible from him. Your body moved on instinct, propelled forward by a force beyond conscious thought, as you leaped from the table and into the safety of his waiting arms. In that moment, all pretence of strength crumbled away, leaving you clinging to him with a desperation that bordered on frantic.

You held onto him so tightly that you could almost feel the air being squeezed from your lungs. As his muscular arms enveloped you and your unborn child, a floodgate of emotion burst open within you, unleashing an outburst of tears that wracked your body with their intensity.

"I never left you," you whispered through each sob, your voice hoarse from screaming, the words spilling out in a plea for understanding. "I swear, I was coming back."

His touch was tender as he stroked your hair, his breath warm against your ear as he comforted your trembling form. "Nobody would blame you if you hadn't," he murmured softly, then cleared his throat. "I told you, you weren't to come here."

"I had to save you," you insisted, your voice shaking but resolute.

"Sure did a fine job," he said, glancing around the room at the carnage. "Looked like you had everything under control."

His teasing stung, and you pulled away from him, hurt flashing in your eyes as you stood your ground. "You were unconscious. If I hadn't come, you would have—" your voice cracked, unable to finish the thought.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" he interrupted, irritation thick in his voice. "Good thing too, because I wasn't aware just how dumb you could be."

"I didn't know if you'd make it," you shot back, your voice a raw blend of frustration and fear. "I had to do something, I couldn't lose you."

For a brief moment, his eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. But it was quickly replaced by steely conviction. He pointed a gloved finger at your belly, his tone firm yet edged with concern. "I shouldn't be your concern right now."

You cradled your bump protectively, looking up at him with glistening eyes. "And yet here we are."

He was silent for a moment, his hand dropping back to his side as he regarded you with a mix of frustration and helplessness. "What am I going to do with you?" he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn't answer him. Instead, you moved back into his chest, seeking the comfort you'd felt moments before. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, the tension in his muscles softening as he held you close.

"This can't keep happening," he said after moments of silence passed between you, his words hammering at your heart. You couldn't tell if he was referring to the intimacy of your embrace or your reckless brush with death once again. Regardless, you tightened your grip on him.

"Just a little longer," you whispered, your voice barely audible. He sighed in resignation as he gently disentangled your arms from his waist, pushing you back to look into your eyes. His hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, and he retrieved the device that would sever any remaining physical connection between you.

You had barely had time to enjoy the unbridled freedom of those moments in his embrace, the silence broken only by the rhythmic beating of his heart against your cheek rather than the disturbing clicking. But now, as your eyes fell on the Pip-Boy, you realized you weren't ready to relinquish that freedom, despite the protection it promised.

"I told you not to take it off," he chided. When you started to explain yourself, he cut you off. "I don't care, just put it back on."

You shook your head, your eyes locking with his, defiance met with disappointment. "Don't make me do it," he pleaded earnestly, his voice softening, laden with a desperation you hadn't heard from him before.

"I have a choice, and so do you," you told him, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

He smiled sadly, a bittersweet expression that deepened the ache in your chest. "I wish that were true," he replied, pulling your hand gently and fastening the Pip-Boy around your wrist. The device closed with a sickening clink, severing the fragile connection between you. You held his gaze, chin high, though you wanted to curl into yourself.

"I wonder if it really is me you're protecting with this thing," you said, your voice trembling with rage and sorrow, your hand still enclosed in his as the clicking commenced. "I'm not so sure anymore."

His gaze dropped as he took a deep breath, bracing himself before looking back at you with a rueful smile. "Me neither, vaultie," he admitted, his voice a whisper of regret. He dropped your hand and turned to leave the room. "Maybe it's better that way."

He disappeared through the open doorway, leaving you alone with the heavy silence and the cold weight of the Pip-Boy on your wrist. The freedom of touch you had tasted moments ago now felt like a distant memory, replaced by the stark reality that, regardless of anything else, the Ghoul was determined to keep you at a distance. 

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @lothiriel9 @ancientbeing10 @sillysimping @maeplaysbass @moon-trash1507 @spookyoat @rebelmarylou @writtenbyhollywood

Adult Swim making an unholy amount of sense.